By Murder's bright Light

glimpsed the sullen, arrogant faces of the others. He was pleased to see some of them show a flicker of fear.
    ‘Come on, Marston,’ one of them muttered to the leader. ‘Let the little turd hide behind the skirts of a priest! He’ll have to leave some time!’
    Marston was full of bravado. He walked slowly forward, hands on hips, and pushed his face close to Athelstan’s.
    “We could kick the shit out of you!’ he hissed. ‘Drag that little turd out, kill him and deny anything happened!’
    Athelstan stared coolly back, even though his stomach was heaving. He was tempted to quote Cranston ’s name, for he didn’t like the smell of sour sweat and stale perfume that came from this bully. He prayed Watkin the dung-collector or Pike the ditcher would make an appearance. Then he smiled, remembering that God helped those who helped themselves.
    ‘Stay there,’ he commanded. Turning, he walked back through the rood screen.
    ‘Oh, please don’t!’ Ashby whispered. They’ll kill me!’
    Athelstan picked up the heavy bronze cross from the altar. He winked at Ashby and walked down the nave carrying the cross before him. The smirk faded from Mars ton’s face.
    ‘What are you going to do?’
    ‘Well,’ Athelstan answered him, ‘first, I am going to excommunicate you with this crucifix. Then, if you come any closer, I’m going to use it to crack you on the noddle!’
    Marston drew both sword and dagger. ‘Come on!’ he hissed. ‘Try it!’
    ‘Now, now, my buckos! Lovely lads all!’
    Sir John Cranston, swathed in his great military cloak, swept up the nave through the group, knocking them like ninepins left and right. He shoved Marston aside, stood by Athelstan and lifted his wineskin to his mouth. He smacked his lips as the wine disappeared down his throat. Marston and the others stepped back.
    ‘Who are you, you big fat turd?’ Marston asked. His sword and dagger came up.
    Cranston , his arms folded across his chest, walked slowly towards him. ‘Who am I?’ he whispered in a sweet, almost girlish voice.
    Marston looked puzzled — but only briefly, for Cranston hit him full in the face. His large, ham fist crashed into the man’s nose and sent him sprawling back among his companions, blood spurting out, drenching moustache, beard and the front of his jerkin. Marston wiped his face, looked at the blood and, roaring with rage, lunged at Sir John. The fat coroner, moving as nimbly as a dancer, simply advanced towards him, stepped quickly aside and stuck out one fat leg. Marston went flat on his face, sword and dagger spinning from his hands. The coroner, tut-tutting under his breath, picked the man up by his greasy black hair, jerked his head back, marched him along the nave and flung him down the steps of the porch. Then he turned to the others.
    ‘I will count to ten,’ he threatened.
    By the time the coroner had reached five the rest of Marston’s group were standing like frightened boys around their leader. They stared up in awe at the great cloak-swathed figure standing, legs apart, on the church steps. Marston, his face covered in blood and bruises, still had fight left in him. Sir John waggled a finger warningly.
    ‘You asked who I am. And, now you have left the church, I’ll inform you. I am Sir John Andrew Patrick George Cranston, personal friend of the king. I am coroner of this city, law officer, husband to the Lady Maude and the scourge of thugs like you. So far, my buckos, you have committed a number of crimes. Trespass, blasphemy, sacrilege, attempting to break sanctuary, attacking a priest, threatening a law officer and, ipso facto’ — Cranston hid his smile — pro facto, et de facto, guilty of high treason, not to mention misprision of treason. I could arrest you and you’d stand trial before the King’s Bench at Westminster !’ The change in Marston was wonderful to behold. He forgot his blood and bruises, his mouth gaped open and his arms hung limply on either side of his body as he stared fearfully at the coroner.
    ‘Now, my lads.’ Sir John tripped down the steps of the church, Athelstan following him. Tell me what happened, eh?’
    Marston wiped the blood away. ‘We sire the retainers of Sir Henry Ospring of Ospring Manor in Kent . Our master was staying at the Abbot of Hyde inn in Southwark whilst journeying into the city.’
    ‘Oh, yes, I have heard of Ospring,’ Cranston said. ‘A mean-spirited, tight-fisted varlet I gather.’
    ‘Well, he’s dead,’