The Nightingale Gallery

dirty leather jerkin, hose and boots which had seen better days. He wore a flat, battered cap on his head, pushed to one side to give him a jaunty air. Athelstan swallowed hard and felt a surge of panic. Both men were armed, each carrying a naked sword and dirk. What frightened him most was their absolute silence, the way they stared, unmoving, not issuing threats.
    'Why do you follow us?' Cranston said, pushing Athelstan behind him.
    'We do not follow, sir,' the weasel-eyed man replied. 'My companion and I merely walk the same path as you do.'
    'I think you do follow us,' Cranston replied, 'and have been for some time. You followed us down to the river and waited until we returned. You have been expecting us.'
    'I don't know what you are talking about!' The man took one step closer, sword and dagger now half raised. 'But you insult us, sir, and you must apologise.'
    'I do not apologise to you, nor to the murderous bastard next to you! I am Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city.' He drew his sword and scrabbled behind his back to pull out the dirk. 'You, sirs, are footpads which is a felony. You are attacking a king's officer and that is treason. This is Brother Athelstan, a member of the Dominican order, a priest of the church. Any attack on him would bring down excommunication on you. And that, sirs, is the least you can expect! I will count to three,' the coroner continued as if enjoying himself, 'and then, if you are not out of this alleyway and back whence you came, you will answer to me! One… two…'
    That was as far as he got. The men rushed at them, swords and daggers raised. The coroner met both attackers, catching their weapons in a whirling arc of steel as he nimbly spun his own in self-defence. In those few seconds Athelstan realised the depth of his own arrogance. He had always considered Sir John a portly, self-indulgent toper, but at this moment the coroner seemed more at ease, sword and dagger in his hands, fighting for his life, than he had at any time since they had met. He moved with a grace and speed which surprised both Athelstan and his opponents. Sir John was a competent swordsman, moving only when he needed to, keeping both dagger and sword locked in constant play. Athelstan could only stand and watch, open- mouthed. The coroner was smiling, his eyes half closed, sweat running down his face. The friar could have sworn that Sir John was singing a hymn or a song under his breath. There seemed little danger. Whoever had sent these assassins had completely underestimated the fat knight. Sir John fenced on, parrying sideways, backwards and forwards, playing with his opponents. Cautiously, Athelstan joined the fray – not as expertly as Sir John, but the long ash pole came into play, creating as much confusion as it did harm. Athelstan now stood shoulder to shoulder with Cranston. Their two assailants drew back.
    Cranston was loath to stop the fight. 'And again, my buckosF he cried. 'Just once more and then a wound, an injury. If I don't kill you, the hangman will! Be sure of that.'
    The small, weasel-eyed man looked at his companion, and before the coroner could advance another step, both men took to their heels and fled. Cranston leaned suddenly against the wall, wiping away the sweat now coursing down his face. His jerkin was stained with damp patches at the armpits and chest.
    'You see that, Athelstan?' he gasped, resting his sword point on the ground. 'You saw me, didn't you? The sword play, the footwork. You will vouch for me with Lady Maude?'
    Athelstan smiled. Sir John saw himself as a knight errant, a chevalier, and his little wife Maude as his princess.
    'I saw it, Sir John,' he said. 'A born soldier. A true Saint George. You were in no danger?'
    Cranston coughed and spat.
    'From those? Alleymen, roaring boys, the dregs of some commissioner's levy! I tell you this, Athelstan,' sheathing his sword and dagger, 'I fought in France against the cream of French chivalry for the Old King, bless him! We were raging lions then and England's name was feared from the northern seas to the Straits of Gibraltar. In my younger days,' he bellowed, pulling his shoulders back martial fashion, 'I was keen as a greyhound, fast as a falcon swooping to the kill.'
    Athelstan hid a smile, looking at the sweat still pouring down the fat coroner's face, the great, stout stomach wobbling with a mixture of pride and anger.
    Of course they had to stop at the nearest tavern for Sir John to take refreshment and go