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downwards.’
    Athelstan threw his quill down on to the table.
    ‘What we need, Bonaventure,’ he declared, ‘is Sir John Cranston. He has agreed that his twin sons, the little poppets, can stagger about as cherubims and Sir John would make a marvellous Satan.’
    Athelstan paused and stared up at the blackened timbered ceiling. Cranston! Athelstan had visited him only three days ago, had sat in his huge kitchen while the two poppets chased around, shrieking with laughter. They had hung on to the tails of the great Irish wolfhounds Cranston had, in a fit of generosity, taken into his house. Despite the uproar, the coroner had been in good spirits. He was involved in the minutiae of city government, though he had issued a dire prophecy, aided by generous cups of claret, that some dreadful homicide, some bloody affray, would soon be upon them. Athelstan could only agree; fife had been rather quiet and sweet since he and Sir John had been involved in the business of the Guildhall some months previously.
    Athelstan warmed his fingers in front of the fire. He was glad winter was approaching. The harvest had been good. The price of corn and bread had fallen, easing some of the seething discontent in the city. The prospect of revolt had receded, though Athelstan knew it was just hiding, like seeds in the ground, waiting to sprout. Athelstan sighed, he could only hope, pray and do his best.
    ‘Come on, Bonaventure,’ he said. ‘Let’s eat.’
    He took two large bowls from the shelf over the fireplace, ladled into them hot, steaming dollops of oatmeal and took them to the buttery. Following Benedicta’s instructions, he sprinkled each bowl with cinnamon and sugar and went back into the kitchen. One bowl was placed before the hearth for the ever-hungry cat. Athelstan blessed himself and Bonaventure, took up his horn spoon and began to eat the nourishing, boiling-hot oatmeal. He had finished his bowl, or was letting Bonaventure do it for him, when he heard the clamour outside – the sound of running footsteps and a voice screaming, ‘Sanctuary, Christ have mercy!’
    Athelstan hurried out of his house and round to the front of the church. A young man, white-faced, eyes staring under a shock of blond hair, gripped the great iron ring of the church door.
    ‘Sanctuary, Father!’ the man gasped. ‘Father, I claim sanctuary! In the name of God and his Church!’
    ‘Why?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Murder!’ the young man replied. ‘But, Father, I am innocent!’
    The priest studied the man carefully: his thick, serge jerkin, hose of bottle-green wool and leather boots were all coated in muck and ordure.
    ‘Father!’ the man pleaded. They’ll kill me!’
    Athelstan heard the sound of running footsteps and the faint cries of pursuit further up the alleyway. He took out his keys and unlocked the door. The fugitive dashed up the darkened nave and through the new rood screen carved and erected by Huddle. He clung to the corner of the altar and once again shouted.
    ‘I seek sanctuary! I seek sanctuary!’
    Athelstan, followed by an ever-inquisitive Bonaventure, walked up after him. The man now sat with his back to the altar, legs out, fighting for breath as he wiped his sweat-soaked face on the sleeve of his jerkin.
    ‘I claim sanctuary!’ he gasped.
    ‘Then, by the law of the Church, you have it!’ Athelstan replied softly.
    He turned at the clamour behind him. A cluster of dark figures, armed with staves and swords, stood just inside the church.
    ‘Stay there,’ Athelstan called. He went out through the rood screen. ‘What do you want?’
    ‘We seek the murderer, the assassin, Nicholas Ashby,’ a voice growled.
    ‘This is God’s house,’ Athelstan replied, coming forward. ‘Master Ashby has claimed sanctuary and I have given it according to canon law and the custom of the land.’
    ‘Bugger that!’ the voice replied.
    The figures walked up the nave. Athelstan hid his own panic and stood his ground. The group,