By Murder's Bright Light Read Online Free PDF

wearing the stained red and white livery of some lord, were led by a burly, bewhiskered man. They advanced threateningly towards him, swords drawn, staves in their hands. Athelstan studied their buff jerkins, tight hose, protuberant codpieces, the sword and dagger sheaths hanging on their belts and the way they trailed their cloaks. He recognised them as bully-boys, the hired thugs of some powerful lord. He held a hand up and they stopped only yards away.
    ‘If you go any further,’ he said quietly, ‘you have broken not only man’s law but God’s. You are already committing sacrilege’ – he pointed to the drawn swords – ‘by coming into God’s house with such weapons.’
    The leader stepped forward, sheathing his sword, as to Athelstan’s relief, did the rest.
    ‘What’s your name?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Mind your own business!’
    ‘Very well, Master Mind-my-own-business,’ Athelstan continued. ‘If you don’t leave this church, I’ll consider you excommunicated on the spot. Felons, condemned to hell fire.’ Athelstan 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 Marston’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