By Murder's bright Light

allegation?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘Because they have always contested the rights to a small plot of land behind my house. They drove my husband to an early grave with their wrangling and bickering.’ The woman’s voice dropped to a murmur. ‘I am frightened they will kill Thomas!’
    ‘Who the hell is Thomas?’ Cranston roared.
    ‘The toad, my lord coroner.’
    Suddenly the little yellow-green monster in the cage shifted its fat, swollen body and emitted the most powerful croak. Osbert’s head went down on the table; he was shaking with laughter so much he could no longer write. Mistress Frogmore immediately sprang forward.
    ‘See!’ she shouted. The toad talks to her!’
    ‘Fined one groat!’ Cranston bellowed.
    He wiped the sweat from his brow and quietly thanked God that Brother Athelstan, his personal clerk, was not here to witness this but was safely ensconced in his parish church of St Erconwald ’s across the river in Southwark. By now Athelstan would have collapsed to the floor, hysterical with laughter. Cranston glared at the toad, which seemed to have taken a liking to him, for it jumped forward, croaking loudly in recognition.
    ‘This has gone far enough!’ Cranston murmured. ‘Osbert,’ he whispered, ‘if you don’t sit up straight, I’ll fine you a noble and have you in the Fleet prison for a week!’
    The scrivener, biting his lips to keep his face straight, picked up his quill. Cranston clicked his fingers, summoned the priest forward and pointed to the huge bible chained to a heavy lectern on the side of his table.
    ‘Raise your hand, Father, and take the oath!’
    The priest obeyed.
    ‘Keep your hand there!’ Cranston ordered. ‘Now, tell me, Father, about Eleanor Raggleweed.’
    ‘A kindly woman,’ the priest replied. ‘Good and true, Sir John. Her husband fought in your company of archers, when you served Sir John Chandos and Prince Edward.’
    Cranston sat back in his chair and his jaw dropped as he suddenly remembered Raggleweed, a master bowman, a merry chap, honest, brave and true. He looked back at the old priest.
    ‘And these allegations?’
    ‘Before Christ and His mother, Sir John, arrant lies!’
    Sir John nodded and motioned for the priest to stand back.
    This is my verdict. First, you, Mistress Alice Frogmore, are guilty of contempt of court. You are to be fined four pennies. Secondly, you, Mistress Alice Frogmore, have wasted the time of this court, so you are to be fined another four pennies. Furthermore’ — he glared at the hate-filled face of the fat woman — ‘you are bound over to keep the peace between yourselves and Mistress Eleanor Raggleweed, your neighbour. What do you say?’
    ‘But that toad came on our property!’ she whined.
    ‘Ah, yes.’ Cranston turned to Eleanor Raggleweed. ‘Eleanor Raggleweed, your toad who is called Thomas’ — Cranston fought to keep his face straight — ‘is guilty of trespass. You are fined the smallest coin of the realm, one farthing.’
    Eleanor smiled. Cranston glared at the toad, which now croaked merrily back.
    ‘You, Thomas the toad, are made a ward of this court.’ He glared at the Frogmores. ‘So, if anything happens to it, you will have to answer!’
    ‘This is not fair!’ Frogmore whined. ‘I will appeal.’
    ‘Piss off!’ Cranston roared. ‘Bailiffs, clear the room!’ Eleanor Raggleweed picked up the toad and joined the priest, who gently murmured his congratulations. The Frogmores, with crestfallen expressions, dug into their purses and reluctantly handed over their fine to Osbert. Cranston rested his head against the high-backed chair and rewarded himself with another generous swig from the wineskin.
    ‘Devil’s bollocks and Satan’s tits!’ he breathed. He looked at the hour candle on its iron spigot. ‘It’s not yet ten in the morning and I’m already tired of this nonsense.’ He glanced swiftly at Osbert. ‘Have you ever heard such rubbish?’
    Osbert licked his thin lips and shook his head wordlessly. He always liked to be scrivener in Sir John’s court; the fat, wine-loving coroner was known for his bluntness and lack of tolerance of fools as well as for his scrupulous honesty.
    ‘Never once—’ Osbert told his chubby-faced wife and brood of children, ‘never once have I seen Sir John swayed by fear or favour. He’s as true as an arrow shot from a bow.’
    The scrivener stretched over and picked up a greasy roll of parchment. He loved studying the coroner’s