by Paul Doherty
‘Well,’ Shawditch continued, ‘some of the flotilla are berthed in the Thames opposite Queen’s hithe, among them the cog God’s Bright Light.’ Shawditch sipped at his wine. ‘The ship was commanded by William Roffel. It returned to port two days ago, after capturing and sinking a number of French vessels. Roffel, however, on the return voyage, caught a sudden sickness and died. His corpse was taken ashore. The crew were paid their wages and given seven days’ shore leave. Now, last night, the only watch left on the ship was the first mate and two other sailors. One in the bows and one at the stern.’ Shawditch gnawed at his lip. ‘A lantern was left on the mast and the ship was in earshot of others riding at anchor.’
‘What happened?’ Cranston interrupted him impatiently.
‘Just before dawn a sailor came back with his doxy. They climbed on board and found the ship deserted – no first mate, no watch.’
‘So?’
‘Well, no one had seen anyone leave or approach the ship, although it’s true there was a thick river mist that night. But that’s only half the mystery, Sir John. You see, an hour before the sailor returned, in accordance with the admiral’s instructions, the watch on board the neighbouring ship, the Holy Trinity, asked if all was well? A voice from the God’s Bright Light replied, using the established password.’
‘Which was?’
‘The glory of St George.’
Cranston sat back. ‘So, what you are saying is that nothing apparently untoward happened on board this ship? The watch even responded with the correct password to the neighbouring vessel?’
‘Aye, and then passed it on to another ship, the Saint Margaret,’ Shawditch answered.
‘And yet,’ Cranston continued, ‘a short while later the ship is found deserted. No trace whatsoever of the first mate or the rest of his watch, two able-bodied sailors?’
‘Exactly, Sir John.’
‘Could they have deserted?’
Shawditch pulled a face.
‘And there was no sign of violence?’
‘None whatsoever.’
‘Anything stolen?’
Shawditch shook his head.
‘Well! Well! Well!’ Cranston breathed. ‘I wonder what Athelstan will make of this?’
‘God knows!’ Shawditch replied. ‘But the mayor and council demand an answer.’
CHAPTER 2
Brother Athelstan sat at the table in his kitchen in the small priest’s house of St Erconwald’s in Southwark and stared moodily into the fire. He’d celebrated morning Mass. He’d cleaned the church with the help of Cecily the courtesan and talked with Tab the tinker about mending some pots. After that he had said goodbye to the widow Benedicta, who was going to spend a few days helping a relative across the river who was expecting a baby.
Athelstan got up and went to stir the porridge cooking in a black cauldron above the flames. He looked over his shoulder at Bonaventura, the big one-eyed tomcat, who was sitting patiently on the table, daintily washing himself after a night’s hunting in the alleyways around the church.
‘It will soon be ready, Bonaventure. Some hot oatmeal with a little milk, spice and sugar. Benedicta herself prepared it before she left. It will taste delicious. For the next week we will break our fast like kings.’
The cat yawned and stared arrogantly at this strange Dominican who constantly talked to him. Athelstan wiped the horn spoon, put it back on its hook, stretched and yawned.
‘I should have gone to bed myself,’ he murmured. Instead he had climbed the tower of his church to study the stars, watching in awe the fiery fall of a meteor. He walked back to the table, sat down again and sipped his watered ale.
‘Why?’ he asked Bonaventure. Tell me this, most cunning of cats. Why do meteors fall from heaven but not stars? Or,’ he continued, seeing he had the cat’s attention, ‘are meteors falling stars? And, if they are, what causes one star to fall and not another?’
The cat just blinked with its one good eye.
‘And the problem becomes even more complicated,’ Athelstan explained. ‘Let me put it this way. Why do some stars move? The constellation called the Great Bear does but the ship’s star, the North Star, never?’
Bonaventure’s reaction was to miaow loudly and slump down on the table as if desperate at the long wait for his morning dish of oatmeal. Athelstan smiled and gently stroked the cat’s tattered ear.
‘Or should we ask questions?’ he whispered. ‘Or just gaze in admiration at God’s great wonder?’
He sighed and returned to the piece of parchment he had been studying the evening before. On it was a crude drawing of the church. The parish council, in their wisdom, had decided that on their saint’s day they would produce a mystery play in the nave of the church. Athelstan was now drawing up a list of the things they’d need. Thomas Drawsword, a new member of the parish, had agreed to refurbish a large wagon which would act as the stage, but they would need more. Athelstan studied his list:
Two devils’ coats
Two devils’ hoods
One shirt
Three masks
Wings for the angels
Three trumpets
One hell’s door
Four small angels
Nails
Last, but not least, a large canvas backcloth
The play was called The Last Judgement and already Athelstan was beginning to regret his enthusiasm for the venture.
‘We are going to be short of wings,’ he muttered, ‘and we can’t have one-winged angels.’ He groaned. All this was nothing to the arguments over who would play the different characters. Watkin the dung-collector insisted on being God, but this was bitterly disputed by Pike the ditcher. The civil war had spread to their children, who were quarrelling over who would act the roles of the four good spirits, the four evil spirits and the six devils. Watkin’s large wife, who had the brassy voice of a trumpet, had declared that she would be Our Lady. Tab the tinker was threatening to withdraw from the pageant if he was denied a principal role.
Huddle the painter, although aloof from these squabbles, presented problems of his own. He was having some difficulty in painting a convincing hell’s mouth. The front of the cart must be raised, Father,’ he insisted, ‘so that when the damned go through the mouth of hell, they disappear 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 Bonaventur
e, 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, 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 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 are 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,’ Marston went on. ‘Stabbed in his chamber by the murderer now sheltering in that church.’
‘How?’
Marston licked his lips, feeling the lower one tenderly because it was beginning to swell.
‘I went up to the chamber this morning to rouse Sir Henry. I opened the door and my master lay sprawled in his nightshirt, on the floor, the blood pumping out of him. Ashby knelt above him grasping a dagger. I tried to arre
st the bastard but Ashby fled through the window. The rest you know.’
‘The Abbot of Hyde inn?’ Cranston queried. ‘Well, let’s see for ourselves.’ He turned to Athelstan. ‘Lock the church, Father. Let’s visit the scene of the crime.’
Athelstan did what he asked. Cranston strode off up the alleyway, leaving the rest to hurry behind him. They found the Abbot of Hyde a scene of chaos and commotion – slatterns crying in the taproom, other servants sitting around looking white-faced and terrified. The landlord was gibbering with fright. He bowed and scraped as Cranston made his entrance and demanded a tankard of sack. Draining it immediately the coroner swept up the broad wooden stairs. Marston hurried before him along the passageway to show him the murder chamber.
Cranston pushed the door open. Inside all was confusion. Sheets had been dragged from the great four-poster bed, half-open coffers lay overturned and a cup of spilt wine was nestling among the rushes on the floor. What caught their attention, however, was the corpse lying near the bed, its arms spread wide, its thin hairy legs pathetic as they peeped out from beneath a cream woollen nightshirt. The dagger in the man’s chest was long and thin and driven in to the hilt. The blood had splashed out in a great scarlet circle. The corpse’s face, lean and pointed like that of a fox, still bore the shock of death in its open, staring eyes. From a corner of the gaping mouth ran a now dry trickle of blood.
‘God have mercy!’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Help me, Sir John!’
Together they lifted the corpse on to the bed. Athelstan, ignoring the blood spattering the white hair, knelt down and spoke the words of absolution into the man’s ear, sketching a benediction in the air.
‘Absolvo te,’ he whispered, ‘a peccatis in nomine Patris et Filii. I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son.’
Cranston, more practical, sniffed at the wine jug and, whilst the friar performed the last rites, walked around the chamber picking up pieces, handling cloths, sifting among the rushes with the toe of his boot.
