by Paul Doherty
‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’
‘Sir John Cranston, city coroner, and Brother Athelstan. And who, sir, are you?’
‘David Southchurch, recently appointed captain of the God’s Bright Light.’ The young man stroked his moustache and beard. ‘Sir John, I am a busy man. You have heard the news?’
‘Aye, Master Southchurch, and you must have heard mine.’
The captain shrugged. ‘Sir John, I wish to be helpful, but that is not my business. Roffel has gone, as have his first mate and two other sailors.’
‘All we want’ – Athelstan spoke quietly, feeling slightly sick as the deck heaved under him – ‘Is permission to search Roffel’s, or rather your, cabin, Master Southchurch. It is important that we do that before the ship sails again.’
The young captain smiled. ‘Of course,’ he agreed immediately. ‘You will find the cabin still empty – my belongings are not even aboard yet. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, be my guests.’ He waved his hand and ushered them into the cabin, closing the door behind them.
The small chamber was swept and clean. Athelstan gazed despairingly about. Above them, they could hear the patter of feet and spate of officers’ orders as the ship prepared itself for battle. Now and again the cabin lurched slightly as the choppy Thames caught and rocked the cog as it strained on its anchor. Athelstan slumped down on the small cot bed, clutching his stomach. Cranston grinned at him, took a generous swig from his wineskin, burped and sat down beside him.
‘Not much one can hide in here,’ he murmured. ‘Come on, Brother, use your sea legs!’
Athelstan sighed, got up and moved around the cabin.
‘If I were captain,’ he whispered, half to himself, ‘and I wanted to hide something bulky like a belt, what would I do?’
He looked around the small cabin, realising how insubstantial it was. There was nothing beneath the deck planking but the cavern of the hold – this wasn’t a house, where secret tunnels could be dug. Nor were there thick walls within which cupboards might be concealed behind the wainscoting. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Sir John, we have wasted a journey. Bonaventure could not even hide a mouse in here. The cot’s nothing, the table and stools are so simple. There is no real wall, ceiling or floor.’
A loud snore answered him. He turned around, almost tripping as the ship lurched again.
‘Oh, sweet Lord, no!’ he moaned. ‘Oh, Sir John, not now!’
But Cranston lay fiat on the cot, legs and arms spread out, head back, mouth open, snoring like one of his own poppets.
Athelstan sat on a stool and gazed around the cabin. He became used to the motion of the ship and found his eyes growing heavy. He just wished to get away from all this. He should go back to St Erconwald’s and to his parishioners – to Watkin’s petty ambitions, Pike’s bold-faced teasing, Pernell the Fleming’s desperate attempts to dye her hair and the sardonic amusement, as well as something else, he’d glimpsed in Benedicta’s lovely eyes. He wondered how Ashby was faring with Aveline. He felt more comfortable about her now – by the time Cranston finished this business, Sir Henry Ospring would not be held in high regard by the king. He began to think about the mystery play and to work out where the congregation would sit . . .
His eyes closed and he began to doze. He started awake as someone on the deck above him dropped something with a crash. The cabin was growing dark. He wondered whether Sir John had a flint so that he could light the lantern that hung from one of the thick wooden posts that supported the deck above. He got up and opened the front of the lantern then stared at the thick, bronze or copper hook from which it hung. The hook was carried on a plate which in turn was screwed to the post. Athelstan felt a flicker of excitement. Why such a heavy hook to carry a lantern which felt much lighter than those that good citizens hung outside their doors at night? The plate was at least nine inches across. Athelstan took the lantern down and tugged at the hook. Nothing happened. He tried twisting the hook clockwise, but it held fast. Then he tried to turn it in the opposite direction and this time he felt it give and the base plate move a little. He turned the hook further, as though unscrewing it, and the plate began to loosen and eventually come free, revealing a recess in the post behind it. Athelstan pushed his hand inside. His fingers touched soft shavings of wood, then a cold, hard object. He got two fingers around it and pulled it out. A silver coin rolled in the palm of his hand.
He heard a boat pull alongside and hastily replaced the hook in the post and went across to rouse Cranston.
‘Sir John!’ he hissed. ‘For God’s sake, wake up, Sir John!’
The coroner opened his eyes and smacked his lips.
‘A cup of claret,’ he breathed. ‘A beef and onion pie and I’ll see the poppets immediately.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Sir John!’ Athelstan shook him. ‘We are on board ship!’
Cranston rubbed his face and struggled to his feet.
‘What the bloody hell?’ His voice trailed off as Athelstan held the silver piece in front of his eyes.
‘You ferret of a friar! You little ferret of a friar!’ Cranston chortled and, grabbing Athelstan by the shoulders, kissed him on both cheeks.
Athelstan, not knowing whether to rub his shoulders where they ached or wipe his face, pointed to the lantern. Cranston lumbered across, his face still heavy with sleep.
‘In there? That’s a daft place!’
‘No, Sir John, behind the hook plate is a small recess. Whatever Roffel took from that fishing boat he hid there, but now it’s gone.’
‘So!’ Cranston breathed. ‘It all fits together.’
Athelstan hid the silver coin at the rap on the door. Southchurch entered.
‘I told Sir Jacob you were here,’ he said, ‘and he sent a messenger. Despite the present alarums, he still wishes you to be his guests aboard the Holy Trinity.’
Cranston looked down at himself. ‘I would like to change but’ – he grinned – ‘I suppose I’m handsome whatever I wear.’ He ran a finger along the stubble on Athelstan’s chin. ‘Which is more than I can say for you, my little friar. Come on, I’m starved and Crawley can be a good host.’
As a thick mist blanketed the river, the frenetic activity of the afternoon began to die. News of the French galleys had reached the city and church bells were already ringing the alarm. Many taverns were closed. Even the whores moved east of Southwark Bridge, confident that if any galleys penetrated the Thames this would prove a natural barrier to the invaders. A group of traders went down to Westminster to protest to the king’s council about this further sign of a fall in English fortunes. The more selfish began to hide belongings and place precious objects in strongboxes. Darkness fell; the quaysides were deserted except for the Fisher of Men and his gargoyles, who began to peer out of the shadowy alleyways and filthy runnels which ran down to the Thames. The Fisher of Men’s strange eyes gleamed at the prospect of profit. If there was a battle on the river, corpses could be plucked from the water, purses cut and fees demanded from the city authorities. He and his group of cowled figures crept by the Steelyard towards Queen’s hithe. They stood on the quayside staring out at the ships. The Fisher of Men turned.
‘Well! Well!’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘We must be ready. Stay along the river bank, watch the water.’ He chuckled. ‘Like the good book says, the deep shall yield up its riches.’ His face became serious. ‘Oh, yes, my beauties. Father Thames has many secrets.’
He hid his flicker of annoyance as he made out the lights of the God’s Bright Light. The Fisher of Men felt cheated. Three sailors had disappeared from that cog. The Fisher of Men had heard about the murder of Bernicia and the search for Bracklebury, but what had happened to the other two members of the watch? Why wouldn’t the river give up this secret to him?
CHAPTER 10
Sir Jacob Crawley greeted Cranston and Athelstan warmly. The friar was embarrassed by Sir John’s slight unsteadiness, but Sir Jacob chose to ignore it as he welcomed them into his cabin. A small
trestle table had been set up, covered with white linen cloths and laid with silver goblets, cutlery and the very best pewter dishes. Lanterns had been lit and candlesticks, carefully fixed on to the table, bathed the cabin in a soft warm glow. Like its slightly smaller sister ships, the Holy Trinity was ready for war. Athelstan had seen these preparations as he and Cranston had come aboard. The Holy Trinity’s deck was cluttered with buckets of seawater against fire, while archers were bringing up bundles of arrows and placing them into small, iron-hooped barrels around the mast. As the admiral closed the cabin door behind him, Athelstan sensed he was entering a different world. Crawley ushered them to their chairs. They were served dishes that had been bought from cookshops and bakeries in Vintry. The food was not of the best, but still hot and spicy – venison pies, beef pastries, hot broth, quince tarts and different wines by the jugful. At first the conversation was a mere exchange of pleasantries, broken now and again by a knock on the door as an officer came to ask for advice or receive instructions.
‘Do you think Eustace the Monk will bring his galleys this far up the Thames?’ Athelstan asked.
Crawley nodded. ‘Within the hour, that mist on the river will be boiling thick and afford him the best protection.’ The admiral drank from his goblet and sat back. ‘It’s to be expected. For weeks we have been raiding towns along the Normandy coast and Eustace is insolent enough to try something daring. That he is here at all is danger enough.’ Crawley leaned closer. ‘Why, Brother, do you wish to go ashore? Please feel free.’
‘No.’ Cranston burped, smacked his lips and peered at a piece of velvet damask hanging on one wall of the cabin. ‘Sir Jacob, Brother Athelstan has fought in the king’s armies in France.’ Cranston did not elaborate on Athelstan’s brief military career, when his younger brother had been killed. ‘And old Jack Cranston is not frightened of any pirate.’ The coroner’s fat fingers drummed on the table top. ‘Moreover, Sir Jacob, we have business to attend to.’ He turned and winked quickly at Athelstan as a sign that they should tell Sir Jacob nothing about their discovery on board the God’s Bright Light.
The admiral spread his hands. ‘Sir John, ask your questions. This time I will tell you the truth.’
‘Good, you disliked Roffel?’
‘No, Sir John, I hated him with every fibre of my being as a pirate, as a killer and a degenerate. In my eyes Roffel received his just deserts.’
‘Were you involved in his death?’
‘By the sacrament, no!’
‘Did you know about his attack on the fishing smack between Calais and Dieppe?’
‘No, Sir John, I did not. Once at sea, my captains are free to act as they wish. Their task is quite simple – to seek out and destroy as many of the enemy as possible. No questions are asked and, if they are, they rarely receive an honest answer.’
‘And on the day the God’s Bright Light came to anchor?’
Crawley shrugged. ‘I went aboard. I saw Roffel’s stinking corpse. I had a few words with Bracklebury and came back here.’
‘You sensed nothing wrong?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Yes, there was a feeling of unease. Bracklebury refused to meet my eye and seemed to resent my presence on board.’
Cranston cleared his throat and took one deep gulp from his goblet. Athelstan watched him warily. Sir John was already deep in his cups, his red face was now fiery, his whiskers bristling.
‘Sir Jacob,’ Cranston boomed, ‘there are two matters about which you have lied.’ He held a hand up as Crawley flinched at the insult. ‘Yes, sir, I say lie because I am your friend, not because I am a coroner. You told us you did not go back to the God’s Bright Light that night. We now know you did approach the ship, sometime after midnight, and spent some time there.’
Crawley chewed the corner of his lip. He played with a piece of crust on his trancher. ‘I am admiral of this flotilla. Roffel’s death disturbed me and Bracklebury’s suspicious conduct only deepened my mistrust. I saw the crew leave and I was concerned that just Bracklebury and two others stayed on board.’ He twisted his shoulders. ‘At first I accepted that. The passwords were carried, the signal lamps shown, the ships seemed quiet. But while I was on deck, I noticed light from the quayside signalling the God’s Bright Light.’ Crawley paused. ‘You said there were two matters?’
‘Aye!’ Cranston snapped. ‘The whore Bernicia came down to the quayside and hailed the God’s Bright Light. Bracklebury drove her off with a stream of curses. Surely you heard their altercation?’
‘Yes, yes, I did,’ Crawley answered wearily. ‘I heard that and I also saw a lantern blinking through the mist from the quayside. I became suspicious, so I went across. On board I found everything in order. The two sailors were on watch. Bracklebury was in the cabin, he was eating ship’s biscuit and drinking quite heavily, but he wasn’t drunk. I asked him about the signal, but he just smiled. He said it was from a whore he had befriended and this often happened when he stayed aboard on watch. He was polite in rather an offensive way, smirking as if treasuring some secret.’
‘How was the cabin?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Did you notice anything untoward?’
‘No. I went back on deck. I talked to the other two sailors.’ Crawley shrugged. ‘You know how seamen are, Sir John? They were awake and on watch but they’d made themselves comfortable. One was playing a game of dice against himself. The other joked about the different ways he would take the first whore he met ashore.’
‘So there was nothing wrong?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Yes there was, but I can’t put my finger on it. Something untoward. Something out of the ordinary. I went below deck. All was dark and silent, but I could see nothing wrong so I returned.’ The admiral sipped his wine. ‘The rest you know.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘When daylight came and the sailor returned and found Bracklebury and the watch missing, I became frightened. Something was dreadfully wrong and I did not want to take the blame so I lied.’
Athelstan sat back, cradling the cup between his hands. He remembered the entries at the back of Roffel’s book of hours.
‘Tell me, Sir Jacob, do the letters S L mean anything to you?’
The admiral shook his head. ‘No, I have told you the truth. I committed no crime.’
‘Oh, but you did,’ Athelstan replied. Even Cranston looked at him in astonishment.
Sir Jacob’s face paled. ‘What do you mean?’ he spluttered.
‘Well, a sort of crime,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You broke into St Mary Magdalene church. You plucked Roffel’s corpse from its coffin, cut its throat and left the proclamation ASSASSIN pinned to its chest.’
Athelstan watched the admiral carefully. He had reached this conclusion only as Crawley had given vent to his feelings about Roffel.
‘You have no proof of that,’ Crawley said.
‘Oh, come, Sir Jacob, let’s examine it logically. First, if any of the crew of God’s Bright Light had wished to abuse their dead captain’s remains, they would have done so on the return journey. But once Roffel’s corpse was removed from the ship they were only too pleased to see the back of it. Secondly, whoever perpetrated the crime was strong and fit. Now where would we find such a person?’ Athelstan looked Crawley straight in the eye. ‘Emma Roffel hated her husband, but she lacked the skill and strength to scale a church wall, force a window, pluck a man’s corpse out of a coffin and place it in a sanctuary chair. And, in any case, why should she? Thirdly, you, Sir Jacob, had the motive. You are the only one who holds against Roffel a specific crime – the murder of a kinsman.’ Athelstan smiled and relaxed. ‘You are, undoubtedly, innocent of Roffel’s murder. But you felt cheated. So you carried out your own trial then passed sentence.’
‘It could have been Bracklebury,’ Cranston smacked his lips and gazed blearily at the friar.
Athelstan frowned at him. ‘Sir John, Master Bracklebury has spent most of his time hiding from everyone. Why should he risk all on such a crime? I am right am I not, Sir Jacob?’
The adm
iral picked up his cup and glared defiantly at Athelstan.
‘Yes, Brother, you are. I was glad Roffel died. He was a murderer. On the day his corpse was taken ashore, I sent a member of my crew to find out where the body had been taken. He returned saying it now lay before the high altar in St Mary Magdalene church, but that Roffel’s widow was with it.’ Crawley slammed the cup down. ‘So I decided to wait.’ He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘What I did was wrong but Roffel deserved it!’
‘Tush! Tush!’ Cranston placed his hand over that of his former comrade. ‘Sir Jacob, you have told the truth?’
‘Jack, I have. I swear that!’
Any further conversation was cut short by a bump alongside and the sound of raised voices. Men ran along the deck outside, then the cabin door was thrown open and an officer rushed in.
‘Sir Jacob, my apologies.’
‘What is it, man?’
‘You had best come on deck, sir.’
Sir Jacob, with Cranston and Athelstan in tow, followed him out. Darkness had fallen and the admiral’s words had proved prophetic: the river mist now boiled and swirled like steam from a cauldron, obscuring the bows of the ship. The river itself was hidden, almost as if a heavy cloud had descended, cutting the ship off and shrouding it under a thick wall of silence and mystery. Athelstan peered through the gloom. Now and again he could see lights from the other ships. Then he heard the sound that had caused the alarm.
‘What the bloody hell is it?’ Cranston slurred.
Athelstan made his way cautiously to the ship’s side.
‘Bells, Sir John. Church bells sounding the alarm.’
‘There’s something else as well,’ the officer who had interrupted their meal shouted from the other side of the ship. ‘Sir Jacob, a boatman’s here. He calls himself Moleskin!’
Athelstan crossed the slippery surface of the deck and peered over the side. He could just make out Moleskin’s cheery face in the light from the lamp the boatman held up.
