By Murder's bright light

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 admiral 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.

‘Moleskin, what are you doing?’ Athelstan cried.

‘Father, I knew you were here. I went across to the city side and they told me you were aboard the Holy Trinity.’

‘For God’s sake, man!’ Sir Jacob, who had joined Athelstan, shouted down. ‘What is so urgent? Have you not heard the news, man?’

‘I belong to Brother Athelstan’s parish,’ Moleskin retorted. ‘He looks after me. Came out to see my old mother he did.’

‘Sweet Lord!’ Crawley whispered. ‘The fellow’s mad!’

‘What do you want, Moleskin?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh, nothing really, Father. I was just worried. You see, those clever bastards on board think the French galleys are coming up-river against them. Well, I’ve seen them near the far bank, on the Southwark side. I couldn’t care what happens to the other buggers but I was worried about you and Lord Horsecruncher!’

‘Piss off!’ Cranston yelled.

‘And a very good evening to you, Sir John,’ Moleskin replied.

‘You had best go,’ Athelstan shouted down.

‘Don’t you worry, Brother, no bloody Frenchmen will catch me! I was working this river when they were little tadpoles!’

Moleskin’s voice echoed out of the depths of the mist. Athelstan peered down, the mist shifted for a few seconds but Moleskin and his boat had gone. Cranston leaned drunkenly against the side of the ship and looked at Crawley. Sir Jacob peered into the mist, rubbing his fingers through his small pointed beard. ‘What do you know of Moleskin, Father?’ the admiral asked.

‘One of the best boatmen on the Thames,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Shrewd, honest and sober. He knows the Thames like the back of his hand.’

‘Oh, sweet Lord!’ Cranston muttered. The cold night air was beginning to clear the wine fumes from his brain. ‘Farting Frenchmen!’ he said viciously.

‘What’s the matter?’ Athelstan asked.

Sir Jacob began shouting orders, instructing his officers to send a message to the ships along the line.

Athelstan grasped Cranston’s arm. ‘Sir John, what is happening?’

Cranston pulled him into a corner.

‘Look, Brother, the Frenchman is a cunning sailor. He’s probably come up the Thames, shadowing its north bank, passing Westminster, coming within sight of the Temple, Whitefriars, even Fleet Street. He did that to cause consternation, put everyone on their guard. Now, we expect an enemy coming up-river behind us, from the west. What the clever bastard Eustace has done is taken his galleys across river to the Southwark side. He’ll turn just before London Bridge and come sliding down from the opposite direction Sir Jacob’s expecting.’

‘And?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Brother! It’s the element of surprise!’ Cranston’s whiskers bristled at the prospect of action. ‘Can’t you see? It’s like me expecting a knifeman to come from my left but he rushes from my right. What will happen is this. Eustace has turned his galleys round. He’ll come sliding back, do as much damage as he can here, using the element of surprise, and then press on to the river mouth. He’ll make fools of the city, not to mention the king’s admiral. But not,’ Cranston bellowed into the mist-shrouded darkness, ‘of Sir John Cranston!’ He clapped Athelstan on the shoulder. Thanks to you, most favoured of friars and to that cheeky bugger, Moleskin, we’ll be well prepared!’

Athelstan stared around as the ship was prepared for action. Sailors now thronged the decks. The charcoal braziers glowed red under their metal hoods. Archers strung their bows and boys ran around filling quivers. Crawley went into his cabin and came out with a war belt, mailed hauberk and a conical steel helmet with a nose guard. Other officers followed suit. A drum beat began to roll, but Crawley quickly silenced it. Small catapults were wheeled out from beneath their tarpaulin covers. One last message was despatched via the ship’s boat to the other cogs, confirming the change in plan and warning their captains to expect an attack from the east after the French galleys turned at London Bridge. Crawley shouted up to the look-outs.

‘A silver piece for the first man who sights the enemy!’

‘Thick as soup!’ a voice shouted back. ‘No sign of anything, Sir Jacob!’

Athelstan felt the fear and apprehension. Long poles and grappling hooks were brought up from below. Swords and daggers were eased in and out of scabbards. One man came up, begging Athelstan to shrive him. Athelstan crouched and heard the man’s whispered, hurried confession. He was no more than eighteen or nineteen summers old. ‘In a few minutes,’ he whispered as they crouched in a corner of the deck between the ship’s side and the stern castle, ‘I might be killing people.’

‘God will be your judge, my son,’ Athelstan responded. ‘All I can say is, do what you think right in whatever the moment presents to you.’

Other men, too, wanted him to hear their confessions. In the end Athelstan pronounced a general absolution. Cranston meanwhile had been walking impatiently up and down, peering into the mist.

‘Sir John,’ Crawley called out, ‘you can go below or, if you wish, we can put you ashore!’

‘Sod off!’ Cranston roared. ‘Never will it be said that Jack Cranston scuttled away!’

‘But what about Brother Athelstan?’

Cranston stared at the friar. ‘Brother, you must go ashore.’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘I am here. That means God intended me to be here. Anyway, Sir John, someone’s got to protect your back.’

Cranston walked closer. ‘Sod off, you little friar!’

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan replied evenly, ‘what if something happened to you? Your face is as red as a beacon, so large a target. What could I say to Lady Maude or the poppets?’

Cranston looked over his shoulder at Crawley. ‘We stay,’ he bawled. ‘Sir Jacob, a sword belt, dagger and shield. Oh yes, and a helmet.’

‘If you have one big enough,’ Athelstan said under his breath.

Sir John busily armed himself, his curses and black good humour easing the tension around him. Once finished, he looked a veritable fighting barrel, made all the more ridiculous by the too-small helmet on his head.

The chatter and laughter died as a look-out on the forecastle shouted. ‘I see something! No, it’s gone! It’s gone!’

Now all the ship’s company were turning, gazing up-river. Athelstan walked to the side. What was it he heard? A creak?

‘God in heaven!’ Cranston shouted as fire-arrows hissed through the mist. One hit the deck, another hit an archer in the shoulder, sending him whirling like a doll, screaming with pain.

‘Blazing bollocks!’ Cranston shouted. The bastards are here!’

More fire-arrows fell, followed by a ball of blazing pitch which crashed to the deck but was quickly doused in water. Athelstan felt his stomach lurch; his mouth went dry. He peered into the mist. Long shapes appeared, low-slung with ornate poops resembling snarling wolves’ heads. Athelstan stepped back in fear. There were three or four, no, five galleys, oars up, racing towards the Holy Trinity like loping greyhounds for the kill. The speed and silence of their approach was unnerving.

‘Why don’t you fire?’ Athelstan shouted at Crawley.

The admiral stood, hand raised. A galley smashed into the larboard side of the Holy Trinity. Another, its oars drawn inboard in one sweeping movement, swung under its stern. A third came to a foaming stop under its bows. A grappling hook snaked out and caught a bulwark.

‘For St George!’ Crawley shouted, and brought his hand down.

The long bows sang their song, a low musical thrum, as goosequill-flighted arrows swooped into the darkness. The night air was shattered by screams and yells.

‘Again! Loose!’

A Frenchman, his dark face bearded, the only man yet to reach the deck of the Holy Trinity, stared at Athelstan in stupefaction. An arrow caught him straight between the eyes. He fell back.

‘Again!’ Crawley shouted. ‘Loose!’

Athelstan felt himself pulled back by Cranston and stared at the archers. They were hand-picked master bowmen; they fired one arrow whilst keeping another between their teeth. Athelstan guessed each one must be shooting at least three a minute. They worked in a silent, cold way. Now and again a French arbalester replied and an archer fell screaming to the deck. He was pulled away and another took his place. Other, more enterprising archers were climbing the rigging. Athelstan hurried to those who had been wounded. The first, a youth of about sixteen, was already coughing up blood, his eyes glazing over. Athelstan sketched the sign of the cross over his face and trusted that Christ would understand. Now Crawley was bringing up fire archers, exposing them to danger as they leant over the side of the ship to shoot down into the galleys. The French replied with their crossbows. One archer disappeared screaming over the side, half his face ripped away. Athelstan stood with Crawley and a small knot of officers at the foot of the mast and listened to the din of battle. He realised how fortunate they had been – without Moleskin’s warning the entire ship’s company would have been unprepared and looking in the opposite direction when Eustace the Monk’s freebooters struck.

‘To starboard!’ someone shouted.

Crawley turned. A galley had come in on the shore side to complete the encirclement of the Holy Trinity. Athelstan glimpsed the top of its mast, where a monk’s hood fluttered as its pennant. Now the danger was acute. Archers hurried over, but the grappling lines snaked up and caught the ship’s rigging and bulwarks. In a mad rush, armed Frenchmen, wearing the livery of a monk’s hood over their chain mail, gained a footing. They pushed back the lightly armed archers, so skilled with their long bows and yet unprotected against these mailed men-at-arms.

‘Now!’ Cranston shouted and, not even waiting for Crawley’s orders, the fat coroner led the ship’s company of men-at-arms against the invaders. Athelstan would have moved too but Crawley pushed him back. Cranston hit the Frenchmen like a charging bull.

The friar watched, petrified. Cranston swung his great sword like a scythe. Athelstan smelt fire. He turned and saw smoke billowing from the galley at the other side of the ship. The fire-arrows had at last begun to take effect. Crawley, his face blackened with smoke, left the fight on the deck to run over and scream at his men.

‘Push it away! Push it away!’

The galley, flames licking it from bow to stern, was pushed out into the mist. The screams of the men on board were terrible. Athelstan saw at least three, their clothes aflame, throw themselves into the icy Thames. Now free on one side, more archers rushed to help Cranston. Athelstan retreated towards the shelter of the stern castle. As he did so, a Frenchman broke free of the mêlée and darted towards him. Athelstan moved sideways to dodge. The ship lurched. The deck underfoot was slippery, the seawater edged with a bloody froth. Athelstan crashed to the deck, jarring his arm. The Frenchman lifted his sword to strike but he must have realised Athelstan was a priest, for he smiled, stepped back and disappeared into the throng. The friar, nursing his bruised arm, limped towards the cabin. Behind him, he could hear Cranston’s roar. The friar closed his eyes and prayed that Christ would protect the fat coroner. Then he heard the bray of a trumpet, once, twice, three times, and immediately the fighting began to slacken. The arrows ceased to fall, shouted orders faltered. Athelstan, resting against the cabin, glanced along the ship, experiencing that eerie silence which always falls as a battle ends. Even the wounded and dying ceased their screaming.

‘Are you all right, Brother?’

Cranston came swaggering across the deck. The coroner was splashed with blood, his sword still wet and sticky. He appeared unhurt except for a few scratches on his hand and a small flesh wound just beneath his elbow. Cranston grasped Athelstan by the shoulder and pushed his face close, his ice-blue eyes full of concern.

‘Athelstan, you are all right?’

‘Christ be thanked, yes I am!’

‘Good!’ Cranston grinned. The farting Frenchmen have gone!’ The coroner turned, legs spread, big belly and chest stuck out, and raised his sword in the air. ‘We beat the bastards, lads!’

Cheering broke out and Athelstan could hear it being taken up on the cogs further down the line. He walked to the ship’s side. A number of French galleys were on fire and now lay low in the water, the roaring flames turning them to floating cinders. Of Eustace the Monk’s own galley and the rest of his small pirate fleet there was no sign.

‘What will happen now, Sir John?’ Athelstan asked.

‘The buggers will race for the sea,’ the coroner replied. They have to be out before dawn, when this mist lifts.’

Cranston threw his sword on the deck, his attention caught by the cries of a group of men under the mast. Cranston and Athelstan crossed to where Sir Jacob Crawley lay, a surgeon crouched over him tending a wound in his shoulder. The admiral winced with pain as he grabbed Cranston’s hand.

‘We did it, Jack.’ The admiral’s face, white as a sheet, broke into a thin smile. ‘We did it again, Jack, like the old days.’

Cranston looked at the surgeon.

‘Is he in any danger?’

‘No,’ the fellow replied. ‘Nothing a fresh poultice and a good bandage can’t deal with.’

Crawley struggled to concentrate. He peered at Athelstan.

‘I know,’ he whispered. ‘I remember. Everything was so tidy, so very, very tidy!’ Then he fell into a swoon.

Athelstan and Cranston drew away. The ship became a hive of activity and the friar winced as the archers, using their misericorde daggers, cut the throats of the enemy wounded and unceremoniously tossed their corpses into the river. Boats were lowered and messages sent to the other ships about what was to be done with the English wounded, the dead of both sides and the enemy prisoners.

Athelstan, nursing his arm, sat in the cabin and listened as Cranston, between generous slurps from his wineskin, gave a graphic description of the fight. Crawley, now being sent ashore to the hospital at St Bartholomew’s, had won a remarkable victory. Four galleys had been sunk and a number of prisoners taken. Most of these, perhaps the luckiest, were already on their way to the flagship to be hanged.

The news had by now reached the city. Through the fog came the sound of bells and sailors reported that, despite the darkness and the mist, crowds were beginning to gather along the quayside.

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘We should go ashore. We have done all we can here.’

Cranston, who was preparing for a third description of his masterly prowess, rubbed his eyes and smiled.

‘You are right.’

The coroner walked to the cabin door and watched as a French prisoner, a noose tied around his neck, was pushed over the side to die a slow, choking death.

‘You are right, Brother, we should go. No charging knights, no silken-caparisoned destriers, just a bloody mess and violent death.’

They crossed the deck to the shouts and acclamations of the sailors and archers. Athelstan glimpsed the dangling corpses.

‘Sir John, can’t that be stopped?’

‘Rules of war,’ Cranston replied. ‘Rules of war. Eustace the Monk is a pirate. Pirates are hanged out of hand.’

Crawley’s lieutenant had the ship’s boat ready for them. Cranston and Athelstan gingerly climbed down the rope ladder, the shouts and praises of the crew still ringing in their ears.

‘Where to, Sir John?’ the oarsman asked.

Cranston glanced at Athelstan. ‘You are welcome to stay at Cheapside.’

Athelstan shook his head. He kept his eyes down. He did not wish to see the terrible executions being carried out on the flagship, the corpses now hanging like rats from the ship’s sides.

‘No, Sir John, I thank you. Ask the oarsman to take me to Southwark.’ He smiled and patted Sir John on the arm. ‘You are a hero, Sir John. A brave, courageous heart. Lady Maude will be proud.’ Athelstan grinned. ‘And I shall tell the two poppets how their father is a veritable Hector!’

The Fisher of Men crouched on the quayside. He saw the boat carrying Athelstan to Southwark leave the Holy Trinity. He made out the outline of the flagship and saw the grisly burdens twitching at the ends of their ropes. He smiled at the gargoyles grouped around him.

‘Harvest time, my sweets!’ He turned his head, ears straining into the darkness. ‘There’s living men as well as dead in the river. As they come ashore, say that you are here to help. If they reply in French, kill them! If they are English, help them. But don’t forget to look for the corpses.’

One of the gargoyles tugged at his sleeve and pointed to the river, where a corpse in white shirt and dark hose bobbed, face down, towards them.

‘Yes, yes.’ The Fisher of Men smiled. ‘Harvest time at last!’