Paul Doherty - By Murder's bright light

‘The truth,’ Sir John demanded. ‘Otherwise I’ll have the beadles brought in and have you stripped. You can’t hide what God gave you!’ He leaned forward and touched Bernicia’s hair. ‘I know where you met Roffel,’ he continued. ‘In the Mermaid tavern down near St Paul’s Wharf. What’s your real name? Come on, what is it?’

‘My name is Roger-atte-Southgate.’

Athelstan could only keep gaping.

‘I once served as a cabin boy with Roffel. I was, I am a woman in a man’s body.’ Bernicia looked into the fire. ‘I used to envy the whores, the way they moved, the clothes they could wear, the excitement they aroused in the sailors. And then, one night, I discovered there were others like me.’

‘If the sheriffs discover you,’ Cranston warned, ‘they’ll burn you as a sodomite at Smithfield! Isn’t that true, Father?’

Athelstan could only stare. He studied Bernicia more closely and caught the lost, despondent look in her eyes. Athelstan blinked. He still considered her a woman, whatever Sir John or she might say. He felt a wave of compassion. In his days in the novitiate, and in camps in France, he had met men who liked to be used as women, but never had he met one who dressed and acted the part so convincingly.

‘Your secret is safe with us,’ he said gently. ‘Sir John and I are not here to inflict any pain, though you are involved in serious sin.’

‘Am I, Father? Men like Roffel? I have known them as far as my memory stretches. They like to use me as a woman, so why blame me for what others made me? Oh, yes, there were priests too. They liked such strange bed sports.’

Athelstan held his hand up. ‘I am not your judge nor your confessor.’

‘Little point in that,’ Bernicia interrupted. ‘I have no need for either. There’s no God and, if there is, he’s forgotten all about us.’ Bernicia moved on her chair. ‘Roffel used to bring me precious trinkets – fingers with the rings still on them, once an ear with a small gold band in it. He used to sit where you are, Father, and boast about what he had done. How he would cheat his crew, his business partner Ospring and even his dull wife.’

‘Did you return to the ship last night?’ Cranston abruptly asked.

Bernicia looked away.

‘Don’t lie! Did you return?’

‘Yes, I did. Well, at least, to the quayside. I wanted to see if Roffel had left any of his valuables. He always had a full purse and a little coffer full of trinkets. I thought the first mate might let me back on board.’

‘Why only to the quayside?’ Cranston asked.

‘Well, there was no bumboat available to take me to the ship. I did hail it, though.’

‘And what happened?’

‘One of the watch must have heard me, for the first mate came.’

‘What time was this?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh, it was about midnight. I thought it was safe then. The quayside is usually deserted by that time – all the revellers have gone home or are too drunk to care.’

‘And what happened?’

The mate came to the side of the ship. He was drunk. He just waved his cup at me and shouted, "Piss off!".’

‘Strange,’ Cranston mused. ‘The nearest ship was the admiral’s Holy Trinity and he did not tell us about any disturbance?’

‘I have told you what I saw.’ Bernicia pulled a face. ‘But there was something strange.’

‘What?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Well, I was on the quayside; it was deserted, cold and windswept. I realised how foolish I had been, even in going there. Now, as I turned away, I am sure I saw a figure move in the doorway of one of those warehouses.’

‘You are certain?’

‘Oh yes. There were the usual night sounds along the quayside – rats slithering about, the lapping of the water – but I heard a scrape as if someone had drawn a sword or was carrying some metal implement. I am sure whoever was hiding there was keeping watch and guard on the ship. I called out, but there was no response so I hurriedly left.’

‘And that’s all you saw or heard?’

‘Yes, yes, it is.’

‘Did you ever meet any of Roffel’s crew?’

‘Oh, only from a distance. When they accompanied the captain ashore, Roffel usually kept me away from them.’

‘And Sir Henry Ospring?’

‘No, though Roffel did receive letters from Ospring accusing him of embezzling some of the profits.’

‘And Roffel’s squire, a man called Ashby?’

Bernicia shook her head.

Cranston looked at Athelstan and raised his eyes heavenwards. He took a sip of the wine, but it tasted bitter to him. He pulled a wry mouth and got to his feet.

‘So, you know nothing at all?’

‘No, I don’t. Sir John,’ Bernicia pleaded, ‘you will keep my secret?’

The coroner nodded.

‘I have one final question.’ Athelstan picked up his leather writing bag and cradled it against his chest. ‘Tonight we visited St Mary Magdalene’s church. Someone had broken in, plucked Roffel’s corpse from his coffin, slit his throat and left him sprawling in the sanctuary chair. There was a piece of parchment pinned to his chest with the word "assassin" daubed on it in his own blood. Now, who hated the captain enough to do that?’

Bernicia sneered. ‘Sir Henry Ospring for one.’

‘He’s dead, murdered too!’

Bernicia smiled. ‘Roffel will be pleased to have company in hell.’

‘Who else?’ Cranston insisted. ‘Whom did Roffel mention in anger or spite?’

‘You should go back to the fleet, Sir John. Ask the admiral, Sir Jacob Crawley. Roffel always said he hated him.’

‘Why should Roffel hate Crawley?’

‘Oh, no, the other way round. Crawley couldn’t stand the sight of our good captain. I think there was bad blood between them. Roffel once said Crawley had accused him of sinking a ship in which one of Crawley’s kinsmen had been murdered. Roffel said he’d never drink or eat with the admiral and would always be careful never to turn his back on him.’

‘In which case, mistress-’ Cranston grinned sourly. ‘Yes, I’ll call you that. In which case, we bid you goodnight.’

Once outside the house Cranston gave vent to a belly laugh which rang like a bell through the narrow street. A householder opposite opened a window and shouted for silence. Cranston apologised, hitched his cloak about him and led Athelstan back into Cheapside.

‘So, so, so,’ he muttered. ‘Here’s another mystery. A man who dresses as a woman and claims to be the dead captain’s whore.’ He yawned, stretched and looked up at the night sky. Tomorrow we’ll continue,’ he said. ‘They talk of the mysteries of the sea. But, mark my words, Brother, what happened on the God’s Bright Light last night is a mystery that deepens by the hour.’ He patted the friar on the back. ‘Now, come on, Brother, I’ll walk you back to London Bridge and tell you a very funny story about the bishop, the parson and someone very like our young Bernicia!’

Athelstan celebrated his usual early morning Mass, surprised to see his sparse congregation graced by the presence of Aveline Ospring. She knelt by the rood screen, hands piously joined, but her eyes never left young Ashby, who was helping Crim the altar server during the ceremony. Once the Mass was finished, Athelstan hung up his vestments, cleared the altar and went out to find Aveline and Ashby sitting on the sanctuary steps quietly conversing.

‘Do you want some breakfast?’ Athelstan asked.

Ashby nodded. ‘I am starving, Father. Is it possible to have a razor and some soap? Lady Aveline’ – he patted the saddle bag – ‘has brought me other necessities.’

Athelstan went across to his house. He built up the fire and, after giving the ever-hungry Philomel his morning meal of hay, washed his hands and took a tray of bread, cheese and wine back into the church. Ashby ate hungrily. Now and again Aveline, who looked more composed and certainly more radiant than on the day before, sipped from Ashby’s cup or nibbled on the bread and cheese.