Paul Doherty - By Murder's bright light

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!’

Athelstan slept late next morning. He woke at dawn, aching from head to toe, though his arm felt better. The mist still boiled outside. He couldn’t even glimpse the church from his upper chamber window.

‘God forgive me!’ Athelstan muttered. ‘But I feel terrible!’ He went downstairs, built up the fire, drank a little wine and returned to bed. This time he slept for hours and was only awakened by Watkin pounding on the door an hour before noon. Athelstan, pulling his thin blanket around him, hurried down. He unlocked the door and smiled at the look of astonishment on the dung-collector’s face.

‘Father, you have been asleep?’

Athelstan took him into the kitchen. Behind Watkin other parishioners were gathering on the church steps. Even Marston was there, looking apprehensively towards the priest’s house. Athelstan slumped down at the table.

‘Father, what’s wrong? You are always up. Shaved, bathed, Mass said, church clean?’ Watkin hid his love for this gentle priest behind his usual bluster.

Athelstan smiled thinly. ‘Watkin, I was on the river last night with Sir John.’

‘You were there, Father?’

‘I was, God help me, on the Holy Trinity when the French attacked.’

Watkin strode to the door and threw it open.

‘Father’s a hero!’ he bellowed at the other parishioners. ‘He and Fat Arse, I mean, he and Sir John Cranston, fought the bloody French on the river last night!’

Athelstan hid his face in his hands.

‘Our priest’s a real hero!’ Watkin brayed. ‘So, it’s true what Moleskin told us. Crim, go down to the river and give Moleskin my apologies for calling him a lying fart!’

‘Father needs me here,’ Crim complained.

‘Piss off, you cheeky little sprog!’ Watkin slammed the door behind the boy and waddled towards Athelstan. ‘Father, you look pale and shaken.’

‘Actually, Watkin, I feel much better. By the way, I was not a hero, just a very frightened priest.’

‘Modest as always, modest as always!’ Watkin patronisingly tapped Athelstan on the shoulder. ‘Well get Huddle to do a painting and put it up in the church, depicting Brother Athelstan’s role in the great sea battle. All of Southwark will know about it.’ He breathed noisily through hairy nostrils. ‘They are hunting Frenchmen along the mud flats. The gallows are full and they’re putting pirates’ heads on London Bridge!’

Athelstan crossed his arms over his stomach. ‘God have mercy on them!’ he whispered.

The door opened. Athelstan’s parishioners thronged in, necks craning for a glimpse of their hero priest.

‘Go away! Go away!’ Watkin grandly ordered.

‘Brother Athelstan needs comfort and solace. I, as leader of your parish council, will give you the news later.’ He slammed the door. ‘Piss off!’ he roared as the door opened again.

Benedicta stepped into the room. Watkin fell back, his hands dangling at his sides, his head hanging – like a naughty boy.

‘Mistress Benedicta!’ He shuffled his great, muddy boots. ‘I didn’t mean you.’

The widow smiled, glanced at Athelstan’s pale and unshaven face then took a key off the hook near the door.

‘Watkin, open the church and continue your work, getting the stage ready for the play. Tell them Brother Athelstan will be across soon. Go on!’

The dung-collector slipped by her. Once he was outside, he grandly announced that he was in charge of the church, that he would keep Father Athelstan’s secrets and that they were to do what he told them. Pike the ditcher immediately objected. Athelstan smiled as the usual row broke out, their voices fading in the distance. Benedicta came and crouched before him.

‘You don’t look so bad for a hero,’ she whispered.

‘I’m not a hero, Benedicta. I was frightened. All I did was slip on the deck. A Frenchman was going to kill me but then he smiled and turned away.’ Athelstan stared at the dying flames of the fire. ‘I hope he got away. I hope he returns to his loved ones. I shall remember him at Mass.’

‘And Sir John?’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘That man is a mountain of legends. He belches like a pig and drinks as if no tomorrow but he’s got the heart of a lion.’

Athelstan quickly described Cranston’s exploits to Benedicta.

‘Oh, Lord!’ Benedicta said when he had finished. ‘Sir John will be full of himself.’

‘He deserves to be,’ Athelstan replied. ‘And remind me to remind him, Benedicta, that Moleskin must be rewarded. If it hadn’t been for him the French would have taken us unawares.’

‘What will you do now, Father?’

‘I am going to go upstairs. I am going to wash, shave, change and then say Mass. Oh, by the way, where’s Bonaventure?’

‘He’s with Ashby,’ Benedicta replied. ‘Lady Aveline has brought her swain all the comforts of life, including a pitcher of cold milk. Bonaventure can’t believe his luck.’

‘Cranston’s right,’ Athelstan muttered, ‘that cat’s a bloody little mercenary!’ He stared into Benedicta’s face. ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he said. ‘People will talk.’

‘About you?’ Benedicta smiled.

‘I couldn’t give a damn!’ Athelstan replied. ‘It’s you I’m thinking about.’

Benedicta laughed, turned and went to crouch by the fire. She sprinkled some kindling, put a fresh log on and grinned over her shoulder at him.

‘They can say what they like, but they’ll believe nothing ill about you, Father. As Pike the ditcher so aptly put it, you could put Brother Athelstan in a room full of whores and he wouldn’t know what to do!’

Athelstan blushed and went upstairs. Benedicta, still laughing to herself, went into the buttery to prepare some breakfast.

An hour later Athelstan, shaved and much more refreshed, went into the church, where he celebrated Mass. His parishioners, drawn in by the rumours of their priest’s heroic exploits, thronged into the sanctuary. Athelstan, however, had vowed to say nothing. He was about to raise his hand to dismiss them when he glimpsed the hurt on Watkin’s face. He lowered his hand and smiled.