Paul Doherty - By Murder's bright light

‘I am sorry I overslept,’ he said. ‘I was at the battle on the river last night. I wasn’t a hero, though.’

‘Nonsense!’ Tab the tinker shouted.

‘But Sir John was,’ Athelstan continued.

‘Good old Fat Arse!’ someone shouted.

‘Well done, Horsecruncher!’ Crim piped up.

Athelstan glowered at them.

‘You are in God’s house. Sir John is a very brave man and so is Moleskin. He may well get a letter from the mayor, not to mention a suitable reward.’

Athelstan glanced over to where Ashby sat on the ledge of the sanctuary. The young man was shaved and wearing clean robes and he was surrounded by bolsters and blankets. Athelstan glimpsed a book, a bowl of fruit and a large jug which Bonaventure, crouching in the corner, watched attentively. Aveline was also there, kneeling piously, her hands in her lap, head down.

‘I also thank you,’ Athelstan continued, trying to keep the humour out of his voice, ‘for looking after Brother Ashby, whose troubles may soon disappear. Now’ – he peered through the rood screen, towards the makeshift stage and raised his hand – ‘Mass is over, we have got work to do.’

The friar went into the sacristy and took off his vestments. He helped Crim and Ashby clear the candlesticks and cloths from the altar, hung a new sanctuary lamp above the tabernacle and went to join Ashby and Aveline. As usual, they sat in the corner of the sanctuary whispering together. Athelstan pulled across the stool Crim used when serving Mass.

‘Lady Aveline,’ Athelstan began, ‘I have some very sad news about your stepfather.’

The friar then tersely described the conclusions he had drawn about Sir Henry Ospring’s nefarious activities. Ashby gasped. Aveline’s face went paler than usual, tears brimming in her eyes.

‘What you are saying, Brother,’ she whispered once Athelstan had finished, ‘is that my stepfather was a traitor and a murderer.’

‘The words are yours, my lady, but, God forgive me, the truth is as I have described it.’

‘Will the crown seize his estates?’ Ashby spoke up.

‘I doubt it,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Sir Henry died before any allegations could be made and he is not here to defend himself against them.’ He shrugged. ‘The crown will undoubtedly, through the exchequer, demand the return of its silver.’ Athelstan smiled thinly as he remembered the hard scrutineers, Peter and Paul. ‘I strongly recommend, Lady Aveline, that either you or your stepfather’s executors double the amount and dismiss it as a gift.’ Athelstan stared at the young man. ‘You, however, were his squire. Questions may well be asked of you.’

‘I will go on oath,’ Ashby said, ‘and I have witnesses, that I was not involved in Sir Henry’s business affairs.’ He pulled a face. ‘Certainly not those involving the men who visited him at the dead of night.’ He chewed his Lip and grinned. ‘I doubt if Marston could claim the same.’

Athelstan nodded. ‘Nevertheless, as Sir John keeps saying, every cloud has a silver lining. God forgive me, Lady Aveline, but I don’t think anyone, and certainly not the king, will weep for your stepfather. Consequently, Sir John and I believe a pardon will be freely issued to both of you for the death of Sir Henry.’ He stilled their excited clamour with an upraised hand. ‘Nevertheless, Master Ashby, you are still a felon and a wanted man.’ Athelstan picked a piece of candle grease from the back of his hand. ‘But, don’t worry,’ he murmured. ‘Before the day is much older I shall give Marston something to think about.’

‘Is there anything more we can do?’ Ashby asked.

‘Did you know Bracklebury?’

Ashby shook his head. ‘A dark, violent man, Father. A good knife man. He was like his captain, he feared neither God nor man. Why do you ask?’

‘We have established,’ Athelstan replied, ‘that Roffel took the silver and hid it on board the God’s Bright Light. To cut a long story short, Bracklebury may have dismissed the crew, keeping two back so he could search the ship.’ Athelstan paused, choosing to ignore the unanswered questions that still nagged at his brain. ‘God knows what happened then. Perhaps Bracklebury killed the two members of the watch and escaped ashore. The only problem is that the God’s Bright Light kept passing signals and no one saw any boat leave the ship.’

‘Bracklebury could have jumped overboard,’ Lady Aveline suggested, ‘and swum to the quayside.’

‘No, no, that’s impossible,’ Ashby replied.

Athelstan stared at him. ‘Why’s that?’

‘Father, can you swim?’

Athelstan recalled golden days from his boyhood, he and his brother Francis leaping into a river, naked as the day they were born.

‘Well, Father, can you?’

‘Yes,’ Athelstan replied, a little embarrassed. ‘Like a fish. My parents owned a farm where a river ran through some pasture land. Why?’

‘You see, Father, men like Bracklebury probably grew up in the slums of London or Bristol. Many people think every sailor can swim, but that’s not true. They board ship as boys. If they survive through to manhood, they fear the sea, Father, much more than we do. They have seen its power.’ Ashby shrugged. ‘To put it bluntly, Bracklebury, like many of his kind, couldn’t swim.’

‘How do you know that?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Is that a guess or a fact?’

‘Oh, it’s a fact, Father. Bracklebury told me himself. I suspect the same applies to Cabe, Coffrey and even poor old Roffel himself. You ask most sailors, if they have to abandon ship they always take something to cling on to.’

Athelstan stared down the nave where his parishioners, busy as bees, thronged around the makeshift stage.

‘God help us!’ he whispered. ‘So, how the hell did bloody Bracklebury, to quote the famous Cranston, leave that bloody ship?’

‘Suppose he had an accomplice?’ Ashby said. ‘Someone who brought a small boat alongside?’

‘Without anyone seeing it?’ Athelstan asked.

‘What if it came from the Southwark side?’

Athelstan nodded and got to his feet. ‘Aye, and what if pigs fly? Would you trust Cabe?’

‘About as far as I can spit. Of the same ilk as Bracklebury! The two were as thick as thieves and the same goes for the other officers. They were hard men, Father. They all have murky pasts which they prefer kept hidden.’

Athelstan thanked him, told them both to be careful and walked into the nave of the church. He stood for a while admiring the cart now being transformed into a stage. Posts had been set up around it and fixed to them was the great piece of canvas that would serve as backdrop and wings. It was sagging woefully. Huddle was putting the finishing touches to his painting of the yawning mouth of Hell, blissfully ignoring the comments and advice from the rest of the parish council. Athelstan smiled and slipped by. He was half-way across to Philomel’s stable when he guiltily remembered that he had left the old warhorse at the Holy Lamb of God.

‘Oh, he’ll be all right,’ he comforted himself. The landlord, he knew, was a warm-hearted man and, as long as Philomel was warm and dry and had plenty of food within inches of his greying muzzle, he wouldn’t care where he was.

Athelstan went back to the house, which Benedicta and Cecily the courtesan had cleaned and swept. He took some bread and cheese from the buttery and sat at his table, moodily reflecting on the battle of the night before.

‘What,’ he asked the fire, ‘did Crawley mean by his remark "everything was so tidy"?’

The friar shook his head and popped another piece of cheese into his mouth. What had Bracklebury done to the other two crew members? How did he get off the ship? And, if he had the silver, why did he murder Bernicia? He was interrupted by a knock on the door. Bladdersniff the ward bailiff swaggered in, his fleshy face quivering with self-importance.