Cranston drained his tankard. ‘And this brings us no nearer to the mystery of who murdered Captain Roffel, how and why.’ He ran his finger around the rim of the tankard. ‘Have you thought that those two lovebirds in your church, Aveline and Nicholas Ashby, might be involved in this?’
Athelstan laughed. ‘In God’s name, Sir John, anybody and everybody could have been.’ He looked down at what he had written. ‘We have a number of mysteries to solve. How was Roffel poisoned? What went on during that last voyage? And what happened the first night the God’s Bright Light rode at anchor opposite Queen’s hithe? So far we have no clue, not a shred of evidence or a loose thread, except one. Our beloved admiral, Sir Jacob Crawley, he needs to be questioned again.’
‘Sir John, I have finished my ale,’ Leif shouted from the far corner of the taproom.
Sir John looked over his shoulder to where the beggar, crouched on a stool, sat waving across at him.
‘I’d better go, Brother. Lady Maude awaits. Do you wish to join me?’
Athelstan shook his head. He rolled his parchment up and put that and his writing implements back in the leather bag.
‘No, Sir John, I’d best go back.’ His face brightened. ‘Benedicta returns soon and I have a few questions to ask Master Ashby. I am also worried about Marston hanging around the church. We still have that problem to solve, Sir John.’
Cranston got to his feet, turning his beaver-skin hat in his hands. ‘Aye,’ he muttered, ‘and Shawditch will be hammering on my door about that bloody footpad. You’ll be safe going back, Brother?’
Athelstan stood up. ‘Who,’ he asked with great solemnity, ‘would dare touch the secretarius of the coroner of the city of London?’
Sir John grinned and moved away.
‘And don’t forget, Sir John,’ Athelstan called out, ignoring the surprised looks from the other customers, ‘you promised to play the role of Satan in our play!’
‘Don’t worry!’ Cranston bawled back, ‘even the Lord Beelzebub will seethe with envy when he sees me dressed in all my regalia!’
Cranston swept out, Leif hopping and chattering like a squirrel behind him.
Athelstan sighed, collected his horse from the stables and rode through the silent, darkened Cheapside. He let his old horse find its own way as he half-dozed, his mind flitting back over the events of the day. All around him were the sounds of the night – shouts and songs from the taverns, a child crying from a high window, dogs barking. Cats slunk in and out of the shadows as they patrolled the sewers, ever vigilant for the mice and rats that foraged there. Athelstan crossed himself and softly intoned into the darkness ‘Veni Sancte Spiritus – Come, Holy Spirit, and send out from heaven the beam of your light.’
He reached London Bridge, showed the warrant Cranston had given him and the night watch let him by. Half-way across he stopped; peering through the huddled buildings he glimpsed the Thames. The night mist shifted, revealing the fighting ships riding at anchor.
‘Oh, Lord!’ Athelstan prayed. ‘Solve these mysteries, these terrible murders, these secrets of the seas!’
He recalled all the people he had met that day: Emma Roffel, the Fisher of Men, the poor hapless murdered maid, the scrutineers, enigmatic and dangerous.
‘We are,’ he muttered to himself, ‘like sharp, unsheathed knives; every time we turn, we cut.’
He nudged Philomel forward, rode off the bridge and into the maze of Southwark’s alleyways.
CHAPTER 8
As Athelstan arrived at St Erconwald’s, others involved in the mystery surrounding the God’s Bright Light began to act. The man sitting in a corner of a tavern at Queen’s hithe stared out through the open window, watching the mist thickening over the river. He tried to curb the murderous fury seething hotly through his veins, pounding the blood in his head and heart. He touched the dagger in his belt.
‘So far,’ he muttered. ‘So bloody far and yet so near!’
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and leaned back. He remembered Roffel walking the deck, the wind billowing the great sail, the ship cutting the waves like a knife through cream, bearing down on that fishing smack. Its crew never stood a chance! Roffel himself led the boarding party, closing his ears to the screams for mercy, particularly those from the English. And then, later, in the captain’s cabin . . .
The man opened his eyes and leaned forward. Everything was set to go well, and then Roffel had sickened so mysteriously and died. Now all was lost. The man looked down at the piece of parchment that had been slipped into his hand while he had been drinking in Vintry. He read it again.
‘The bloody bitch!’ he swore.
He tossed the parchment into the fire, rose and walked out of the tavern.
In another part of the city Bernicia was getting herself ready for the evening. She sat in front of the polished metal disc that served her as a mirror and smiled at her reflection.
‘He, she,’ Bernicia muttered to herself.
She would drop all pretence, after all her secret was safe with Cranston. Bernicia saw herself as a woman; she thought like one, felt like one. Bernicia looked down at the cheap rings on her fingers. She was glad Roffel was dead! No more hacked limbs, no more bloody tributes, No more cruelty! Bernicia was determined to start life afresh. She finished her toilette, grabbed her fur-lined cape and hood, doused the candles and slipped into the shadowy street, locking the door behind her. She did not have to travel far and soon arrived at a small alehouse on the corner of Pigsnout Alley – a shoddy, dingy drinking-hole where men sat on rickety stools and battered beer barrels served as tables. Bernicia approached the prosperous-looking landlord, dressed in leather jerkin, brown woollen hose and a spotless white apron. She could tell by his face that he recognised her, but the ritual was always the same.
‘Mistress, what will you have?’
‘A cup of wine.’
‘Red or white?’
‘I would like both.’
‘In particular, what?’
Bernicia remembered the password for the week. ‘They say that the juice of Bastogne is fresh.’
The man waved her through the small scullery, across a cobbled courtyard into what looked like an outhouse. It served as a small store for tables and sacks of grain. Sheaves of yellow hay and straw thickly carpeted the floor. The landlord pushed a small handcart aside, cleared the straw with his boot and revealed a trapdoor. He tugged it open – it made hardly any sound. Bernicia smiled as she saw the light flow out, heard the chatter of gentle conversation, the thrumming of a viol and muted laughter. Clawing at her sarcanet skirt she went gingerly down the steps. The chamber beneath was vast, a great underground storeroom, its walls and pillars scrubbed clean and painted white. Sconces had been placed neatly around the room to provide light as well as some heat. Standing in the shadows at the foot of the stairs, Bernicia looked with kohl-darkened eyes at the scene. She recognised some of the customers; they were creatures like herself, living a secret life amongst those – clerks, merchants, even the occasional nobleman – whose lusts they served. Each table, with its two chairs, was carefully positioned to afford the greatest intimacy and privacy, the customers could enjoy themselves, yet carefully watch who left and entered, whether by the steps or through the secret passageways at the far end of the room. The air was sweet; the candles and braziers were scented and their fragrance mingled with the cloying perfumes with which some of the customers washed their bodies. Nevertheless, Bernicia could sense the undercurrent of excitement, even danger. Everyone was watchful, on guard against a traitor, an informant. If the officers of the crown raided such a place, the offenders would either be sent to the scaffold or, worse, to the stake at Smithfield.