‘What do you suggest, Brother? That we go aboard and search Roffel’s cabin?’
‘Aye, and, if necessary, take it to pieces!’
‘You mean the silver?’
‘Yes, Sir John, I mean the silver.’
‘But we know,’ Cranston objected, ‘that the cabin wasn’t disturbed on the morning Bracklebury and the other two sailors were found to be missing.’
‘No, Sir John, we were told that. Now we must act on the principle that everything we have been told is possibly a lie.’
They left the Guildhall. The skies had clouded over and a cold drizzle was beginning to fall. They walked down Bread Street, keeping a wary eye out for the water dripping from broken guttering as well as for patches of slippery mud underfoot. It was an uncomfortable journey across Trinity, through Vintry and along to the quayside. Surprisingly, they found the place a hive of activity. Boats, full of archers and men-at-arms, were going backwards and forwards to the ships anchored in mid-stream. From the Holy Trinity, Crawley’s flagship, a trumpet could be heard. Cranston seized a captain of archers who stood yelling at his men as they clambered, hooded and cowled, down to the waiting barges.
‘What’s the matter, man? Why all the excitement?’
The officer turned. Athelstan glimpsed cropped hair, grey eyes and a hard-bitten, rain-soaked face. The man looked Cranston up and down.
‘What business is it of yours, sir?’
‘I am Jack Cranston, coroner of the city!’
The man forced a respectful smile. ‘Then, Sir John, you will soon hear the news. French galleys have appeared in the mouth of the Thames. They have already taken one ship and burnt a village on Thanet.’
Cranston whistled through his teeth and stared out at the fighting cogs. Despite the rain, he could see that all the ships were preparing their armaments.
‘Are the French a serious danger?’ Athelstan asked.
Cranston did not reply. He stared out across the river. He remembered the low-slung, wolf-like enemy galleys. They could sneak into a small harbour or up a river – manned by the best French sailors and carrying mercenaries, they had brought terrible damage to the coastal towns of Rye and Winchelsea. Their crews had plundered and burned, and killed every inhabitant they could lay their hands on.
‘How many galleys?’ Cranston asked the captain.
‘God knows, Sir John. Well over a dozen, under the command of Eustace the Monk.’
Athelstan closed his eyes and muttered a prayer. ‘Oh Lord, Sir John,’ he whispered, ‘as if we didn’t have enough trouble!’
Cranston nodded. Eustace the Monk, a French pirate captain, had been a Benedictine until he had fled his monastery and gone to sea. He had proved to be the great scourge of English shipping. Legend had it that English free companies in France had burnt his parents’ farmhouse, killing all of Eustace’s family. Now Eustace was sworn to wreak vengeance against the ‘tail-wearing Goddamns’. Excommunicated by the Church, publicly condemned as a pirate, Eustace was secretly encouraged and supported by the French crown.
Athelstan peered through the drizzle. Although the ships were arming, there seemed little sign of them getting ready for sea.
‘What will happen, Sir John?’
‘Well-’ Cranston paused to thank the captain of archers and walked to the quayside steps, watching another barge pull in. ‘Our good admiral has two choices. He can sail down-river and fight, but he will be at a disadvantage – he won’t be able to manoeuvre and the galleys may well slip by, land their soldiers along the East Watergate, or even here, wreak terrible damage and then escape.’
‘Couldn’t the Thames be blocked?’ Athelstan asked.
Cranston grinned and shook his head. ‘The danger is that our dear Eustace may wreak his damage and still fight his way past the blockade.’
‘And what’s the admiral’s second choice?’
‘To turn his ships into fighting castles and wait to see what happens. Crawley’s a sensible commander, I think that’s what he’ll do. Then if Eustace penetrates further up the Thames he’ll find our flotilla ready to receive him.’
Cranston took Athelstan by the arm and they went down the slippery steps to the water, shouldering their way past the archers.
‘But we can’t wait, Brother! The God’s Bright Light must be searched and I am not going to stand on idle ceremony.’
He almost tumbled into a waiting barge, manned by four oarsmen who teased Sir John about his weight. The coroner returned their good-natured abuse and ordered them to take him and Athelstan across to the God’s Bright Light, telling the archers ‘to piss off and wait for the next bloody barge!’
The barge pulled away, the oarsmen impervious to the driving rain; they fairly skimmed across the black, choppy waters of the Thames, swinging round with a bump against the side of God’s Bright Light. Athelstan climbed the rope ladder first, trying to shut his ears against Cranston’s roars of encouragement. He made his way slowly up until a pair of strong arms helped him over the side. Athelstan leaned against the rail, gasping his thanks to a sailor who grinned from ear to ear. Cranston landed beside him, as heavy as a great beer barrel, muttering curses and damning every sailor under the sun. Athelstan stared about. The ship had been cleaned and cleared since their last visit and was now thronged with sailors and archers scurrying about under the commands of their officers. Hooded braziers had been lit and two small catapults rigged on deck. A youngish, sandy-haired man came out of the cabin in the stern castle and walked towards them. He was dressed casually, in black hose pushed into sea boots and a bottle-green cloak covering a leather jacket. He challenged Sir John.
‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’
‘Sir John Cranston, city coroner, and Brother Athelstan. And who, sir, are you?’
‘David Southchurch, recently appointed captain of the God’s Bright Light.’ The young man stroked his moustache and beard. ‘Sir John, I am a busy man. You have heard the news?’
‘Aye, Master Southchurch, and you must have heard mine.’
The captain shrugged. ‘Sir John, I wish to be helpful, but that is not my business. Roffel has gone, as have his first mate and two other sailors.’
‘All we want’ – Athelstan spoke quietly, feeling slightly sick as the deck heaved under him – ‘Is permission to search Roffel’s, or rather your, cabin, Master Southchurch. It is important that we do that before the ship sails again.’
The young captain smiled. ‘Of course,’ he agreed immediately. ‘You will find the cabin still empty – my belongings are not even aboard yet. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, be my guests.’ He waved his hand and ushered them into the cabin, closing the door behind them.
The small chamber was swept and clean. Athelstan gazed despairingly about. Above them, they could hear the patter of feet and spate of officers’ orders as the ship prepared itself for battle. Now and again the cabin lurched slightly as the choppy Thames caught and rocked the cog as it strained on its anchor. Athelstan slumped down on the small cot bed, clutching his stomach. Cranston grinned at him, took a generous swig from his wineskin, burped and sat down beside him.
‘Not much one can hide in here,’ he murmured. ‘Come on, Brother, use your sea legs!’
Athelstan sighed, got up and moved around the cabin.
‘If I were captain,’ he whispered, half to himself, ‘and I wanted to hide something bulky like a belt, what would I do?’
He looked around the small cabin, realising how insubstantial it was. There was nothing beneath the deck planking but the cavern of the hold – this wasn’t a house, where secret tunnels could be dug. Nor were there thick walls within which cupboards might be concealed behind the wainscoting. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Sir John, we have wasted a journey. Bonaventure could not even hide a mouse in here. The cot’s nothing, the table and stools are so simple. There is no real wall, ceiling or floor.’
A loud snore answered him. He turned around, almost tripping as the ship lurched again.