‘Oh, sweet Lord, no!’ he moaned. ‘Oh, Sir John, not now!’
But Cranston lay fiat on the cot, legs and arms spread out, head back, mouth open, snoring like one of his own poppets.
Athelstan sat on a stool and gazed around the cabin. He became used to the motion of the ship and found his eyes growing heavy. He just wished to get away from all this. He should go back to St Erconwald’s and to his parishioners – to Watkin’s petty ambitions, Pike’s bold-faced teasing, Pernell the Fleming’s desperate attempts to dye her hair and the sardonic amusement, as well as something else, he’d glimpsed in Benedicta’s lovely eyes. He wondered how Ashby was faring with Aveline. He felt more comfortable about her now – by the time Cranston finished this business, Sir Henry Ospring would not be held in high regard by the king. He began to think about the mystery play and to work out where the congregation would sit . . .
His eyes closed and he began to doze. He started awake as someone on the deck above him dropped something with a crash. The cabin was growing dark. He wondered whether Sir John had a flint so that he could light the lantern that hung from one of the thick wooden posts that supported the deck above. He got up and opened the front of the lantern then stared at the thick, bronze or copper hook from which it hung. The hook was carried on a plate which in turn was screwed to the post. Athelstan felt a flicker of excitement. Why such a heavy hook to carry a lantern which felt much lighter than those that good citizens hung outside their doors at night? The plate was at least nine inches across. Athelstan took the lantern down and tugged at the hook. Nothing happened. He tried twisting the hook clockwise, but it held fast. Then he tried to turn it in the opposite direction and this time he felt it give and the base plate move a little. He turned the hook further, as though unscrewing it, and the plate began to loosen and eventually come free, revealing a recess in the post behind it. Athelstan pushed his hand inside. His fingers touched soft shavings of wood, then a cold, hard object. He got two fingers around it and pulled it out. A silver coin rolled in the palm of his hand.
He heard a boat pull alongside and hastily replaced the hook in the post and went across to rouse Cranston.
‘Sir John!’ he hissed. ‘For God’s sake, wake up, Sir John!’
The coroner opened his eyes and smacked his lips.
‘A cup of claret,’ he breathed. ‘A beef and onion pie and I’ll see the poppets immediately.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Sir John!’ Athelstan shook him. ‘We are on board ship!’
Cranston rubbed his face and struggled to his feet.
‘What the bloody hell?’ His voice trailed off as Athelstan held the silver piece in front of his eyes.
‘You ferret of a friar! You little ferret of a friar!’ Cranston chortled and, grabbing Athelstan by the shoulders, kissed him on both cheeks.
Athelstan, not knowing whether to rub his shoulders where they ached or wipe his face, pointed to the lantern. Cranston lumbered across, his face still heavy with sleep.
‘In there? That’s a daft place!’
‘No, Sir John, behind the hook plate is a small recess. Whatever Roffel took from that fishing boat he hid there, but now it’s gone.’
‘So!’ Cranston breathed. ‘It all fits together.’
Athelstan hid the silver coin at the rap on the door. Southchurch entered.
‘I told Sir Jacob you were here,’ he said, ‘and he sent a messenger. Despite the present alarums, he still wishes you to be his guests aboard the Holy Trinity.’
Cranston looked down at himself. ‘I would like to change but’ – he grinned – ‘I suppose I’m handsome whatever I wear.’ He ran a finger along the stubble on Athelstan’s chin. ‘Which is more than I can say for you, my little friar. Come on, I’m starved and Crawley can be a good host.’
As a thick mist blanketed the river, the frenetic activity of the afternoon began to die. News of the French galleys had reached the city and church bells were already ringing the alarm. Many taverns were closed. Even the whores moved east of Southwark Bridge, confident that if any galleys penetrated the Thames this would prove a natural barrier to the invaders. A group of traders went down to Westminster to protest to the king’s council about this further sign of a fall in English fortunes. The more selfish began to hide belongings and place precious objects in strongboxes. Darkness fell; the quaysides were deserted except for the Fisher of Men and his gargoyles, who began to peer out of the shadowy alleyways and filthy runnels which ran down to the Thames. The Fisher of Men’s strange eyes gleamed at the prospect of profit. If there was a battle on the river, corpses could be plucked from the water, purses cut and fees demanded from the city authorities. He and his group of cowled figures crept by the Steelyard towards Queen’s hithe. They stood on the quayside staring out at the ships. The Fisher of Men turned.
‘Well! Well!’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘We must be ready. Stay along the river bank, watch the water.’ He chuckled. ‘Like the good book says, the deep shall yield up its riches.’ His face became serious. ‘Oh, yes, my beauties. Father Thames has many secrets.’
He hid his flicker of annoyance as he made out the lights of the God’s Bright Light. The Fisher of Men felt cheated. Three sailors had disappeared from that cog. The Fisher of Men had heard about the murder of Bernicia and the search for Bracklebury, but what had happened to the other two members of the watch? Why wouldn’t the river give up this secret to him?
CHAPTER 10
Sir Jacob Crawley greeted Cranston and Athelstan warmly. The friar was embarrassed by Sir John’s slight unsteadiness, but Sir Jacob chose to ignore it as he welcomed them into his cabin. A small trestle table had been set up, covered with white linen cloths and laid with silver goblets, cutlery and the very best pewter dishes. Lanterns had been lit and candlesticks, carefully fixed on to the table, bathed the cabin in a soft warm glow. Like its slightly smaller sister ships, the Holy Trinity was ready for war. Athelstan had seen these preparations as he and Cranston had come aboard. The Holy Trinity’s deck was cluttered with buckets of seawater against fire, while archers were bringing up bundles of arrows and placing them into small, iron-hooped barrels around the mast. As the admiral closed the cabin door behind him, Athelstan sensed he was entering a different world. Crawley ushered them to their chairs. They were served dishes that had been bought from cookshops and bakeries in Vintry. The food was not of the best, but still hot and spicy – venison pies, beef pastries, hot broth, quince tarts and different wines by the jugful. At first the conversation was a mere exchange of pleasantries, broken now and again by a knock on the door as an officer came to ask for advice or receive instructions.
‘Do you think Eustace the Monk will bring his galleys this far up the Thames?’ Athelstan asked.
Crawley nodded. ‘Within the hour, that mist on the river will be boiling thick and afford him the best protection.’ The admiral drank from his goblet and sat back. ‘It’s to be expected. For weeks we have been raiding towns along the Normandy coast and Eustace is insolent enough to try something daring. That he is here at all is danger enough.’ Crawley leaned closer. ‘Why, Brother, do you wish to go ashore? Please feel free.’
‘No.’ Cranston burped, smacked his lips and peered at a piece of velvet damask hanging on one wall of the cabin. ‘Sir Jacob, Brother Athelstan has fought in the king’s armies in France.’ Cranston did not elaborate on Athelstan’s brief military career, when his younger brother had been killed. ‘And old Jack Cranston is not frightened of any pirate.’ The coroner’s fat fingers drummed on the table top. ‘Moreover, Sir Jacob, we have business to attend to.’ He turned and winked quickly at Athelstan as a sign that they should tell Sir Jacob nothing about their discovery on board the God’s Bright Light.