‘For God’s sake, man!’ Sir Jacob, who had joined Athelstan, shouted down. ‘What is so urgent? Have you not heard the news, man?’
‘I belong to Brother Athelstan’s parish,’ Moleskin retorted. ‘He looks after me. Came out to see my old mother he did.’
‘Sweet Lord!’ Crawley whispered. ‘The fellow’s mad!’
‘What do you want, Moleskin?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh, nothing really, Father. I was just worried. You see, those clever bastards on board think the French galleys are coming up-river against them. Well, I’ve seen them near the far bank, on the Southwark side. I couldn’t care what happens to the other buggers but I was worried about you and Lord Horsecruncher!’
‘Piss off!’ Cranston yelled.
‘And a very good evening to you, Sir John,’ Moleskin replied.
‘You had best go,’ Athelstan shouted down.
‘Don’t you worry, Brother, no bloody Frenchmen will catch me! I was working this river when they were little tadpoles!’
Moleskin’s voice echoed out of the depths of the mist. Athelstan peered down, the mist shifted for a few seconds but Moleskin and his boat had gone. Cranston leaned drunkenly against the side of the ship and looked at Crawley. Sir Jacob peered into the mist, rubbing his fingers through his small pointed beard. ‘What do you know of Moleskin, Father?’ the admiral asked.
‘One of the best boatmen on the Thames,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Shrewd, honest and sober. He knows the Thames like the back of his hand.’
‘Oh, sweet Lord!’ Cranston muttered. The cold night air was beginning to clear the wine fumes from his brain. ‘Farting Frenchmen!’ he said viciously.
‘What’s the matter?’ Athelstan asked.
Sir Jacob began shouting orders, instructing his officers to send a message to the ships along the line.
Athelstan grasped Cranston’s arm. ‘Sir John, what is happening?’
Cranston pulled him into a corner.
‘Look, Brother, the Frenchman is a cunning sailor. He’s probably come up the Thames, shadowing its north bank, passing Westminster, coming within sight of the Temple, Whitefriars, even Fleet Street. He did that to cause consternation, put everyone on their guard. Now, we expect an enemy coming up-river behind us, from the west. What the clever bastard Eustace has done is taken his galleys across river to the Southwark side. He’ll turn just before London Bridge and come sliding down from the opposite direction Sir Jacob’s expecting.’
‘And?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Brother! It’s the element of surprise!’ Cranston’s whiskers bristled at the prospect of action. ‘Can’t you see? It’s like me expecting a knifeman to come from my left but he rushes from my right. What will happen is this. Eustace has turned his galleys round. He’ll come sliding back, do as much damage as he can here, using the element of surprise, and then press on to the river mouth. He’ll make fools of the city, not to mention the king’s admiral. But not,’ Cranston bellowed into the mist-shrouded darkness, ‘of Sir John Cranston!’ He clapped Athelstan on the shoulder. Thanks to you, most favoured of friars and to that cheeky bugger, Moleskin, we’ll be well prepared!’
Athelstan stared around as the ship was prepared for action. Sailors now thronged the decks. The charcoal braziers glowed red under their metal hoods. Archers strung their bows and boys ran around filling quivers. Crawley went into his cabin and came out with a war belt, mailed hauberk and a conical steel helmet with a nose guard. Other officers followed suit. A drum beat began to roll, but Crawley quickly silenced it. Small catapults were wheeled out from beneath their tarpaulin covers. One last message was despatched via the ship’s boat to the other cogs, confirming the change in plan and warning their captains to expect an attack from the east after the French galleys turned at London Bridge. Crawley shouted up to the look-outs.
‘A silver piece for the first man who sights the enemy!’
‘Thick as soup!’ a voice shouted back. ‘No sign of anything, Sir Jacob!’
Athelstan felt the fear and apprehension. Long poles and grappling hooks were brought up from below. Swords and daggers were eased in and out of scabbards. One man came up, begging Athelstan to shrive him. Athelstan crouched and heard the man’s whispered, hurried confession. He was no more than eighteen or nineteen summers old. ‘In a few minutes,’ he whispered as they crouched in a corner of the deck between the ship’s side and the stern castle, ‘I might be killing people.’
‘God will be your judge, my son,’ Athelstan responded. ‘All I can say is, do what you think right in whatever the moment presents to you.’
Other men, too, wanted him to hear their confessions. In the end Athelstan pronounced a general absolution. Cranston meanwhile had been walking impatiently up and down, peering into the mist.
‘Sir John,’ Crawley called out, ‘you can go below or, if you wish, we can put you ashore!’
‘Sod off!’ Cranston roared. ‘Never will it be said that Jack Cranston scuttled away!’
‘But what about Brother Athelstan?’
Cranston stared at the friar. ‘Brother, you must go ashore.’
Athelstan shook his head. ‘I am here. That means God intended me to be here. Anyway, Sir John, someone’s got to protect your back.’
Cranston walked closer. ‘Sod off, you little friar!’
‘Sir John,’ Athelstan replied evenly, ‘what if something happened to you? Your face is as red as a beacon, so large a target. What could I say to Lady Maude or the poppets?’
Cranston looked over his shoulder at Crawley. ‘We stay,’ he bawled. ‘Sir Jacob, a sword belt, dagger and shield. Oh yes, and a helmet.’
‘If you have one big enough,’ Athelstan said under his breath.
Sir John busily armed himself, his curses and black good humour easing the tension around him. Once finished, he looked a veritable fighting barrel, made all the more ridiculous by the too-small helmet on his head.
The chatter and laughter died as a look-out on the forecastle shouted. ‘I see something! No, it’s gone! It’s gone!’
Now all the ship’s company were turning, gazing up-river. Athelstan walked to the side. What was it he heard? A creak?
‘God in heaven!’ Cranston shouted as fire-arrows hissed through the mist. One hit the deck, another hit an archer in the shoulder, sending him whirling like a doll, screaming with pain.
‘Blazing bollocks!’ Cranston shouted. The bastards are here!’
More fire-arrows fell, followed by a ball of blazing pitch which crashed to the deck but was quickly doused in water. Athelstan felt his stomach lurch; his mouth went dry. He peered into the mist. Long shapes appeared, low-slung with ornate poops resembling snarling wolves’ heads. Athelstan stepped back in fear. There were three or four, no, five galleys, oars up, racing towards the Holy Trinity like loping greyhounds for the kill. The speed and silence of their approach was unnerving.
‘Why don’t you fire?’ Athelstan shouted at Crawley.
The admiral stood, hand raised. A galley smashed into the larboard side of the Holy Trinity. Another, its oars drawn inboard in one sweeping movement, swung under its stern. A third came to a foaming stop under its bows. A grappling hook snaked out and caught a bulwark.
‘For St George!’ Crawley shouted, and brought his hand down.
The long bows sang their song, a low musical thrum, as goosequill-flighted arrows swooped into the darkness. The night air was shattered by screams and yells.
‘Again! Loose!’
A Frenchman, his dark face bearded, the only man yet to reach the deck of the Holy Trinity, stared at Athelstan in stupefaction. An arrow caught him straight between the eyes. He fell back.
‘Again!’ Crawley shouted. ‘Loose!’
Athelstan felt himself pulled back by Cranston and stared at the archers. They were hand-picked master bowmen; they fired one arrow whilst keeping another between their teeth. Athelstan guessed each one must be shooting at least three a minute. They worked in a silent, cold way. Now and again a French arbalester replied and an archer fell screaming to the deck. He was pulled away and another took his place. Other, more enterprising archers were climbing the rigging. Athelstan hurried to those who had been wounded. The first, a youth of about sixteen, was already coughing up blood, his eyes glazing over. Athelstan sketched the sign of the cross over his face and trusted that Christ would understand. Now Crawley was bringing up fire archers, exposing them to danger as they leant over the side of the ship to shoot down into the galleys. The French replied with their crossbows. One archer disappeared screaming over the side, half his face ripped away. Athelstan stood with Crawley and a small knot of officers at the foot of the mast and listened to the din of battle. He realised how fortunate they had been – without Moleskin’s warning the entire ship’s company would have been unprepared and looking in the opposite direction when Eustace the Monk’s freebooters struck.