By Murder's Bright Light Page 12

  ‘Hell’s tits!’ Cranston leaned his elbows on the table. ‘We have discovered a few lies, Brother, but not a shred of evidence of who’s the main mover behind all this.’

  ‘It might be Crawley,’ Athelstan replied. ‘He had both the motive and the opportunity to approach the ship. Or what about Ospring? Where was our good merchant the night these strange events occurred?’ The friar sighed. ‘We understand all the officers were ashore, roistering and enjoying themselves, yet they could be lying. One or more might have stayed on board or returned later.’ Athelstan flung his quill down. ‘Yet, there again, no one saw any boat approach the ship from the quayside. If one did, it would have been challenged and how could three fit, strong sailors have been so quietly killed? Bernicia could be lying, she may have had a hand in this business. Finally, Mistress Roffel, though she disliked her husband, was, according to Father Stephen, praying over her husband’s corpse at St Mary Magdalene church.’ Athelstan wearily rubbed his eyes. ‘As you say, hell’s teeth, Sir John. I can’t see any of the women boarding a ship at night, despatching the crew and leaving without being seen.’

  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.

  A pageboy, dressed in very tight hose and an open-necked linen shirt, tiptoed up, hips swaying.

  ‘A table, mistress?’

  Bernicia smiled and kissed the boy on both cheeks.

  ‘Of course.’

  The pageboy minced away, leading Bernicia to a table wedged between two pillars. He placed a small, hooded candle there and, at Bernicia’s request, brought a jug of chilled white wine and two cups.

  ‘Captain Roffel will not be coming?’ the pageboy asked.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Bernicia sneered. ‘Not unless he can climb out of his coffin.’

  The boy made a girlish moue with his mouth and walked away. Bernicia poured herself a cup of wine and sat waiting. Perhaps tonight she would be fortunate enough to find a new patron, someone who would appreciate a courtesan’s skills. Bernicia jumped as a cowled and hooded figure appeared beside her.

  ‘Bernicia, so lovely to see you here.’

  The man, not waiting for an invitation, sat down on the chair opposite. Like many other customers he refused to pull his hood back but Bernicia caught the gleam of his eyes in a hard, sunburnt face. She looked at the stranger’s hands, weather-beaten but clean, the nails sharply cut. Bernicia smiled to herself. A sailor, she thought, perhaps a captain like Roffel? Bernicia moved her chair and leaned closer.

  ‘You wish some wine?’

  The stranger put a silver piece down on the table. Bernicia’s eyes widened and she hastened to fill the unexpected guest’s cup.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  ‘We had a common acquaintance,’ the stranger replied.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Captain William Roffel, one-time master of the God’s Bright Light. The bastard now lies mouldering in his grave in the cemetery of St Mary Magdalene. You were his doxy?’

  ‘I was his friend,’ Bernicia corrected peevishly.

  ‘Well, I want you to be my friend,’ the man said. ‘Take this silver piece as a surety of my friendship.’

  The silver coin disappeared. Bernicia did not object as the stranger’s hand slipped beneath the table and began to fondle her leg.

  ‘How did you know Captain Roffel?’

  Bernicia looked round and saw the pageboy standing there.

  ‘Go away!’ Bernicia pouted. ‘Go and get some more white wine and a plate of doucettes for my friend.’

  Bernicia waited until the pageboy had swaggered out of earshot.

  ‘Well? Who are you?’

  ‘I once served with Roffel on the God’s Bright Light.’

  Bernicia hid her face behind her fingers and giggled.

  ‘What’s so amusing?’

  ‘Are you one of the watch?’

  The stranger laughed softly. ‘Perhaps. A man who’s supposed to be dead poses no danger to anyone, particularly if he has a fortune in silver.’

  Bernicia licked carmine-painted lips, leaned forward and touched the man gently on the cheek.

  ‘Did you like Roffel?’ the whore simpered.

  ‘He was a bastard,’ the stranger replied, ‘who received his just deserts. As I have mine. Did you know any of his crew?’

  Bernicia shook her head. ‘Captain Roffel always kept me well away from what he termed his calling. However,’ she added petulantly, ‘some of his men knew of my existence.’ Bernicia snuggled a little closer. ‘I think I’ve seen you before. Aren’t you Bracklebury the first mate?’

  The sailor laughed. ‘What does it matter? I think you’ll see more of me, whoever I am!’

  ‘How much more?’ Bernicia teased.

  The pageboy brought a fresh jug of wine and the evening wore on. Eventually Bernicia and her newfound patron left.

  ‘Come,’ Bernicia whispered as they hurried along the alleyways. ‘Be my guest tonight.’

  They reached Bernicia’s house and the young whore led her guest into the solar where Athelstan and Cranston had sat. The fire was built up, candles lit and wine served. The sailor took off his cloak and hood and sat basking in the warmth whilst Bernicia studied him discreetly, noting the good, high-heeled boots, leather jacket and white cambric shirt open at the neck. She touched her own belt where the silver piece was hidden and smiled secretively.

  ‘How much did Roffel tell you?’ the sailor asked abruptly.

  Bernicia just laughed. The man leaned forward, his eyes hard.

  ‘About his last voyage and the silver?’

  Bemicia blinked and looked coyly at the sailor.

  ‘I don’t betray secrets,’ the whore whispered. ‘Roffel is dead. He and his silver can go to hell. Come on! I will not discuss it. Some more wine?’

  Bernicia rose, took the sailor’s wine cup and went across to the small table to fill it. Bernicia was smiling, but turned in alarm at the sound of a footfall. The sailor was striding across the room, his dagger drawn. Bernicia screamed and ran to the door. The sailor caught the whore by the hair – and cursed as the wig came off. Bernicia reached the latch, sobbing and moaning; the whore tried to raise it, but her head was yanked back and the knife gouged her soft throat from ear to ear.

  Athelstan, refreshed after a good night’s sleep, had a larger than usual congregation at morning Mass. Ashby, who had been fast asleep on Athelstan’s return the night before, again helped Crim to serve. Shaved and washed, he looked more presentable. He had kept himself busy the previous day, helping the parishioners move the great cart into one of the transepts and, from the sanctuary steps, issuing directions about the erection of the great canvas backdrop.

  Athelstan smiled to himself as he pronounced the final words of the Mass, Ite, Missa est – Go, you are dismissed. He bowed, kissed the altar and quickly looked around at the group huddled inside the rood screen. Aveline was there, her face half-hidden behind a veil. She sat on a stool in the corner of the sanctuary, her eyes never leaving her beloved. Watkin the dung-collector crouched, glaring at Pike the ditcher. Athelstan groaned – their animosity had spread to their respective spouses, who also sat glaring narrow-eyed at each other. Huddle the painter leaned back on his heels, dreamily staring up at his ceiling. Mugwort, the demented hunch-backed bell clerk, fidgeted furiously, impatient to run down the nave and ring the bell as a sign Mass was over. Ursula the pig-woman was also there, her great pet sow sprawled out beside her. Athelstan tightened his lips – the animal had snored vigorously during his short sermon. Next to Ursula was Pernell the Fleming; she had tried to dye her hair and now it hung like black and orange flax, looking all the more hideous against the white paint on her face.

  Athelstan hid his disappointment. He had been distracted during Mass by the thought that Benedicta might come. He missed the widow with her smooth, olive skin, lovely eyes and jet-black hair. He often told her what he and Cranston were involved in, seeking her advice. Benedicta had a shrewd mind, acerbic wit and a sardonic sense of humour which proved to be an asset in placating the different factions amongst the parish council.

  Athelstan sighed and swept into the sacristy. Crim helped him to divest whilst the parishioners sped like arrows across to the great cart and carried on with their usual debate about who should be doing what, when, where and how. Athelstan returned to help Crim clear the altar
, of book, bell and cruets, noticing how the Lady Aveline and Master Ashby were deep in conversation. He offered them breakfast but they politely refused, Ashby pointing to the pannier of provisions Lady Aveline had brought with her.

  Athelstan saw his parishioners were locked in verbal battle so he slipped out of the church and walked across to check on Philomel. Then he went into the priest’s house.

  He stared around in astonishment. The kitchen had been swept, fresh rushes laid and the fire built up. A bowl of steaming oat porridge, a horn spoon beside it, together with a trancher of bread, butter and cheese and a mug of ale, stood on the table. Athelstan heard a sound from the buttery and grinned as Benedicta came out.

  ‘Lady, I thought you hadn’t returned.’

  Athelstan grasped the widow’s warm hands and kissed her gently on the cheek. Benedicta blushed and stepped back, though her eyes danced with merriment.

  ‘I thought I’d surprise you, Father. Well, do you like it?’ She gestured around the kitchen, her face mock-serious. ‘The fire was ash, the rushes hadn’t been changed, the table hadn’t been washed and I don’t think you have been eating properly.’

  ‘I’ve been with Jack Cranston,’ Athelstan muttered.

  However, before he could describe what had happened, Benedicta gently ushered him across the kitchen, telling him to eat before the sweetened oatmeal lost its warmth. Athelstan did, trying to hide his real pleasure at seeing his friend again. Bonaventure, who had been out hunting and courting the previous evening, slid through the open window to mew plaintively for his pitcher of milk. He lapped this greedily and stretched out before the roaring fire as Benedicta described her visit and journey. She then patiently sat and listened as Athelstan described the mysteries surrounding the God’s Bright Light, the death of William Roffel and the murder of Sir Henry Ospring.

  ‘A puzzle,’ Benedicta commented. ‘I met the lady Aveline last night. She was with Ashby. I also told that paid thug, Marston, to leave the church. Aveline’s no murderer,’ she continued, ‘but how can you prove that the slaying of her stepfather was in self-defence? As for the other business – as Sir John would say, "hell’s teeth, plot and counter-plot".’ She leaned her arms on the table. ‘But there’s worse to come,’ she added darkly.