‘And Roffel’s squire, a man called Ashby?’
Bernicia shook her head.
Cranston looked at Athelstan and raised his eyes heavenwards. He took a sip of the wine, but it tasted bitter to him. He pulled a wry mouth and got to his feet.
‘So, you know nothing at all?’
‘No, I don’t. Sir John,’ Bernicia pleaded, ‘you will keep my secret?’
The coroner nodded.
‘I have one final question.’ Athelstan picked up his leather writing bag and cradled it against his chest. ‘Tonight we visited St Mary Magdalene’s church. Someone had broken in, plucked Roffel’s corpse from his coffin, slit his throat and left him sprawling in the sanctuary chair. There was a piece of parchment pinned to his chest with the word "assassin" daubed on it in his own blood. Now, who hated the captain enough to do that?’
Bernicia sneered. ‘Sir Henry Ospring for one.’
‘He’s dead, murdered too!’
Bernicia smiled. ‘Roffel will be pleased to have company in hell.’
‘Who else?’ Cranston insisted. ‘Whom did Roffel mention in anger or spite?’
‘You should go back to the fleet, Sir John. Ask the admiral, Sir Jacob Crawley. Roffel always said he hated him.’
‘Why should Roffel hate Crawley?’
‘Oh, no, the other way round. Crawley couldn’t stand the sight of our good captain. I think there was bad blood between them. Roffel once said Crawley had accused him of sinking a ship in which one of Crawley’s kinsmen had been murdered. Roffel said he’d never drink or eat with the admiral and would always be careful never to turn his back on him.’
‘In which case, mistress-’ Cranston grinned sourly. ‘Yes, I’ll call you that. In which case, we bid you goodnight.’
Once outside the house Cranston gave vent to a belly laugh which rang like a bell through the narrow street. A householder opposite opened a window and shouted for silence. Cranston apologised, hitched his cloak about him and led Athelstan back into Cheapside.
‘So, so, so,’ he muttered. ‘Here’s another mystery. A man who dresses as a woman and claims to be the dead captain’s whore.’ He yawned, stretched and looked up at the night sky. Tomorrow we’ll continue,’ he said. ‘They talk of the mysteries of the sea. But, mark my words, Brother, what happened on the God’s Bright Light last night is a mystery that deepens by the hour.’ He patted the friar on the back. ‘Now, come on, Brother, I’ll walk you back to London Bridge and tell you a very funny story about the bishop, the parson and someone very like our young Bernicia!’
CHAPTER 5
Athelstan celebrated his usual early morning Mass, surprised to see his sparse congregation graced by the presence of Aveline Ospring. She knelt by the rood screen, hands piously joined, but her eyes never left young Ashby, who was helping Crim the altar server during the ceremony. Once the Mass was finished, Athelstan hung up his vestments, cleared the altar and went out to find Aveline and Ashby sitting on the sanctuary steps quietly conversing.
‘Do you want some breakfast?’ Athelstan asked.
Ashby nodded. ‘I am starving, Father. Is it possible to have a razor and some soap? Lady Aveline’ – he patted the saddle bag – ‘has brought me other necessities.’
Athelstan went across to his house. He built up the fire and, after giving the ever-hungry Philomel his morning meal of hay, washed his hands and took a tray of bread, cheese and wine back into the church. Ashby ate hungrily. Now and again Aveline, who looked more composed and certainly more radiant than on the day before, sipped from Ashby’s cup or nibbled on the bread and cheese.
‘I came to see that all was well,’ she said shyly, looking at him from beneath long-lashed eyelids.
Athelstan nodded, then started as Bonaventure, who was sleeping by the pillars, suddenly stood up, back arching, tail high, as the door of the church opened. Marston entered and stood, arms crossed, staring down into the sanctuary. Athelstan ignored him and looked down at Aveline.
‘My lady,’ he said quietly, ‘you are in the House of God, so you must not lie.’
Ashby choked on a piece of bread. Athelstan patted him vigorously on the back.
‘It is barely dawn, my lady,’ Athelstan continued drily, ‘yet you, the daughter of the man Ashby has supposedly murdered, bring him supplies and whatever comforts he needs. Now you sit beside him on the altar steps sharing his food.’
Lady Aveline blushed crimson and glanced away.
‘Do you love him?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘And you her, young Ashby?’
The young man nodded and wiped his eyes, still streaming after his fit of coughing.
‘Well, well, well!’ Athelstan said. ‘And I suppose you want to marry?’
‘Yes,’ they whispered in unison.
‘Good!’ Athelstan rubbed his hands together. ‘However, Holy Mother Church teaches that before you can take the sacrament of matrimony you must confess and be shriven. Now, I can hear your confessions separately or perhaps together?’
The two lovers stared at each other.
Athelstan fought hard to hide his amusement. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘You have no objections, so I’ll proceed. Nicholas, you stand accused of the sin of murder, of slaying Sir Henry Ospring.’ He spoke softly so that his words were not carried to where Marston stood at the back of the church. ‘You didn’t do it, did you?’
‘I am innocent!’ the young man whispered.
‘Which,’ Athelstan said, turning to Aveline, ‘cannot be said of you.’
She looked up, her eyes rounded in shocked surprise.
‘God forgive me,’ Athelstan continued. ‘But, Lady Aveline, I accuse you of your father’s murder.’
The young woman’s face turned white as chalk. She stood up, placing her fingers together in agitation.
That’s wrong!’ Ashby hissed, but Athelstan pressed his fingers against the young man’s lips. ‘Don’t lie in confession!’ he said. ‘Lady Aveline, please sit down.’
The young woman did so and Athelstan gripped her ice-cold hands.
‘You did murder your father?’
‘God forgive me, Father, yes I did. How did you know?’
Athelstan looked down the nave. Marston, who had apparently seen how agitated Aveline had become, now began to walk slowly forward. Athelstan rose and went to meet him.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m here to protect the lady Aveline from that murderer.’
‘Lady Aveline is safe in my hands,’ Athelstan replied.
‘I am also here to see that bastard doesn’t escape.’
‘Don’t swear,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Not in God’s house.’
The man stepped back, crestfallen.
‘Please wait outside,’ Athelstan said. ‘You may wait on the steps. Be assured no one will leave this church without you knowing.’
Marston was about to object.
‘Sir John Cranston would like that,’ Athelstan added sweetly.
Marston shrugged and left, closing the door behind him.
Athelstan went back into the sanctuary where Ashby and Aveline were sitting, heads together, talking conspiratorially. Athelstan unceremoniously sat down between them.
‘How, when, did you know?’ Ashby asked.
‘Oh, this morning during Mass,’ Athelstan replied. ‘It is a matter of logic. First, you were found with your hand on the dagger. Why? Because you were getting ready to pull it out. But why should you do that? It wasn’t yours, it was, as you claimed, Sir Henry’s. Yours is still in its sheath hanging on your belt. I noticed that yesterday morning. Secondly, if you didn’t kill Sir Henry, then who did? Who had the right to approach such a powerful lord whilst he was still dressed in his nightshirt? Certainly not Marston. He made that very clear. So, if it wasn’t you or Marston, who else? Now, when I arrived in Sir Henry’s room, I discovered the window had been locked until you used it to effect your escape. Accordingly, I doubted if anyone had broken into the room. Moreover, Sir Henry was a powerful man and there was no sign of a struggle. To conclude, the murderer must have been someone who had every right to be close to Sir Henry. And who does that leave but you, Aveline?’
‘Oh, my God, she’ll hang!’ Ashby whispered. ‘No one would ever believe her story.’