Cranston sighed. ‘Well, not here.’
He led the under-sheriff up Cheapside and into the welcoming warmth of the Holy Lamb of God. He roared at the landlord’s wife for his capon pie and bowls of claret for himself and his friend. Once he had taken his first bite, he nodded at the under-sheriff.
‘Right, tell me.’
‘You know the king’s ships have been at sea against the French?’
‘Aye, who doesn’t?’ Cranston munched at his pie.
John of Gaunt, pestered into action by parliament, had at last assembled a flotilla of fifteen armed ships to carry out reprisals against French privateers in the Channel as well as surprise attacks on towns and villages along the Normandy coast.
‘Well,’ Shawditch continued, ‘some of the flotilla are berthed in the Thames opposite Queen’s hithe, among them the cog God’s Bright Light.’ Shawditch sipped at his wine. ‘The ship was commanded by William Roffel. It returned to port two days ago, after capturing and sinking a number of French vessels. Roffel, however, on the return voyage, caught a sudden sickness and died. His corpse was taken ashore. The crew were paid their wages and given seven days’ shore leave. Now, last night, the only watch left on the ship was the first mate and two other sailors. One in the bows and one at the stern.’ Shawditch gnawed at his lip. ‘A lantern was left on the mast and the ship was in earshot of others riding at anchor.’
‘What happened?’ Cranston interrupted him impatiently.
‘Just before dawn a sailor came back with his doxy. They climbed on board and found the ship deserted – no first mate, no watch.’
‘So?’
‘Well, no one had seen anyone leave or approach the ship, although it’s true there was a thick river mist that night. But that’s only half the mystery, Sir John. You see, an hour before the sailor returned, in accordance with the admiral’s instructions, the watch on board the neighbouring ship, the Holy Trinity, asked if all was well? A voice from the God’s Bright Light replied, using the established password.’
‘Which was?’
‘The glory of St George.’
Cranston sat back. ‘So, what you are saying is that nothing apparently untoward happened on board this ship? The watch even responded with the correct password to the neighbouring vessel?’
‘Aye, and then passed it on to another ship, the Saint Margaret,’ Shawditch answered.
‘And yet,’ Cranston continued, ‘a short while later the ship is found deserted. No trace whatsoever of the first mate or the rest of his watch, two able-bodied sailors?’
‘Exactly, Sir John.’
‘Could they have deserted?’
Shawditch pulled a face.
‘And there was no sign of violence?’
‘None whatsoever.’
‘Anything stolen?’
Shawditch shook his head.
‘Well! Well! Well!’ Cranston breathed. ‘I wonder what Athelstan will make of this?’
‘God knows!’ Shawditch replied. ‘But the mayor and council demand an answer.’
CHAPTER 2
Brother Athelstan sat at the table in his kitchen in the small priest’s house of St Erconwald’s in Southwark and stared moodily into the fire. He’d celebrated morning Mass. He’d cleaned the church with the help of Cecily the courtesan and talked with Tab the tinker about mending some pots. After that he had said goodbye to the widow Benedicta, who was going to spend a few days helping a relative across the river who was expecting a baby.
Athelstan got up and went to stir the porridge cooking in a black cauldron above the flames. He looked over his shoulder at Bonaventura, the big one-eyed tomcat, who was sitting patiently on the table, daintily washing himself after a night’s hunting in the alleyways around the church.
‘It will soon be ready, Bonaventure. Some hot oatmeal with a little milk, spice and sugar. Benedicta herself prepared it before she left. It will taste delicious. For the next week we will break our fast like kings.’
The cat yawned and stared arrogantly at this strange Dominican who constantly talked to him. Athelstan wiped the horn spoon, put it back on its hook, stretched and yawned.
‘I should have gone to bed myself,’ he murmured. Instead he had climbed the tower of his church to study the stars, watching in awe the fiery fall of a meteor. He walked back to the table, sat down again and sipped his watered ale.
‘Why?’ he asked Bonaventure. Tell me this, most cunning of cats. Why do meteors fall from heaven but not stars? Or,’ he continued, seeing he had the cat’s attention, ‘are meteors falling stars? And, if they are, what causes one star to fall and not another?’
The cat just blinked with its one good eye.
‘And the problem becomes even more complicated,’ Athelstan explained. ‘Let me put it this way. Why do some stars move? The constellation called the Great Bear does but the ship’s star, the North Star, never?’
Bonaventure’s reaction was to miaow loudly and slump down on the table as if desperate at the long wait for his morning dish of oatmeal. Athelstan smiled and gently stroked the cat’s tattered ear.
‘Or should we ask questions?’ he whispered. ‘Or just gaze in admiration at God’s great wonder?’
He sighed and returned to the piece of parchment he had been studying the evening before. On it was a crude drawing of the church. The parish council, in their wisdom, had decided that on their saint’s day they would produce a mystery play in the nave of the church. Athelstan was now drawing up a list of the things they’d need. Thomas Drawsword, a new member of the parish, had agreed to refurbish a large wagon which would act as the stage, but they would need more. Athelstan studied his list:
Two devils’ coats
Two devils’ hoods
One shirt
Three masks
Wings for the angels
Three trumpets
One hell’s door
Four small angels
Nails
Last, but not least, a large canvas backcloth
The play was called The Last Judgement and already Athelstan was beginning to regret his enthusiasm for the venture.
‘We are going to be short of wings,’ he muttered, ‘and we can’t have one-winged angels.’ He groaned. All this was nothing to the arguments over who would play the different characters. Watkin the dung-collector insisted on being God, but this was bitterly disputed by Pike the ditcher. The civil war had spread to their children, who were quarrelling over who would act the roles of the four good spirits, the four evil spirits and the six devils. Watkin’s large wife, who had the brassy voice of a trumpet, had declared that she would be Our Lady. Tab the tinker was threatening to withdraw from the pageant if he was denied a principal role.
Huddle the painter, although aloof from these squabbles, presented problems of his own. He was having some difficulty in painting a convincing hell’s mouth. The front of the cart must be raised, Father,’ he insisted, ‘so that when the damned go through the mouth of hell, they disappear downwards.’
Athelstan threw his quill down on to the table.
‘What we need, Bonaventure,’ he declared, ‘is Sir John Cranston. He has agreed that his twin sons, the little poppets, can stagger about as cherubims and Sir John would make a marvellous Satan.’
Athelstan paused and stared up at the blackened timbered ceiling. Cranston! Athelstan had visited him only three days ago, had sat in his huge kitchen while the two poppets chased around, shrieking with laughter. They had hung on to the tails of the great Irish wolfhounds Cranston had, in a fit of generosity, taken into his house. Despite the uproar, the coroner had been in good spirits. He was involved in the minutiae of city government, though he had issued a dire prophecy, aided by generous cups of claret, that some dreadful homicide, some bloody affray, would soon be upon them. Athelstan could only agree; fife had been rather quiet and sweet since he and Sir John had been involved in the business of the Guildhall some months previously.
Athelstan warmed his fingers in front of the fire. He was glad winter was approaching. The harvest had been good. The price of corn and bread had fallen, easing some of the seething discontent in the city. The prospect of revolt had receded, though Athelstan knew it was just hiding, like seeds in the ground, waiting to sprout. Athelstan sighed, he could only hope, pray and do his best.