By Murder's bright Light

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, weatherbeaten 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?’
    Bernicia 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