By Murder's bright Light

journey into the country. He will leave his mansion in the care of his steward, servants and maids.’
    ‘Good!’ Athelstan bit his Lip in annoyance. These lies and mysteries are beginning to vex me, Sir John. I suggest we go down to the harbour now. That misnamed ship the God’s Bright Light holds the key to this mystery.’
    “What do you suggest, Brother? That we go aboard and search Roffel’s cabin ?’
    ‘Aye, and, if necessary, take it to pieces!’
    ‘You mean the silver?’
    ‘Yes, Sir John, I mean the silver.’
    ‘But we know,’ Cranston objected, ‘ that the cabin wasn’t disturbed on the morning Bracklebury and the other two sailors were found to be missing.’
    ‘No, Sir John, we were told that. Now we must act on the principle that everything we have been told is possibly a he.’
    They left the Guildhall. The skies had clouded over and a cold drizzle was beginning to fall. They walked down Bread Street , keeping a wary eye out for the water dripping from broken guttering as well as for patches of slippery mud underfoot. It was an uncomfortable journey across Trinity, through Vintry and along to the quayside. Surprisingly, they found the place a hive of activity. Boats, full of archers and men-at-arms, were going backwards and forwards to the ships anchored in mid-stream. From the Holy Trinity, Crawley ’s flagship, a trumpet could be heard. Cranston seized a captain of archers who stood yelling at his men as they clambered, hooded and cowled, down to the waiting barges.
    ‘What’s the matter, man? Why all the excitement?’ The officer turned. Athelstan glimpsed cropped hair, grey eyes and a hard-bitten, rain-soaked face. The man looked Cranston up and down.
    ‘What business is it of yours, sir?’
    ‘I am Jack Cranston, coroner of the city!’
    The man forced a respectful smile. Then, Sir John, you will soon hear the news. French galleys have appeared in the mouth of the Thames . They have already taken one ship and burnt a village on Thanet.’
    Cranston whistled through his teeth and stared out at the fighting cogs. Despite the rain, he could see that all the ships were preparing their armaments.
    ‘Are the French a serious danger?’ Athelstan asked. Cranston did not reply. He stared out across the river. He remembered the low-slung, wolf-like enemy galleys. They could sneak into a small harbour or up a river — manned by the best French sailors and carrying mercenaries, they had brought terrible damage to the coastal towns of Rye and Winchelsea. Their crews had plundered and burned, and killed every inhabitant they could lay their hands on.
    ‘How many galleys?’ Cranston asked the captain. ‘God knows, Sir John. Well over a dozen, under the command of Eustace the Monk.’
    Athelstan closed his eyes and muttered a prayer. ‘Oh Lord, Sir John,’ he whispered, ‘as if we didn’t have enough trouble!’
    Cranston nodded. Eustace the Monk, a French pirate captain, had been a Benedictine until he had fled his monastery and gone to sea. He had proved to be the great scourge of English shipping. Legend had it that English free companies in France had burnt his parents’ farmhouse, killing all of Eustace’s family. Now Eustace was sworn to wreak vengeance against the ‘tail-wearing Goddamns’. Excommunicated by the Church, publicly condemned as a pirate, Eustace was secretly encouraged and supported by the French crown.
    Athelstan peered through the drizzle. Although the ships were arming, there seemed little sign of them getting ready for sea.
    ‘What will happen, Sir John?’
    ‘Well—’ Cranston paused to thank the captain of archers and walked to the quayside steps, watching another barge pull in. ‘Our good admiral has two choices. He can sail down-river and fight, but he will be at a disadvantage — he won’t be able to manoeuvre and the galleys may well slip by, land their soldiers along the East Watergate, or even here, wreak terrible damage and then escape.’
    ‘Couldn’t the Thames be blocked?’ Athelstan asked. Cranston grinned and shook his head. The danger is that our dear Eustace may wreak his damage and still fight his way past the blockade.’
    ‘And what’s the admiral’s second choice?’
    To turn his ships into fighting castles and wait to see what happens. Crawley ’s a sensible commander, I think that’s what he’ll do. Then if Eustace penetrates further up the Thames he’ll find our flotilla ready to receive him.’
    Cranston took