By Murder's bright Light

Athelstan by the arm and they went down the slippery steps to the water, shouldering their way past the archers.
    ‘But we can’t wait, Brother! The God’s Bright Light must be searched and I am not going to stand on idle ceremony.’
    He almost tumbled into a waiting barge, manned by four oarsmen who teased Sir John about his weight. The coroner returned their good-natured abuse and ordered them to take him and Athelstan across to the God’s Bright Light , telling the archers ‘to piss off and wait for the next bloody barge!’
    The barge pulled away, the oarsmen impervious to the driving rain; they fairly skimmed across the black, choppy waters of the Thames , swinging round with a bump against the side of God’s Bright Light. Athelstan climbed the rope ladder first, trying to shut his ears against Cranston ’s roars of encouragement. He made his way slowly up until a pair of strong arms helped him over the side. Athelstan leaned against the rail, gasping his thanks to a sailor who grinned from ear to ear. Cranston landed beside him, as heavy as a great beer barrel, muttering curses and damning every sailor under the sun. Athelstan stared about. The ship had been cleaned and cleared since their last visit and was now thronged with sailors and archers scurrying about under the commands of their officers. Hooded braziers had been lit and two small catapults rigged on deck. A youngish, sandy-haired man came out of the cabin in the stem castle and walked towards them. He was dressed casually, in black hose pushed into sea boots and a bottle-green cloak covering a leather jacket. He challenged Sir John.
    ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’
    ‘Sir John Cranston, city coroner, and Brother Athelstan. And who, sir, are you?’
    ‘David Southchurch, recently appointed captain of the God’s Bright Light.' The young man stroked his moustache and beard. ‘Sir John, I am a busy man. You have heard the news?’
    ‘Aye, Master Southchurch, and you must have heard mine.’
    The captain shrugged. ‘Sir John, I wish to be helpful, but that is not my business. Roffel has gone, as have his first mate and two other sailors.’
    ‘All we want’ — Athelstan spoke quietly, feeling slightly sick as the deck heaved under him — ‘is permission to search Roffel’s, or rather your, cabin, Master Southchurch. It is important that we do that before the ship sails again.’
    The young captain smiled. ‘Of course,’ he agreed immediately. ‘You will find the cabin still empty — my belongings are not even aboard yet. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, be my guests.’ He waved his hand and ushered them into the cabin, closing the door behind them.
    The small chamber was swept and clean. Athelstan gazed despairingly about. Above them, they could hear the patter of feet and spate of officers’ orders as the ship prepared itself for battle. Now and again the cabin lurched slightly as the choppy Thames caught and rocked the cog as it strained on its anchor. Athelstan slumped down on the small cot bed, clutching his stomach. Cranston grinned at him, took a generous swig from his wineskin, burped and sat down beside him.
    ‘Not much one can hide in here,’ he murmured. ‘Come on, Brother, use your sea legs!’
    Athelstan sighed, got up and moved around the cabin.
    ‘If I were captain,’ he whispered, half to himself, ‘and I wanted to hide something bulky like a belt, what would I do?’
    He looked around the small cabin, realising how insubstantial it was. There was nothing beneath the deck planking but the cavern of the hold — this wasn’t a house, where secret tunnels could be dug. Nor were there thick walls within which cupboards might be concealed behind the wainscoting. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Sir John, we have wasted a journey. Bonaventure could not even hide a mouse in here. The cot’s nothing, the table and stools are so simple. There is no real wall, ceiling or floor.’
    A loud snore answered him. He turned around, almost tripping as the ship lurched again.
    ‘Oh, sweet Lord, no!’ he moaned. ‘Oh, Sir John, not now!’
    But Cranston lay flat on the cot, legs and arms spread out, head back, mouth open, snoring like one of his own poppets.
    Athelstan sat on a stool and gazed around the cabin. He became used to the motion of the ship and found his eyes growing heavy. He just wished to get away from all this. He should go back to St Erconwald’s and to his parishioners — to Watkin’s petty