By Murder's bright Light

carried out your own trial then passed sentence.’
    ‘It could have been Bracklebury,’ Cranston smacked his lips and gazed blearily at the friar.
    Athelstan frowned at him. ‘Sir John, Master Bracklebury has spent most of his time hiding from everyone. Why should he risk all on such a crime? I am right am I not, Sir Jacob?’
    The admiral picked up his cup and glared defiantly at Athelstan.
    ‘Yes, Brother, you are. I was glad Roffel died. He was a murderer. On the day his corpse was taken ashore, I sent a member of my crew to find out where the body had been taken. He returned saying it now lay before the high altar in St Mary Magdalene church, but that Roffel’s widow was with it.’ Crawley slammed the cup down. ‘So I decided to wait.’ He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘What I did was wrong but Roffel deserved it!’
    ‘Tush! Tush!’ Cranston placed his hand over that of his former comrade. ‘Sir Jacob, you have told the truth?’
    ‘Jack, I have. I swear that!’
    Any further conversation was cut short by a bump alongside and the sound of raised voices. Men ran along the deck outside, then the cabin door was thrown open and an officer rushed in.
    ‘Sir Jacob, my apologies.’
    ‘What is it, man?’
    ‘You had best come on deck, sir.’
    Sir Jacob, with Cranston and Athelstan in tow, followed him out. Darkness had fallen and the admiral’s words had proved prophetic: the river mist now boiled and swirled like steam from a cauldron, obscuring the bows of the ship. The river itself was hidden, almost as if a heavy cloud had descended, cutting the ship off and shrouding it under a thick wall of silence and mystery. Athelstan peered through the gloom. Now and again he could see lights from the other ships. Then he heard the sound that had caused the alarm.
    ‘What the bloody hell is it?’ Cranston slurred. Athelstan made his way cautiously to the ship’s side.
    ‘Bells, Sir John. Church bells sounding the alarm.’
    ‘There’s something else as well,’ the officer who had interrupted their meal shouted from the other side of the ship. ‘Sir Jacob, a boatman’s here. He calls himself Moleskin!’
    Athelstan crossed the slippery surface of the deck and peered over the side. He could just make out Moleskin’s cheery face in the light from the lamp the boatman held up.
    ‘Moleskin, what are you doing?’ Athelstan cried.
    ‘Father, I knew you were here. I went across to the city side and they told me you were aboard the Holy Trinity.'
    ‘For God’s sake, man!’ Sir Jacob, who had joined Athelstan, shouted down. ‘What is so urgent? Have you not heard the news, man?’
    ‘I belong to Brother Athelstan’s parish,’ Moleskin retorted. ‘He looks after me. Came out to see my old mother he did.’
    ‘Sweet Lord!’ Crawley whispered. ‘The fellow’s mad!’
    ‘What do you want, Moleskin?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Oh, nothing really, Father. I was just worried. You see, those clever bastards on board think the French galleys are coming up-river against them. Well, I’ve seen them near the far bank, on the Southwark side. I couldn’t care what happens to the other buggers but I was worried about you and Lord Horsecruncher!’
    ‘Piss off!’ Cranston yelled.
    ‘And a very good evening to you, Sir John,’ Moleskin replied.
    ‘You had best go,’ Athelstan shouted down.
    ‘Don’t you worry, Brother, no bloody Frenchmen will catch me! I was working this river when they were little tadpoles!’
    Moleskin’s voice echoed out of the depths of the mist. Athelstan peered down, the mist shifted for a few seconds but Moleskin and his boat had gone. Cranston leaned drunkenly against the side of the ship and looked at Crawley . Sir Jacob peered into the mist, rubbing his fingers through his small pointed beard. ‘What do you know of Moleskin, Father?’ the admiral asked.
    ‘One of the best boatmen on the Thames ,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Shrewd, honest and sober. He knows the Thames like the back of his hand.’
    ‘Oh, sweet Lord!’ Cranston muttered. The cold night air was beginning to clear the wine fumes from his brain. ‘Farting Frenchmen!’ he said viciously.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ Athelstan asked.
    Sir Jacob began shouting orders, instructing his officers to send a message to the ships along the line.
    Athelstan grasped Cranston ’s arm. ‘Sir John, what is happening?’
    Cranston pulled him into a corner.
    ‘Look, Brother, the Frenchman is a cunning sailor.