By Murder's bright Light

like a doll, screaming with pain.
    ‘Blazing bollocks!’ Cranston shouted. ‘The bastards are here!’
    More fire-arrows fell, followed by a ball of blazing pitch which crashed to the deck but was quickly doused in water. Athelstan felt his stomach lurch; his mouth went dry. He peered into the mist. Long shapes appeared, low-slung with ornate poops resembling snarling wolves’ heads. Athelstan stepped back in fear. There were three or four, no, five galleys, oars up, racing towards the Holy Trinity like loping greyhounds for the kill. The speed and silence of their approach was unnerving.
    ‘Why don’t you fire?’ Athelstan shouted at Crawley .
    The admiral stood, hand raised . A galley smashed into the larboard side of the Holy Trinity. Another, its oars drawn inboard in one sweeping movement, swung under its stern. A third came to a foaming stop under its bows. A grappling hook snaked out and caught a bulwark.
    ‘For St George!’ Crawley shouted, and brought his hand down.
    The long bows sang their song, a low musical thrum, as goosequill-flighted arrows swooped into the darkness. The night air was shattered by screams and yells.
    ‘Again! Loose!’
    A Frenchman, his dark face bearded, the only man yet to reach the deck of the Holy Trinity, stared at Athelstan in stupefaction. An arrow caught him straight between the eyes. He fell back.
    ‘Again!’ Crawley shouted. ‘Loose!’
    Athelstan felt himself pulled back by Cranston and stared at the archers. They were hand-picked master bowmen; they fired one arrow whilst keeping another between their teeth. Athelstan guessed each one must be shooting at least three a minute. They worked in a silent, cold way. Now and again a French arbalester replied and an archer fell screaming to the deck. He was pulled away and another took his place. Other, more enterprising archers were climbing the rigging. Athelstan hurried to those who had been wounded. The first, a youth of about sixteen, was already coughing up blood, his eyes glazing over. Athelstan sketched the sign of the cross over his face and trusted that Christ would understand. Now Crawley was bringing up fire archers, exposing them to danger as they leant over the side of the ship to shoot down into the galleys. The French replied with their crossbows. One archer disappeared screaming over the side, half his face ripped away. Athelstan stood with Crawley and a small knot of officers at the foot of the mast and listened to the din of battle. He realised how fortunate they had been — without Moleskin’s warning the entire ship’s company would have been unprepared and looking in the opposite direction when Eustace the Monk’s freebooters struck.
    ‘To starboard!’ someone shouted.
    Crawley turned. A galley had come in on the shore side to complete the encirclement of the Holy Trinity. Athelstan glimpsed the top of its mast, where a monk’s hood fluttered as its pennant. Now the danger was acute. Archers hurried over, but the grappling lines snaked up and caught the ship’s rigging and bulwarks. In a mad rush, armed Frenchmen, wearing the livery of a monk’s hood over their chain mail, gained a footing. They pushed back the lightly armed archers, so skilled with their long bows and yet unprotected against these mailed men-at-arms.
    ‘Now!’ Cranston shouted and, not even waiting for Crawley ’s orders, the fat coroner led the ship’s company of men-at-arms against the invaders. Athelstan would have moved too but Crawley pushed him back. Cranston hit the Frenchmen like a charging bull.
    The friar watched, petrified. Cranston swung his great sword like a scythe. Athelstan smelt fire. He turned and saw smoke billowing from the galley at the other side of the ship. The fire-arrows had at last begun to take effect. Crawley , his face blackened with smoke, left the fight on the deck to run over and scream at his men.
    ‘Push it away! Push it away!’
    The galley, flames licking it from bow to stern, was pushed out into the mist. The screams of the men on board were terrible. Athelstan saw at least three, their clothes aflame, throw themselves into the icy Thames . Now free on one side, more archers rushed to help Cranston . Athelstan retreated towards the shelter of the stem castle. As he did so, a Frenchman broke free of the melee and darted towards him. Athelstan moved sideways to dodge. The ship lurched. The deck underfoot was slippery, the seawater edged with a bloody froth. Athelstan crashed to