By Murder's bright Light

and Athelstan gingerly climbed down the rope ladder, the shouts and praises of the crew still ringing in their ears.
    ‘Where to, Sir John?’ the oarsman asked.
    Cranston glanced at Athelstan. ‘You are welcome to stay at Cheapside .’
    Athelstan shook his head. He kept his eyes down. He did not wish to see the terrible executions being carried out on the flagship, the corpses now hanging like rats from the ship’s sides.
    ‘No, Sir John, I thank you. Ask the oarsman to take me to Southwark.’ He smiled and patted Sir John on the arm. ‘You are a hero, Sir John. A brave, courageous heart. Lady Maude will be proud.’ Athelstan grinned. ‘And I shall tell the two poppets how their father is a veritable Hector!’

    The Fisher of Men crouched on the quayside. He saw the boat carrying Athelstan to Southwark leave the Holy Trinity. He made out the outline of the flagship and saw the grisly burdens twitching at the ends of their ropes. He smiled at the gargoyles grouped around him.
    ‘Harvest time, my sweets!’ He turned his head, ears straining into the darkness. ‘There’s living men as well as dead in the river. As they come ashore, say that you are here to help. If they reply in French, kill them! If they are English, help them. But don’t forget to look for the corpses.’
    One of the gargoyles tugged at his sleeve and pointed to the river, where a corpse in white shirt and dark hose bobbed, face down, towards them.
    ‘Yes, yes.’ The Fisher of Men smiled. ‘Harvest time at last!’

CHAPTER 11

    Athelstan slept late next morning. He woke at dawn, aching from head to toe, though his arm felt better. The mist still boiled outside. He couldn’t even glimpse the church from his upper chamber window.
    ‘God forgive me!’ Athelstan muttered. ‘But I feel terrible!’ He went downstairs, built up the fire, drank a little wine and returned to bed. This time he slept for hours and was only awakened by Watkin pounding on the door an hour before noon. Athelstan, pulling his thin blanket around him, hurried down. He unlocked the door and smiled at the look of astonishment on the dung-collector’s face.
    ‘Father, you have been asleep?’
    Athelstan took him into the kitchen. Behind Watkin other parishioners were gathering on the church steps. Even Marston was there, looking apprehensively towards the priest’s house. Athelstan slumped down at the table.
    ‘Father, what’s wrong? You are always up. Shaved, bathed, Mass said, church clean?’ Watkin hid his love for this gentle priest behind his usual bluster.
    Athelstan smiled thinly. ‘Watkin, I was on the river last night with Sir John.’
    ‘You were there, Father?’
    ‘I was, God help me, on the Holy Trinity when the French attacked.’
    Watkin strode to the door and threw it open.
    ‘Father’s a hero!’ he bellowed at the other parishioners. ‘He and Fat Arse, I mean, he and Sir John Cranston, fought the bloody French on the river last night!’
    Athelstan hid his face in his hands.
    ‘Our priest’s a real hero!’ Watkin brayed. ‘So, it’s true what Moleskin told us. Crim, go down to the river and give Moleskin my apologies for calling him a lying fart!’
    ‘Father needs me here,’ Crim complained.
    ‘Piss off, you cheeky little sprog!’ Watkin slammed the door behind the boy and waddled towards Athelstan. ‘Father, you look pale and shaken.’
    ‘Actually, Watkin, I feel much better. By the way, I was not a hero, just a very frightened priest.’
    ‘Modest as always, modest as always!’ Watkin patronisingly tapped Athelstan on the shoulder. ‘We’ll get Huddle to do a painting and put it up in the church, depicting Brother Athelstan’s role in the great sea battle. All of Southwark will know about it.’ He breathed noisily through hairy nostrils. ‘They are hunting Frenchmen along the mud flats. The gallows are full and they’re putting pirates’ heads on London Bridge !’
    Athelstan crossed his arms over his stomach. ‘God have mercy on them!’ he whispered.
    The door opened. Athelstan’s parishioners thronged in, necks craning for a glimpse of their hero priest.
    ‘Go away! Go away!’ Watkin grandly ordered. ‘Brother Athelstan needs comfort and solace. I, as leader of your parish council, will give you the news later.’ He slammed the door. ‘Piss off!’ he roared as the door opened again.
    Benedicta stepped into the room. Watkin fell back, his hands dangling at his sides, his head hanging — like a