By Murder's bright Light

tabernacle and went to join Ashby and Aveline. As usual, they sat in the comer of the sanctuary whispering together. Athelstan pulled across the stool Crim used when serving Mass.
    ‘Lady Aveline,’ Athelstan began, ‘I have some very sad news about your stepfather.’
    The friar then tersely described the conclusions he had drawn about Sir Henry Ospring’s nefarious activities. Ashby gasped. Aveline’s face went paler than usual, tears brimming in her eyes.
    ‘What you are saying, Brother,’ she whispered once Athelstan had finished, ‘is that my stepfather was a traitor and a murderer.’
    ‘The words are yours, my lady, but, God forgive me, the truth is as I have described it.’
    ‘Will the crown seize his estates?’ Ashby spoke up.
    ‘I doubt it,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Sir Henry died before any allegations could be made and he is not here to defend himself against them.’ He shrugged. ‘The crown will undoubtedly, through the exchequer, demand the return of its silver.’ Athelstan smiled thinly as he remembered the hard scrutineers, Peter and Paul. ‘I strongly recommend, Lady Aveline, that either you or your stepfather’s executors double the amount and dismiss it as a gift.’ Athelstan stared at the ypung man. ‘You, however, were his squire. Questions may well be asked of you.’
    ‘I will go on oath,’ Ashby said, ‘and I have witnesses, that I was not involved in Sir Henry’s business affairs.’ He pulled a face. ‘Certainly not those involving the men who visited him at the dead of night.’ He chewed his lip and grinned. ‘I doubt if Marston could claim the same.’
    Athelstan nodded. ‘Nevertheless, as Sir John keeps saying, every cloud has a silver lining. God forgive me, Lady Aveline, but I don’t think anyone, and certainly not the king, will weep for your stepfather. Consequently, Sir John and I believe a pardon will be freely issued to both of you for the death of Sir Henry.’ He stilled their excited clamour with an upraised hand. ‘Nevertheless, Master Ashby, you are still a felon and a wanted man.’ Athelstan picked a piece of candle grease from the back of his hand. ‘But, don’t worry,’ he murmured. ‘Before the day is much older I shall give Marston something to think about.’
    ‘Is there anything more we can do?’ Ashby asked. ‘Did you know Bracklebury?’
    Ashby shook his head. ‘A dark, violent man, Father. A good knife man. He was like his captain, he feared neither God nor man. Why do you ask?’
    ‘We have established,’ Athelstan replied, ‘that Roffel took the silver and hid it on board the God’s Bright Light. To cut a long story short, Bracklebury may have dismissed the crew, keeping two back so he could search the ship.’ Athelstan paused, choosing to ignore the unanswered questions that still nagged at his brain. ‘God knows what happened then. Perhaps Bracklebury killed the two members of the watch and escaped ashore. The only problem is that the God’s Bright Light kept passing signals and no one saw any boat leave the ship.’
    ‘Bracklebury could have jumped overboard,’ Lady Aveline suggested, ‘and swum to the quayside.’
    ‘No, no, that’s impossible,’ Ashby replied.
    Athelstan stared at him. ‘Why’s that?’
    ‘Father, can you swim?’
    Athelstan recalled golden days from his boyhood, he and his brother Francis leaping into a river, naked as the day they were born.
    ‘Well, Father, can you?’
    ‘Yes,’ Athelstan replied, a little embarrassed. ‘Like a fish. My parents owned a farm where a river ran through some pasture land. Why?’
    ‘You see, Father, men like Bracklebury probably grew up in the slums of London or Bristol . Many people think every sailor can swim, but that’s not true. They board ship as boys. If they survive through to manhood, they fear the sea, Father, much more than we do. They have seen its power.’ Ashby shrugged. To put it bluntly, Bracklebury, like many of his kind, couldn’t swim.’
    ‘How do you know that?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Is that a guess or a fact?’
    ‘Oh, it’s a fact, Father. Bracklebury told me himself. I suspect the same applies to Cabe, Coffrey and even poor old Roffel himself. You ask most sailors, if they have to abandon ship they always take something to cling on to.’
    Athelstan stared down the nave where his parishioners, busy as bees, thronged around the makeshift stage.
    ‘God help us!’ he whispered. ‘So, how the hell did bloody Bracklebury, to