By Murder's bright Light

replied. ‘I am just concerned for your welfare.’
    ‘Why?’ Marston asked, the grin fading from his face. ‘Well,’ Athelstan whispered, grasping his staff and leaning forward, ‘we know now that Sir Henry Ospring was not what he claimed to be. Some people allege he was a thief. Others that he was a traitor. Gossips even whisper that there were others involved in his crimes and that these should hang.’
    Marston’s face paled.
    ‘What are you saying, Father?’
    Athelstan shrugged. ‘Just gossip. Perhaps it’s best if you went back to Kent , claimed what was yours and put as much distance between yourself and the eagle eye of Sir John Cranston as possible.’
    Athelstan walked on. Half-way down the alleyway he stopped at Basil the blacksmith’s. Basil, together with his swarthy elder son, was working in a great open shed at the side of his cottage. A pug-nosed apprentice, his face covered in smuts, blew with the bellows, making the forge fire flare with life. Basil was hammering away, his huge body hidden behind a bulls-hide apron, his hairy legs sheathed in leather against the sparks of the fire. He turned and saw Athelstan.
    ‘Good morrow, Father. What can I do for you?’
    ‘We need you at the church, Basil,’ Athelstan replied, ‘to fix some iron clasps to hold up the canvas around the stage for our mystery play.’
    Basil wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. ‘I told that big-headed bastard Watkin that poles as long as that needed iron clasps!’ He pointed at Athelstan with his hammer. ‘What you did on the river, Father, was heroic, so I’ll do it free. I’ll put iron clasps on your poles.’ He lowered his voice as Athelstan turned away. ‘I’ll even hammer one into that daft bugger Watkin’s head!’
    Athelstan, grinning, walked on. The grey day was beginning to die, but the shabby stalls and makeshift markets were still doing a brisk trade and the alehouses were full of roisterers celebrating the river victory of the previous evening. Slipping quietly by, Athelstan made his way towards London Bridge , where at the gatehouse he was brutally reminded of the battle. Some of the French pirates had been decapitated and their heads impaled on poles that were being erected on the gatehouse. Robert Burdon, the diminutive gatekeeper, was dancing around supervising this grisly event. “Put that one there!’ he bawled at one of his assistants. ‘No, you idiot, turn it round so he’s looking at our ships!’ He glimpsed Athelstan. ‘Busy day! Busy day, Father! They say a hundred Frenchmen died. A hundred, Father, but how many heads do I have? No more than a baker’s dozen. Terrible, isn’t it? Bloody city officials! Heads should be where heads should be! A warning to the rest!’
    Athelstan closed his eyes, sketched a blessing in the air and hurried on. He reached the other side, now relieved to be away from Southwark, and pushed his way through the throng. When he reached the Holy Lamb of God in Cheapside he found the tavern crowded. Cranston , resplendent in his best jacket of mulberry, white cambric shirt and multi-coloured hose, was sitting at his favourite table. He was holding court, giving a graphic description of the river battle.
    ‘And you fought Eustace the Monk?’ Leif the beggar, acting as Cranston ’s straight man, called out.
    ‘Oh yes — a giant of a man,’ Cranston replied, ‘six foot six inches tall, eyes like burning coals and a face as dark as Satan! We met sword against sword.’
    ‘Then what?’ Leif asked breathlessly.
    ‘The tide of battle swept us apart.’ Cranston , on his fourth cup of claret and keeping a wary eye on the door lest Lady Maude should appear, saw Athelstan standing on a stool at the back of the crowd. ‘And, credit where credit is due,’ he boomed. ‘My secretarius and clerk, Brother Athelstan, a man of prodigious valour!’
    All heads turned. Athelstan went puce-red.
    ‘Down he went,’ Cranston continued, ‘fighting like a fury. A Frenchman runs up and lifts his sword—’
    ‘Then what?’ Leif asked again.
    ‘The man staggers back unable to give the death blow.’
    ‘A miracle!’ Leif exclaimed.
    ‘Aye.’ Sir John’s voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. ‘God’s angel came down and caught his arm just like he caught David’s when he was about to kill that bastard Judas Iscariot!’
    Athelstan bit his lip to hide his laughter; Cranston , as usual, was mixing up his biblical texts.
    ‘A toast!’