The Godless

by Paul Doherty

  ‘No, Father.’ Moleskin glanced away. ‘Perhaps Falaise did.’

  ‘You are not telling me the truth, Moleskin, I can sense that.’

  ‘Well, it’s a suspicion, Father. You see, most of the foundlings were boys. Occasionally a young girl would join us. One of these became a favourite of the two witches, as we called them. A young girl of no more than five or six summers.’

  Athelstan repressed a shiver and kept his face impassive. ‘Who, Moleskin?’

  ‘You may be able to guess her name, Father. Mistress Alice Brun, the widow, a member of our guild who owns The Leviathan.’

  ‘Are you sure? Has she ever admitted to that?’

  ‘Father, no. It’s just a suspicion. Something about her face, her mannerisms. There is something chilling about her. I have never confronted her and she has made no reference whatsoever to her past. The only time she did mention it, was when she claimed to hail from a village in Essex.’

  ‘You said there was something chilling about her? Your priest Father Ambrose seems attracted to her?’

  ‘Oh no, Father, he is as suspicious as we are.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Just a suspicion, Father. Her husband did fall ill, but sometimes I wonder, and I think Father Ambrose does, if Mistress Alice helped her husband into the grave, gave him something to soothe the pain.’

  ‘Permanently?’

  ‘Yes, Father, permanently. Now her husband was a good comrade. I liked him and Father Ambrose certainly did, he told me as much. Sometimes I wonder if our priest is trying to discover the truth about what really happened.’ Moleskin picked up the tankard and drained it.

  Athelstan recalled something that Cranston had told him. ‘My friend,’ Athelstan tapped the table top, ‘which of your company knew about the Upright Men hiding away in that house?’

  ‘Oh, we heard rumours. We knew they were desperate for a ship. However, as far as I know, Brother, the only person privy to that secret was Falaise; that was the way of the Upright Men.’

  ‘And can you tell me anything else?’

  The bargeman shook his head. ‘No, Father, I cannot.’ He rose. ‘I’d best be gone.’

  Cranston looked the very picture of keenness when Athelstan walked into the solar of the coroner’s second favourite resting place in London. The coroner had chosen to wear a red sarcenet cote-hardie and hose, with a matching beaver hat, a brilliant white cambric shirt and his favourite cordovan boots and warbelt. The latter, along with his military cloak, were slung over one of the tavern tables. Cranston clapped his hands and rose to exchange the kiss of peace with Athelstan. The coroner then held him at arm’s length, looking the friar up and down from head to toe.

  ‘You’re tired, anxious, my friend? Come break your fast on the crispiest bacon and the softest manchet whilst the butter is as fresh as the dawn. Now, what news do you have?’

  Athelstan made himself comfortable and told the coroner all about the visits from Robin of the Green Wood and Moleskin. Cranston heard him out then laughed sharply.

  ‘Robin of the Green Wood should have informed me but, there again, I am an officer of the law and Robin would not wish to indict a former comrade. Nevertheless, I tell you this, Athelstan: that house of foundlings on the corner of Slops Alley was a truly wicked place. I just wonder if the girl Moleskin talked about is Mistress Alice. She’s hard-faced, Brother: she may have helped her husband into the grave.’ He glanced sharply at Athelstan. ‘But you have been thinking, haven’t you, my little secretarius?’

  Athelstan made himself comfortable and began, haltingly at first, to describe his suspicions. By the time he had finished, Cranston had fully broken his fast. The coroner leaned back, whistling under his breath.

  ‘The hour is fast approaching,’ he announced, ‘when we can settle this matter. I will send Flaxwith with his merry men to dig up all those flagstones. The Tower archers will mount a strict guard. So, how will you trap this demon?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sir John. I spent yesterday closeted, listing my suspicions, trying to plot a way forward.’ Athelstan smiled at the coroner. ‘With your permission I will stay here, safe and secure at The Lamb of God, and do the same again. A blessed rest for body, soul and mind. Now, before we part Sir John, let us go back to that arca house at St Olave’s. No, not now. First, I want you to send an urgent message to the best master mason you know. He must visit the arca and study it carefully. Next, I need you to take me down to a war cog at Queenhithe. I have to question a veteran master on what might have happened on the The Knave of Hearts during its last fateful voyage.’ He slipped a small scroll into Cranston’s hand. ‘And there’s a list of questions for the Fisher of Men.’

  Sir John looked surprised but promised he would do all this, adding that Athelstan must stay safe and secure in The Lamb of God until everything was ready.

  Later that morning, the coroner collected his secretarius from the loving ministrations of Minehostess. The coroner informed him of the arrangements for the day before taking Athelstan down to the principal quayside at Queenhithe, where the war cog The Glory of God, lay moored ready for sail. Cranston introduced Athelstan to its master, an old comrade from the French wars, Adam Leyton, and his henchman Chingford, two burly seamen who, by their own admission, ‘had seen the days.’ Sitting in the small master’s cabin beneath the stern, Leyton lifted his goblet and toasted both of his visitors. Athelstan had informed him what he needed to learn about The Knave of Hearts, and Leyton replied that he and Chingford would do their best to accommodate him.

  ‘I knew Dorset,’ Leyton declared, ‘The Knave of Hearts was a sound war cog in capable hands.’ He cleared his throat as Cranston began to tap the table.

  ‘His crew must have been about ten, yes, including himself?’

  ‘I would say that’s a fair reckoning.’

  ‘And he also had two Tower archers,’ Athelstan continued, ‘guarding the arca in the hold, that’s what you told me, Sir John?’

  ‘Twelve souls in all,’ Cranston agreed. ‘A fairly light crew, yes Master Leyton? But Dorset was under strict instruction to sail fast and as secretly as possible to Calais.’

  ‘So The Knave of Hearts leaves its mooring,’ Athelstan mused, sipping at the goblet Leyton had poured for him. ‘Darkness is falling. Where would Dorset be? How was his crew deployed?’

  ‘Come, I will show you.’

  Leyton led them out of the cabin and down a flight of steps in the centre of the main deck, deep into the ship’s hold, black as night despite the glowing lanternhorns. The place reeked of tar, pitch, fish, salt, as well as a rich stench from the bales of freshly gathered wool heaped around the sides. Leyton explained how the forward and stern holds were screened off by thick wooden partitions with a narrow door in the centre: the former provided sleeping quarters for members of the crew whilst the stern hold contained the ship’s arca or treasure chest. At Athelstan’s bidding, Leyton unlocked the door to the arca and, carrying one of the lanternhorns, took them into the chamber, where caskets and coffers were stacked around an iron-bound chest suitably padlocked in the centre of the hold.

  ‘Dorset’s cog would have had the same,’ Chingford explained. ‘Like me, Henchman Bramley would have set up a watch. Two archers resting in here or outside.’ He touched the heavy chain on his belt. ‘Bramley would have probably held the keys to both the stern hold and its arca.’

  Athelstan walked up and down the dark chamber, steadying himself against the slight rise and fall of the ship as the current grew more turbulent. He heard the patter of feet and the cries of sailors busy on the deck above. Other noises echoed hollowly: the clattering of ropes, the screech of levers and the constant shriek of the hunting gulls which swooped low over the cog. Athelstan paused in his pacing, leaned against the bulwark and closed his eyes. He tried to imagine what it was like below deck on board The Knave of Hearts during that last, fateful voyage.

  ‘Brother?’

  Athelstan opened his eyes and smiled at Leyton
. ‘Let us say my friend, that The Glory of God is making the same run down to the estuary as The Knave of Hearts. You must have done the same many a time? Darkness has fallen. The night is freezing cold. The river is fog-bound so the lanterns are lit and a strict watch set. Yes?’

  ‘Very good, Brother,’ Leyton laughed. ‘You will become a sailor yet.’

  ‘Let’s go back to that night, a busy time. The river is full and fast-flowing. Eventually you approach the sandbanks, places like Sodom and Gomorrah; such stretches of the river are very dangerous for the unwary.’

  ‘Very,’ Chingford declared.

  ‘So, Master Leyton, where would you be standing?’

  ‘On the main deck below the central mast, a lantern glowing on a hook above me.’

  ‘And Master Chingford?’

  ‘I would be forward, keeping an eye on our watchmen in the prow. I would be sensing the weather, ready to order the sail to be shifted if the wind moved or increased in strength. Most of the crew would have also gone forward. If matters are running smoothly, the watch is divided. Some take their rest whilst the others man the sail, ropes and lanterns.’

  Athelstan murmured his thanks and stared at the arca. He could imagine Bramley, on board The Knave of Hearts, coming down into the hold assuring everyone that all was well. So, what else was there?

  ‘Ah yes,’ Athelstan clapped his hands gently, ‘the bum-barge, you have one?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And it’s taken aboard when you sail?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Chingford retorted. ‘And I know why you ask, Brother. River gossip says that The Knave of Hearts trailed its bum-barge. However, let me assure you, that’s not too unusual. Many cogs, until they reach the estuary, keep their bum-boats riding alongside.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So the crew can deal with the vegetation which trails from the sandbanks. Not to mention the mounds of swirling mud and other rubbish which breaks free from such places.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Athelstan said, ‘I can see why the ship’s boat isn’t taken aboard.’ He gazed around. ‘I must remember,’ Athelstan continued, ‘how dark it must be in the hold of a cog like this.’ He pointed at the lanterns. ‘They provide light, but they also create a world of shifting shadows.’

  ‘True, true, Brother,’ Leyton replied. ‘It can be as black as pitch on board a ship at the dead of night.’

  ‘If it’s so dark,’ Athelstan demanded, ‘is it possible for someone stowed away to move around?’

  Leyton laughed sharply and whispered at Chingford, who hurried back up the ladder onto the deck. ‘Brother, when Sir John visited me earlier in the day, I wondered if you would ask that question, so I have sent for Walter and his weasels.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Brother Athelstan, you will meet them soon enough. However, do accept my assurances that The Knave of Hearts, like any cog preparing for sea, would be scrutinized and searched most carefully before it sets sail. Now, whilst we wait for our visitors, do you have any more questions?’

  ‘I understand that Dorset allowed a priest aboard to bless his cog?’

  Leyton pulled a face. ‘Some masters do, it’s not uncommon. We pay coin to Father Benedict, an old seafarer who now holds a benefice at St Mary le Bow. He’s done the same for me and mine when we are about to sail into dangerous waters. Why do you ask?’

  Athelstan just shook his head.

  ‘And the bum-boat from The Knave of Hearts?’ he asked.

  ‘As far as I know, Brother,’ Cranston responded, ‘it’s been impounded, kept in the water bailiff’s yard further down the quayside.’

  ‘We should visit that but …’ Athelstan paused at the patter of bare feet on the deck above. Chingford called down the hatch. Leyton shouted back and a man, as lean as a beanpole, scurried down the ladder, followed by at least half a dozen urchins; the boys were dressed in rags, their hair spiked with dirty grease, faces blotched and stained. The beanpole introduced himself as Master Walter, leader of the weasels, a company of ship searchers. Athelstan nodded understandingly, clasping the man’s hands. Once introductions were finished, Athelstan also met Walter’s ragamuffin retinue, all of whom – he secretly thought – reminded him of Ranulf the rat-catcher’s two ferrets, Audax and Ferox. At Leyton’s bidding, Walter described how he was hired by the captains and masters of different ships and cogs to search their holds, cargo and other impedimenta before the ship slipped its moorings. He had done the same for The Glory of God as he had for The Knave of Hearts.

  ‘And you found nothing amiss that day?’

  ‘Nothing. I would swear to that.’ Walter held up a calloused hand whilst his entourage danced around him, scrutinizing Cranston and Athelstan from head to toe. Silence abruptly descended when the coroner opened his purse and drew out two silver coins which winked in the poor light.

  ‘I ask you,’ the coroner’s voice sounded like a trumpet through the hold, ‘whether you glimpsed anything,’ the coroner held the coins high, ‘anything untoward on that cog, The Knave of Hearts, before it left on its fateful voyage?’

  The weasels, like a chorus, eyes hungry for the silver, chanted in high-pitch voices that they had not seen anything untoward.

  ‘Except …’ the smallest of the weasels, a lad as thin as a willow-wand shouted.

  Athelstan crouched down before the boy. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Weasel Ten.’

  ‘And what did you see, Weasel Ten?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing.’ The lad stepped closer and Athelstan felt a stab of pity at the boy’s thin, bony face.

  ‘What is it, Weasel Ten?’

  ‘When I go on board a cog, the sailors are always kind. I have met him before, you see …’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Bramley, Dorset’s henchman on The Knave of Hearts. He was always kind. He told me he had children himself, but not on that day. He …’ Weasel Ten’s voice faltered.

  ‘Yes.’ Athelstan took a coin from his own wallet and pressed the penny into the boy’s hand. ‘Tell me now,’ he coaxed.

  ‘Bramley just seemed frightened, like a dog who fears a beating. He shouted at me. Told me to get out of his way. He never did that before.’ Weasel Ten gripped his own chin. ‘He looked stern, angry. I thought it strange that he should be like that, especially on a day when I wouldn’t see him again.’

  Athelstan thanked Weasel Ten and asked Cranston to take all those assembled back on deck.

  ‘It’s getting a little crowded down here,’ the friar smiled, ‘and I need to think.’

  Cranston lifted the silver coins as if they were banners in a procession, and led the entire company back up onto the deck. Once they had left, Athelstan crouched down, willing himself into the darkness, not here but ensconced in the hold of The Knave of Hearts as it made its way down to the sea. Athelstan glanced to his left, the forward hold where a few of the crew would shelter, desperate for sleep. In the stern to his right the two Tower archers guarding the arca would probably sit with their backs to the door. They would have their bows at the ready and yet be half asleep. Perhaps they would be nervous at the strange shuddering of the cog as it battled the wind and strong current. All would be quiet. Bramley would come down but he wouldn’t be alone. The killer, probably the Oriflamme, would be with him, though Athelstan, especially after his visit here, still could not understand how the killer got on board. Bramley would assure the guards that all was well; he would open the stern hold. He and the killer would enter. Bramley would be carrying the keys to the arca. Once inside that hold, Bramley was probably murdered. The assassin immediately seizes the keys. He removes the treasure chest then turns to the cannon powder. A fuse is lit and the killer flees. Outside there is no one except the two Tower archers, crouched half asleep. The Oriflamme kills them, probably with a crossbow bolt. He would act so swiftly the poor men would hardly realize what was happening. The Oriflamme then probably dons his disguise. He knows the long fuse is burning so it’s time he left the ship. H
e goes up on deck and places the treasure chest next to the taffrail. He encounters Dorset and fells the master with a blow to the head. The assassin then prepares to leave with what he thinks is the treasure coffer.

  Athelstan ran a finger around his lips. But what are the rest of the crew doing? Did they have time to react? The fuse is burning. The assassin leaves, going down into the bum-boat. Perhaps the crew were alerted, but the bum-boat is ready, it pulls away. A short while later the flame reaches the cannon powder and The Knave of Hearts ceases to exist.

  ‘There are still gaps,’ Athelstan reflected, ‘gaps which must be filled, including just what really did happen on board that ship shortly before the Oriflamme fled. Ah well.’ Athelstan climbed up the ladder to where Cranston, Leyton and Chingford stood talking.

  ‘We’ve sent Walter and his weasels on their way,’ Cranston declared. ‘You are finished, Brother?’

  ‘More questions, I am afraid Master Leyton. When you approach sandbanks such as Sodom and Gomorrah, where do you deploy your crew?’

  ‘Oh that’s obvious. In the main, they all move into the prow, vigilant for any obstacle.’

  ‘And you?’

  Leyton pointed at the mast. ‘I will stay there and watch Chingford marshal the men,’ Leyton pulled a face and Athelstan caught the master’s impatience. ‘You have other questions?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Athelstan glanced around. ‘This is a strange one, Master Leyton, but can you imagine you and your ship are on full flow down the river. The sail is unfurled, the crew are mustered, all eyes on the river. Is it possible for a killer to move about your cog, enter the arca hold, take what’s there, murder the man who has let him in and kill the two guards outside. Once done, he then lights a long fuse and slips up on deck to inflict more mayhem before fleeing using your bum-boat?’

  Leyton just stood staring at Athelstan. ‘At first,’ the master measured his words carefully, ‘I would say no. But, there again, at the dead of night, the river flowing swift and my ship battling its way forward; well, everyone is distracted. The crew are busy with their different tasks. They are separated one from another. Matters are not helped by the ship being cloaked in darkness, whilst any strange sound can be dismissed as the work of the river. More importantly, the crew are not vigilant against any danger on board ship; their eyes are on the water so why should they be fearful? The killer would use all that to his advantage.’