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courtyard.
    ‘As I said,’ Cranston answered between swigs from his wineskin, ‘the ship’s at anchor in the Thames . Last night the first mate and two other members of the crew disappeared whilst on watch. We also have the strange business of Captain Roffel’s death. The murder of Sir Henry Ospring and the flight of Nicholas Ashby have muddied the waters even further.’ He popped the stopper back in and hid the wineskin beneath his cloak. ‘I am hungry, monk.’
    ‘I’m a friar and you’re always hungry, Sir John,’ Athelstan replied. ‘So, you came to collect me, to go where?’
    ‘Downstream to the good ship God’s Bright Light. The admiral of the eastern seas, Sir Jacob Crawley, is waiting to grant us an audience, but’ — Cranston sniffed the air like a hunting dog — ‘I can smell pies.’
    ‘Round the comer,’ Athelstan said wearily, ‘is Mistress Merrylegs’ pie shop. She’s the best cook in Southwark.’
    Cranston needed no second bidding and was off like a greyhound. A short while later, as he and Athelstan fought their way back through the thronged, narrow streets of Southwark, Cranston chomped greedily on one of Mistress Merrylegs’ rich, succulent beef pies.
    ‘Lovely!’ he breathed between mouthfuls. The woman’s a miracle, a genuine miracle!’
    Athelstan smiled and stared around. Now and again he shouted greetings to members of his parish. Ursula the pig-woman was sitting on a stool in the doorway of a house, her large pet sow crouched beside her. Athelstan could have sworn the sow smiled back at him. Tab the tinker was beating out pots on an anvil just inside his shop. Athelstan would have liked to have stopped but Sir John pushed his way, true as an arrow, through the crowd, returning with vigour the usual cat-calls and good-natured abuse.
    ‘Father! Father!’ Pernell the Fleming, her hair dyed a grotesque red, bustled up in a shabby black dress, a necklace of cheap yellow beads around her scrawny neck. Pernell reminded Athelstan of a rather battered crow.
    ‘Father, can you say a Mass?’
    A thin, dirty hand held out two farthings. Athelstan closed the fingers of the hand gently.
    ‘A Mass for whom, Pernell?’
    ‘For my husband. He died sixteen years ago today. The Mass is for the repose of his soul.’ The woman smiled in a display of yellow teeth. ‘Oh yes, Father, and in thanksgiving.’
    ‘For his life?’
    ‘No, that the old bugger’s dead!’
    Athelstan smiled. ‘Keep your pennies, Pernell. I’ll say a Mass tomorrow morning. Don’t you worry. ’
    They turned off the alleyway into St Erconwald’s church. Athelstan unlocked the door and, with Cranston beside him greedily licking his fingers, walked down the nave and through the rood screen to find Ashby curled up fast asleep on the altar steps.
    ‘On your feet, lad!’ Cranston growled, kicking the young man’s muddy boots.
    Ashby woke with a start, his eyes full of panic.
    ‘Have they gone?’
    ‘Yes, they’ve left.’ Athelstan sat down beside him. ‘Don’t worry about that. But they will be back. They might not invade the church but they will certainly keep a watch. So, if I were you, my lad, I’d stay where you are, at least for the time being.’
    ‘What will happen now?’ Ashby asked anxiously.
    Cranston took a swig from his wineskin, then thrust it at Ashby. ‘Well, you can stay here for forty days. Once that’s up you either surrender to the sheriff’s officers or, dressed in the clothes you’re wearing now, walk the king’s highway to the nearest port, carrying a cross before you. If you drop the cross, or leave the highway, Marston and his men can kill you as a wolfshead.’ Cranston took the wineskin back. ‘Marston and his gang will probably follow you all the way. Unless they have powerful friends, very few sanctuary men reach port.’
    Ashby’s head drooped.
    ‘Did you kill him?’ Athelstan asked abruptly.
    ‘No!’
    ‘But you had your hand on the dagger when Marston entered the