The Death Ship of Dartmouth

Chapter Ten

It was almost twilight when Moses slammed the bar across the front door before walking back into the hall and drawing up the shutters.

‘Master? Are you all right?’ he asked worriedly.

‘Fetch me a warmed pot of wine,’ Pyckard replied from his chair, and gestured limply with a finger.

It was all Moses could do not to burst into tears. The poor master had been good to all his staff, and his disease had been so sudden, it was hard to believe that this was the same man whom Moses had known and worked for over the last fifteen years. He was so shrivelled, like a leaf in late autumn, sitting huddled in his thickest fur coat and rugs against the chill of death. And at the same time Moses had lost his only other friend. Danny, his younger brother was dead, brutally murdered.

‘Master?’

‘When I have gone, Moses, there are many who will try to suggest that I owe them money. You must not allow people to take advantage. I leave it to you to carry out my wishes. All my papers and my Will are in my little chest in the counting-room, and the key is here about my neck. You understand me?’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll do all you ask,’ Moses responded dully. He took his master’s hand and gripped it, as though he could transfer some of his own life-energy to his master’s frail body. He would do anything to keep this kindly man alive.

Pyckard held his gaze. ‘I would like you to perform an errand, old friend. Would you do that for me too?’

On the outskirts of Dartmouth, Hamund Chugge sat down on a rock and pulled at the thongs of his sandal. He rested his staff against his shoulder as he poked a finger between sole and foot until he had found the little pebble, and could hook it out.

It was tempting to stop here and close his eyes, but he couldn’t. That would mean death if he was seen, and he wasn’t going to let that happen. He would survive this somehow.

The man he had killed had deserved it. He had been a brute! And when he turned up with his piece of paper and smiled at Hamund with that oily grin, Hamund had to wipe it off his face. If he could change the past, well, he would. But he couldn’t. So Flok was dead, Hamund was outlawed and must leave the realm, and … God knew what would happen to Sarra.

She had suggested going with him, but what would he be able to offer her now he must leave the country? All he had was a possibility of starting afresh in the King’s domains over the water, and there was no guarantee that he would succeed in those strange, alien parts. All he could hope for was that his drive for success would help him in his new life, and that one day, if he were able, he could send for her.

‘No,’ he muttered. There was no bitterness in his voice, just resignation. Better that they should live apart. In time she would forget him, maybe win a better man. There must be plenty of them about, who wouldn’t get drunk and murder the man-of-law of the wealthiest and most dangerous man in the country after the King just because he sought to take your living from you.

That any man could legitimately take away another’s farm, his lands, his livelihood, and not even offer compensation, that was beyond Hamund. But that was exactly what had happened. The Despenser’s man Flok had arrived some months ago, just after Sir John de Loos had died in the brutal fighting against Thomas of Lancaster, the foul traitor who sought to set himself against the King. Sir John was a decent, kindly man, who had given Hamund his freedom some years before, but as soon as he died in the battle, Hamund reckoned Despenser started looking at his lands.

Hugh Despenser was an evil, thieving devil who concealed his insatiable greed behind a mask of boyish charm, so they said. Hamund knew nothing of that. All he knew was that his lands were to be taken from him by this man.

It was one thing for a disloyal subject to see his lands and assets forfeited by the Crown. All those who had raised their swords in support of the Lords Marcher — it was fair enough that they should lose their lands. And the men who supported Earl Thomas, too. They were traitors to the King, so their lands and titles should be seized.

But a land in which those who were devoted to their King and gave their lives for him could see their family and servants deprived of their property and wealth, forced to give up all to the grinning brute who could take them purely because he had the King’s ear … that was a land where justice held no sway. It was a place in which bullying alone ruled: a bastard realm.

When that oleaginous shite Flok appeared and shoved the parchment at him, pushing him back into the passageway as he demanded to see the lady of the house, Hamund could only gaze uncomprehendingly at the words written so carefully. When Sarra appeared in the doorway, her hair escaping from the coif she had hurriedly pulled on, Flok eyed her like a drunk considering the whores in the stews. Still Hamund had done nothing. He had followed the two into the hall itself, shushing the other servants as they rebelliously eyed the man-of-law while he gazed about him, apparently well satisfied with all he saw.

‘This manor is to be forfeit. You, lady, will prepare to leave in two months. At that time I shall return to take over the management of all the demesne.’

‘You cannot think to do this, sir!’ Sarra had said, her hand at her throat. Hamund could see her despair. She stood tall and elegant in her flowing, green velvet tunic, and Hamund so wished to go to her side and clutch at her hand, but he daren’t. Instead he listened with the others as Flok sneeringly waved aside all protestations. Those which appeared to give him the most amusement were the defence that Sir John had been a devoted captain for the King.

‘He’s no use now, is he? He’s dead. So I’m sure that his loyal vassals will loyally support the installation of a new master here; a man who meets more accurately the King’s needs.’

There was a certain tone in his voice at that moment, and Hamund understood that it was this Flok who would become master in the hall when Lady Sarra had been thrown out.

Flok had departed a short while later, and the hall was left in stunned silence. There was a moment that seemed to last for an age, and then Lady Sarra moved slowly across the floor, almost as though gliding, until she reached the door behind the dais that led to her solar. Hamund saw her face just once as she walked that gauntlet of shame and ruined pride. She turned to close the door, and as she did so, her eye met his, and he saw a woman destroyed.

Hamund could have remained, of course. If he’d wanted to bow to the man Flok, he could have stayed there and had his daily ration of ale, his food, his annual tunic, and all the other little benefits that made for a good life. But he’d never forget the sight of his lady at that doorway. And he would never forgive himself, were he to leave that poor woman unavenged.

So instead, he had drunk a couple of quarts of ale, sitting near the fire, listening to the muted sobs from the solar, and telling himself that there must be a way to protect and serve his lady. But the more he drank, the more he saw that there was no means of defending her against this kind of attack. All he could do was avenge her and the memory of her husband.

As the light began to fade, he took up his long knife, a memento from the Welsh wars, and a staff, and left the hall. He walked the three miles in the gathering dusk to the vill, and stopped outside the inn. And that night he slew the man who had sought to steal his master’s property.

That night Baldwin could have continued on his way, but when he was still a couple of leagues from Dartmouth, he decided that it would be better to take his rest and have a good night’s sleep rather than try to complete the entire journey in one day.

He had reached Totnes when he made the decision. The weather was fine, but the sun was already sinking. Baldwin knew that the estuary on which the town of Dartmouth lay was long and winding, and he had no desire to fall into a deep pool in the dark.

The inn he found was a clean-looking long building. Perhaps it was an old place, but the owner had seen to the limewash regularly, and the thatch was only one summer old. Baldwin tied his horse to a ring and entered the stables, and when he saw clean straw and how tidy the stalls were kept, he was content.

Having seen that his horse was well served, he entered the main block and called for a meal. There was a good, thick pottage and some reasonable bread that filled his empty belly, although when he enquired about a room for the night, he found that there was none to be had. His only choice was the main bedchamber, in which five men were to sleep that night, or to remain here in the hall.

In many years of travelling, Baldwin had experienced different inns in several kingdoms, and never had he succeeded in sleeping well in a room with strangers. In preference he decided to remain in the hall. He went out first to see that his horse was well catered for. The grooms had already rubbed and brushed him, and now he was munching contentedly at a fork or two of hay in his manger. Baldwin slapped his shoulder and tickled his ear before leaving. A warrior should always see to the comfort of his mount before all else: it was a rule he had learned early on, and the lesson was ingrained in his soul.

The inn was loud, not raucous but happy, and he knew he would find sleep evasive until some of the patrons had left for their beds. Still, he was warm, full, and tired enough to doze, and he drew a bench to the wall and sat there with his chin on his breast.

In his mind still was the curious behaviour of the bishop. Guilty. That was the word Baldwin had been looking for. As though he feared he was sending Baldwin into danger.

The knight considered that for a while. The port of Dartmouth was by no means quiet and safe. No port ever was, of course — but he was going to find out all he might about a man who had raped a lady-in-waiting to the Queen. Such a man should be caught and exiled, rather than simply watched, but Baldwin thought he understood that. There was no need to further antagonise the French king. The countries were already smarting from the last short war.

He only hoped that he was not going to learn that the bishop’s nephew was dead. Bernard was a youngish man, Bishop Walter had said, with dark hair, narrow features, prominent upper front teeth, and grey eyes. It should be easy enough to find a man like that, Baldwin told himself, and settled back more comfortably. He would sleep in here tonight, and let the morrow take care of itself.

Simon woke with a head that thumped painfully.

In his life he had woken to hangovers of such variety that he could almost class them. There were those of his youth when, as soon as he had lain in his bed, he had known, by the spinning of the ceiling, that he would feel very poorly unless he was sick before sleep. Then there were the scrumpy mornings, after a bout of cider-drinking, when his blood seemed to have turned to acid, and his head was all but immobilised. After an evening with strong red wines, he felt as though someone had slugged him at the back of the neck with a leather cosh and then there were the days when he had to protect his head from the painful explosions of noise caused by a spider hurtling across a wall.

To this connoisseur of suffering, none of these could stand even a moderate comparison with the state of his head this morning.

‘Thought you were never going to wake!’ Sir Richard boomed from the corner, and Simon winced: the bellow appeared to make his entire skull vibrate. Reluctantly he opened his eyes and looked about him. For some reason he evidently had not made it to his bed. He was spread out precariously over his long bench, an arm over his breast, the other dangling. It remained asleep as he tried to sit up, racking his brain for a memory of the previous evening.

They had started back at an inn called simply the Bush, drinking some heavy ales brewed by the innkeeper’s daughter. After that they had migrated to a powerful red Guyennois wine, and Simon would still have been fine, had the innkeeper not mentioned to Sir Richard that he had some burned wine.

Simon could still taste the stuff. The first sip was foul, like trying to drink a thin, but acrid and oily wine; but the second sip was better, the third not unpleasant, and the fourth was really quite palatable. It was a most peculiar drink, and made Simon feel much bolder, as though he was suddenly capable of feats of courage and endurance.

They had drunk a deal of it.

‘Ah! Morning, Bailiff!’ Sir Richard stood in the middle of his parlour gazing down at the hearth. ‘Did I tell you the one about the man proposing marriage to a young bint? He spoke to her father, and, trying to check her credentials, as it were, said, had she been chaste? “Surely,” said her father. “So — she’s got no children?” the man said. The father smiled a little at that. “She has had none?” the man repeated, and the father shook his head. “No. Nowt but a very small one, sir!” Eh? Haha! Where’s your servant, Bailiff? I can’t see him anywhere, and we need to have our breakfast. We can’t be late for the two inquests, can we? Where does your fellow sleep? Is he at the back?’

‘Next door,’ Simon croaked. In the night all moisture from his mouth had fled and now his tongue clacked drily like a board of wood. The Coroner looked as fresh as a bluebell in spring. Simon assumed he had courteously offered the man his bed. Or more likely, Simon had been unable to climb the steep staircase.

‘Ah! I’ll find the lazy scoundrel. Probably asleep, if I know anything about such lads. He’ll be …’

Mercifully his voice faded and then disappeared as he marched through the little building, and Simon felt only relief as he heard the door slam. He lay back again and closed his eyes, shivering gently, praying that the Coroner might die on his way and that Simon could sleep until the body was discovered.

‘OPEN THIS DOOR!’

Simon’s eyes snapped open, giving him the vague feeling that the top of his head was unscrewing. With appalled expectation, he waited. There was a squeaking, which he recognised as the door to his neighbour’s house, and then the bellow began again.

‘TELL HIM THAT THE BAILIFF AND I WILL BE IN THERE TO DRAG THE LAZY WRETCH FROM HIS BED, MADAM, IF HE ISN’T OVER THERE AND COOKING OUR BREAKFAST IN THE TIME IT TAKES ME TO DRAW A QUART OF ALE AND DRINK IT. AND HE WILL GET THE THRASHING HE RICHLY DESERVES IF I HAVE TO DO THAT.’

Simon felt his belly begin to grind at the thought of his neighbour’s maid’s face. She could stew plums by looking at them, and the effect of the Coroner on her was something he preferred not to think about. Nor the effect of her cold stare on him the next time they met.

Baldwin was already on his mount. For once, he had slept well. Last night he had been tired enough after his riding and discussions with the bishop to fall asleep in no time at all, and he woke refreshed and ready for the completion of his journey.

It was a pleasant morning’s ride, following the River Dart down towards the sea. Once, on a journey over the moors towards Huccaby, he had been told that the river he was crossing wandered all the way down to the sea at Dartmouth. He had never sought to verify that, but now, looking at the great estuary, he wondered whether it was true, and if so, how many other tributaries joined that little stream to make such an immense river.

The way was shaded, which was a relief, because even this early the weather was growing hot. He could feel the warmth rising from his horse, and although the land was flat here, he made many halts to let the animal slake his thirst in the river. Before he was more than a few bowshots from the town, though, the road took him up on top of the hills, away from the water itself. This land was ever hilly and criss-crossed with deep ravines that roads avoided. Up on the higher ground again, there was abundant pasture and farming land, although fewer trees.

Before anything else, Baldwin decided he would visit Simon and tell him about his mission on behalf of the bishop. If there was anything odd happening in the town, his old friend the Bailiff would be sure to know about it.

Simon dressed himself slowly and went out to the privy. After performing his morning’s routine in the little hut, he pulled his cloak about him and went to the wall at the bottom of his garden.

This was one of those perfect September mornings, the sort he had always loved on the moors. The weather had broken, and the fierce blast of the sun had abated somewhat. Now the air was fine and clear, the bushes filled with ripe berries. Simon’s little plot held some apple trees, brambles and pears, and all were bent with the weight of fruit. He would have to get someone to come and collect it all, for there was no possibility of his idle, good-for-nothing servant managing any such thing.

Good gardeners were always a trial to find. Men liked to boast that they were good at gardening, but in truth it was mostly their women who knew about the plants. The men spent too much time at sea or in taverns to learn much about anything other than tying knots and throwing up, in Simon’s rather jaundiced view. He could do with someone out here, though. He looked casually over the wall into the garden beyond the back lane. That was tidier, and as he peered nosily, he could see a maid gathering the last of the year’s peas ready for drying.

The lane went nowhere. There was a gate at the southernmost end, but that was kept locked to bar access from draw-latches. However, the attempt at security failed because some while ago the northern gate had been broken. Simon considered it was some poor fellow last winter who was desperate for firewood. No one had mended it in the last year or so, and now all too many people used the lane as a toilet. There was a familiar stench about it now — the sour, musty smell of faeces. He scowled. In the end he’d probably pay someone to come and clear it.

For once the mists had not swept up the river to engulf the town, and the sun could shine down on the newly limewashed buildings, all painted to protect them during the winter weather to come. Standing up here, Simon could see along the line of the shore from Hardness to the north, down to the curve in the river that led to the open sea. Even up here there was a constant thrumming on the wind, the sound of thousands of taut ropes vibrating and setting masts humming.

‘BAILIFF! WHERE ARE YOU?’

At the hoarse bellow, Simon winced, and then reluctantly turned back to his house. He only hoped that the Coroner would soon be finished here in Dartmouth.