The Death Ship of Dartmouth

Chapter Twelve

The inquest on the second body was much faster. Sir Richard de Welles already had poor Danny stripped and displayed before Simon and Baldwin had reached the quay near Hawley’s house. A woman shrieked and wailed with grief nearby, comforted by the man Simon recognised as Pyckard’s servant. An assortment of children moaned and wept at her feet. It was enough to make Simon feel a mortifying shame at his reluctance to view this man’s body. No matter what Simon felt, he had left a family behind, and men and women who loved him. He deserved to be investigated properly.

‘Clearly he has spent some time in the water,’ Sir Richard said. He had always disliked examining drowned men. The bodies with their flaccid flesh, white and loose like cheap leather gloves, made even his resilient stomach turn a little. Better to have a man spitted on a lance with his entrails dangling, than a whitened corpse like this.

He prodded the chilled flesh with a reluctant finger. ‘Like a slab of fish, eh?’ he called unsympathetically to the clerk taking notes. Stephen winced at his lack of tact, but continued writing.

Sir Richard stood upright and glanced about him. Seeing Hamo standing near the jury, and Alred Paviour nearby, he beckoned to them both. ‘HOI! Over here, you two. You can help with this fellow.’

These two were older and had experience of corpses. Few who had survived the famine of nine years before were not used to the sight and smell of the dead. Taking the man’s arm, they heaved him over and over in front of the jury.

‘Right, did you all see those wounds? A clear stab in his breast, with a blade about an inch and a half wide at the hilt. Doesn’t go right through him, even though you can see the mark where the cross actually bruised him. Clearly it was thrust in as hard as possible. This man was found on board that ship the Saint John, so I’d think he was killed by the pirates and thrown down into the hold where he was partly concealed by the bale.’

‘I have a question for you, sir,’ a voice called.

Sir Richard turned and surveyed the faces before him. The speaker stood with a youth who must surely be his son, their faces were so alike. ‘Who are you, sir?’

‘My name is known here, sir. I am the master of the ship which found and rescued the Saint John. My name is John Hawley.’ He gestured at the body. ‘It was my master shipwright who found Danny in the hold.’

Sir Richard glanced over at Henry, who nodded. ‘Master Hawley asked me to go and see if there was damage to her under the waterline, and I stumbled over the poor soul in the hold.’

‘What of it then, Master Hawley?’ Sir Richard rumbled.

‘There were other good men aboard her, Sir Richard, some of them from this town, and I’d like to know what happened to them.’

‘Find the ship that fired your cog, and you’ll be part of the way there,’ Sir Richard said, but Hawley’s words had already started a rebellious murmuring among the jurors.

‘It was the men from Lyme did it,’ one asserted. ‘They’re thieving sods at the best of times. They even took a privateer on its way back to port with a good haul, didn’t they?’

‘They help other ports agin us, too.’

‘Not long since they had a battle with us on the high seas.’

Sir Richard held up a hand for silence. ‘No more of that! No more, I say! There are no other bodies, and unless you can produce a written authority for me to investigate a suspicious death without a body, I can do nothing. All I can do is hold an inquest on the body that is here. Now, does anyone have anything further to say about this body here?’

‘There is one thing, Sir Richard,’ a smooth voice said from behind him.

‘Ah, Sir Baldwin! I trust you are still in God’s safe hands?’

‘I appear to be remarkably healthy, I thank you,’ Sir Baldwin smiled, bowing. ‘You know my friend Simon, of course?’

‘Yes. We met yesterday,’ Sir Richard said.

‘You asked whether there were any questions about this corpse. I think there is one thing I should like you to consider,’ Baldwin said. He had walked past Sir Richard, leaving Simon at the Coroner’s side. Baldwin stood a moment contemplating the corpse, then he motioned to Hamo and Alred to turn the body over.

‘I believe that this death was nothing to do with the rest of the ship. It doesn’t look like piracy to me.’

The Coroner joined him. ‘Why?’

In answer, Baldwin gestured to John Hawley. ‘Master Hawley, you are a seaman of experience. Most of you here will know what it is to fight on board a ship. When pirates attack, they will use enormous violence and force to subdue their victims, will they not?’

‘That was my question: whenever I have been at war on the sea, the wounds have been ferocious, the attacks bloody. Yet this man has only one accurate stab wound on his breast.’

‘Quite so,’ Baldwin said. ‘I think that this is no victim of the men of Lyme or any other pirates out at sea, Sir Richard. This man Danny was stabbed to death, and then set in the hold to make it appear that he had perished with the rest of the crew.’

It was hard now to remember the happier times. There had been many of them, it was true, but Pierre knew that if he was captured, he would never know happiness of any sort again. His end would be slow and exquisitely painful.

Casting his mind back, he tried to recall when it all started. Surely it was not really ten years ago when he had caught his first glimpse of her? Yes, it must have been: the Year of Our Lord 1314.

In those days, all he had known of her was that she was a slim, tall, and utterly beautiful woman. He didn’t think further than that. He was a lowly page and she was a foreign visitor, but there was something about her that called to him, and he could remember now stopping and taking a second look at her as he left the hall to replenish the jug of wine he was carrying. He was a mere servant at her table, and yet when he saw her glance at him, he felt his heart must stop. The thrill of adoration stabbed him with a spark of lightning that was so intense, it hurt.

She could only have been fifteen at the time, and he, still learning the craft of the warrior, was a scant year older — yet their positions were so very different. He knew that there could be no hope of his ever attaining her. She was as impossible to touch as the moon or the stars. Or, rather, the sun, because were he actually to touch her, he would burn in an instant. She was so lovely, so perfectly built and proportioned, no man could be near her and be unaffected.

The second time was the next year, when she was again visiting France, and he had at last begun the great journey. He had risen from page to squire in that time, and now he was gaining a reputation for courage, so when he took his seat at the table, others wished to introduce him to the guests. And so he met her.

That she was so well spoken was no surprise, of course, nor were her delicacy or intellect. Still, there was something else about her that finally sealed his love. It was the luminosity in her eyes. He couldn’t describe it any other way: she had a sparkle that made a man warm as soon as her gaze lighted upon him. He felt that look so often, he began to wonder if he had caused offence, and it was only when he saw how she blushed to receive his own adoring looks that he realised his feelings towards her were reciprocated.

Ah! The joy, the splendid delight of knowing that she felt the same towards him … and the horror when he at last understood their plight. To remain in proximity, their love unrequited, their whole existences so close and yet never being permitted to share even a brief kiss, let alone a more passionate consummation. Even the memory of their first and last kiss was enough to make his blood course like a galloping stallion through his veins, and when he closed his eyes and imagined what she must appear like in her bed, naked, welcoming … it was a torture!

But all torture will end. Sometimes there will be a period of release. Thus it was for them. They had met once by accident, and from that moment they both appreciated the danger they were in. They could not remain in the same household.

Pierre could do nothing that might hurt her. He, who loved her most, could not expose her to the same dangers as those his own family had inflicted on the women in the Tour de Nesle. Instead, he had gone to the mistress of the household, Queen Isabella, and pleaded with her to be released from her service for a while. With a pretty display of regret, she acquiesced, provided that he carry some little messages for her, and so here he was.

At least by travelling to France he would provide the Queen with some sort of service. More importantly, it might save his lady from being discovered as an adulteress with him. That in itself was enough to justify his exile.

Hamund insisted on walking into the sea before he did anything else. His acquaintance told him his name was Gilbert, or Gil, and he was the shipmaster of the cog Saint Denis.

‘That’s her out there.’

‘A fine-looking craft,’ Hamund said, although in truth he was wondering how such a lumbering great vessel could possibly sail across the vast expanse of water he had seen from Tunstal earlier that day.

‘Better than that. She’s fleet, she’s got a clean keel, and she’ll outsail even the worst of the Lyme privateers. Yes, she’s a lovely little thing. Are you sure you want to walk into the sea? It’s not too warm, you know.’

‘I will not fail in my oath,’ Hamund said stolidly.

‘Walk down here, then. It’s a slip for new ships to be launched,’ Gil said, indicating the stone roadway that led straight to the water and sank beneath.

Hamund gripped his cross until his knuckles were white, then strode forward into the water. It was cold, Gil had not deceived him. He felt a chill tendril float over his ankle, then some flotsam drifted past, and he felt a sudden terror of the water. Quelling the urge to turn and fly from it, he stood a while with his eyes closed, up to his thighs in the sea. The Coroner had told him to do this, and he would do everything as ordered, because otherwise any man could execute him legally. A picture of Guy de Bouville’s face came into his mind and he shuddered. It was only when he heard Gil’s voice that he opened them again and with relief made his way out.

‘Thought you’d fallen asleep in there,’ the shipmaster grunted.

‘No, no. I was just thinking about a man who wanted to kill me, to avenge his master — the man I killed. If he was to find me doing anything other than climbing aboard the first ship out of here, he’d kill me. I’m sure of that.’

‘It is no matter! I am seeking three more men, and won’t have some arse murdering you here when I need you on the ship. So! Enough of this meandering, come! We have to get to the taverns before all the men are too drunk.’

Sir Richard sat back and belched after consuming the best of the food Simon’s boy had been able to find.

Rob was still smarting. When his mother had been called by the lady of her house to repeat the Coroner’s words: ‘If that lazy bratchet doesn’t get up now, I’ll have the steward beat him from his bed!’ she had been furious to have her position in the place put at risk, and had kicked him from his palliasse. Then, as soon as he arrived in the Bailiff’s house, he had been bellowed at by this huge stranger, who told him to scramble to the pie shop immediately if he didn’t want a boot up his arse and to be kicked from one end of Upper Street to the other. When he glanced at the Bailiff for support, all he saw was a look of sheer fury. Simon’s eyes were narrowed to slits, and his mouth was a thin line, he was so cross. Rob ran.

He hadn’t expected them all back so soon this morning. Usually the Bailiff went out to an alehouse for a drink and took a pie from the shop on his way back to his counting-house. Not today, though. Today these three men had descended just as he was thinking about wandering over to the Blue Dolphin himself. He nodded sulkily when he was commanded to seek out pies and honeyed thrushes, six, as well as a capon. And a loaf, and was there any ale in the house? Or wine? At that point he hurried out before they could think of anything else he might carry.

‘Glad that lad’s sorted,’ the Coroner boomed. ‘Seems more inclined to work now. You can’t let the idle buggers wander about as if they own the house, Bailiff. Can’t imagine how you could have let him get so above himself. Still, he’ll be more cautious now. You all right? You look as if you could do with a drink, man.’

‘I am fine,’ Simon lied. He walked slowly to his chair and settled himself in it, his elbow on his knee, hand supporting his head. It felt appallingly heavy.

Baldwin looked from him to the Coroner, and suddenly understood his friend’s malady. He had thought Simon was simply queasy as a result of the sight of the two bodies, knowing the bailiff’s horror of corpses.

It was a matter they rarely discussed, but Baldwin himself had seen too many bodies for him to be upset at the sight of another one. He looked upon the dead as mere husks of the people who had once inhabited them. Once the soul had fled, the flesh remained as food for worms. In his youth he had travelled out to Acre in a fit of Christian enthusiasm, seeking to hold back the tide of Saracen hordes which were throwing the Crusaders from the kingdoms of Outremer. He had arrived in Acre as the siege was nearing its end, and he had witnessed the full brutality of war at its worst. He had seen women and children squashed to a splash of crimson by the rocks of the massive catapults; men flung against walls by the enormous bolts of the machines the Arabs fired. They could pass through one thickness of a gate, snatch up a man, and pin him to the stone behind. Yes, Baldwin had seen enough death to last many lifetimes.

When he looked at a body, he did not generally feel grief. The time for that was when the man or woman was still living, and his sympathy or support could save a person from pain. No, when the corpse was in front of him, he was more interested to see what it could tell him about the manner of its death. Some said that when a man died, the last image he saw was imprinted within his eyes, but although Baldwin had peered closely at many dead men over the years, he had only ever seen himself reflected. Yet there was always something to be learned if the man searching was open to clues, no matter how small.

‘I am parched!’ Sir Richard exclaimed. ‘Good God in heaven, you live like a pauper, Bailiff! D’you have no wine in the house fit for a thirsty Coroner?’

Simon gave him a sour look. ‘Until last night, yes. Now I fear there is nothing left.’

‘Was that all you had?’ Sir Richard showed surprise. ‘It was such a small-’

‘And after the ales and the burned wines, I should have thought there would be no need for more,’ Simon said. He felt a little bilious again at the memory.

‘Let’s hope that idle beggar of yours gets back soon with some vittles, then,’ Sir Richard said. ‘Ha! Sir Baldwin, did I ever tell you the story of the peasant, the merchant, the knight and the bishop? They were all in a small boat, and the wind built up, and it was clear that they must sink, so the first man, the peasant, said, “I am unimportant. I have done many ill deeds in my life: once I even took my neighbour’s sow and knew her carnally, before killing her and curing her. I feel remorse, and I am sure it is my fault God is punishing us for my sin, so I shall jump into the sea to save you, if you all pray for my soul and beg for God’s forgiveness,” and so saying, he prayed with them, and leaped into the waters. But the weather deteriorated.

‘Then the merchant stood up, and he said, “I do not matter. I have made men suffer. When they have owed me money, I have demanded high profits in usurious transactions. I am detested by Christ because I am mercenary and seek to make money from war. But if I jump into the waters, He may relent and let you live, and I may be saved for that one good deed. If you pray for me, I shall go.” So saying, he prayed with them, accepted their thanks, and jumped.

‘But it did no good. If anything, the weather grew still worse, and the two remaining men stared at each other. It was plain that they must die if both stayed in the boat. Only one could live.

‘At last the knight said, “Bishop, you are a good and excellent man. I am only a meagre knight. I have killed and raped across England, and I am known as a felon. But you are a good, kindly, honourable man. Would you pray for me?” “My son, for the rest of my life,” said the good bishop, and began immediately. When he was done, the knight nodded. “Thank you,” quoth he, and threw the bishop overboard! Eh? Haha!’

Simon winced and glanced at Baldwin.

The knight smiled thinly. Sir Richard de Welles’s sense of humour was famed. ‘What did you conclude about the two bodies, Simon?’

The Bailiff grunted. ‘The first was a churl in town for a drink who got seized by a whore’s pander, then was killed and robbed. The second died in a sailor’s fight and was concealed when the bale fell on him. No mystery with either of them. More concerning is the disappearance of the crew on the cog.’

‘The first appears to have been a well-nourished fellow,’ Sir Richard commented. ‘Probably not a farmer or local peasant. Certainly not a sailor.’

‘Why?’

Baldwin responded. ‘His hands were soft. They hadn’t worked with a plough or with ropes. He was no manual worker. His skin, too, was pale. He had a slight reddishness that looked like burning, although that could have been from after his death. Does a dead man get burned by the sun? Anyway, he was clearly a man who spent his life in a quiet environment. He was not well muscled or fit in the normal sense of the word.’

‘And he had a stain on his forefinger,’ Sir Richard said. ‘His right. It was slightly callused. And you saw his brow? A very deep set of frowning-wrinkles. I think it’s fair to think that his eyesight was not so good as it once was.’

Simon belched quietly, glancing from one man to the other as they nodded grimly. ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked tiredly.

‘He was a clerk. Probably one who spent much of his time in the cloisters,’ Sir Richard said absently. ‘The ink on his finger and the frowning point to a man who was used to spending his time with parchment and quill.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘Except I should think that he was from the Cathedral Close or a canonical church like Crediton’s, rather than a monkish cloister. Monks will pray more often than canons, and his knees were not overly callused.’

‘Ah, I missed that,’ Sir Richard said. He glanced at the door hopefully. ‘Where is that boy?’

‘I think you should look for a man who has come into some wealth,’ Baldwin said. ‘He may have a penner and reeds to sell, too. And a well-made purse, if I guess right.’ He knew that the bishop’s nephew would have the best quality — and money.

‘I shall put some words about. Not that it’s really my job to find the murderer. I only seek him as a diversion, as you well know.’

Baldwin smiled. ‘Of course.’

‘I am interested in this ship’s destruction as well, though,’ Sir Richard said. ‘There is something intriguing about a ship that’s had all her crew slaughtered, even if it is some distance away from my responsibility.’

‘If murder is committed off the land, you are hardly in a position to investigate it,’ Baldwin agreed.

‘It would be hard in any case,’ Simon said. ‘Almost all the ships from the town were at sea that day.’

‘This Hawley was first to pick up the ship, though?’ Richard noted.

‘Yes. But that means little, except I’d be inclined to consider him innocent for that very reason,’ Simon said. ‘If he’d been there all alone, he’d have taken the cargo, fired the ship, and waited to make sure it sank. He’s a cool, collected man. And surely the man who fired the Saint John knew little about ships,’ he added thoughtfully.

‘Why so?’ Baldwin asked.

‘The men who tried to fire her poured oil about the deck. It made the damage look bad, with charring to the timbers and the sails gone, but really, the ship herself was under no great threat. A sailor would have thrown more oil about the hold, so that the flammable goods in there might catch light.’

‘Many men might make that mistake. Couldn’t she have caught fire if Hawley was slower to reach her?’ Baldwin remarked.

‘No. From what I’ve heard, the oil was nothing like sufficient. You know how it is — if you want a fire to burn, you put tinder over the flame. Here it looks as though oil was spread about the place and set alight, but no tinder or kindling used. Even landlubbers like us wouldn’t expect that to work!’ Simon grinned.

‘Where is that lad?’ Sir Richard wondered as Baldwin narrowed his eyes consideringly.

As he spoke, the door opened at last and Rob stomped into the room before standing aside. A paid of apron-clad urchins appeared, holding trays on which were good-sized coffins of pastry. The room began to fill with the succulent aroma of gravy and meats. Rob had the pies set on the table at the side of the room, and then he sent the boys away. ‘Capon’s finishing cooking, and he’ll bring honeyed larks when he’s ready,’ he said. ‘No throstles.’

‘The drink?’

‘I’ve got it outside,’ Rob said waspishly. He left them and returned a moment or two later, rolling in a small cask. It was one of the ones used locally, made of oaken staves held in place by a binding of hoops shaped from split hazel, each hoop secured by fine strands of elder. He rolled it to the table and attempted to lift it, his face reddening as he strained.

‘Good God, boy!’ Sir Richard snapped, pushing him aside and grasping the little barrel. He hefted it easily, and placed it on the table. There was a wooden tap; he set it on the bung and drew his dagger, rapping it sharply. The tap slipped in, and he glared at Rob. ‘Well? Where are the goblets, boy? Do you expect us to drink from our hands?’