The Death Ship of Dartmouth

Chapter Twenty

Moses was only just able to keep himself calm as he walked with the priest to the church, his master’s body behind him, carried by six sturdy sailors and servants. People came from their doors to peer at the small cortège as it passed. It was rare enough that a man would have such a fine procession in the town, and all wanted to take a peek at it as Pyckard’s body passed by.

After his death, Moses had insisted that he himself should clean his master’s body and prepare him for his coffin. He was as near as Pyckard’s son as any, and he jealously guarded his right to perform this last service for the man who had saved him and his brother from penury and probably death. With one of the stable-boys he stripped the corpse and washed away the mess from voided bowels and bladder, before clothing the dead man in a shift. A bolt of linen had been ordered days before by his foresighted master, and he took it up with a sob in his throat. As he and the boy unrolled it by his master’s cooling body, he could scarcely concentrate, his mind was so taken up with thoughts of all the kindnesses Paul Pyckard had shown him.

He could hardly remember Mistress Pyckard, she had died so many years before. A terrible day that. Moses had thought he had lost his brother too, but luckily Danny had survived the shipwreck. At least it meant that Moses had a family to watch over. He would do all in his power to protect his nieces and nephew. And Danny’s widow.

By all accounts, Master Pyckard had loved his wife dearly. Amandine had been a rare beauty, with her flashing, dark eyes, her long tresses of blue-black hair and pale complexion. Her calm disposition and gentleness had won the hearts of all the household, and her husband had been utterly devoted. Certainly in all the years that Moses had lived with Pyckard, he had never seen another woman with him, although there were plenty hereabouts who would have been happy to earn a few shillings while their husbands were at sea. No, Paul Pyckard had remained loyal to the memory of his wife. Even as he breathed his last, Moses could have sworn he had heard a whispered, ‘Amandine!’

It was only fitting that he should be buried next to his beloved wife. Her body had been found washed upon the shore with some sailor’s body after the wreck. Only her clothing identified her after the scavenging sea-creatures had ravaged her, but Moses knew Pyckard was content just to be able to give her a funeral.

The priest had arrived a little before noon, giving them plenty of time to roll the body in the long shroud and bind it at head and feet. Moses had ordered the coffin a week or more before, and it was brought as soon as news spread of the death. He had an elderly ex-sailor help him heft Pyckard’s corpse into it, and he stood with his hand on his master’s breast for a few minutes before he could bring himself to place the lid atop. With a sigh, he finally submitted to the sailor’s persistence, and stood back as the cover was placed over Paul Pyckard, shutting off the light from his face for the last time.

Formed of seamen from Pyckard’s household and business, the procession moved off now to the churchyard. The six coffin-bearers wore mourning black, but their appearance and manner, although solemn, gave the impression of stern restraint, as though at any moment they might break into a sailor-like song. At the front walked the priest, taking care to show proper respect, as well he might. Moses knew how much money Pyckard had promised the church for the funeral and prayers afterwards. The bell tolled in the hands of the fossor, who paced slowly in front of the priest and set the speed for them all.

There had been nothing like this for Danny. When his body had been carted off to the church, there had been only Moses, Annie, Alice and the children, with the fossor and a priest.

Gil and some of the men from the cog had arrived, Moses saw, and he was warmed to think that they had not yet set sail, but came here to witness Pyckard’s funeral. With the loss of the Saint John, so many who should have been here were missing, and it was good to see the household’s numbers swollen. If Gil and his men had already left port it might have looked as though Pyckard had few friends, no companions or servants. In reality he had many who depended upon his patronage, from widows whose men had died in Pyckard’s service to waifs and strays like Moses himself, and the foreigner — the Frenchman. Well, at least he’d carried out his master’s last wish regarding him.

They carried on along the street, down to the mill pool and over the two-arched bridge that connected Clifton with Hardness, past the mill itself with the wheel sitting almost stationary as the tide lay idle at its lowest point, and on up the hill towards St Clement’s Church at Tunstal. Here, there were more seamen and fishermen standing. Pyckard had given so many of them chances of earning money, and they wished to show their respect for the man who had helped them.

As they passed by one group, Moses saw a tall, fair-haired man eyeing the procession with a condescending air. The expression made Moses set his jaw. The stranger couldn’t be expected to understand how important Master Pyckard had been, and yet to display such disdain was foul when any man was being carried to his last resting-place. Moses could see that others nearby had noticed his attitude and were giving him black looks.

And then his eyes met those of a man who stood hooded only a short distance from the fair man, and he felt a shock run through his frame. This was the man he had tried to save, the one he’d put on the ship to ensure he was protected: the Frenchman. What was he doing here?

Peter Strete wiped his metal pen on his sleeve, pushed it gently into his leather penner, thrust the cork into his inkhorn, and leaned back, yawning. There had been much to do today, and he was content that he had achieved a lot already. Most of the details of the last cargoes were recorded now, as well as the goods which had been rescued aboard the Saint John, and he felt it was time to find some lunch.

He tended to avoid eating lunch within the house. The other servants could be uncouth. There was one man who insisted on picking his nose and flicking the contents away, often speckling other men’s clothing; another could not help but spit and dribble as he chewed, as his mouth had been hit by a sword in a battle protecting Master Hawley’s ship some years ago. All in all, it was less stressful to eat something in the tavern. Today he desired a good capon, he decided, and was about to leave when John Hawley strode into the room.

‘I have to be off,’ he announced. ‘Everyone’s going to Pyckard’s funeral. Quickly: where are the accounts?’

Peter brought out his rolls again. He set to quickly, explaining what he had done, and then ran through the calculations of the values of the items again.

‘All good,’ Hawley said. ‘What of the money?’

He always kept tight control of the cash in the house. Any merchant had to be careful about the total amount he held at any time, but Hawley was more cautious than most. When he needed it, he must have money to buy in goods. There were always deals to be struck with the cloth-makers in Totnes, and if Hawley didn’t buy their goods, others would. There had to be enough ready coin to pay for surprise purchases.

‘We have plenty,’ Strete chuckled. ‘There will soon be even more, too. The salvage of Pyckard’s ship will be very profitable.’

‘Good. Now, how much do we have presently?’

Alred felt the guilt of it. Bill could see that, and although he tried not to condemn his friend of so many years, it was hard not to.

‘I didn’t have any choice,’ Alred said again. ‘What else could I do?’

Law nodded. ‘I’d have done it if you hadn’t.’

‘He probably killed the man in our hole,’ Bill admitted. ‘So I suppose he deserved to be captured.’

‘Yes. We made a mistake when we knocked that fool on the head and saved him last time. We couldn’t do anything else.’

Bill took a long pull at his horn of ale. It was the sort of thing Alred would worry at for ages, like a hound with a tree-root, trying to pull it loose in vain, because the tree was too large. Alred felt guilt about his action because he knew too well that the man he had betrayed would die if found by Sir Andrew. There was no doubt in their minds of that.

‘He didn’t look like a rapist,’ Law said judiciously.

‘How can you tell what a rapist looks like?’ Alred snapped. ‘Any man can let himself fall foul of his humours and attack a lady. You don’t have to be a churl to fancy a tumble with a pretty wench and push your luck.’

‘He deserves to be caught, anyway,’ Law said, ignoring his bitter tone.

‘I wonder what they’ll do,’ Bill said.

‘What do you mean?’ Alred asked suspiciously. He could tell Bill was not convinced that his actions were justified, but then Bill had always been against anyone in authority. Bill had had one or two run-ins with the law, and both times he’d lost a lot of money, which was why he was working for Alred now and not a paviour on his own. No, he just didn’t trust the law or the men involved in administering justice.

‘Only that he’s on the ship now, so will they storm it and take him from it, or will they try to catch him by getting him back on shore?’

Law gaped delightedly. ‘You think they’ll try to take him on the ship? Let’s go and watch!’

‘Oh, Christ’s pains! Will you shut up!’ Alred snapped with a burst of frustration.

He stood and strode from the room irritably, and Law turned to Bill. ‘What’s his problem?’

‘Can’t you see what he’s done?’ Bill said with asperity. ‘He’s sent that Frenchman to be hanged. He’ll die now.’

‘So? If he hadn’t raped the woman, he wouldn’t have anything to fear, would he?’

‘If he did rape someone. How do you know he’s guilty? All we have is the word of this knight. Even when a man’s taken to a court, you can’t trust the witnesses,’ Bill said bitterly. ‘A rich man can bribe anyone he wants to get the result he desires. So all Alred’s done is send that man to be hanged to save our skins — even though he doesn’t know if the Frenchie was guilty or not. How do you think that makes him feel?’

‘Who gives a rat’s cods? I reckon he’s guilty,’ Law said.

‘And you’re so wise you can read his guilt?’

‘I can see what’s before my nose as clearly as any.’

Bill’s jaw jutted. ‘Sometimes, boy, people make mistakes and the wrong man is convicted.’

‘If he had nothing to fear, he wouldn’t have run away to here. Only a man with something to hide does a runner.’

‘Maybe he just knew that if he didn’t run, hotheads would assume he was guilty and kill him?’

Law curled his upper lip back from his teeth, his brow creased. ‘What are you on about? Look, that French scrote tried to get his hand up a lady’s skirt, it’s as simple as that. If he was innocent, he wouldn’t have run, would he? Come on!’

‘Come on, ballocks! Don’t you ever wonder why I’m here? Why I don’t have my own business? I was hunted once, boy. Yes, me! Another woman was raped, and because I was on the spot, they tried to blame me for it. And I had to flee for my life because the man who’d actually done it said he’d seen me. He was rich, so I couldn’t stay to tell the truth. No one would have believed me. No, so I had to run, and all my property was taken.’

‘What are you doing here now, then?’

‘I’m safe now. I abjured the realm, and I only came back when I was given a full pardon. But a pardon doesn’t mean you can recover all the property you had to give up. Yes, I am safe, but I lost everything. So don’t tell me that justice is fair, boy. It sure as hell isn’t.’

‘Just because you ran off doesn’t mean this one’s innocent, does it? If you’d stayed, you’d still have all your property,’ Law said cockily.

‘If I’d stayed, I’d have been hanged.’

‘Yeah, sure.’

His open amusement, his smile of disbelief, made Bill’s face redden with anger. ‘You think I am lying, you little turd?’

Bill couldn’t help himself. He lashed out with his fist. It caught Law on the nose, and the lad was flung over backwards, crashing against a table and knocking the jugs and horns higgledy-piggledy as he went, arms flailing.

‘You mad bastard!’ Law said, shaking his head like a wetted hound. His fingers gingerly went to his nose and he wiped it with the back of his hand. ‘What did you do that for?’

Bill slumped back in his chair. ‘Just don’t judge men. Don’t judge me, don’t judge the Frenchie. You don’t know what he’s done. You don’t know what I’ve done. You have no idea!’

‘Go and swyve your mother!’ Law spat, standing. The blood was trickling from his nose, and he sniffed, his head tilted back slightly as he tried to stem the flow with his sleeve. ‘Sweet son of God, you’re mad today, just like Alred. I don’t have to stay here and have you punch at me, you old prickle!’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Out! I’ll go watch that foreign sod getting taken on the ship. I expect they’ll have him already. Maybe he’s hanging from a mast, eh? Probably dancing his last right now, and I’ll be glad if he is. You may not trust people, but I’d trust an Englishman over one of them Frenchies any day. You’re just weak because you’re old, Bill. You’re too old!’

‘Come back, lad,’ Bill said tiredly. ‘Look, I shouldn’t have hit you. I’m sorry about that. It was just frustration. I’m sorry, all right? Now sit down, and we’ll wait for Alred to come back.’

‘No — you wait. And when he gets back you can tell him why I didn’t want to stay with you. Christ’s cods! There’s a bad smell about the place while you’re in here!’

Law pushed past Bill, left the tavern and walked down an alley to the water’s edge, where he sat on a log and stared out at the ships in the haven.

‘Sod them both, stupid old gits,’ he muttered, and threw a stone spinning into the water.