The Death Ship of Dartmouth

Chapter Twenty-One

Hawley ran his finger down the roll and checked off the figures. Then he slapped his purse. ‘Where’s the strongbox? I need more money. I’m off to the funeral of poor Pyckard today, and have to make a decent donation.’

Peter nodded and took his key, opening the great chest behind his desk. It was solid ship’s oak, built by Henry Pyket, of old planks from a ship he’d repaired, the bands of iron beaten by Hawley’s own smith, the locks cut and filed to size by an expert in Exeter. Lifting the heavy lid, Peter took up a leather sack filled with coin from the pile within.

Hawley took it and glanced into the chest. He turned, but then hesitated and slowly went back to it, his face betraying a certain doubt. ‘I thought there would be two more sacks?’

Strete felt sweat break out on his back. ‘I don’t think so, master. Do you forget the two which went to the men victualling the cog ready to sail? It’s all in the account.’

‘Oh, I see. That’s good, then,’ Hawley said. ‘Right, I’d best be preparing myself for the funeral. Don’t forget to lock up.’

He walked out, and Strete drew a long sigh of relief. When his master had seen that the sacks were gone, he had thought he was about to be discovered. As soon as he could, he would put the money back in the chest. It would only take one more win …

Only a short while ago he had been close to winning enough to repay the whole debt. He had enjoyed a near-miraculous run of good luck at the gaming, and it was only when fortune turned against him that he realised he’d lost almost all his profit again. Thinking that his luck was on the turn, he had borrowed another sack. One more game or two, and with some heavy betting he’d recover the lot, and hopefully no one would ever know that he had stolen from Master Hawley.

But the clerk’s relief was short-lived.

‘I’m early still. Before I go, shall we check the contents of the chest?’ Hawley said.

Peter sat bolt upright. His master had returned and stood in the doorway watching him. ‘What — all of it?’ he gulped.

‘Yes. Why don’t we start adding up the coins?’ Hawley said with a thin smile, and Strete looked out at the sunlight in the street, giving a nervous grin.

‘There isn’t really time, is there, master? Not if you’re going to the funeral.’

‘I think I can make the time.’

Strete heard a sound at the door and glancing up, saw two sailors standing and staring at him with grim expressions. He felt a terrible sinking sensation in his belly. It grew worse as Hawley glanced at his belt. ‘By the way, Strete, that is a good new purse. Have you found some money to buy that?’

Pierre watched the procession slowly walk past, the bell tolling mournfully as they all went, and he bowed his head respectfully, remembering the man who had saved his life.

‘For God’s sake, let’s get back to the ship!’

‘Hamund, be calm. There is no need to hurry anywhere,’ Pierre said. With his hood over his face he felt invisible, and perfectly secure.

‘Oh yes, there is! I am an abjurer, and if I’m found here on the land I’ll be hanged. I don’t need to die, do I, to satisfy your curiosity about this master of yours?’

Pierre was about to reply with a stern reminder that the deceased had saved both their skins, when he saw a face he recognised. ‘Hamund,’ he hissed, ‘do you see the man behind me, he with the fair hair and the smile? You see him — with three men about him?’

Hamund shot a look over his shoulder. From here the four men were in plain view, and he could see the fair man in their midst. ‘He looks like a nasty piece of work.’

‘He is! His name is Sir Andrew de Limpsfield. He has no heart, and is only interested in that which can advance him. If he heard you had swallowed a ring, he would paunch you to see whether it was really there,’ Pierre said with a chill certainty. He was torn now. He was keen to go with Master Pyckard’s body to the church to pray for the soul of that good and kind man, but he also wanted to see where Sir Andrew was going and what he was up to.

‘You’re making a joke, aren’t you? Do you really know him?’

‘He is the most evil man I have ever met.’ And Pierre took Hamund’s shoulder and led him away from the crowds.

Hamo the cooper had finished making and mending the last of the barrels for the cog, and now he was rowing them out to the Saint Denis, ready for her sailing.

‘Ahoy! Anyone up there?’

He sat on the thwarts gripping his oars and staring up at the stern of the ship towering above him, waiting. It was a long while before a face appeared above him and a thin, tremulous voice called down to him. ‘Who’s that? Oh, it’s you, Hamo.’

‘Having a nice sleep, were you? Where is everyone?’

‘Didn’t you hear that Master Pyckard died? Most everyone from his crews will be with him now in the church. He was much liked, was Master Pyckard,’ the man said and burped.

Hamo vaguely recognised him. ‘You’re Dicken, aren’t you? Look, is there anyone else aboard? These barrels are full of fresh water. Gil asked for them. They’ll be the devil’s own job to pull up without a bit of help.’

‘There are some men up at the prow. Wait there.’

Hamo grimaced, muttering, ‘Wait there!’ to himself in a falsetto imitation of the man’s whine, adding in his normal voice, ‘Where else am I going to go, you blasted moonstruck fool?’

As he waited, he gazed idly about him. From here the two towns that had united to form Dartmouth were clearly visible and distinct. Each climbed the hills on either side of the cleave that was the mill pool, the white houses a series of rectangles. He could see the mill and the mill’s wheel, and could just make out the line of dark-clad men walking slowly up the hill to Tunstal from Hardness. Bowing his head reverently, he crossed himself as he thought of Master Pyckard.

The men should have appeared by now. He had a sudden suspicion that the fellows on board were drinking the health of their dead master again, and he was about to shout up at them when he saw some boats — three long-oared vessels moving quickly through the water towards him.

Of course there were boats all over the haven. There was nothing unusual in that, but Hamo saw something glinting from them as they came, and he frowned, uncertain. It was odd for lighters to be moving so swiftly in such a busy haven, and although they all looked low in the water, it seemed to be more because they were full of men, than because there was a heavy load of goods aboard them. And then, as he watched, he saw a man in the prow of the first boat draw a sword and point it towards him, and he felt his stomach churn … and then rage filled him as he realised these men were about to board and attack the cog.

‘Dicken! HOY, DICKEN! Look out! You’re going to be boarded!’ he roared at the top of his voice, thrusting with his oar at the steep clinker wall of oak and pushing himself off. He measured the distance: the boats would be here in a few moments. Making a swift decision, he set his oars ready and pulled himself away, back to his store on the Clifton side of the mill pool, watching as the men snagged anchor chains with grappling hooks and hurled grapnels before scrambling up into the ship herself.

Strete sat huddled in the corner of the room and stared as his master’s men went through his belongings.

‘You see, Peter, I think it’s a lot of responsibility looking after my money. It could tempt some men. Are you a strong man, Peter?’

Strete looked from him to the men at the doorway. ‘You can’t think any money’s gone missing, Master Hawley. I would have noticed if it had.’

‘Yes, you would, wouldn’t you?’ Hawley said with a cold tone. He waited while another sailor came in with a clerk. The two of them began to empty the chest, logging the items against Strete’s own rolls.

There was a relentlessness about the way that the two men lifted out the leathern sacks, one counting the coin inside aloud, and the clerk nodding and ticking off each against the notes. Neither of them looked at Strete. That was the prerogative of Hawley and the two guards at the door. All three watched him closely.

‘Master, surely you trust me? If you have any suspicions, you should tell me so that I can explain …’ Strete started, before he saw one man at the door pull a small cudgel from his belt and slap it into his hand rhythmically.

‘I dare say you could try,’ Hawley said with a short baring of his teeth. ‘But whether or not I’d choose to believe you is a different matter, isn’t it? All I can see right now is that you have robbed me, Peter. I don’t like that.’

‘I haven’t robbed you!’

And his voice carried his conviction. He hadn’t. How could he rob his master? No, he had made a foolish error and tried to make good that error by borrowing to replace the money lost, but he would return it. As he had.

‘I have heard before now how you enjoy the gaming at the Blue Boar and Porpoise, but I was too trusting. I never thought you’d actually steal from me to finance your fun. You’ve been well looked after here, Peter. Very well. I pay my men well to keep their loyalty, and if I was seen to let a man like you escape after taking my treasure, what would others think? They’d think I was soft, wouldn’t they?’

Hawley stood and marched to the chest. The great box was almost emptied now, and the two men at its side were ticking off the last coins and making a total of the full sum. The clerk glanced at the sailor, who nodded, and then both looked up at their master, the clerk holding up the amended roll. Hawley took it, ran his eye down the columns, and scowled. ‘Sweet Jesus!’

Strete felt as though his bowels were about to open. Perhaps if he’d been standing, they would have done. As it was, all he could do was swallow and wipe his forehead with his sleeve. How his master had come to suspect him like this was beyond him — he’d been so careful.

‘It looks as though I owe you an apology,’ Hawley said gruffly. He passed the parchment back to Strete. ‘The accounts are wrong by exactly three pennies. I don’t know where they came from, but your accounting is out by that much.’

‘I am sorry, master, I-’

‘Shut up, Strete. I’m in credit three pennies, not debit. Take the money as an apology for the way I spoke about you just now,’ Hawley said. He shook his head. ‘It’s this matter of the Saint John. It’s making everyone nervous. Hmm. Yes.’

Strete watched as he turned abruptly on his heel and marched from the room, irritably beckoning the three sailors to follow him.

‘Who’s a lucky boy, then?’ the other clerk said quietly.

‘What do you mean?’ Strete demanded.

‘You must have made a killing last night to pay back all you owed. I’ve seen you gaming and I’ve heard how much you’ve had to pay out. You’re the laughing stock of the inn, you are. Everyone wants to play with you.’ He grinned. ‘Best not try it again, mind. Our master will have his eye on you from now on!’ Touching a finger to his cheek under his eye, he laughed aloud as he walked from the room.

Strete fell back on his seat, and suddenly began to shiver uncontrollably. If he hadn’t received that money from Paul Pyckard just before the merchant died, he would have had a hole of seven marks in the accounts. As it was, he was five shillings short until he’d found the body in the pavers’ hole and took the purse. That had been a real stroke of luck! And that would have been enough for Hawley to have him dragged from his door all the way to the gaol under the market house. No man robbed Hawley with impunity, and if he had learned that his own clerk had fleeced him, his rage would have been uncontrollable.

Thank God he had made good the money with his payment from Pyckard and what he found in the dead man’s purse.

Hamo arrived back at his cooperage and grabbed for an axe. Already, when he looked back over the water, he could see that the crew of the cog had been overwhelmed; the cries of the attacked suddenly grew silent, as did the ringing clashes of iron and steel, and now all that could be heard was an occasional bellow to disturb the normal noise of slapping water at his feet.

He set off at a fast pace to Hawley’s house in Upper Street, and beat on the door with his axe’s haft. ‘Master Hawley? Master Hawley!’

‘Who is that?’ An elderly sailor appeared in the doorway and glared at him. ‘What do you want?’

‘It’s me, the cooper, Hamo,’ he panted. ‘The cog in the haven — three boats have just overtaken her. Don’t know what’s happening, but tell your master urgently.’

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and fled along the road and down to the mill’s dam. He hurtled along the path, past the silent wheel, over the sluice gates, and up into Hardness. Here he saw Ivo le Bel.

‘Ivo! You have to raise the men of the town!’ he gasped. ‘Someone’s just attacked Master Pyckard’s cog the Saint Denis. Three boats, full of armed men.’

The sergeant sneered. ‘You been drinking? What boats?’ Then he looked past Hamo’s shoulder towards the haven, and suddenly his smile left his face. ‘Christ’s cods!’

Baldwin stood watching the slow progress of the funeral party up the hill. ‘Who died?’ he asked.

‘One of the merchants here — a man called Pyckard.’ Then Simon reverted to their former conversation. ‘First, how did you guess Danny wasn’t supposed to be sailing?’

‘His wife said so. Sailors don’t normally just up and leave their wives without saying their goodbyes, in my experience. A man will rarely go to sea without taking a sentimental leave of his woman. That may mean that Danny was killed on shore and thrown onto the ship as we had thought. It’s a small detail, but important. Now, this merchant, Pyckard — he died naturally?’

Simon nodded. ‘Aye. He was a good enough man, I think, and successful generally.’

‘Why “generally”?’

‘Well, Pyckard was the owner of that cog, the Saint John. He owns other ships too, but that was one of his best, and it’s partly lost in salvage now.’

‘You said it was this fellow Hawley who found the vessel?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Do you think that he could have …’

‘Taken it, slaughtered the crew, chucked ’em overboard, bar our Danny, and brought the ship back to port? It’s possible. The two of them were rivals in business, so perhaps there was enmity between them — although to be fair I never saw much sign of it. There are some I’d not put past business like that, but Hawley seems to be an honourable man.’

Baldwin pulled a face. ‘Ah, well. It was worth a try!’

The Coroner was standing a short distance from them, watching over the town with a proprietorial eye. ‘A good place that. I had fun there when I was a lad. So! What do you two think of all this?’

‘I think that there is a vessel out there which tried to burn the cog, but it wasn’t the work of pirates,’ Baldwin said. ‘Nor was it a foolish attack by a different town. The burning was to conceal the crime of killing all aboard. But the sailor, Danny, he was not killed in that attack. If I had to guess, I’d say he died here in the town while the ship was moored.’

‘And we can’t speak to the men who worked with him because they’ve all disappeared,’ Simon noted.

‘Their bodies will turn up eventually,’ Baldwin said with sad confidence.

The Coroner scratched his head. ‘You don’t think that they have been taken as hostages, then, or as slaves?’

‘If this was all about making money, the attacker would have taken the whole ship, not a few crew members,’ Baldwin pronounced. ‘No, I believe that all the men were removed from the cog to be questioned as their ship burned, and now they’ll have been killed.’

‘Why, though?’

‘They sought something or someone,’ Baldwin said.

‘This Frenchman you mentioned?’ Simon prompted.

‘If I had to guess, yes. Someone thinks he is dangerous and must be stopped from reaching French shores, and that someone is prepared to kill many men in order to do so.’

‘Who could it be, though?’ Simon wondered aloud.

Baldwin smiled. ‘Well, I do wonder about this Sir Andrew. He is seeking the Frenchman, and he has a ship in the haven.’

Sir Richard harrumphed. ‘I know the man. He’s a toady of the worst sort. If you have money and power, he’ll clean your boots with his tongue. Or your arse. No sense and no breeding. Reminds me of an alaunt I had once. Had to kill the thing in the end. Mad as a baiting mastiff, he was, and just as vicious. Some alaunts can be loyal creatures, good at hunting, good at holding at bay. I’ve known many which have been ideal for boar … but this one, he was mad. He’d go for anything at all.’

‘It hardly sounds as if Sir Andrew is like that,’ Baldwin observed mildly.

‘You don’t think so? This alaunt, he’d stay with me, then when I wasn’t looking, he’d go and kill the neighbour’s cat or attack some churl’s hog. And when the crime was recognised, he’d come back to me, wagging his tail, and grinning like an innocent. He’d lick my hand as gentle as a lamb, and then go off and kill something else. It was when he tried to have a go at my steward’s little boy that I thought enough was enough, and had his head taken off. Shame, though. Damn good hunter, he was.’

Simon looked over at Baldwin, shaking his head in disbelief.

The knight was smiling faintly. ‘So you consider that this man Sir Andrew could have attacked the cog?’

‘You mentioned that this Frenchie wanted to get away and he was being watched. Someone wanted him stopped. Sir Andrew was sent down here to flush the man out, or kill him. He found the ship, fired it, killed the crew in the hope of finding the man, and when he didn’t, he came here to look again, with some cock-and-bull story about a rape. I think that about explains the whole matter,’ the Coroner stated with calm satisfaction.

‘Apart from Danny,’ Simon noted.

Baldwin was about to respond when he saw a small dustcloud up at the top of the hill. ‘Aha! Who can this be?’

A short while later, the three saw a man on horseback appear at the crest of the hill. He pointed the horse down the hillside and was soon scattering people on either side as he cantered down towards the mill’s dam. When he drew nearer, Baldwin called, ‘Whom do you seek?’

‘Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, sir. Is that you?’

Baldwin nodded. He vaguely recognised the man from Bishop Walter’s household. ‘You have a message for me?’ he asked.

It was always hard to be the bearer of sad or evil tidings, and Baldwin had no doubt that when his messenger had reached Bishop Walter, the poor man would have been appalled to learn that his rash decision to send his own nephew to spy on this Frenchman could have brought about his death.

Baldwin was just putting his mind to the manner of transport of the coffin back to the bishop’s household when the messenger grinned at him.

‘Yes, sir. My lord Bishop sends his greetings, and offers you his best wishes for your journey, as well as his apologies for wasting your time. The man whom you sought? His nephew is back at home. Bishop Walter hopes and trusts that you have not been seriously inconvenienced by your journey down here, and wishes me to tell you that you may consider your mission at an end.’

Baldwin felt a sense of shock, followed by several other emotions. Then he voiced the question uppermost in his mind. ‘In that case, who was the dead man?’ he muttered.