The Death Ship of Dartmouth

Chapter Twenty-Six

Bill peeped around the wall and stared cautiously down the lane towards the haven. In the distance he could still see the cog at anchor, but there was no sign of anyone else. He beckoned with his hand urgently, and the other three slipped down the cobbles towards him.

He had already been to three taverns trying to find the man whom Pierre called Gilbert, hoping that the seaman would be drinking his dead master’s health still, but there was no sign of him. Pierre prayed that Gil was on the ship already, and hadn’t disappeared somewhere else.

‘There’s no one about,’ Bill said with a frown. ‘I suppose many must be in the gaol watching the captured sailors, while others are in the taverns praising their courage in catching such a prize. Others will still be at Pyckard’s wake. So, maybe you’ll find it easier than you thought to get away.’

‘I am very grateful to you, my friend,’ Pierre said earnestly. ‘I am sorry that you have been given so much trouble at my account.’

‘Just make sure you escape and that’ll be enough for me,’ Bill said gruffly.

‘I will do my best,’ Pierre smiled, but not without anxiety. He kept throwing looks at the ship, hoping that there was not a trap there. It would be all too easy for a man to sit up there and wait for him. And then they were moving down the hill as swiftly as they may. There was a short interlude when Bill ran into a low shaft that projected from a wall, and had to stop, hugging his shin in silent anguish, but then they were off again, and soon they were at the end of the alley. From here Bill could glance in both directions up and down Lower Street, and he saw nothing to give him concern. There was no one about.

‘Come with me,’ he said, and set off for the shore. His plan was to borrow a boat, row the two out to the ship, and then bring the boat back. No one would be harmed by the loan, and hopefully it would not be noticed as missing. Down on the shingle they went, and soon selected a fair-sized craft. Law helped Bill to turn the thing right way up, and then they all carried it to the water. Here they put it in, and all clambered in, only to realise that it was resting on the stones with all their weight inside. Grumbling, Bill and Law climbed out again, and this time they pushed the little vessel into deeper water, standing up to their shins, and tried to climb in again. Law hopped up and tumbled in headfirst, and Pierre had a job turning him upright again. Bill attempted a more elegant entry, but almost caused the boat to tip over. At last he was in, and then, as the boat began to drift, the men smiled at each other for a moment before their smiles froze. There were no oars.

Swearing low and mean, Bill jumped back into the water. It was almost to his armpits now, and he grabbed the painter and pulled the thing back towards the shingle. When he was far enough in, Law jumped out with a great splash and missed his footing, disappearing from view. He bobbed back up, spluttering, and hastily made his way to dry land, drenched and shivering. Soon he was back with two large oars, and at last the four were on their way to the ship.

It was harder than Law had realised to steer a little vessel like this one. He had thought the things must be easy, because no sailors ever had trouble, and it wasn’t as though sailors were particularly bright, by and large. For some reason, though, as Bill pulled his oar, the boat bobbed and dodged, and then seemed to go its own way.

‘There is a small group of men at the shore watching us,’ Pierre said with restrained anxiety. They were pointing at the four, and one man was all but hopping from foot to foot. ‘I think one is the man who owns this boat.’

‘What do you expect us to do about it?’ Bill panted.

Gradually the thing began to come under control. It was much like a small pony in many ways. It would go its own way, but after having its head a while, it would obey them. Slowly but surely they were approaching the great Saint Denis, and at last an enormous shadow fell over them all, and they were in the lee of the huge hull.

Pierre grabbed at the rope ladder, clambering up the side of the ship. At the top he risked a quick glance all about him in case of ambush, but there was nothing he could see that indicated danger. That in itself should have been warning enough.

He swung himself over the sheerstrake and landed inelegantly on the deck, his ankle twisting slightly, and his attention was distracted as Hamund pulled himself over and sprawled at his feet. The Frenchman reached down and took his wrist, helping him up.

‘Ah, ain’t that sweet?’

Pierre turned. Three sailors he didn’t recognise were standing at either side of the mast. Thoughts of springing to the ladder and escaping were quashed as he saw the rowing boat already returning to the shore. He spun back, reaching for his sword, determined to sell his life as hard as he may, but as he moved he heard Hamund shriek, and grew aware of more men rushing towards him from his left. He pulled his sword free, but as he did so, a rope whipped about his legs, weighted with lead that whirled and cracked into his shin. It was tugged, and even as he tried to maintain his balance, he felt himself topple, and must throw his arms out to break his fall.

A man stepped on his sword; he saw Hamund try to pull the leg away, but Hamund was knocked aside with contemptuous ease, his face running with blood. Then Pierre rolled to his back, reaching for the dagger at his belt, even as he was hauled along the deck by main force, and another fellow gripped his wrist firmly.

‘Evening, Frenchie!’ he heard, and then a cudgel slammed into his head and Pierre felt the decking open up and swallow him into a pitch blackness.

Strete was already at the tavern at the time when Hamund and Pierre were captured. The little chamber behind the main hall was small and noisome, but the fug of sweat, damp wool and sour ale was to him the very epitome of hope and possible fortune.

‘You want more?’ the dealer said. He held up the knuckles with a questioning eyebrow.

‘No, no. I’m only here to repay my debts,’ Strete said with a comfortable smile.

He could feel nothing but satisfaction as he took out his new brown purse and withdrew a handful of coins. The eyes of the sailors in the room were avariciously fixed on his hand. They knew how much strong ale that handful of coins represented, and he could almost hear their minds considering his good luck in possessing so much.

As they should. These men were really contemptible. They thought they were so clever because they could sail, and they thought that the fact that they could brawl and lift heavy weights made them better than a man like him. Well, they were mad if they believed that. They called him ‘only a pissy clerk’. He’d heard them! Yes, he’d heard them. When he was unlucky and lost a little money, they were all scathing about him, as though the fact that a man made a small loss once in a while made him inferior. But at least he knew that soon his luck must change, while they only gambled because they thought they must always win. More fool them!

‘It’s enough?’

‘Yes, that covers your debt,’ the man with the knuckles declared. ‘So, you want to play again?’

‘I have work to do,’ Strete said easily. He thrust the spare coin back into his purse and, smiling, set it back dangling from his belt. ‘You carry on.’

It was in this bar that he had learned what had happened on the ship all those years ago. Danny and he had been here, and Vincent and Odo were drinking hard, back from a sailing to Guyenne for wine, when a short fight broke out. Amongst others, Vincent and Odo were ejected from the tavern. It was a regular enough event, just an average afternoon’s squabbling.

It meant nothing to Strete, and he continued drinking, watching the gambling in the corner, thinking he ought to join in, when he saw Danny’s face. ‘What is it?’

‘That noise! It’s terrible!’ The lad was petrified — literally! He was fixed there as though nailed to the floor, his face appalled.

‘What is that?’

As Strete asked, there was laughter from the roadway outside, and Vincent’s voice came loud and clear. ‘Ripe like a French whore, eh?’ and then there was a scuffle, a resounding crash, a sudden sharp scream and the noise of bare feet running. Madam Kena had been attacked by the two in the street, and it was only when Adam saw Vincent and Odo trying to hustle her into an alley that he realised what was happening. He called to some of Kena’s men who were also in the tavern, and they ran after the two, who left her and pelted away.

‘That noise,’ Danny said, white-faced. ‘They had her mouth covered!’

‘Wouldn’t want her screaming in the road, I suppose,’ Strete agreed.

‘That moaning — it sounded like the ship …’ Danny’s voice halted. It had not taken long for Strete to understand his fear. And then he had been able to capitalise on Danny’s anxiety by asking him to remain quiet until he, Strete, could speak to his master. Calling her a ‘French whore’ indeed! They shouldn’t have said that.

The man shook the knuckle bones in his hand, setting them rattling, and then threw them across the floor, and all in the room peered forward to see the score. It was a game of raffle, in which three knuckles were thrown, and if they all landed the same, or if there was a pair, the next player must throw a higher pair or trio.

‘This is ridiculous!’ Strete said to himself. He shook his head and began to leave the room, but even as he did so, he was itching to know what the man had thrown. Common sense told him to leave and return to Hawley’s house, but it surely couldn’t hurt to drink one ale with these men. They were such fools, all staring down at the knuckles. And the score was useless. The man must lose, no matter who went against him. No, it would be silly, when he’d just covered the amount he’d borrowed from his master’s chest, to run the risk of losing more. He watched as another man threw. This time the knuckles were unlucky. They did not even equal the first throw.

‘Let me show you how it’s done!’ he shouted at last.

‘Bailiff, I am happy to present you with the man you’ve been hoping to meet,’ Hawley said. His men brought in the body and set it on the floor, not gently. ‘Why it took you and that fool Sir Andrew so long to find him, I don’t know. I laid a trap and caught him. Oh, and two of the paviours who’ve been in a fight on the shore, too. They may need help.’

Simon’s brows dropped as he heard this. ‘You attacked them?’

‘No. The owner of the boat they stole to deliver these two men to the ship attacked them,’ Hawley said easily. He cocked a leg over a stool and rested his backside on the table. ‘All we did was stop the fight when the two were already still on the ground.’

‘How did you get him?’ Baldwin asked, walking around the figure lying on his back on the floor.

‘I paid the master of the ship to let my men wait there. Cynric stayed on board with them, and when this disreputable-looking fellow appeared, Cynric knocked him down and brought him to me.’

‘That easy?’

‘If you know the man to bribe, life is always that easy,’ Hawley said comfortably. ‘Do you have a pail of water?’

Simon bellowed for Rob, who soon returned carrying a leather bucket. At a nod from Simon, he up-ended it over the snoring man’s face.

There was a spluttering, and then Pierre started to roll over. He lifted himself on all fours, shaking his head and moaning softly.

The room was dark, and he could scarcely hold his head level, but where he expected the planks to move with the ship’s rolling, these felt firm. Not that it helped his head. He felt as though he had been drinking ale all evening, and his belly was unsettled. He could be sick at any moment, and then his head ached abominably too, and his eyes felt swollen and gritty, as though he had been awake too long. ‘Who has done this to a poor traveller?’ he attempted at last.

‘What is your name?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I am Sieur Pierre de Caen.’

‘What are you doing here in Dartmouth?’ Simon said.

‘I am returning home. Is it illegal for a man to go to his homeland?’

‘It is said that you have raped a woman.’

‘That,’ Pierre said, slowly turning until he was seated on the floor, ‘is a lie. Ask my mistress.’

‘Who is she?’ Baldwin asked.

‘You don’t know?’ Pierre smiled drily. ‘I had thought that the dishonourable Sir Andrew would have told you. She is the Queen. My lady is Queen Isabella.’

Hawley stared at him. It was one thing to upset a local magnate, but he had probably offended the Queen herself, if this man was telling the truth. ‘Oh, shit!’

Alred left the tavern feeling considerably happier than he had on his way in. Those blasted fools! Bill should know better than to upset Law. The lad was only young. It served no useful purpose to get him all annoyed. Sweet heaven, if they didn’t keep sensible they’d never complete this damned roadway, and then where would they be? He needed the money in his pocket as soon as possible so he could go and leave this forsaken collection of hovels.

He didn’t know why, but sailors made him nervous, and living here for so long amongst so many was making him even more twitchy than the lateness of the project. The threat of violence, which had seemed merely latent when he first arrived here, appeared now to be all too specific: everyone hated him.

Perhaps he was just superstitious, but he didn’t think so. The paver was a mild-mannered man, and the idea that he might be living in a place where violence was part of daily living, was appalling. The sailors of this place cared only for other sailors. They didn’t give a damn for other men. Hah! They’d soon notice if there weren’t paviours about the place, though. Without his roads, they’d be stuck. They might be able to sail off around the coast, but they’d not be able to get fish and cargoes loaded on carts. Not that many did, he told himself. They were lucky to have a packhorse to carry their wares to the local community. Oh, the devil take it. He was wasting his time here. They didn’t care, and they didn’t need him.

He was just reaching this grim conclusion when he heard a door open, grating on the rough ground, and a man walked past him to the rough bar set in the corner of the room, and asked for a strong ale.

Alred had seen him before. This was the man who had been in this same tavern only a few days ago, talking and laughing with his companions. It was just before Alred and the other two had gone out and saved the man from the fellow who’d meant to knock him down. Only they’d apparently hit the wrong bloke. You just couldn’t do right for doing wrong in this life.

The man drained a horn of ale while Alred watched, and then walked slowly from the inn. For some reason, his attitude spoke to Alred entirely of despair. It quite destroyed any remaining pleasure in being there in the tavern, and Alred stood and made his way to the twilight outside. There were the smells of suppertime now: fish stews and pottages lending their wholesome scents to the evening air, and he snuffed them for a moment or two before making his way back to the storage shed he shared with the others, wondering how much longer they must all remain here. Tomorrow he would make sure that they got that section of road finished so that they could get away from here.

He set off up the lane, and as he walked he passed by the pale-featured man from the gambling room. ‘Evening,’ he called.

The man leaped as though shot by a sling.

Alred eyed him askance and said no more. Someone that jumpy was plainly not in his right mind, and he didn’t wish to be attacked by a lunatic.

‘Sir, please, tell us your tale,’ Baldwin requested.

‘My story is not long,’ Pierre said. He had been passed a towel by Simon, and he dabbed gingerly at the bruise on his skull. ‘Who did this? I have grown a goose-egg on my brow!’

Hawley smiled. It was not his concern if a felon was knocked down. ‘My apologies. My men were perhaps overkeen to obey my command, friend. They sought to restrain someone we had felt was a wild and uncontrollable criminal, driven by his humours to attack and ravish a lady.’

‘Well, I am no such thing. I am Pierre de Caen, as I say. I was the son of Philippe de Caen, and a loyal servant of the French king. I came to the notice of my Lady Isabella when she visited her father in France, and I was not loath to come and see this country.

‘My Lady Isabella is a lovely lady. She is honourable and devoted to her husband,’ he said, his eyes on the ground before him. ‘She wishes only to serve him. I was in her service for nine years. However, in that time I began to grow enamoured of a lady. It hurts me to tell you this, but I was so stricken with desire for this lady that I began to pine for love, and to cut my tale short, I decided that I could not remain at the side of my Lady Isabella. My health must suffer and my joy in service must fade. So I asked her if I could serve her in some other capacity, and she graciously permitted me to leave her household in England and travel to France once more.’

‘What will you do there?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Remember the woman I loved, and hope to be deserving of honour. I shall seek trials of combat at every opportunity and hope that my example may serve to inspire others. I will not be able to marry. I have lost the only woman who could ever have filled the hole in my heart.’

‘Did you murder a man here when you arrived?’

‘You mean the man in the hole in the road? No. When I reached this town, I found myself lost. I sought my brother-in-law’s house, but it was so long ago that I was last here, that it was impossible. Instead I went to an inn for the night, deeming it better that I should seek his home in the morning. As it happened, while I was in this place, I realised I was being watched. There was a dullard there, a short, grizzled, rather foolish old sailor, who sought to keep me watched. It was plain what was on his mind. So I slipped out to the back, pretending to seek a bed for the night, and when he followed me, I was determined to strike him down.’

‘Kill him?’ Simon asked.

‘No. Just break his head to keep him away from me while I decided what to do.’

‘What happened then?’

‘Some friends had seen this man follow me, and they believed he was about to murder me for my purse. They knocked him down for me and let me escape.’

‘Who were these charitable men?’ Baldwin enquired.

‘I will not name them. They were kind to a stranger. What good would it serve me to have them punished for saving me?’

Simon grunted, ‘It might just save you from arrest and a period in gaol.’

‘It is a risk I can afford. So I ran from the inn, and went up to the top roadway, where I came upon the hole in the road. There I was accosted by a man with a knife. I thought I was about to die, but it was not my enemy from earlier, but my brother-in-law himself.’

Simon looked up and peered at Pierre keenly. ‘You say Master Pyckard was out in the roadway?’

‘Yes. I had sent a message to him when I arrived in Dartmouth, and he was looking for me.’

Simon shot a look at Baldwin. ‘This sounds unlikely. Master Pyckard is dead, as you know, and the day after Pierre’s arrival, I saw him. He looked dreadful. I’d be surprised if he could have made it to the inn — he found it hard enough to get to his own door when I visited him.’

‘I swear it is true. You may ask his servant, Moses. He was there, and he saw me with his master.’

Baldwin nodded slowly, his chin cupped in his hand. ‘I have known men to have the most appalling illnesses or wounds, and yet be able to go and fight. The reaction hits them all the harder afterwards, but they do not know that at the time. Perhaps, Simon, this man Pyckard did go to the tavern as our friend here asserts, but was then brought down severely as a result. I should enquire of his servant, certainly. Please, continue.’

‘There is not much more to relate,’ Pierre said. He described how he had returned to Pyckard’s house, how Moses had fed him and then taken him to the old stable and hayloft, where he stayed until told of his passage on the next ship of Pyckard’s to set sail. ‘I would have left on that ship this morning, but when the crew heard of their master’s death, all wished to drink his health and attend his funeral. They all came to the shore, and it took little money to persuade a man to bring me and my companion to visit the church.’

‘You are being sought by this knight Sir Andrew de Limpsfield,’ Baldwin said. ‘Who is he to you?’

Pierre’s face paled, but not from fear. ‘He is my most mortal enemy! He seeks my destruction.’

‘He asserts that you …’

‘I know the lies he has spread about me. They are all untrue. I am no felon, and I would like to force him to take back his foul allegation at the point of my sword!’

‘No doubt. In the meantime, he accuses you of spying and taking letters to France to aid our enemies,’ Baldwin pressed.

‘It is a lie. Who are these letters from, hey?’

‘He does have authority on his side. He can force us to give you to him, if he commands it,’ Baldwin said.

‘Do not give me to him! He is a vassal of Lord Despenser!’

Simon and Baldwin glanced at each other. There was no need for them to speak: each knew the other’s mind. While Baldwin detested the man for the stories which were circulating about Despenser’s brutality and avariciousness, he was not yet a traitor, and no matter what a man said about Despenser, he was still the King’s advisor. Baldwin’s sense of honour would not allow him to openly flout the King’s will. He had a family to think of.

Simon had a subtly different view. In his world, Lord Hugh de Courtenay was his liege-lord. It was that simple. Lord Hugh had not broken from Despenser and the King, so Simon was unwilling to risk supporting any man against the King.

‘If you are against my Lord Despenser …’ Simon began, but Pierre cut him off.

‘I am a loyal servant of my Lady Isabella, your Queen. And she is being sorely tried by this man Despenser. He has refused to pay her the money he owes her for the farm of Bristol, for example, and denies owing arrears. They have taken her castles and brought her to low poverty. If you give me to him, you will see me dead, and my lady the Queen brought lower. Can you do thus to your Queen?’

‘If she’s in such a terrible state, why isn’t her husband doing anything about it?’ Simon asked cynically.

‘He can do nothing against the Despenser,’ Pierre stated. It was true. The King was so infatuated with his lover, he could see nothing wrong in any action the man took. Despenser stole, ransomed and tortured at will; he was Edward’s favourite and could do no wrong.

Pierre looked about him at the faces in the room. The knight Baldwin sat studying him from dark and serious eyes; his companion the Bailiff was less analytical and more sympathetic to his position; the shipmaster was scowling with concentration, making sure that no snippet of potentially useful information passed him by.

Baldwin sniffed, sitting back at last. ‘Well, my friend, I feel anxious for you, but I’m equally convinced that we have to do our duty. I am afraid that you must be held until we hear from Sir Andrew about what he would have us do.’

‘If you give me to him, you will give me over to my execution,’ Pierre said with finality.

‘If we don’t, we may be signing our own death warrants,’ Hawley pointed out. He stood. ‘You want me to take him to the gaol now?’

‘No. He will be safe here,’ Baldwin said. ‘We have servants and guards enough.’

‘If you are sure.’

‘Wait, Master Hawley,’ Baldwin said. ‘Perhaps you could just ease my mind on a couple of other points? I believe you were not alone in being at sea on the day you found the cog burning. Is that correct?’

‘Yes. I think all the ships were at sea. Mine, Kena’s and Beauley’s. Why?’

‘I am merely trying to understand what may have happened to the unfortunate crew on that ship.’

‘Do you think one of them killed the crew and fired the ship?’ Hawley demanded, and chuckled to himself. ‘I promise you, any of us would have made a more seamanlike end to the Saint John.’

‘Yes. That is fine. I know that,’ Baldwin said.

‘So why ask about them, then?’

‘Because it interests me. The idea that the cog could be taken and all her men killed with such ease, that seems most odd. The fact that the men all disappeared is also strange, as is the matter of the cargo.’

‘It was all there.’

‘Precisely.’

Hawley eyed him for a few moments, and then shrugged. He turned to Simon. ‘I’ll take my leave, Keeper. Let me know if there’s anything more you need from me.’