The Death Ship of Dartmouth

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Hawley reached his house late, after a detour past a tavern. He had needed time to think after all he had heard about the rapist at the Port Keeper’s house, and now he stood at his door with a frown marring his features.

If he was getting himself into deep water without a sail, he would need to make sure that he had a degree of protection. Just now he felt very exposed.

From all he had learned from the Frenchman, Despenser wanted him. Clearly that was why that poxed whoreson Sir Andrew had demanded the arrest of the man. And Hawley had only handed him over to the knight and Bailiff because he had thought they would keep him until Despenser might come and take him. That was all well and good, provided no one forgot who it was who had sent men to catch the fellow in the first place. If there was to be a good reward, Hawley didn’t want it frittered away in the direction of Sir Baldwin or Simon Puttock. That was all too often the way that officers behaved. The last Keeper of the Port here had been as corrupt as a Cinque Port sailor.

However, there were other considerations to keep in mind. It wasn’t only a matter of the money which should come to him from one reward: there was the matter of the men on the ship. If Sir Andrew and his merry men had killed all the sailors on the Saint John, they should be forced to pay. Hawley was utterly devoted to the rights of men at sea, especially insofar as they affected him personally. If some captain of a warship decided to come and take a Dartmouth merchantman, that was a very serious interference in the maritime trade of the port. He would not have that happen.

He thought how much he would like to go to Sir Andrew’s ship with a force of Dartmouth sailors, and put the vessel to the torch — after relieving her of any useful little dainties, of course — but it was not a part of Hawley’s plan to die young after provoking the most important man in the country after the King himself.

Yet … he had no proof of any criminal actions by Sir Andrew. More likely was his earlier suspicion. Beauley was a desperately ambitious man, and with Pyckard out of the way, it would be easier for him. Yes, Hawley had a feeling that this was nearer the truth.

It was at this stage in his mental consideration that he opened his door and entered his home.

He made no concession to those who might already be asleep, for which man does in his own house? As soon as the door slammed, kicked closed by his boot, he noticed the flickering light from the doorway to his hall. Instantly the light was extinguished, and Hawley stood silently, listening. He crossed the screens slowly, shuffling like a man whose brain was fuddled, and entered his hall. The fire was out, and he stood by it a moment, considering. The light had not come from here, because there was only a slight residual heat from the stones of the hearth. He shambled over to the box on the wall where some candles lay, and took one up. Striking flint and steel, he made some burned cloth catch, and used it to light his little candle. This he set in a holder by his chair, and then he drew his sword and sat down, the blade across his lap as he waited, watching the doorway to his little counting-room.

‘I can wait as long as you want,’ he said conversationally. ‘What? You don’t wish to come out and talk? That seems discourteous in one who is happy to rifle through my chest.’

There was no sound, and he grinned wolfishly. ‘There’s no way out, except past me. But you know that, don’t you, Peter? How much were you going to take tonight? I knew I was right. You can’t keep gaming in a shit-hole like the Porpoise without being flayed. Only you never had enough money to afford that, did you, so you had to be getting it from somewhere else. Where did it come from, eh? Did you steal it?’

‘I am sorry … so sorry.’

Hawley smiled broadly. ‘I expect you are, yes.’

Strete had appeared at the doorway now, and he stood, rubbing his hands together as though washing them. ‘I didn’t mean to …’

‘To steal from me?’

‘I didn’t! I wouldn’t! I paid everything back, master. You know that!’

‘How much?’

‘Now? Four marks.’

‘In how much time?’

‘Just this evening … but it all started so well, that’s what I don’t understand! It’s not fair! I should have won, but the dice went against me.’

‘Much like life, dice,’ Hawley said, rising. ‘As soon as you think they’re in your favour, that’s when the damned things turn against you. Where’s my money?’

‘I’ve taken nothing, master. I was just-’

‘About to take what you could,’ Hawley completed for him. ‘But I got here too soon. Did you think you’d be able to hide it from me?’

‘I was going to repay you, like last time.’

‘How many times, Strete? How many times have you robbed me?’ Hawley asked sweetly.

‘I haven’t robbed, sir, only borrowed. And then I gave more than I’d taken, in compensation for the loan.’

‘A loan is normally agreed between both parties, Strete,’ Hawley said. He was still grinning widely, even as he swung his sword and brought the heavy pommel swinging round to Strete’s head. The unfortunate clerk tried to block the blow, but the pommel struck him behind his ear, and his raised hand merely caught the blade and lost a flap of skin as he tumbled to the ground.

Hawley kicked him, hard, in the cods. ‘You’ll never work for me or anyone in Dartmouth again, you stupid shit. Jesus!’

‘What on earth is wrong with Stapledon?’ Simon demanded. ‘He is a friend of ours. A more decent, honourable cleric would be hard to imagine.’

‘You are allies of his? I am lost then!’

Baldwin watched the man clench and unclench his fists, gazing about him distractedly as though seeking a means of escape. ‘Please, my friend, just explain to us what you fear. I swear we will not unnecessarily endanger your life.’

‘You swear? On your oath as a knight? On the Gospel?’

‘I do so swear.’

Pierre glanced up at Simon, who had moved to stand nearer Baldwin, and the Bailiff nodded silently in agreement.

‘Believe me, I am no spy,’ Pierre said passionately. ‘But my poor lady, the Queen, is assailed on all sides. I told you of the shocking way in which the Despenser has treated her. He is a monster! Vile and rapacious! And his willing ally is this Bishop of Exeter. He is as evil as Despenser!’

Baldwin shook his head. ‘No, my friend. You are wrong there. Bishop Walter is a devoted servant of the King, and he is in no way evil, I assure you.’

‘Do you say so? But I have seen his words written to the Queen. He has threatened her. He hates her because she is French, and he thinks she will betray her husband just because of that! As if she would behave in such a dishonourable manner!’

‘It is true that the bishop seeks ever to protect the King and the nation from danger,’ Baldwin said, ‘but he is not so mad that he could consider harming the lady. He is fair and reasonable, I promise you. I know the good bishop well.’

‘If you give me to him, you thrust a dagger into my heart,’ Pierre said dramatically. He rent his shirt, bearing a hairless breast. ‘Do it now, and do it quickly. I would not be tortured like my brothers. At least spare me that!’

‘It will not come to that,’ Baldwin declared quickly. He had lost his friends and companions to the tortures, and could not inflict that on another man. ‘Bishop Stapledon is but one man we could ask for advice. I think he is the best, but there are others. Calm yourself, my friend. You are safe here with us.’

‘I am in the land of my enemies,’ Pierre said sadly. He huddled down again, his hands pulling his shirt together. ‘I am hated for my nationality, for my family, for my loyalty to my mistress … I cannot be safe until I escape from England. And you two, who declare yourselves my friends, will try to save me by delivering me to my worst enemies!’

As the clouds passed over the sickle moon, there was a sudden darkening of the world. The silver light, which had seemed so bright, was extinguished, and a deeper blackness was all that remained.

The ship was silent, apart from the slow tramp of a solitary sailor who yawned and scratched as he moved about the ship, desperate to remain awake. Those who failed in their duty of guarding were flogged, so Hamund had heard. Gil was a hard taskmaster, albeit considerate to those who demonstrated obedience. If he had wanted, Hamund could have remained here on board, become part of the crew and settled here in Dartmouth. Others had done so. When abjurers were released to make their way to the coast, many slipped off the roads and became outlaws or merely walked to a distant town and began a new life. So long as he never returned to where he had been convicted, he should be secure enough.

The ship would set sail in the morning, and he could then travel over the sea with this crew and find himself a new home in France. But without his friend.

Although he had only known Pierre for a short time, a matter of some hours, he felt sure that the Frenchman would desert him, were the tables turned. He knew it, and yet in the depths of his heart, he also knew that this man had meant to help him when he had been desperate for a word of comfort. What’s more, Pierre had promised to look after Hamund when they arrived in France.

Slipping over the side of the ship, Hamund let himself down the rope slowly. From the ship here to the shore was only a matter of some tens of yards, no more than that. The pond at home used to be wider, and he swam that from side to side every summer.

The chill of the river caught his breath. He clung to the rope for a moment, growing used to the cold and staring up at the sheer of the hull, considering the safety that it represented, the promise of a new life … and then he let go and started swimming for the shore.

He didn’t know where Pierre was, nor did he know what he could do to save the man, but he knew he had to try.

Will the gaoler was irritated to be on duty tonight. Normally he’d be snuggled up to his wife, not here in this godforsaken dump.

‘Shut up!’ he bellowed as someone underneath him shouted again, demanding to be allowed to see his master, and warning Will that he’d suffer for this later, sticking servants of the King’s Advisor in gaol without reason. ‘You murdered eleven of our men at sea, you did, and we don’t let murderers go without trial down here. Don’t know what you do up north, boy, but here we stick to the law.’

‘We did nothing of the-’

‘My daughter Annie was keen on one of the lads you murdered, so if you think I’m going to let you out so you can go and cut the throats of others, you’re mistaken! Now pipe down and let a body sleep!’

It still rankled. Little Annie had been sweet on that brawny young matelot Ed, who’d died on the Saint John. God’s teeth, since the ship appeared, she’d near had conniptions, poor maid. The weeping and wailing in the house … Well, that was one attraction of remaining out here, he supposed.

‘Open this door, gaoler!’

This command, given in the tone of a man who was used to issuing orders and having them acted upon, worked on Will like a small bolt of lightning. He shot up from his chair and peered suspiciously at the barred and latched door to the street. ‘Who is it?’

‘Sir Andrew de Limpsfield, acting on the King’s warrant. I want to have this door opened now.’

‘I was told to leave the door locked, Sir Knight,’ Will whined, and chewed his lip. The orders had been quite definite: he was to keep these men down in the cell until Master Hawley said they could be freed. This Sir Andrew sounded a powerful, dangerous man, but Will knew he must obey Master Hawley.

There was a loud crash from the door, and the timbers shuddered. It was barred with a large piece of oak, and the latch was pegged shut, but just now neither appeared to offer a great deal of security. A fine cloud of soot and dust fell from the loose timbers of the roof.

‘Don’t do that, the roof’ll fall in!’ Will shouted in alarm, choking on the thick air.

‘Open the door, or I’ll have it off its hinges,’ Sir Andrew stated implacably.

Will waited until there was one more crash, but that was enough. There was no possibility of the door surviving the onslaught, and even if the door had survived, he reckoned the roof would have fallen about his ears. ‘I’m opening it, master, just give me a moment,’ he declared, and started to pull the peg from the latch, lifting the heavy timber from the locking slots.

As soon as it was opened, the door was thrust wide, and a powerful sailor pushed him aside. A second marched in after him and held a knife to Will’s belly, forcing him against the wall. Only then did Sir Andrew cross the threshold, glancing about him distastefully as he did so.

‘What a repellent hovel! Release the men.’

The knife was moved at Will’s belly, and he took the hint. He lifted the keys from his belt, and the sailor threw them to his companion. He caught them and bent to the trap door, unlocking the great padlock and lifting the door up and over.

‘Good,’ Sir Andrew said as the ladder was dropped down into the hole. He waited, tapping his feet as the prisoners began to climb up and stood about the room disconsolately, one or two throwing looks at Will that made him anxious.

‘I do not expect to have to rescue you and your men from a gaol again, Jan,’ Sir Andrew said to the leader. ‘None of you. You may be able to redeem a little honour, if you can capture this traitor and spy. He is currently at the home of Bailiff Puttock, the Keeper of the Port. You have your orders. Go and bring him to me. I shall be back at the ship. We sail first thing in the morning.’

‘What of the Bailiff?’

‘What of him?’

‘If he refuses to hand over the man, what do we do then?’

‘You have your orders. You know under whose authority we work. Any man who wilfully obstructs the King’s men will suffer the consequences. I trust that is clear?’

‘What about this old fart?’ asked the man guarding Will.

Sir Andrew walked over the floor and eyed Will contemplatively. ‘He kept my men here, and then would have prevented my entering, wouldn’t he?’ he said, and all of a sudden took hold of the sailor’s forearm and thrust his knife forward, placing his other hand over Will’s mouth.

He watched dispassionately as Will jerked and tried to pull away, his eyes wide and maddened. Unable even to scream, his body wrenched and lurched as Sir Andrew pulled the blade slowly upwards, opening Will’s belly to the breastbone. When the gaoler began to slip down the wall, Sir Andrew let go of his sailor’s arm and took his hand away from Will’s face, eyeing the saliva-sodden palm disdainfully. Will slumped at the floor, trying to hold his belly together, shivering with shock, unable now to make more than a whimper.

Sir Andrew turned and found all his men staring. ‘What are you all waiting for? Get going!’

When he reached the shore, Hamund was shivering badly, his teeth chattering. There was a stone jetty, at which some rowing boats were tied, and he had to clamber up the rough stones to reach Lower Street. Here he huddled for a moment, trying to quell the spasms that rattled through his body, his arms wrapped about his upper torso. Dripping, he was frozen to his core, and desperate for a fire to warm himself.

As he stood there, he saw a glow from the northernmost tip of the street. As soon as he had begun to swim, he realised how powerful the current was just here, because he could see from the few lights at the shore that he was being swept out towards the mouth of the river and the open sea. One light in particular attracted his attention: a large open brazier near the mill. It took all his strength to keep to a more or less straight course towards South Town. Desperate for heat, he forced himself to his feet and hurried along the street towards the fire.

Blessed heaven! The coals glowed with a fierce heat that began to scorch him almost before he could feel it. He sighed with relief, holding hands out to it reverently, wondering what he could do next. Hamund had no idea of the town’s layout, but most small towns had a holding gaol somewhere, probably near the market square itself. He would go there.

‘You all right?’

‘I …’

Hamo eyed the dripping figure with alarm in his eyes. ‘You fallen off a ship, mate? You’re drenched.’

‘I am fine, I thank you, but I have some business to attend to.’

‘Business, eh? At night? Only felons go about in the dark, friend.’

‘I am no thief!’ Hamund exclaimed indignantly, and then he could have laughed at the thought that no, he was no thief, he was merely a murderer. How he had fallen!

‘Come in here, then, and dry yourself off. Whatever your business, it’ll be easier to conduct if you’ve warm clothes on instead of soaking wet ones,’ Hamo said kindly. ‘Come on. I’ve cloths in here. You can get dry and then the brazier will do more good.’

With a feeling of great good fortune, Hamund followed his benefactor the cooper inside.