The Death Ship of Dartmouth

Chapter Thirty-Six

The house he directed them to was another not far from Cynegils’s own in the street at Hardness. It was a shabby building, much like the other, but there was no sense of misery about the place. This was not a home filled with hunger, but one where the master was regularly employed.

‘Think he’s in?’ Sir Richard asked Baldwin in what he fondly imagined to be a discreet whisper.

Baldwin rolled his eyes at Simon, and then nodded his head once; Simon returned the nod, and then they nodded a second time, a third, and both launched themselves forward.

‘I expect he’s out, wouldn’t-’

Hearing the splintering crunch as the two men hit the door together and burst through it, the Coroner was quiet for a moment. Then he sniffed disdainfully and stepped forward to the doorway. ‘Proud of yourselves?’

‘He’s not here,’ Simon declared, coming back from the rear of the house. ‘He could have got away over the fence.’

‘We shall have to seek him in the town, then,’ Baldwin said. ‘We could fetch Ivo, I suppose, but he’s as much use as a kettle made of ice.’

‘You two are so impatient all the time,’ the Coroner stated, eyeing them reprovingly. ‘Why don’t we just go to where he’s bound to be?’

‘What are you on about?’ Simon asked a trifle wearily.

‘Good God, man! He was brother to Danny’s wife, wasn’t he? And he was friend to this man Ed, whom we were told was also saved from the ship. Is this Ed in the town?’

‘He lives with Widecombe Will’s family,’ Simon said.

‘Well, I should check both houses. Adam is going to be hiding himself, isn’t he? So let’s flush him out!’

He had left Ed with his wife. The lad was gormless, thick as the oak of a keel. All he saw was that he was alive. He didn’t care about anything else. Even though Adam had tried to persuade him to lie low, remain hidden, disguise himself as Adam had, shaving, washing, changing his hair, wearing different clothes, the fool could think of nothing but dipping his wick in his woman.

Adam was content that he had survived. It hadn’t been easy to think of a story to save himself. When the Saint Rumon had foundered, he’d thought it was a miracle of good luck when he found a spar and floated away, washing up safely on the sand. Only one or two men could have witnessed what had happened, and he was sure that they were dead. Later, when he’d seen Odo, there had been only praise from the latter for managing to survive, and from Vincent too. No one had spotted him with Pyckard’s strumpet.

She’d been good. He had wanted her for months, ever since he first saw her, but he couldn’t do anything about it, except take the occasional whore from the stews to slake his desire. Then Pyckard had sent him to escort her over to France. And he had done what he’d wanted for ages.

It’d been easy. She was weak from vomiting, and hardly even noticed when he walked in. He’d thought she might even want him, as when he’d put a hand on her back, she hadn’t recoiled or anything, just stayed there, kneeling over the basin. He rubbed her, his hand going lower and lower, and when she finally realised what was happening, she tried to jump up and away. Only his hand clenched over her skirts, and he pulled her back, slapping a hand over her mouth when she tried to break free. He kept his hand there while he lifted her skirts and forced his other hand up. Her eyes widened in horror, and they stayed like that all the time until he had finished. Just staring at him. And all the while there was that moaning, low in her throat, like a dog with a broken back. A keening sound that made him ashamed.

That was when he knew he couldn’t let her live. Master Pyckard would see him hang for this. He took his knife and stabbed once, carefully, in her breast. She’d thrashed, her body spasming in death. But still her eyes were on him. Accusing.

He’d been going to throw her over the side when it was dark, but the squall flew up and he’d had to leave her body there and go to help the others. And then the wave came, and the wreck, and that would have been the end of it, had Danny not remembered something crucial, years later.

Pyckard had never suspected Adam. Why should he? Adam was his best sailor. The old skinflint never guessed how much the jealousy tore at him. Adam should have been a merchant. At the least he should have been granted more the profits from the sailings he made, risking his life, his health, so that Pyckard could make money. And he made tons of it. Without his wealth, he couldn’t have afforded to win Amandine, either. It was only fair that the man who helped Pyckard get the money that won him his bride should share in the spoils. And since Pyckard wouldn’t share his money fairly, Adam took his wife. Simple as that.

Danny’s tale had made sense to everyone, especially when told by that tub of lard Strete, and Adam had volunteered to look into it. First of all, though, he’d made sure that Strete understood that Pyckard and Adam knew it was Odo and Vincent. Then he went with two others and snatched the pair of them from outside a tavern. It took some effort to make them confess, but first Vincent and then Odo admitted killing her, just to stop the pain. They’d been held for a day and then brought to the ship. Meanwhile, Adam had Danny taken there too, and while he was aboard, Adam sought him out. It was easy to kill him. Danny was the only remaining person who could accuse him. And he died quietly.

The damned fool, Pyckard. He had agreed to let the ship be burned, and Adam thought hiding Daniel there in the hold would be safe enough, but no! His master had to try to save the ship so that his profit wouldn’t be lost, didn’t he! So the ship returned home under Hawley’s crew, and the body was soon discovered. If not for that, Adam might have been able to return and live happily enough, but now he had only danger at every step.

For the first time, Adam wondered whether he would ever escape. He sipped ale moodily, and tried to smile when his sister returned.

‘Still feeling miserable?’ Alice said. ‘You couldn’t do anything to save them. You did your best, Adam.’

‘I tried.’

‘It’s just a miracle that you escaped the pirates and made it back home.’

Adam smiled sadly. She was as stupid as her dead husband.

Simon saw young Humphrey at the street corner, and beckoned to the lad. He came reluctantly, eyeing the Coroner as though he expected to be punched at any moment for molesting another woman. ‘I’ve done nothing!’ he said sulkily.

‘Right now, I don’t care,’ Simon said. ‘I need you to run a message.’ Quickly he explained that he needed Humphrey to run to the gaol, rouse Ivo and have him collect some men, and go to Will’s house to see if Ed was there. ‘And tell them to be careful. If Adam’s there, he may be dangerous. All right?’

‘What’s in it for me?’

Coroner Richard took two steps forward, and Humphrey turned and fled.

‘How do you do that?’ Simon asked.

‘Years of practice, young Bailiff. Years of practice,’ the Coroner asserted smugly.

They took the short cut to Danny’s home. Simon strode to the door and struck it with the hilt of his sword.

‘Yes?’ came a woman’s voice from within.

‘It’s the Bailiff, mistress. Can we speak to you for a moment?’

The door opened, and Alice stepped out warily. There was still that sadness in her that spoke of her loss, but it was moderated now. ‘Well?’

‘Where is your brother?’

‘In the sea, isn’t he?’ she responded swiftly, but her face flushed with guilt.

‘Madam,’ Baldwin smiled, ‘we know he’s alive. He’s been seen. And we have heard how he protected his master and had the two sailors shown to be dishonourable and treacherous. May we speak to him?’

‘He’s not here. I don’t know where-’

Simon shook his head. ‘Alice, it was he killed your man. He murdered Danny.’

She gaped. ‘What? You’re mad! You tell me my own brother would orphan his nieces and nephew? He’d make me a widow? Why would he do that to us?’

‘It is true. The men, Odo and Vincent, were not guilty of the rape of Mistress Amandine. It was Adam did that. He tortured them to make them confess, and then, when all was done, he had to silence the one witness who could denounce him — your brother. Danny saw something that night, that he only recalled very recently. Adam killed him to silence him.’

‘No! Tell me it isn’t true, in God’s name!’ The woman’s face was deathly white now.

‘Danny was killed on the night before the Saint John sailed. You saw him earlier that day, didn’t you? So he was alive then.’

‘Yes,’ she sobbed.

‘Odo and Vincent had been tortured and were being held in Master Pyckard’s house by then, so they couldn’t have killed Danny. The man who did it thought the ship was to be destroyed, so he would get away with it, as Danny’s body would never be found. Only Adam thought that. No one else could have murdered your husband, woman. Now tell us where is he?’

‘I …’

There was a faint clatter from behind her, and Baldwin saw a figure darting out through the rear of the house — a big man, beardless, and with the rolling gait of a man well used to the sea.

Simon jumped to his feet, but his head thundered with pain, and he swore, suddenly pale and giddy.

Baldwin and the Coroner sprang to the doorway, and Baldwin was marginally faster through the screens, urged on by the screams of Alice. As he came into the daylight again, Baldwin threw a quick look all around. There up at the far side of the garden was Adam, and Baldwin set off in pursuit even as the blundering figure of the Coroner reached him.

‘Where is he? Ach! This is work for younger men. Still, never let it be said … that a Coroner … ever let a mere Keeper … catch a man when … ach, damn it!’

Baldwin grinned to himself, but conserved his energy instead of talking.

The ground here sloped steeply upwards, and all three must labour to climb the hill. They had left the last of the cottages behind them now, and were toiling through scrub and thick grasses, with sprinklings of furze and heather. Baldwin felt his leggings catch on the spikes, and thorns scratched him as he pushed himself onwards. It was ever harder, and as he went, he felt the air searing his lungs; his mouth was dry and his throat sore. But the man would not give up, and Baldwin must follow him until one of them could go no further.

And with that thought, Adam disappeared over a lip in the ground. When Baldwin reached it, he found himself looking down into a natural hollow. There was a rocky mess within, with lank grasses sprouting between each, and low, hunched bushes that looked stunted and crabbed like the trees on Dartmoor.

A loud panting and blowing at his side announced the Coroner’s arrival. ‘Where is the bastard? He nearly made me throw up that wine from Pyckard’s house, and no man — no man! — should do that. I’ll open his gizzard for him, the pox-ridden cur!’

Baldwin said nothing, but drew his sword and slowly paced along to his right.

‘Are you sure he’s here?’ the Coroner shouted after a few paces. ‘Can’t see him yet.’

Baldwin did not speak. All his attention was fixed upon the ground nearby and any rocks or bushes that could conceal a man of Adam’s size. It was only at the last moment that he realised that there was a tree nearby that was less stunted and hunched than the others. As he did so, he remembered that a sailor could climb like a monkey, and he darted back just as the figure dropped.

Adam was a big man, and his knife looked little more than a toy in his fist, but there was no doubting his skill as a fighter, as he stamped his bare feet on the ground and jumped towards Baldwin.

‘Yield, man, or you’ll die here,’ Baldwin snarled.

The dagger came close, but Baldwin had the range afforded by his sword, and he was not going to allow a dull-witted sailor to get inside his defence.

As he brought the sword around to stab at the man’s breast, Adam stepped forward, blocking the movement with his forearm. The blade hit with the flat, and Baldwin knew he was lost unless he was quick. The dagger was already lunging forward. He forced his tired legs to leap, and moved to his right. The dagger missed him — just — and he brought his left hand down onto Adam’s wrist. Adam now had his sword-wrist in his own grip, and Baldwin felt, to his horror, that his left hand was moving. He squeezed with his fingers to try to force the man to drop the blade, but there was no joy there. All he saw was a brutal glee in Adam’s eyes as the dagger turned in towards Baldwin’s chest. Then began the inexorable journey. It was only a matter of six inches or so, but Baldwin fought it with all the strength at his disposal. He could do no more. But his left hand was not so strong as Adam’s right, while his own right was locked, his blade up under Adam’s armpit. Adam would not allow him to move his hand to attack … but then an idea occurred to him. He suddenly yanked his right hand back. Adam was surprised by the simple movement, and Baldwin nearly thrust the weapon into his breast before he felt that astonishing grip tighten again, and saw Adam’s teeth shine ferociously. His sword’s progress was halted, and the sailor’s knife was moving nearer and nearer.

‘No harming him. He’s the King’s man!’

Baldwin looked up to see that Sir Richard’s sword was resting on Adam’s shoulder. The point was close to Adam’s chin, and as he stared down at it, the Coroner angled it and brought it to Adam’s throat so that the edge snagged on a lump of leathery skin.

‘I said, I won’t see him harmed, churl. Let him go and drop that knife before I drop you, eh?’

Adam made as though to drop the knife, but then he suddenly whirled about to stab Sir Richard. As the Coroner stepped sharply backwards, his sword dragged along the back of Adam’s neck, and then as Adam span, it ran along the side of the sailor’s throat — and Baldwin was drenched in a sudden shower of blood.

It was some days later that Baldwin reached Exeter. He sat on his horse for a long while on the hill overlooking the city, trying to make up his mind whether he should continue as he had planned or ride straight home. Home, where Jeanne his wife would be waiting.

He sighed and kicked his horse into a slow amble down the hill to the bridge.

The Cathedral Close was abustle as usual, with several pack ponies and horses feeding on the last of the grass in the cemetery, and children playing among the tombstones and the tall elms that stood between the cemetery and the streets of the Close. Already drifts of leaves were piling up. He rode over the little bridge that spanned the open ditch, little better than a sewer, that ran from the canons’ houses to the city walls and out to the shitebrook.

Piles of filth and rubble lay all around, and the Cathedral itself was still being rebuilt at this, the eastern end. Several bonfires were burning waste from the canons’ houses and the building works.

In the past, Baldwin had enjoyed the sight and sounds of all the raucous liveliness about the town — builders shouting and singing, merchants at the fish-market over by Broad Gate calling their wares, while animals wandered about, dropping their dung in the cemetery — but today, from his new perspective, it looked as though this Cathedral was less a place of worship and praise, more a hellish imitation.

‘Sir Baldwin.’ The steward at the door to the Bishop’s Palace smiled in recognition as soon as the knight appeared in the roadway. ‘My lord Bishop is holding a Chapter meeting, but he will not be long, I am sure. Will you wait here while I fetch you some food and drink? You look as though you have travelled far today.’

‘I would be most grateful, yes,’ Baldwin said, dropping tiredly from his horse and pulling off his gloves. Here in the bishop’s grounds he had no concerns for the way that his horse would be looked after, and he watched a groom take the rounsey away to be brushed and fed without a second thought, then entered the Palace behind the steward.

In the hall there was one other man — a messenger in the livery of Lord Despenser. He glanced over at Baldwin and bowed respectfully, to which Baldwin responded with a courteous but not fulsome bow of his own, and the steward left them alone while he fetched Baldwin his refreshments.

‘Sir Baldwin!’ Bishop Walter strode into the hall with a broad smile. He glanced at the messenger as he held out his hand to Baldwin, and the knight bent to kiss the Episcopal ring quickly, but not before he had caught sight of the bishop’s short frown.

‘My lord Bishop,’ the messenger said. ‘I have an urgent communication for you. Lord Despenser has persuaded the King to accept your advice. Can you please take these and deal with them?’ He held out a handful of warrants.

Bishop Stapledon took them, staring at the seals and pursing his lips. Setting them on his table, he dismissed the man, and turned his attention on Baldwin.

‘A successful journey to Dartmouth, I hope? Tell me, how is Simon?’

‘Bishop, why did you send me there?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I told you. We wanted to make sure that the Frenchman left the country, and that Her Majesty could not be harmed by rumours of his actions becoming known.’

‘And yet Despenser’s man was sent to catch the same Frenchman and bring him back?’

‘I cannot speak for him, naturally,’ Stapledon said. ‘What is this, Baldwin? Are you discontent?’

‘I am not discontent, no. I am angry to have been your tool without the courtesy of an explanation. You wanted the Frenchman found and captured, didn’t you? You sent me after him because you felt sure he would go there, not because your nephew was near the town.’

‘Now, Baldwin!’ Bishop Stapledon said warningly.

‘No! You knew about Pierre’s sister being married to a merchant there. You knew when he set off to the coast that he’d go straight there. Where else would a man like him go, if not to his sister’s house? He could be sure of aid there. And you wanted him caught and brought back to show how degenerate the Frenchmen are who guard the Queen.’

‘Nonsense! I would care for no such thing,’ the bishop declared.

‘It struck me as curious that Sir Andrew arrived so soon after me. I suppose you thought that I would be able to point to the Frenchman and so save him a search of the town that might cause fights and antagonism. I can imagine that Sir Andrew would have been ruthlessly ferocious in looking for a man — and that you would prefer to have a quieter, calmer investigation. Yet you always intended to have Pierre found and caught. Because it would help you to alienate Queen Isabella from the King.’

Bishop Stapledon was still at the table on which the warrants lay. He put out a finger to touch one. ‘Do you know what these contain? If I had to guess, they have orders for me to take over the main resources at the Queen’s command in Cornwall, so that they cannot be used to fund her any more. The mines could be at threat of invasion from the French, and she is French herself.’

‘She is your Queen!’

‘She could be negotiating with her brother, Baldwin. She is not loyal.’

‘How dare you!’

‘Baldwin, calm yourself. I know her better than you! You did not see her when she went to her father and told him of the affair of the silken purses. A woman who could break her father’s heart, telling him that his sons were all — all — cuckolds, who could see her sisters-in-law ruined, imprisoned … such a one is too self-absorbed to worry about her husband and the realm.’

‘That is preposterous! You say that she is wicked because she brought judgement on those who broke the law? That is reason to trust her.’

‘No. She could be treacherous to her sisters-in-law, and she could be again to her husband. It is a risk we cannot take. For that reason the King is to take away her dower. She will have a reduced annual budget which he will control through his friends, and all Frenchmen in her household will be removed.’

‘She is to be imprisoned?’ Baldwin asked, appalled.

‘No, not imprisoned. Just held for the safety of the Realm, and perhaps for her own. These are hard times, Baldwin.’

‘Very!’ Baldwin said, picking up his gloves and beginning to tug them on.

‘You are leaving? Will you not remain a little longer? We have much to talk about.’

‘No, I do not think we do, Walter. My lord Bishop, you are right to say that there is much danger today. And you have thrown me into the midst of it.’

‘Sir Baldwin, I do what I do for the good of the Realm. I am sorry if you think I deceived you, but I assure you, I never had any such intention.’

Baldwin faced him, and bowed. ‘I will take my leave, my lord.’

‘There is one last point. I suggested that you should be put forward to the next Parliament. I feel sure that you will be chosen.’

Baldwin screwed up his brow. ‘But there is no call for Parliament yet, is there? The last was earlier this year.’

‘But when the summons comes, your name will be selected. It will be good for you, Sir Baldwin. And you and I can travel to the Parliament together.’

Baldwin nodded, took his leave, and went out to find his horse. The beast had been well cared for, and he had him resaddled and prepared. Mounted, he sat gazing about him at the mayhem all around.

It seemed to him that this rowdy place was like the kingdom. Noisy, messy, in many ways unmanageable: but when those who ran it bickered for power, all in this Close would be forced to choose sides, and then many must die.

He was profoundly sad as he rode out and along the road towards the great bridge. It was a sadness he could not dismiss no matter how hard he tried. He only hoped that his name would not grow too renowned. To be well known would mean being courted by the wealthy and powerful, and no matter to whom he gave his loyalty, the other would be his enemy.

It was impossible to protect a family when the Realm was at war.