He made his unsteady way the few yards over to the pit. All his sand and gravel was still there, and the pile of cobbles ready to be inserted and rammed home to create the new surface. And there, in the hole, was the dead man still, waiting for the Coroner’s visit. A thin crowd of gawpers stood at the end of the hole, peering down at the corpse.
Alred walked to the edge and gazed with them. It was strange to be looking down at the hole like this. Usually he would be in there mending the roadway, and he’d have a different view of people. He’d recognise some from the sight of a chin or nostrils seen from beneath. Women he would view from a more interesting perspective than most men would ever gain.
There were several who stood and stared today. Some urchins, a few tranters and tatterdemalion scroungers, and one man who must have been a sailor from the way he rolled as he walked, a big man with a square face and a chin that had only very recently been shaved. He looked the sort of man who was capable with his hands, strong and self-reliant. The fellow was familiar, but as so often, seeing him from an equal footing, as it were, Alred couldn’t place him.
‘Morning, master,’ the watchman said. He was sitting on the step of a building nearby, his staff resting in his crossed arms, legs bent so that he had to peer over his knees to talk to Alred. ‘You sleep well?’
There was more than a hint of jealousy in his tone. Alred gave a slight grimace. ‘Sleep? In that little workshop? No, friend. There’s no comfort on a solid floor like that, and if there were, the worry about finishing all this in time to get on to my next job would stop me being able to enjoy myself.’
‘Strange. I would have thought the constant snoring would have kept you awake rather than the cold or worry,’ the guard said drily. He yawned. ‘Some of us have been fighting the damned pigs away all night.’
It was the same everywhere, as Alred knew too well. Any family would have a hog or two – they were a staple. And it was easier to let them feed themselves by rooting about in the kennel or among the other piles of rubbish that lay about in the roads. ‘No town in the country can keep the streets safe from pigs,’ he said.
‘You’re right there. There were three last night, one after the other, all trying to get to this poor devil’s corpse. I know them, mind.’
‘How?’
‘Oh, we mark them. If a pig’s found wandering and is being a nuisance, we cut off its tail and charge the owner to get it back. That’s the first time. If we find it again, we kill it, and he can have the body if he pays a fine – four pennies, one per foot. We’ll have to do more soon, though. The damned things are making a mess of the place.’
Alred said nothing. This area was a mess anyway. He allowed his gaze to move up the street, from the corpse here in the working, past the large dungheap from the stable further down the hill, to the pile of broken timbers and trash from a house whose outbuildings had collapsed, past the kennel full of human excrement, and on.
The watchman got the message. He muttered sourly, ‘Let’s just hope the Coroner gets here sooner rather than later. We all need to get back to normal.’
‘That poor bugger won’t, though, will he?’ Alred commented, jerking his chin at the body in the hole.
‘No. Wonder where he came from?’
‘He’s not a local man?’
‘Him?’ the watchman chuckled. ‘He’s about as local as you are, man. I’ve never seen him before. Christ Himself may know where he’s from, but I don’t.’
Simon arrived in his rooms to find Stephen already frowning at a set of records.
‘I cannot make these numbers add up, Bailiff.’
‘I never can either,’ Simon said lightly. ‘Stephen, I am going to visit Paul Pyckard. Do you know where he lives?’
‘He’s not far from Hawley’s house on Lower Street. Three doors south, I think. Why?’
‘I want to speak to him – see if anything was actually stolen from his vessel. Pirates normally try to steal everything they can. But not to take it, slaughter all the crew and even try to burn it … that makes no sense at all.’
‘No.’ He was still a moment. ‘Have you heard what people are saying?’
‘Let me guess: the devil came and took the evil bastards because the master had insulted a nun on his last voyage?’
‘He did?’ Stephen said, wide-eyed.
‘No. What can you tell me about Pyckard?’
‘I haven’t been here as long as you, Bailiff. You know him better than I.’
‘You will have heard more gossip than I,’ Simon said knowingly. It was always the case that while merchants might detest each other, their clerks would still deal with each other, discussing the antics of their masters as a source of joint amusement.
‘He’s not been well for some weeks. I know that much. He was married, but his wife died in a storm at sea on one of his ships, these fifteen years since. He was distraught when that happened, I heard. They were devoted.’
‘Yes. I heard that too,’ Simon said. ‘What of the ship?’
‘The Saint John replaced one he lost years ago, I think. Someone told me that that cog, the Saint Rumon, was his first; he bought it from the proceeds of importing spices and cloths. Now he’s got three ships.’
‘Very good. See if you can learn anything more.’
‘I will do what I can, Bailiff.’
‘I won’t be long,’ Simon said next, making for the door. ‘I merely want to see if I can understand this. It seems most … curious.’
He repeated that word to himself as he strode up the street towards the house Stephen had indicated. The mist was burning away as he walked and he could see some of the nearer ships beginning to show themselves, the great hulls looming through the bright fog like ghosts. There was a strange effect on his eyes. He’d noticed it before when there had been a mist in from the sea, but never so clearly as now: as he stood on the shore, he could almost imagine he was being drawn out into the clutching tendrils of fog, to be swallowed by the ships.
Superstition! he told himself. Now, in the daylight, he felt much bolder. There were more important things to worry about today!
Alred was soon back with the others. They were chatting in lively fashion as he appeared in the doorway.
‘Ho ho, here’s the master!’ Law cackled. ‘Been sick yet?’
‘Be silent, boy. Sweet Jesus’s pains, you’d drive a man to drink, you would. Did you ever pour me that drink?’
‘Have a hair of the dog that bit you,’ Bill said more sympathetically. ‘Come on, Al. It’s not as though you can’t hold it. Fetch yourself a beer. What are we?’
Law laughed again. ‘We’re paviours!’
‘I can’t hear you, Al.’
‘Bleeding paviours.’
‘Still can’t hear you!’
‘We’re bleeding paviours, you deaf son of a goat!’ Alred said, and despite himself he grinned as he said it, marching to the small barrel they’d bought earlier in the week and pouring a measure into a drinking horn he’d stolen from the tavern. He took the drink to the doorway and peered out. Soon the ale began to seep into his belly and bowels, and he did feel better. He smiled at Bill as he clapped him on the back and walked out to buy some pies.
But as Bill left, Alred frowned again. That square face in the crowd kept returning to his thoughts. He only wished he could figure out why.
The house was a pleasing building, clearly recently built, with a solid oaken frame and well-limed cob filling the gaps. Simon knocked on a door that had been limed as well, and waited.
It took a little time for the door to open and a nervous-looking man peered out at him. ‘Yes?’
‘I want to talk to Master Pyckard.’
‘I don’t know that he’s ready to see people yet. He …’
‘Tell him the Bailiff of the abbey is here – the Representative of the Keeper of the Port. I need to speak to him now,’ Simon said roughly.
The face took on a still more anxious appearance, then the man slipped away, the door closi
ng quietly behind him, a bar or bolt sliding into place to lock it, leaving Simon fuming in the street. Then there was the sound of slowly marching feet, and the rattle of the lock, and the door opened.
‘Bailiff? We’ve met.’
Paul Pyckard was a man of a little less than Simon’s height, with a face that was oddly skull-like. The cheekbones stood so prominently that in the shadow of the doorway it was hard to believe that there was any flesh covering them. His eyes were bright and hard, compelling as a snake’s, and when his mouth opened, his grey teeth matched the colour of his skin. Clad in a heavy robe with fur trimming, it was hard to imagine he felt the cold in this weather, but Simon wondered if that was because he was truly unwell.
‘Master Pyckard, I am sorry about your ship, but I wondered if you could help me. I want to know all I can about it.’
‘You’d best come inside,’ Pyckard said, and stood back from the door, shuffling like a very old man.
As Simon entered, he sensed a coldness that was nothing to do with the house. It was as though Pyckard himself was exuding a chilly atmosphere.
This was not the man he remembered. Last time they had met was only a matter of three weeks ago, and then Pyckard had seemed fit and well. He’d had the broad shoulders, hearty manner and bronzed skin of a natural sailor. His bluff character was in keeping, too. Simon had always thought that seamen were so used to risking their lives that they made the most of every moment on shore.
‘You see a difference in me?’ Pyckard asked as he led the way down the passage.
‘I confess, I was surprised to see how you have changed, master.’
‘It began some weeks ago. At first it was just a bit of a pain in my belly, and I grew short of breath.’ As if to confirm his point, he wheezed and coughed wretchedly. ‘No, I need no help, I thank you. After a little while, the pain began to grow. Ach, and now it’s with me the whole time. I cannot concentrate at all.’
‘You’ve seen a physician?’
Pyckard threw him a look that combined contempt and annoyance. ‘I am not so poor that I would seek to save money at the cost of my life, Bailiff.’ He continued on his way, leading Simon into a large parlour at the rear of the house, where he walked painfully to a large chair, sinking into it gratefully.
‘Sir?’
‘Yes. You want a drink?’ Pyckard asked.
The servant who had opened the door so nervously stood by the buttery at the far side of the room. Simon asked for ale, and Pyckard a quart of wine, and the man disappeared. At least Simon could now comprehend his trepidation. The whole household must be in fear of the thought of the death of the master.
While he waited for the drinks to arrive, Simon studied the room. It was obvious that Pyckard had enjoyed a successful life. His walls were covered in rich hangings, one a set of three hunting scenes that gleamed and glimmered in the light. His hearth was paved with bricks, while the rest of his floor had been tiled, the cost of which Simon could only wonder at. High overhead there was a louvre arrangement which was opened and closed by pulling on a rope. A sideboard with three shelves displaying highly polished pewter tableware added to the sense of opulence in the room.
The man himself was clearly unaware of it all. He sat uncomfortably, wincing every so often, shifting in his seat, grunting and sighing. His fingers rapped on the arm of his great chair as though in time to some internal music. When the drinks appeared, he grabbed for his jug, almost spilling the wine down his breast, and poured a large gobletful, all but draining it at the first draught.
‘Master Pyckard, it’s plain that you aren’t feeling well. Would you prefer me to come back later?’
‘That, Bailiff, could be a waste of your time if you tried it,’ Pyckard said with a twist of his lips that was intended to show humour. ‘I may not be here for much longer.’
‘This pain abates somewhat through the day?’
‘There are stupefactives which my physician has given me, but they work less and less well. No, there is no cure and no means of preventing the pain. I’ve confessed, and that took a weight off my soul, which helps a little.’ He looked past Simon’s shoulder to the tall window beyond. ‘There is some peace from that.’
‘Something you did in the past?’ Simon wondered.
‘Something that’s none of your affair, Master Bailiff!’ Pyckard snapped, but not rudely. He squirmed in his seat again. ‘So ask away. It’s what you’re here for!’
‘It’s your ship – the cog Saint John. I’d heard that there was nothing taken from her. Is that right?’
‘So far as I know, yes. I haven’t been to inspect her myself, of course. I don’t think I could walk so far. Christ alive! It is hard enough for me to walk to my door and back. Only two days ago I could walk about the town – but now? Nothing!’
‘Does it not trouble you that the ship was taken and her cargo left aboard? That to me seems most strange.’
‘There are many strange things in life, Bailiff. The Saint John was one of my older vessels, so perhaps these pirates decided she wasn’t worth the capture once they’d taken her.’
Simon tried to keep the disbelief from his voice. ‘You are suggesting that mariners would take her, and then leave her to burn, still with a valuable cargo on board, because they thought she was too old and not worth their time? Surely they’d have seen that from the outset? If the craft was not worthy of capture, they would have left her.’
‘You are not a man of the sea, are you, Bailiff? Let me explain. The ship was perfectly well worth taking from the point of view of the cargo, but she herself was – is – old. Perhaps they saw the second ship arriving and knew there was no time to move all the cargo from the John to their own ship. And the John is a slow beast. Seeing a faster ship appear over the horizon, they may simply have sought to destroy evidence of their crime. It could have worked, were Hawley and his men less fast and seamanlike.’
Simon fiddled with the long tongue of his belt, which dangled over his thigh. ‘Master Hawley caught the ship and put out the fire in a very efficient manner.’
‘He’s a good man, Hawley.’
‘It was fortunate that he appeared at that moment.’
‘Yes. But it was on the main route we both use.’
Simon nodded. ‘Do you have any idea who could have attacked her?’
‘On the open sea? Are you joking? It could be any one of a hundred hundred men. There are pirates from all over Normandy, the Breton lands … they come here and pick off what they can all the time. They’ve stopped their raids on the shore now, but our ships are always at risk. Then there are the men from our own coast. If a ship from a Cinque Port saw a ship in danger, it might wonder whether it was worth taking her and stealing the cargo rather than helping her to port.’
‘What of the men of Lyme?’
Pyckard shrugged. ‘It’s possible, I suppose. Yes. They have had arguments with us for many years now. It’s only two years since the last fight. Probably about time one of us was caught by them.’
‘Is it so normal for you to fear the people from other towns?’ Simon asked. He was still very new to the ways of the sea, he reminded himself.
‘Those daft buggers from Lyme have no comprehension of the rules of the sea or of land. Well, what can you expect from a bunch of peasants from Dorset, when all’s said and done.’
‘But why should they pick on your ship?’
‘I think it all began when some Dartmouth men found some rich fishing fields. When the men from Lyme heard about it, they barged in and tried to take the fishing from them.’
‘I see,’ Simon said. This was one of those disputes that had started in the mists of history, and which was kept alive by a number of unscrupulous folk who saw benefit in being able to steal from others who had worked for their rewards. ‘And the last fight was two years ago?’
‘About that. They helped the men of Weymouth and Portland when those thieving churls robbed a Plymouth cog. They took the ship, killed the men aboard, stole all the g
oods and scuttled her.’
‘Is it normal for them to sink an enemy’s ship?’
‘What else do you do with it if the thing’s clearly recognisable? Better to burn and sink her than leave her as evidence of your crime.’
Simon was tempted to ask whether Pyckard himself had engaged in such actions, but somehow this did not feel like the right time. The man was looking weaker and weaker, and his hand, as he reached for his wine, trembled like one who had the ague. If, as he had said, he had already confessed to his own crimes, what was the point in Simon’s asking too? He wasn’t going to be around for much longer, for good or ill.
‘There was nothing on the ship that would have tempted a man to rob it?’ he tried.
Pyckard’s hand stilled, as though he was concentrating with a massive effort. Then the goblet rose to his mouth, and he slurped at it thirstily, as if it was an elixir that could save him. ‘The cargo was all there – I’ve already said. There was nothing too valuable, anyway. The more expensive items I’d saved to be sent on my next sailing.’
‘And the crew were all dead. No one remained?’
He sighed and sat back again. ‘Apparently so.’
‘How many crewmen were there?’
‘Eleven all told, I think. The master and ten more. Yes, eleven.’
‘What can you tell me about them? Who were they?’
‘Oh, the master was Adam. I regret losing him, for he was my best man. He’s been with me for years. I trusted him with my life, and many times he has repaid my trust. Then there were Odo and Vincent, two men I’ve also known since they were young. They were rough and ready types, but sound in the ways of the sea. They were brought up to it from childhood, so it’s no surprise. They certainly knew how to sail, but they were bastards on board … and on land!’
‘Why do you say that?’
Pyckard stared at him and, for a moment, Simon thought there was genuine hatred in his eyes. ‘They would drink and fight, or even try to rape women in the town. I will not miss them, the churls! But there are others who deserve to be mourned: like young Danny from Hardness. He was an orphan I took in some years ago, along with his brother Moses, when his father died at sea. He always wanted to follow his father …’ his gaze turned inward sorrowfully, ‘and I suppose he has had his wish, poor Danny. There were others – three brothers from Exmouth I’ve used for many years … Why do you need to know?’
The Death Ship of Dartmouth: (Knights Templar 21) Page 8