The Death Ship of Dartmouth: (Knights Templar 21)

by Michael Jecks

  ‘I should go for a job with one of them. Get some money in,’ her father said. ‘I’m sorry, Edie. God, I’m so sorry!’

  ‘Shut up, Father. You’ve had too much to drink again,’ she said impatiently. It was always the same when he’d got drunk at lunchtime. When he woke he’d be maudlin and apologetic. Later he’d be foul-tempered and threaten her and the others. At least for now he was still docile.

  ‘If I had a job on her, I’d be able to put food on the table.’

  ‘You don’t, though,’ she said. And he wouldn’t. He was too well known as a drunkard for any shipmaster to want to take him on.

  They were at their door. Edith pushed it wide and stumbled over the threshold with her father’s arm over her shoulders, and then, as her eyes grew accustomed to the light, she began organising her brother and sisters. Millie helped as usual, and at least today they had some bread and a small piece of salted cod which Millie had earned helping the men down by the shore. Edith had been given an egg, too, so she carefully mixed it with the fish and some dried bread to make a thick gruel. For once she did not give the larger proportion to her father. She was still smarting that he could have taken so much money – four whole shillings! – and used it to drink himself to oblivion instead of looking after them.

  All the hard months she and the children suffered pangs of hunger and went without to make sure that he had a full belly so that he could work – but he didn’t. It was they who laboured always, and he took advantage of their efforts to subsidise his drinking. Never again! This time she would ensure that her brother and sisters had enough to eat.

  ‘A good meal, child,’ Cynegils said as he used the last of his bread to mop up the juices.

  ‘It’s all there is.’

  ‘The Church will provide a little, and there are wealthy houses who will pass out their scraps. We won’t starve.’

  ‘For how much longer, though? We’ve got little enough to live on, and when you do earn something, it goes into your bladder and you piss it all away!’

  ‘Come now, Edie, that’s not right.’

  ‘Isn’t it? Ach, what do I know. Why should I care? I ought to find a man to marry and leave you to this pit. Take the others with me and leave you to drink yourself to your grave.’

  ‘Edie, it’s not like that. I would get work if I could, you know that.’

  ‘But you can’t, can you? You can’t take a job and keep it because no one will trust you on their ship.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me like that, Daughter. I won’t have it,’ Cynegils said, and now his face was growing darker with anger.

  ‘Oh, so you’ll beat me now, will you? Then go ahead, Father. You are so brave, indeed, to beat me when I show you the truth. If you don’t do something soon, we’ll all be dead anyway, so beat away. You want a rope to beat me with?’ She stood and went to an old rope at the wall, where it had hung for as long as she could remember. There was a knot wrought into one end which was heavy enough to hurt a man when it hit him.

  Before she had reached it, Cynegils had stood. His face was flushed, his eyes bloodshot. ‘Leave it, Edie.’

  ‘No, no, Father. I have offended you, and I must be chastised. Here – take it. Beat me! As you used to beat Mother!’

  Cynegils stared at her for a long moment, but he couldn’t hold her angry gaze, and he turned away and opened the door.

  ‘Where do you go now? To the tavern to drown your sorrows in sour ale?’ she sneered.

  Cynegils stood in the doorway, his back to her. ‘I loved your mother,’ he said gruffly. ‘I still miss her like life itself. I know I’ve failed you all. Perhaps you’d be better without me.’

  ‘Where are you going, Father? It’s nearly dark.’

  ‘Just out, Edie. Just out,’ Cynegils said, and he left the house and walked slowly away, with the quiet desperation of a man with no direction and no hope.

  Just then, someone blocked his path. Cynegils looked up to see a smiling man with a club in his hand.

  ‘Are you Cynegils?’ he asked.

  ‘What if I am?’

  ‘There’s a knight wants to talk to you,’ the man said as two others grabbed his arms.

  Back in their storage shed, Alred faced his two employees and told them all he had heard at the inn. ‘So, if it comes to light that we helped the rapist who killed the man in our pit …’

  Law spat at the ground. ‘Don’t see it’s our concern.’

  Alred looked at him, but it was Bill who grunted, ‘Then you ought to keep your mouth shut till you’ve got something useful to say. If they’re saying this man’s a felon and we helped protect him from capture, what’ll that do to us?’

  Crestfallen, Law slumped down on a sack of tools. ‘But all we did was try to help a poor sod who was going to be attacked!’

  ‘And who’ll believe three strangers?’ Alred snapped. ‘We have to get away from here or find the rapist. If he’s caught by someone else, and he tells how we saved him, we’re sunk. At the least we’ll get a huge fine.’

  ‘What makes you think he’s still here?’ Bill asked.

  Alred stared at him. ‘How’s he going to get away from here? Back inland? If he’s being sought by men like the fellow at the inn, he won’t have a chance of getting away. No, he’s a stranger, he doesn’t know where to hide outside town, so he’s got to be here, waiting until he can get aboard a ship.’

  ‘He’ll be seen, won’t he?’ Law asked.

  Bill shook his head thoughtfully. ‘Nah. If he’s bright, he’ll pay a matelot to get him on board somehow. Those buggers have ways of doing things you wouldn’t believe.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Alred agreed with relief. ‘After all, he’s here at the coast now. He’ll stay put until he can get a passage.’

  ‘But you said he was new here?’ Law said musingly. ‘If so, how come he can find somewhere to hide?’

  ‘He has a friend, obviously,’ Alred said, and then he stopped with a gleam in his eye. ‘So he must know someone around here, someone with a large house where he could be hidden …’

  ‘Why large?’

  ‘A smaller place would be too hard to conceal a man in. All the folk here live on top of each other,’ Alred said with the contempt of a city-dweller for one of the country’s fastest-growing sea ports. ‘No, it’d be a large house. And there aren’t too many of them round here, are there?’

  Peter Strete was in the counting-room when he heard the thundering on the front door and the loud bellow that followed. He sat back in his seat, expecting to be called out to the hall at any moment, his mind going guiltily to his hidden crimes.

  The first time he had stolen from his master, the sum had been minuscule: just enough to cover a drinking session with some sailors. Later on, they suggested a game of their invention, called ‘straws’. As soon as he heard it was a gambling game, Peter politely refused to join in. The idea of gambling was repugnant to him: if God wished a man to be financially rewarded here on earth, He would give the fellow money. Trying to fleece other men out of their own meagre wages seemed little better than usury, and he hated usury as much as any.

  But the game did seem refreshingly simple. The men took up straws from the floor, and stood with their hands behind their backs. At a call, all would bring a fist in front of their breasts, and they might be holding anything from none to three straws. All a man had to do was guess how many straws were held in total, and he was knocked out of the ring. Then the remaining group continued until one man remained who had wrongly guessed each preceding round, and he would buy the others a drink each. Very simple. And enormously amusing.

  Peter had won the first three rounds without difficulty, and he was just beginning to think that it was a typical sailors’ game, in which there was little skill or ingenuity required, when he lost a game. The next, he was out early on again, and then he lost another round. There was much comment of beginner’s misfortune, and he had taken their words at face value, for while he was in their company, it would h
ave been rude to depart, but at the end of the evening, when the reckoning was due, he realised he had not enough money on him. Nor, when he searched his chamber, did he find sufficient there either.

  That first little removal of his master’s cash was enough to make him realise how easy theft might be to a weaker man, and he had swiftly repaid it, selling a tunic which he did not need any more. It was a relief to place the coins back in Master Hawley’s strongbox.

  Three nights later, the same crew of sailors entered his tavern, and he found himself sitting with them once more, a handful of reeds in his fist, laughing uproariously at his own witticisms, glad of the company of men who appreciated his own so much.

  At the end of that evening he was shocked to learn how often he had lost. His meagre remaining profit from the sale of the tunic was scarcely enough to cover his debts. And then he tried to recoup his losses with gambling, and suddenly there were several marks from John Hawley’s chest that he must replace. Master John was forgiving about most things, but not his money being taken without his approval.

  It was that which had led Strete to begin to trade information about his master’s enterprises. Information like that could be valuable, especially the prices Hawley was paying for goods, where he got them from, the names of his best contacts. All that was worth money to Hawley’s competitors.

  All Strete had wanted to do was make enough to pay back the hole in Hawley’s cash, and then he’d stop. That was all. He was a loyal man, and he didn’t want to harm his master … but the amount he owed kept increasing. He could only sell information when he had something new to give away, and just now there was little enough. And all the time, when he went out, he met with the same sailors and locals who would call to him to join them in a game or two, and when that happened, he felt bound to sit with them. It would only take one gamble to repay all he owed without a problem, and he was just looking for his luck to return. But for some reason it never did. Whenever he tried his luck, he found it had fled.

  The men were in the hall now, and Master Hawley entered to join them.

  ‘Lordings, how may I serve you?’ He looked about the room, then motioned to Strete. ‘Peter, fetch some wine, man. Our guests must be thirsty.’

  Strete jumped up from his seat and hurried out. The bottler was in his little chamber, and Strete told him what was needed, then returned to the room.

  ‘These men are looking into the deaths of those two victims,’ Hawley explained to him.

  ‘To be fair, we do not have jurisdiction over the death of a man at sea,’ Baldwin smiled.

  ‘Of course not,’ Hawley responded. His bottler had entered, and Hawley gestured to the guests first before taking a goblet himself. He continued, ‘If you had to investigate everybody washed up on the beach, you’d have a hard time of it, not knowing which ship he fell from, when, where, or why. Often you can’t even tell who these poor lost souls are anyway, when half of their face has been eaten away by crabs!’

  ‘You have seen such corpses?’ Sir Richard asked.

  ‘Who has not? Every winter the wrecks are washed up and the bodies pile up, eh, Bailiff? You will have seen them too. They always repel my clerk here, but I tell him not to be so squeamish. If you live by the sea, you will see such sights.’

  Coroner Richard shrugged. ‘For my part, I’m happy not to have any more deaths to investigate.’

  ‘What? Even if it’s shown that wandering pirates have attacked and killed an entire ship’s crew?’ Hawley snapped.

  Baldwin eyed him narrowly. ‘You feel strongly about this, shipmaster?’

  ‘Of course I do! I depend for my life on the sea and on trade. If there are pirates, all are at risk. The men who killed the crew on Pyckard’s ship are as likely to attack one of mine next. And in any case, the life of a sailor is hard enough already without the additional threat of misbegotten whoresons who seek to rob us of our cargoes and kill us as well.’

  ‘But how would someone learn of a ship’s passage?’ Simon wondered. ‘By having a man on the hill up at Tunstal watching to see who was sailing? If so, how would they get the information relayed to their own ship at sea, to alert them to their prey?’

  ‘I don’t care how they do it,’ Hawley said dismissively. ‘All that matters is that they have done so in this matter. It is disgraceful if the King’s officers will refuse to aid sailors from Hardness and Clifton who need protection.’ He glared aggressively at the Coroner and Baldwin.

  ‘The men of the town are used to protecting themselves, from all I have heard,’ Baldwin murmured idly, studying the wine in his mazer.

  ‘We will fight and defend ourselves when we can,’ Hawley said firmly. ‘A man who robs me will learn I have a long arm and an infinite capacity for hatred.’

  ‘Of course,’ Baldwin said comfortingly. He saw Strete shoot his master a look, and the expression on his face fleetingly sparked his interest, but then Hawley was speaking again and Baldwin turned his attention back to the shipmaster.

  ‘The King benefits from our cogs and men whenever he has a war to fight and men to take over the water. Yet when we need aid, there is nothing in return. Is that just? If the rumours are true and this is another attack from the men of Lyme, we should be able to expect some support from the King.’

  ‘I could advise him that you and the men of Dartmouth are keen to have him take more interest in all your trade,’ Simon said sweetly. ‘He would be happy to do that, I’m sure.’

  The threat worked. Hawley scowled and shook his head. Simon knew only too well that many transactions were never declared to him or Stephen, and the shipowners made much more money than was declared. It was the reason why shipmasters tended to be more wealthy than their trade should permit. The customs of the port were never quite so high as they should be.

  ‘Do you think the men of Lyme were involved?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘Who else?’ Hawley said, but slightly too glibly, as though he had expected to be asked just that.

  ‘Of course, this case could be different. We could perhaps argue that we do have jurisdiction even over this dead sailor,’ Baldwin said softly.

  ‘How so?’ Hawley frowned.

  ‘If he can be shown to have died within sight of the shore, for instance,’ Baldwin murmured. ‘Or even on shore, before the sailing.’

  ‘That is likely enough, isn’t it?’

  Baldwin’s eyes hardened. ‘Why?’

  ‘I agree with what you said at the inquest, Sir Baldwin. One wound like that: he was plainly not killed in an attack. If he had been, he’d have had wounds all over – stabs and slashes, and probably more than one blow from a cudgel to break his head. And there’s another thing, too. When he was dead, he’d not have been left behind on the ship. If pirates threw the rest overboard, they’d have done the same with him. Wouldn’t they?’

  Baldwin watched as Hawley crossed the floor, stood at his sideboard, drained his goblet, and refilled it. He was a strangely precise man, Baldwin thought. His movements were definite. In all he did he looked a very exact man. He had an economy of movement, a fluidity, that Baldwin had only ever observed in warriors of the highest quality before. And his eyes were not dim-witted like so many fighters and sailors. They were intelligent and thoughtful as he turned to face the three again.

  ‘Would you care to explain that?’ the Coroner rumbled.

  ‘The ship was attacked, wasn’t it? And taken. The crew would have defended themselves, and many, if not all, fought hard. Some would have died. So where were they? Where were their limbs? All were gathered and thrown overboard, surely. As would this man have been, were he alive when the ship was taken.’

  ‘That would make sense,’ Sir Richard commented. His brows dropped as his eyes narrowed intimidatingly. ‘Do you know anything of this?’

  ‘No.’ Hawley waved his drink towards Baldwin. ‘In truth, I am not completely sure that this was something to do with Lyme. Why should they burn Pyckard’s vessel? The Saint John was worth good money, as was her c
argo. If they’d taken her, they’d have thieved all they could. Instead, they tried to fire her and left her burning.’

  Baldwin nodded. ‘Your conclusion?’

  ‘Obviously, they didn’t mean to destroy the cog. It wasn’t a seamanlike effort. If they’d really wanted her sunk, they’d have made a better job of it. And no pirate or privateer would have done that. So, if it wasn’t someone after a ship and her cargo: what else could they have wanted?’

  ‘Well?’ the Coroner rasped.

  ‘I think they attacked the ship to stop her arriving in port. And that was because there was a man they wanted on board.’

  And Baldwin felt those unsettlingly shrewd eyes on him again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cynegils was feeling terrible. His head seemed swollen, and his mouth hardly worked. There was a dryness when he tried to speak, and the wrong words would keep coming out. If only these bastards wouldn’t hurry so much. He needed a moment to pause and take his breath, but already they were hurrying him up the hill towards Higher Street. Even when he stumbled, the men didn’t seem to care. They continued hustling him along with his knees scraping the cobbles until he found his pace again and could march with them.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ he gasped.

  ‘Shut it. You’ll learn soon enough.’

  ‘Oh come, now. What am I supposed to have done? Who wants me? I’ve told all I can to the Coroner and his friends. Can’t do more … tell more.’

  If the sergeant wanted someone brought to him, he’d order the nearest watchmen to go and grab him, but these two weren’t watchmen. In fact, Cynegils didn’t think he’d seen either of them before. They were too well fed and well clothed to be locals, and they didn’t look like seamen, either. They had more the appearance of henchmen to a wealthy lord. Suddenly Cynegils felt sick. The nausea seemed to permeate his entire body.

  The inn appeared, and to his astonishment, he was bustled through the narrow doorway and allowed to drop to the floor just over the threshold. When he remained on all fours, he was kicked roughly up the backside, and he fell forward onto his face, where he lay panting, trying to keep the vomit at bay.