‘In an inn?’
‘Yes.’
‘My friend, you have inherited your English race’s talent for subtlety.’
Hamund frowned. ‘You would have stabbed him in the back on the open road, I suppose?’
‘With a man who could do that to the widow of a comrade, I would have challenged him on the road, and I would have killed him,’ Pierre said, but then he grinned. ‘Or perhaps I should have paid another to do it … Footpads are so cheap, I believe, since so many have lost their homes. It would be good to give one of them some real employment.’
Hamund was not inclined to trust this foreigner, and he didn’t know whether the man was speaking with genuine sincerity or was being flippant. ‘Rapists are not usually considered so subtle.’
‘Rapists?’ Pierre’s face hardened in an instant. ‘If I ever meet a man who accuses me of that, I shall castrate him!’
‘You didn’t rape a lady?’
‘On the Gospels, I swear it,’ Pierre said.
‘Then why do they hunt you down?’
‘I loved a lady who was as far above my station as the moon is above the earth!’ Pierre exclaimed, and then his voice dropped. ‘You have loved. You know what it is to love and leave the object of your desire. My lady was honourable, and would not consider leaving her household for fear of the shame. And I would not torture so sweet a creature by remaining. So I thought to leave the country and return to my native land where I may find some peace.’
‘I am sorry. You are in the same position as me, then.’
‘Yes.’
Hamund shook his head slowly and sadly, but then his eyes narrowed. ‘But why are they chasing you? Did they realise you were in love with this lady? You didn’t—’
‘Neither of us committed adultery,’ Pierre said flatly. ‘I would have, but she would not. She is honourable. No, they chase me because I am French, my friend. I think that all Frenchmen will be pursued from the realm before too many weeks have passed.’
‘Our Queen is French.’
‘And that is why the King harries all her countrymen. He despises her, and would see her shamed. He is a cruel man, this King of yours.’
‘Not of mine,’ Hamund said sadly. ‘I have no liege now. I am outlaw.’
Pierre glanced at him, and saw to his surprise that the fellow was weeping with silent despair, the tears trickling steadily down his cheeks. It was an odd sight. Pierre had seen many men cry with pain, or heard them sob with sorrow, but never to his knowledge had he seen a man give himself up to hopelessness in such a manner. For a while he stared, and he became prey to a sudden whirl of thoughts. First loathing and disgust that a man could display such weakness at all, let alone in front of a stranger; then plain contempt. And yet even as he sought to look away he seemed to hear his own lover’s sweet voice and see her thick brown tresses, and he felt the prickling at his own eyes to think that he would never see her again either.
He knew what it was to have lost, just as had Hamund. And as he thought again of his lady, he understood what Hamund must feel. Except Hamund had lost his woman, his livelihood, his property and his King. He was outlawed and alone in the world.
‘My friend,’ he said quietly, ‘you are alive. Much may still happen. Do not lose heart. There is always the hope that you and I will again meet our loves, if not here, then perhaps in heaven.’
Hamund blinked and wiped at his eyes, then nodded.
Pierre patted his shoulder. ‘When we arrive in France, my friend, you will come with me. You will be safe with my protection.’
Hamund could say nothing. These were the first words of genuine compassion he had heard since leaving his lady and fleeing to the church’s sanctuary. All he knew was, as Pierre stood and stalked away on his long legs, that Hamund could follow him to the ends of the earth and back for those words.
There was a shout from the stern and Gil appeared clad in his best tunic and cote-hardie, his head decorously covered with a cowl. He stood near Hamund and gave a command. Three of the sailors joined him then climbed over the side down to a small rowboat that wallowed in the lee of the cog. It had rowed out to them a short while earlier, and the rower, a cleanshaven, older man, sat in it waiting.
‘What’s this? Where do you go?’ Pierre asked Gil as he cocked his leg to follow them over the side.
‘My master’s body has to be taken to the church. His servants will carry him to the funeral.’
The house of the dead sailor was out at the fringe of Hardness, on the road up to Tunstal.
Simon thought that it was a typical cottage of a reasonably well-paid sailor. All the timbers were limewashed to preserve them from the worst the sea could throw at them, the walls were patched, but not haphazardly. All the daubed areas were themselves coated by limewash, and the thatch was renewed where necessary. It was a house whose owner had lavished attention upon it.
The front was given up entirely to a neat, well-laid out garden, with leeks and cabbages growing well in the sunshine. There was a profusion of leaves of all kinds: alexanders, parsley, and salads, while the first crop of peas hung from the rafters of the little log-shed at the cottage’s side. They would dry there on the vine and be threshed from the pods in the winter. Onions and garlic grew in ordered ranks, and Simon was reminded of the little vegetable patch he had at his home at Lydford. The sight of the plants here, so mundane, brought home to him how far he was from his wife, and he felt a momentary pang at the separation.
But his separation was nothing compared to that which afflicted this house. There was a turf bench built into the garden on their left as they entered. From there the seated woman would have a fine view of the river and the hills opposite. Near her was a small herber, surrounded by fragrant flowers, in which a small child rolled and gurgled in the sun while she sewed.
In her middle twenties, the woman was sun-burned to the colour of a nut, but her brown eyes still stood out clearly in comparison. They were startlingly distinct, as though they belonged to another face, and when they lighted on the men walking up her path, they showed no recognition, only stolid resignation. ‘What did he owe you?’ she said.
‘Nothing, madam, I assure you,’ Baldwin said.
‘You may call me Alice. You’ll be the first, then. Everyone else has come demanding money for tools or drinks.’ She set aside her work listlessly. ‘May I serve you some ale? With my man dead, there isn’t much else I can give you.’
‘That sounds very …’ Sir Richard began.
Baldwin glared at him. ‘We wouldn’t dream of taking what little you have.’
‘What do you want, then?’
‘We wondered about the cause of your husband’s death. Of course it is likely that he died during a fight for the ship, but—’
‘Yes? But?’ she asked coolly.
‘There is no apparent reason why he should have been left aboard the ship. All the other men were removed.’
‘They were slaughtered, you mean,’ she said, and there was a break in her voice. ‘Oh, God in heaven, why have You done this? All those men … good men. And me with three children! What will I do now?’
‘You knew many of the men on the ship?’ Baldwin asked.
‘One was my brother, Adam. I have lost husband and brother in the same night!’ Her tone was growing wilder. ‘What can a woman do without a husband? If he is gone, there’s nothing!’
‘He had been with Master Pyckard for some years, I heard?’ Simon said.
‘Yes. Danny learned all about the sea on Master Pyckard’s ships.’
‘So he began with Master Pyckard early on?’
‘When he was orphaned, the master took him in. Danny started as a cabin-boy, and gradually worked up to being a trusted sailor. He was lucky, too, and the men liked to have him sail with them.’
‘Why lucky?’ Baldwin asked.
‘He was in dreadful storms once or twice. He used to say that he was like a cat: he had many lives.’
‘Was he shipwrecked on P
yckard’s ships?’ Baldwin frowned.
‘Yes, the once. And he was in terrible squalls a few times. The storm that killed Master Pyckard’s wife, he was there then.’
‘What happened?’ Simon said.
‘There was a sudden storm, and the ship was blown onto rocks. It was mere luck that they didn’t all die. He never spoke of it afterwards, and I think the memory was terrible. He was floating about for days holding on to a lump of timber. The others never thought he’d survive. Sailors are often like that, they don’t want to talk about the worst weathers.’
‘How long ago was that?’
She went blank for a moment. ‘A long time – maybe fifteen years.’
‘What can you tell us about this last sailing?’ Simon asked.
‘Nothing! I know nothing about it.’
‘When did he leave you here?’
She looked at him, a depth of despair in her eyes. ‘I didn’t even know he was going. He always used to tell me when he was about to sail, but this time there was nothing. I hadn’t even known he’d been asked to join the ship!’
Baldwin’s head snapped up. ‘Are you quite sure? You say you had no idea he was going anywhere … Did he usually take anything special with him when he went on ship?’
She shrugged. ‘Just odds and sods. You know what sailors are like. He always had his lucky charm about his neck – it was a lead badge of St Christopher – and a spoon. He was so proud of that spoon. He bought it ages ago in France from a metalsmith. Nothing else much, just a spare shirt and …’
‘Is his spoon here? Have you noticed whether it has gone?’ Baldwin asked urgently.
‘I haven’t had time to worry about that!’
‘Look for it, mistress, please. It could be important.’
She stared at him, huffed a deep sigh, and rose. ‘Wait there.’
Disappearing inside, she left Simon with the impression that she thought Baldwin had lost his mind. He glanced at Baldwin. ‘What in God’s name?’
‘Well considered, Sir Baldwin,’ Sir Richard muttered in an uncharacteristically quiet tone. ‘I hadn’t thought that through.’
She was back a few moments later with a confused expression on her face. ‘You are right,’ she said, and opened her fist. In it lay a long, thin-handled spoon with a broad bowl, and a lead badge like the pilgrims wore, set on a thin chain. ‘Why did he leave these behind?’
‘Madam, I am sorry that you have lost him, but I think we may be able to explain more later. Do you know whether your brother was expecting to sail?’
‘Oh, yes. I know he was. I had thought Danny might have been asked to join the ship because they were short-handed, but he always told me when he was sailing! And he would never have sailed without these. Oh, God, what does this mean?’
Her sudden wail caught Baldwin by surprise, and as she slipped down to her seat again, he heard a sound at the door. Startled by her cry and the suddenness of the noise, he automatically reached for his sword as he snapped round seeking danger, but all he saw was a girl of maybe five or six and a little boy. The children stared fixedly at Baldwin as though expecting him to launch an attack on their mother.
‘Look at them!’ she added. ‘They think everyone coming here is trying to steal a few more pennies from my husband just because he’s gone. We can trust no one! No one!’
As she began to sob, the three children began to cry as well. It was for Baldwin one of the most appalling scenes he had ever witnessed. The distraught weeping youngsters, and their mother, bent over, arms cradling her belly, racked with deep sobs that wouldn’t go away.
Chapter Twenty
Moses was only just able to keep himself calm as he walked with the priest to the church, his master’s body behind him, carried by six sturdy sailors and servants. People came from their doors to peer at the small cortège as it passed. It was rare enough that a man would have such a fine procession in the town, and all wanted to take a peek at it as Pyckard’s body passed by.
After his death, Moses had insisted that he himself should clean his master’s body and prepare him for his coffin. He was as near as Pyckard’s son as any, and he jealously guarded his right to perform this last service for the man who had saved him and his brother from penury and probably death. With one of the stable-boys he stripped the corpse and washed away the mess from voided bowels and bladder, before clothing the dead man in a shift. A bolt of linen had been ordered days before by his foresighted master, and he took it up with a sob in his throat. As he and the boy unrolled it by his master’s cooling body, he could scarcely concentrate, his mind was so taken up with thoughts of all the kindnesses Paul Pyckard had shown him.
He could hardly remember Mistress Pyckard, she had died so many years before. A terrible day that. Moses had thought he had lost his brother too, but luckily Danny had survived the shipwreck. At least it meant that Moses had a family to watch over. He would do all in his power to protect his nieces and nephew. And Danny’s widow.
By all accounts, Master Pyckard had loved his wife dearly. Amandine had been a rare beauty, with her flashing, dark eyes, her long tresses of blue-black hair and pale complexion. Her calm disposition and gentleness had won the hearts of all the household, and her husband had been utterly devoted. Certainly in all the years that Moses had lived with Pyckard, he had never seen another woman with him, although there were plenty hereabouts who would have been happy to earn a few shillings while their husbands were at sea. No, Paul Pyckard had remained loyal to the memory of his wife. Even as he breathed his last, Moses could have sworn he had heard a whispered, ‘Amandine!’
It was only fitting that he should be buried next to his beloved wife. Her body had been found washed upon the shore with some sailor’s body after the wreck. Only her clothing identified her after the scavenging sea-creatures had ravaged her, but Moses knew Pyckard was content just to be able to give her a funeral.
The priest had arrived a little before noon, giving them plenty of time to roll the body in the long shroud and bind it at head and feet. Moses had ordered the coffin a week or more before, and it was brought as soon as news spread of the death. He had an elderly ex-sailor help him heft Pyckard’s corpse into it, and he stood with his hand on his master’s breast for a few minutes before he could bring himself to place the lid atop. With a sigh, he finally submitted to the sailor’s persistence, and stood back as the cover was placed over Paul Pyckard, shutting off the light from his face for the last time.
Formed of seamen from Pyckard’s household and business, the procession moved off now to the churchyard. The six coffin-bearers wore mourning black, but their appearance and manner, although solemn, gave the impression of stern restraint, as though at any moment they might break into a sailor-like song. At the front walked the priest, taking care to show proper respect, as well he might. Moses knew how much money Pyckard had promised the church for the funeral and prayers afterwards. The bell tolled in the hands of the fossor, who paced slowly in front of the priest and set the speed for them all.
There had been nothing like this for Danny. When his body had been carted off to the church, there had been only Moses, Annie, Alice and the children, with the fossor and a priest.
Gil and some of the men from the cog had arrived, Moses saw, and he was warmed to think that they had not yet set sail, but came here to witness Pyckard’s funeral. With the loss of the Saint John, so many who should have been here were missing, and it was good to see the household’s numbers swollen. If Gil and his men had already left port it might have looked as though Pyckard had few friends, no companions or servants. In reality he had many who depended upon his patronage, from widows whose men had died in Pyckard’s service to waifs and strays like Moses himself, and the foreigner – the Frenchman. Well, at least he’d carried out his master’s last wish regarding him.
They carried on along the street, down to the mill pool and over the two-arched bridge that connected Clifton with Hardness, past the mill itself with the wheel sitting almos
t stationary as the tide lay idle at its lowest point, and on up the hill towards St Clement’s Church at Tunstal. Here, there were more seamen and fishermen standing. Pyckard had given so many of them chances of earning money, and they wished to show their respect for the man who had helped them.
As they passed by one group, Moses saw a tall, fair-haired man eyeing the procession with a condescending air. The expression made Moses set his jaw. The stranger couldn’t be expected to understand how important Master Pyckard had been, and yet to display such disdain was foul when any man was being carried to his last resting-place. Moses could see that others nearby had noticed his attitude and were giving him black looks.
And then his eyes met those of a man who stood hooded only a short distance from the fair man, and he felt a shock run through his frame. This was the man he had tried to save, the one he’d put on the ship to ensure he was protected: the Frenchman. What was he doing here?
Peter Strete wiped his metal pen on his sleeve, pushed it gently into his leather penner, thrust the cork into his inkhorn, and leaned back, yawning. There had been much to do today, and he was content that he had achieved a lot already. Most of the details of the last cargoes were recorded now, as well as the goods which had been rescued aboard the Saint John, and he felt it was time to find some lunch.
He tended to avoid eating lunch within the house. The other servants could be uncouth. There was one man who insisted on picking his nose and flicking the contents away, often speckling other men’s clothing; another could not help but spit and dribble as he chewed, as his mouth had been hit by a sword in a battle protecting Master Hawley’s ship some years ago. All in all, it was less stressful to eat something in the tavern. Today he desired a good capon, he decided, and was about to leave when John Hawley strode into the room.
The Death Ship of Dartmouth: (Knights Templar 21) Page 21