The Death Ship of Dartmouth: (Knights Templar 21)

by Michael Jecks

  ‘All this talk about me raping a woman – it is a lie! I have not molested a woman in my life. And as for a noblewoman – I could not. I fell in love with a lady, it is true, and I now travel to France to return to my home because I could not touch her. That is all.’

  ‘What if you did rape some woman?’ Law said with suspicion unabated. He wasn’t at all sure about this foreigner.

  ‘Oh, if you believe I did, then call the Watch and have done with me. But let my companion here go to the ship. He is paying for his crime already.’ He slumped down by the wall. After losing woman, master and ship, there was nothing else for him. There was an English expression – ‘fed up’. Well, he was fed up with this land, its people, and with life on the run.

  ‘Law, trust me on this,’ Bill said at last. ‘All right, friend. I reckon you deserve a little better fortune. How about we help you down to the shore and take you to the ship. What then?’

  ‘You’d let him go?’

  Pierre ignored the lad’s strangled cry. ‘You mean this? If you take me to the ship, I swear I will—’

  ‘No – on second thoughts, no promises,’ Bill winced. ‘Let’s just say I’ll feel better in myself if I don’t judge another man’s guilt or innocence. It’d make me feel I’ve done something useful with my life. All right?’

  In the church the body of the dead man from the roadway was still lying next to the coffin of Paul Pyckard. Danny had been buried as soon as the inquest was done with him.

  In stark contrast to the fresh-planed boards of the coffin for the merchant, the unknown man’s corpse was loosely wrapped in a linen winding sheet, through which noisome fluids leaked. The priest was already setting fresh herbs about it to conceal the worst of the odours before it was installed in its own coffin.

  ‘Oh, good, Coroner. I was planning to get this body put away this afternoon. We heard it wasn’t the man Sir Baldwin thought, so my fossor’s been over the cemetery, and he should have a grave ready. It’s a shame, I know, to set a man down in an unmarked grave, but there are times when you can do no more, eh?’

  ‘And I am glad to say that there are times when you can do more, eh, Sir Andrew?’ the Coroner boomed as he nudged the knight at his side.

  ‘Quite,’ Sir Andrew said. He sniffed, then motioned to one of his men, who began to unwrap the head of the corpse. ‘Ah, yes. I know him.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘His name is Guy de Bouville. He was a man-at-arms in the service of my lord Despenser. I knew him quite well.’ Sir Andrew frowned. ‘He was with one of my lord Despenser’s bailiffs, a man called Flok. A bookish, studious knight, he was competent to help with accounts and affairs of law, so he was very useful to my lord. What he was doing here, I do not know. He ought to be up north of the moors, I believe.’

  ‘Well, I am glad. So you are a friend of his?’ the priest asked.

  ‘No. I knew him.’

  Coroner Richard smiled broadly, his beard moving alarmingly. ‘And the good knight here who “knew him” quite well will be delighted to pay for the burial of the body, I am sure. Otherwise Lord Despenser may wish to learn why it was that one of his men-at-arms was not properly treated after death when one of his own servants was here in the area and perfectly ready to do so. Isn’t that so, Sir Andrew?’

  ‘I have better things to be doing with my time, you understand?’ Sir Andrew said stiffly as he pulled some coins from his purse.

  ‘So have I, Sir Andrew. Just now I think I ought to be searching for the bodies from that cog, don’t you?’

  ‘They were all killed far from shore, Coroner. You have no authority in that, do you?’

  ‘Strange how many people keep saying that to me. Reminds me of a joke I once heard. About a terrible story being told in a church in a sermon, and the whole congregation listening burst into weeping and lamentations. All that sort of nonsense. But there was one fellow who was untouched, and the priest turned to him, and said, “Aren’t you affected by this terrible tale of woe?” and the churl responded, “Bless you, Father, no.” “And why not?” the priest thundered. “Well, sir, I’m not from this parish,” the man replied. As though it matters whether you’re from the same parish or not to be saddened by a story of despair and misery.’

  ‘What does that have to do with all this?’ Sir Andrew asked.

  ‘I am not from this parish either, you see. I grow anxious when I learn that a ship’s complement is taken and slaughtered, whether it’s legally my jurisdiction or not.’ The Coroner smiled, his teeth showing brightly amongst the thatch of his beard. And he leaned towards Sir Andrew slightly as he added, ‘In fact, Sir Andrew, I can grow more than simply anxious, I can grow downright choleric. And when I tend to hot, dry humours like that, I don’t give up. Not when threatened, not even when ordered.’

  ‘You would do well to remember that my master is Lord Hugh Despenser,’ Sir Andrew hissed. ‘He would not like to hear that a rural knight has taken it into his head to command one of his own knights, let alone that this knight dared to threaten a man of his household.’

  Sir Richard looked down at that, suitably chastened. Or so Sir Andrew thought at first. When he looked up again and met Sir Andrew’s gaze, there was no fear. His eyes were fixed and unwavering, unblinking in their conviction. ‘I say to you, Sir Andrew, that I am a King’s Officer and cannot be made to turn aside because of your threats. I believe that there has been evil work here in this town and on the seas about it, and I will find the men guilty and bring them to justice. If you do not like my statement, so much the worse for you. But be you the Despenser’s man or the devil himself’s, I care not a whit. I serve the King. You would do well to remember that.’

  ‘Oh, I shall, Sir Richard,’ Sir Andrew said smoothly. ‘I promise you I shall not forget that in a hurry.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Bill peeped around the wall and stared cautiously down the lane towards the haven. In the distance he could still see the cog at anchor, but there was no sign of anyone else. He beckoned with his hand urgently, and the other three slipped down the cobbles towards him.

  He had already been to three taverns trying to find the man whom Pierre called Gilbert, hoping that the seaman would be drinking his dead master’s health still, but there was no sign of him. Pierre prayed that Gil was on the ship already, and hadn’t disappeared somewhere else.

  ‘There’s no one about,’ Bill said with a frown. ‘I suppose many must be in the gaol watching the captured sailors, while others are in the taverns praising their courage in catching such a prize. Others will still be at Pyckard’s wake. So, maybe you’ll find it easier than you thought to get away.’

  ‘I am very grateful to you, my friend,’ Pierre said earnestly. ‘I am sorry that you have been given so much trouble at my account.’

  ‘Just make sure you escape and that’ll be enough for me,’ Bill said gruffly.

  ‘I will do my best,’ Pierre smiled, but not without anxiety. He kept throwing looks at the ship, hoping that there was not a trap there. It would be all too easy for a man to sit up there and wait for him. And then they were moving down the hill as swiftly as they may. There was a short interlude when Bill ran into a low shaft that projected from a wall, and had to stop, hugging his shin in silent anguish, but then they were off again, and soon they were at the end of the alley. From here Bill could glance in both directions up and down Lower Street, and he saw nothing to give him concern. There was no one about.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said, and set off for the shore. His plan was to borrow a boat, row the two out to the ship, and then bring the boat back. No one would be harmed by the loan, and hopefully it would not be noticed as missing. Down on the shingle they went, and soon selected a fair-sized craft. Law helped Bill to turn the thing right way up, and then they all carried it to the water. Here they put it in, and all clambered in, only to realise that it was resting on the stones with all their weight inside. Grumbling, Bill and Law climbed out again, and this time they pushed the l
ittle vessel into deeper water, standing up to their shins, and tried to climb in again. Law hopped up and tumbled in headfirst, and Pierre had a job turning him upright again. Bill attempted a more elegant entry, but almost caused the boat to tip over. At last he was in, and then, as the boat began to drift, the men smiled at each other for a moment before their smiles froze. There were no oars.

  Swearing low and mean, Bill jumped back into the water. It was almost to his armpits now, and he grabbed the painter and pulled the thing back towards the shingle. When he was far enough in, Law jumped out with a great splash and missed his footing, disappearing from view. He bobbed back up, spluttering, and hastily made his way to dry land, drenched and shivering. Soon he was back with two large oars, and at last the four were on their way to the ship.

  It was harder than Law had realised to steer a little vessel like this one. He had thought the things must be easy, because no sailors ever had trouble, and it wasn’t as though sailors were particularly bright, by and large. For some reason, though, as Bill pulled his oar, the boat bobbed and dodged, and then seemed to go its own way.

  ‘There is a small group of men at the shore watching us,’ Pierre said with restrained anxiety. They were pointing at the four, and one man was all but hopping from foot to foot. ‘I think one is the man who owns this boat.’

  ‘What do you expect us to do about it?’ Bill panted.

  Gradually the thing began to come under control. It was much like a small pony in many ways. It would go its own way, but after having its head a while, it would obey them. Slowly but surely they were approaching the great Saint Denis, and at last an enormous shadow fell over them all, and they were in the lee of the huge hull.

  Pierre grabbed at the rope ladder, clambering up the side of the ship. At the top he risked a quick glance all about him in case of ambush, but there was nothing he could see that indicated danger. That in itself should have been warning enough.

  He swung himself over the sheerstrake and landed inelegantly on the deck, his ankle twisting slightly, and his attention was distracted as Hamund pulled himself over and sprawled at his feet. The Frenchman reached down and took his wrist, helping him up.

  ‘Ah, ain’t that sweet?’

  Pierre turned. Three sailors he didn’t recognise were standing at either side of the mast. Thoughts of springing to the ladder and escaping were quashed as he saw the rowing boat already returning to the shore. He spun back, reaching for his sword, determined to sell his life as hard as he may, but as he moved he heard Hamund shriek, and grew aware of more men rushing towards him from his left. He pulled his sword free, but as he did so, a rope whipped about his legs, weighted with lead that whirled and cracked into his shin. It was tugged, and even as he tried to maintain his balance, he felt himself topple, and must throw his arms out to break his fall.

  A man stepped on his sword; he saw Hamund try to pull the leg away, but Hamund was knocked aside with contemptuous ease, his face running with blood. Then Pierre rolled to his back, reaching for the dagger at his belt, even as he was hauled along the deck by main force, and another fellow gripped his wrist firmly.

  ‘Evening, Frenchie!’ he heard, and then a cudgel slammed into his head and Pierre felt the decking open up and swallow him into a pitch blackness.

  Strete was already at the tavern at the time when Hamund and Pierre were captured. The little chamber behind the main hall was small and noisome, but the fug of sweat, damp wool and sour ale was to him the very epitome of hope and possible fortune.

  ‘You want more?’ the dealer said. He held up the knuckles with a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘No, no. I’m only here to repay my debts,’ Strete said with a comfortable smile.

  He could feel nothing but satisfaction as he took out his new brown purse and withdrew a handful of coins. The eyes of the sailors in the room were avariciously fixed on his hand. They knew how much strong ale that handful of coins represented, and he could almost hear their minds considering his good luck in possessing so much.

  As they should. These men were really contemptible. They thought they were so clever because they could sail, and they thought that the fact that they could brawl and lift heavy weights made them better than a man like him. Well, they were mad if they believed that. They called him ‘only a pissy clerk’. He’d heard them! Yes, he’d heard them. When he was unlucky and lost a little money, they were all scathing about him, as though the fact that a man made a small loss once in a while made him inferior. But at least he knew that soon his luck must change, while they only gambled because they thought they must always win. More fool them!

  ‘It’s enough?’

  ‘Yes, that covers your debt,’ the man with the knuckles declared. ‘So, you want to play again?’

  ‘I have work to do,’ Strete said easily. He thrust the spare coin back into his purse and, smiling, set it back dangling from his belt. ‘You carry on.’

  It was in this bar that he had learned what had happened on the ship all those years ago. Danny and he had been here, and Vincent and Odo were drinking hard, back from a sailing to Guyenne for wine, when a short fight broke out. Amongst others, Vincent and Odo were ejected from the tavern. It was a regular enough event, just an average afternoon’s squabbling.

  It meant nothing to Strete, and he continued drinking, watching the gambling in the corner, thinking he ought to join in, when he saw Danny’s face. ‘What is it?’

  ‘That noise! It’s terrible!’ The lad was petrified – literally! He was fixed there as though nailed to the floor, his face appalled.

  ‘What is that?’

  As Strete asked, there was laughter from the roadway outside, and Vincent’s voice came loud and clear. ‘Ripe like a French whore, eh?’ and then there was a scuffle, a resounding crash, a sudden sharp scream and the noise of bare feet running. Madam Kena had been attacked by the two in the street, and it was only when Adam saw Vincent and Odo trying to hustle her into an alley that he realised what was happening. He called to some of Kena’s men who were also in the tavern, and they ran after the two, who left her and pelted away.

  ‘That noise,’ Danny said, white-faced. ‘They had her mouth covered!’

  ‘Wouldn’t want her screaming in the road, I suppose,’ Strete agreed.

  ‘That moaning – it sounded like the ship …’ Danny’s voice halted. It had not taken long for Strete to understand his fear. And then he had been able to capitalise on Danny’s anxiety by asking him to remain quiet until he, Strete, could speak to his master. Calling her a ‘French whore’ indeed! They shouldn’t have said that.

  The man shook the knuckle bones in his hand, setting them rattling, and then threw them across the floor, and all in the room peered forward to see the score. It was a game of raffle, in which three knuckles were thrown, and if they all landed the same, or if there was a pair, the next player must throw a higher pair or trio.

  ‘This is ridiculous!’ Strete said to himself. He shook his head and began to leave the room, but even as he did so, he was itching to know what the man had thrown. Common sense told him to leave and return to Hawley’s house, but it surely couldn’t hurt to drink one ale with these men. They were such fools, all staring down at the knuckles. And the score was useless. The man must lose, no matter who went against him. No, it would be silly, when he’d just covered the amount he’d borrowed from his master’s chest, to run the risk of losing more. He watched as another man threw. This time the knuckles were unlucky. They did not even equal the first throw.

  ‘Let me show you how it’s done!’ he shouted at last.

  ‘Bailiff, I am happy to present you with the man you’ve been hoping to meet,’ Hawley said. His men brought in the body and set it on the floor, not gently. ‘Why it took you and that fool Sir Andrew so long to find him, I don’t know. I laid a trap and caught him. Oh, and two of the paviours who’ve been in a fight on the shore, too. They may need help.’

  Simon’s brows dropped as he heard this. ‘You attacked them
?’

  ‘No. The owner of the boat they stole to deliver these two men to the ship attacked them,’ Hawley said easily. He cocked a leg over a stool and rested his backside on the table. ‘All we did was stop the fight when the two were already still on the ground.’

  ‘How did you get him?’ Baldwin asked, walking around the figure lying on his back on the floor.

  ‘I paid the master of the ship to let my men wait there. Cynric stayed on board with them, and when this disreputable-looking fellow appeared, Cynric knocked him down and brought him to me.’

  ‘That easy?’

  ‘If you know the man to bribe, life is always that easy,’ Hawley said comfortably. ‘Do you have a pail of water?’

  Simon bellowed for Rob, who soon returned carrying a leather bucket. At a nod from Simon, he up-ended it over the snoring man’s face.

  There was a spluttering, and then Pierre started to roll over. He lifted himself on all fours, shaking his head and moaning softly.

  The room was dark, and he could scarcely hold his head level, but where he expected the planks to move with the ship’s rolling, these felt firm. Not that it helped his head. He felt as though he had been drinking ale all evening, and his belly was unsettled. He could be sick at any moment, and then his head ached abominably too, and his eyes felt swollen and gritty, as though he had been awake too long. ‘Who has done this to a poor traveller?’ he attempted at last.

  ‘What is your name?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘I am Sieur Pierre de Caen.’

  ‘What are you doing here in Dartmouth?’ Simon said.

  ‘I am returning home. Is it illegal for a man to go to his homeland?’

  ‘It is said that you have raped a woman.’

  ‘That,’ Pierre said, slowly turning until he was seated on the floor, ‘is a lie. Ask my mistress.’

  ‘Who is she?’ Baldwin asked.