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.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Hamund and Pierre had reached Normandy after some days of travelling, Hamund gazing about him with some trepidation at this, his new land.
Their path would take them beyond Caen and out into the countryside, Pierre told him, and they must continue walking for another two or three days, so they rested in a tavern for an evening before preparing to set off the next morning.
Hamund was astonished by Caen. The bright yellow stones were beautifully carved and created marvellous, airy buildings that seemed to float over the great city. Even the taverns and inns seemed exotic and wonderful. He spent the whole of the first afternoon in France gaping at the architecture.
‘You will be happy at my home, I hope,’ Pierre said. ‘You will need to learn the language of my people, but that should not take long. It is so much easier than your own.’
‘I’m glad of it,’ Hamund said. He was sipping at a French beer that tasted very bitter to him. He wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be like that, but from the way that the Frenchman drank his own off happily, Hamund assumed it was all right. He sipped a little more.
‘We are safe now,’ Pierre said. He spoke in a soft voice, thinking back to his lovely woman. Living with her would have been more dangerous, but there would have been compensations.
Hamund nodded, but dolefully. ‘I can never go back, though. I’m exiled.’
‘Hamund Chugge may never return to his home, no. But you may,’ Pierre said.
‘Any man may kill me if I go back.’
‘I think you will find that everyone thinks you are dead. When you swam from Andrew’s body, everyone assumed you had drowned. They thought that on the ship, and I am sure they will have thought that on the boats, and on shore too.’
‘I only dived down so no one would attack me with an arrow or something,’ Hamund said.
‘Do you not see? You were out of view as you swam about the ship and climbed up the far side. All there will have declared you dead. You are safe now, my friend,’ Pierre said.
Hamund blinked. It was not something he had considered. ‘Well, no matter. I think I’m safer here. Even if it is sad to think of her I left behind.’
‘Yes. I understand your sadness,’ Pierre said. He drank some more beer. ‘My own life is easier because of your action, though. When you killed my mortal enemy.’
‘He was an evil devil. I could not let him take you,’ Hamund said stoutly.
‘He would have killed me. I think he did not look at you, so he never saw his danger,’ Pierre said.
‘He must have hated you to chase you to Dartmouth.’
‘Yes, he hated me,’ Pierre agreed. He said no more, but in his mind’s eye he saw her again: Sir Andrew’s beautiful wife Jeanne. The woman Pierre had loved for so long. He sighed. ‘Come, let us finish our drinks and rest. Tomorrow we set off at first light. It is still a long walk to my home.’
Hawley looked about him on the jetty as he waited for his rowing boat to arrive. It was a grey October morning, and a fine mizzle was blowing straight in from the sea – a thin spray that would make all damp in a short time with this wind behind it.
Hearing steps, he glanced over his shoulder. ‘Master Beauley! How goes it?’
‘Not bad. I have just ordered a new hull to be laid. I hope before long I shall rise even to your level, master. Perhaps I shall have as many ships as poor Paul Pyckard, but with larger tunnage.’
Hawley smiled without humour. ‘Best be careful you don’t have any fires aboard ship, then. We wouldn’t want any accidents, would we?’
‘Don’t you worry about me, Master Hawley. I feel sure I’ll be safe enough.’
‘I do hope so,’ Hawley said. ‘It would be very sad to know that you had failed to expand as you wished. I am glad to hear you are laying a new hull, though. I was thinking of doing that myself. Perhaps I won’t bother. There won’t be enough men here in Dartmouth to crew all these ships, will there?’
Beauley bared his teeth in what might have been a smile.
Hawley looked up. ‘Ha! Here’s my boat.’
The little rowing boat approached from the south, and in the prow stood Hawley’s son.
‘Father, I’ve brought him as you asked.’
‘Master Pyket! I am glad to see you here,’ Hawley said, reaching down to help Henry Pyket up from the boat. ‘You know my friend Beauley, I think?’
‘Of course we know each other,’ Beauley said. ‘He’s building me a ship.’
‘Is he?’ John Hawley said innocently. ‘Why, Henry, I didn’t know you had the capacity for two ships at the same time.’
Pyket frowned. ‘I haven’t. I’ve ju
st got the one on the go right now, master.’
‘You hadn’t forgotten my commission?’
‘Of course not!’ Henry said emphatically, wondering what commission that was. Perhaps Master Hawley wanted an older cog docked and careened. Some of his ships were ancient enough.
‘Good. So you can begin to proceed soon?’
Henry shot a look from him to Beauley. ‘Ah … um.’
‘You’re building my ship first, aren’t you?’ Beauley demanded, getting nettled. He shifted his stance to face Hawley more directly, his hands near his belt. ‘Henry, you have agreed to build my ship next.’
‘I see – there’s been some sort of misunderstanding,’ Hawley said easily. ‘I had asked Henry a while ago to build me a new ship. The plans are agreed. Perhaps he didn’t realise that the commission was to begin as soon as possible.’
Henry felt both pairs of eyes on him as he fidgeted uneasily. ‘I … er.’
‘So that’s agreed, then,’ Hawley said.
‘No!’ Beauley stated. ‘He’s building my ship first, Master Hawley. I ordered it and he accepted the commission.’
‘No, he’ll build my ship first,’ Hawley said. He snapped his fingers, and three of his men appeared from the alley at their side. ‘I am the most successful merchant in Dartmouth, and I will remain in that position.’
Moses stood at the entrance to his brother’s cottage and watched as the children played in the garden. It was cool here in the early October breeze, but the sun gave a spurious feeling of warmth. He was aware of a vague feeling of returning ease. Ever since Danny’s death, and then the death of his master, he had been tortured with a sense of loss. He had known nothing like it since first his mother, then his father died and orphaned Danny and him. For many years, the only meaning to his life had come from his service to the man who had saved them both.
He heard steps behind him, and turned as Alice walked to the turf seat in the wall. She sat listlessly, staring past him to the Dart as it flowed down to the sea.
‘How are you, Alice?’ he asked gently.
The Death Ship of Dartmouth: (Knights Templar 21) Page 38