The Death Ship of Dartmouth: (Knights Templar 21) (28 page)

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.

‘I have to be off,’ he announced. ‘Everyone’s going to Pyckard’s funeral. Quickly: where are the accounts?’

Peter brought out his rolls again. He set to quickly, explaining what he had done, and then ran through the calculations of the values of the items again.

‘All good,’ Hawley said. ‘What of the money?’

He always kept tight control of the cash in the house. Any merchant had to be careful about the total amount he held at any time, but Hawley was more cautious than most. When he needed it, he must have money to buy in goods. There were always deals to be struck with the cloth-makers in Totnes, and if Hawley didn’t buy their goods, others would. There had to be enough ready coin to pay for surprise purchases.

‘We have plenty,’ Strete chuckled. ‘There will soon be even more, too. The salvage of Pyckard’s ship will be very profitable.’

‘Good. Now, how much do we have presently?’

Alred felt the guilt of it. Bill could see that, and although he tried not to condemn his friend of so many years, it was hard not to.

‘I didn’t have any choice,’ Alred said again. ‘What else could I do?’

Law nodded. ‘I’d have done it if you hadn’t.’

‘He probably killed the man in our hole,’ Bill admitted. ‘So I suppose he deserved to be captured.’

‘Yes. We made a mistake when we knocked that fool on the head and saved him last time. We couldn’t do anything else.’

Bill took a long pull at his horn of ale. It was the sort of thing Alred would worry at for ages, like a hound with a tree-root, trying to pull it loose in vain, because the tree was too large. Alred felt guilt about his action because he knew too well that the man he had betrayed would die if found by Sir Andrew. There was no doubt in their minds of that.

‘He didn’t look like a rapist,’ Law said judiciously.

‘How can you tell what a rapist looks like?’ Alred snapped. ‘Any man can let himself fall foul of his humours and attack a lady. You don’t have to be a churl to fancy a tumble with a pretty wench and push your luck.’

‘He deserves to be caught, anyway,’ Law said, ignoring his bitter tone.

‘I wonder what they’ll do,’ Bill said.

‘What do you mean?’ Alred asked suspiciously. He could tell Bill was not convinced that his actions were justified, but then Bill had always been against anyone in authority. Bill had had one or two run-ins with the law, and both times he’d lost a lot of money, which was why he was working for Alred now and not a paviour on his own. No, he just didn’t trust the law or the men involved in administering justice.

‘Only that he’s on the ship now, so will they storm it and
take him from it, or will they try to catch him by getting him back on shore?’

Law gaped delightedly. ‘You think they’ll try to take him on the ship? Let’s go and watch!’

‘Oh, Christ’s pains! Will you shut up!’ Alred snapped with a burst of frustration.

He stood and strode from the room irritably, and Law turned to Bill. ‘What’s his problem?’

‘Can’t you see what he’s done?’ Bill said with asperity. ‘He’s sent that Frenchman to be hanged. He’ll die now.’

‘So? If he hadn’t raped the woman, he wouldn’t have anything to fear, would he?’

‘If he
did
rape someone. How do you know he’s guilty? All we have is the word of this knight. Even when a man’s taken to a court, you can’t trust the witnesses,’ Bill said bitterly. ‘A rich man can bribe anyone he wants to get the result he desires. So all Alred’s done is send that man to be hanged to save our skins – even though he doesn’t know if the Frenchie was guilty or not. How do you think that makes him feel?’

‘Who gives a rat’s cods? I reckon he’s guilty,’ Law said.

‘And you’re so wise you can read his guilt?’

‘I can see what’s before my nose as clearly as any.’

Bill’s jaw jutted. ‘Sometimes, boy, people make mistakes and the wrong man is convicted.’

‘If he had nothing to fear, he wouldn’t have run away to here. Only a man with something to hide does a runner.’

‘Maybe he just knew that if he didn’t run, hotheads would assume he was guilty and kill him?’

Law curled his upper lip back from his teeth, his brow
creased. ‘What are you on about? Look, that French scrote tried to get his hand up a lady’s skirt, it’s as simple as that. If he was innocent, he wouldn’t have run, would he? Come on!’

‘Come on,
ballocks
! Don’t you ever wonder why I’m here? Why I don’t have my own business? I was hunted once, boy. Yes, me! Another woman was raped, and because I was on the spot, they tried to blame me for it. And I had to flee for my life because the man who’d actually done it said he’d seen me. He was rich, so I couldn’t stay to tell the truth. No one would have believed me. No, so I had to run, and all my property was taken.’

‘What are you doing here now, then?’

‘I’m safe now. I abjured the realm, and I only came back when I was given a full pardon. But a pardon doesn’t mean you can recover all the property you had to give up. Yes, I am safe, but I lost everything. So don’t tell me that justice is fair, boy. It sure as hell isn’t.’

‘Just because you ran off doesn’t mean this one’s innocent, does it? If you’d stayed, you’d still have all your property,’ Law said cockily.

‘If I’d stayed, I’d have been hanged.’

‘Yeah, sure.’

His open amusement, his smile of disbelief, made Bill’s face redden with anger. ‘You think I am lying, you little turd?’

Bill couldn’t help himself. He lashed out with his fist. It caught Law on the nose, and the lad was flung over backwards, crashing against a table and knocking the jugs and horns higgledy-piggledy as he went, arms flailing.

‘You mad bastard!’ Law said, shaking his head like a
wetted hound. His fingers gingerly went to his nose and he wiped it with the back of his hand. ‘What did you do that for?’

Bill slumped back in his chair. ‘Just don’t judge men. Don’t judge me, don’t judge the Frenchie. You don’t know what he’s done. You don’t know what I’ve done. You have no idea!’

‘Go and swyve your mother!’ Law spat, standing. The blood was trickling from his nose, and he sniffed, his head tilted back slightly as he tried to stem the flow with his sleeve. ‘Sweet son of God, you’re mad today, just like Alred. I don’t have to stay here and have you punch at me, you old prickle!’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Out! I’ll go watch that foreign sod getting taken on the ship. I expect they’ll have him already. Maybe he’s hanging from a mast, eh? Probably dancing his last right now, and I’ll be glad if he is. You may not trust people, but I’d trust an Englishman over one of them Frenchies any day. You’re just weak because you’re old, Bill. You’re
too
old!’

‘Come back, lad,’ Bill said tiredly. ‘Look, I shouldn’t have hit you. I’m sorry about that. It was just frustration. I’m sorry, all right? Now sit down, and we’ll wait for Alred to come back.’

‘No –
you
wait. And when he gets back you can tell him why I didn’t want to stay with you. Christ’s cods! There’s a bad smell about the place while you’re in here!’

Law pushed past Bill, left the tavern and walked down an alley to the water’s edge, where he sat on a log and stared out at the ships in the haven.

‘Sod them both, stupid old gits,’ he muttered, and threw a stone spinning into the water.

Hawley ran his finger down the roll and checked off the figures. Then he slapped his purse. ‘Where’s the strongbox? I need more money. I’m off to the funeral of poor Pyckard today, and have to make a decent donation.’

Peter nodded and took his key, opening the great chest behind his desk. It was solid ship’s oak, built by Henry Pyket, of old planks from a ship he’d repaired, the bands of iron beaten by Hawley’s own smith, the locks cut and filed to size by an expert in Exeter. Lifting the heavy lid, Peter took up a leather sack filled with coin from the pile within.

Hawley took it and glanced into the chest. He turned, but then hesitated and slowly went back to it, his face betraying a certain doubt. ‘I thought there would be two more sacks?’

Strete felt sweat break out on his back. ‘I don’t think so, master. Do you forget the two which went to the men victualling the cog ready to sail? It’s all in the account.’

‘Oh, I see. That’s good, then,’ Hawley said. ‘Right, I’d best be preparing myself for the funeral. Don’t forget to lock up.’

He walked out, and Strete drew a long sigh of relief. When his master had seen that the sacks were gone, he had
thought he was about to be discovered. As soon as he could, he would put the money back in the chest. It would only take one more win …

Only a short while ago he had been close to winning enough to repay the whole debt. He had enjoyed a near-miraculous run of good luck at the gaming, and it was only when fortune turned against him that he realised he’d lost almost all his profit again. Thinking that his luck was on the turn, he had borrowed another sack. One more game or two, and with some heavy betting he’d recover the lot, and hopefully no one would ever know that he had stolen from Master Hawley.

But the clerk’s relief was short-lived.

‘I’m early still. Before I go, shall we check the contents of the chest?’ Hawley said.

Peter sat bolt upright. His master had returned and stood in the doorway watching him. ‘What – all of it?’ he gulped.

‘Yes. Why don’t we start adding up the coins?’ Hawley said with a thin smile, and Strete looked out at the sunlight in the street, giving a nervous grin.

‘There isn’t really time, is there, master? Not if you’re going to the funeral.’

‘I think I can make the time.’

Strete heard a sound at the door and glancing up, saw two sailors standing and staring at him with grim expressions. He felt a terrible sinking sensation in his belly. It grew worse as Hawley glanced at his belt. ‘By the way, Strete, that is a good new purse. Have you found some money to buy that?’

Pierre watched the procession slowly walk past, the bell tolling mournfully as they all went, and he bowed his head respectfully, remembering the man who had saved his life.

‘For God’s sake, let’s get back to the ship!’

‘Hamund, be calm. There is no need to hurry anywhere,’ Pierre said. With his hood over his face he felt invisible, and perfectly secure.

‘Oh yes, there is! I am an abjurer, and if I’m found here on the land I’ll be hanged. I don’t need to die, do I, to satisfy your curiosity about this master of yours?’

Pierre was about to reply with a stern reminder that the deceased had saved both their skins, when he saw a face he recognised. ‘Hamund,’ he hissed, ‘do you see the man behind me, he with the fair hair and the smile? You see him – with three men about him?’

Hamund shot a look over his shoulder. From here the four men were in plain view, and he could see the fair man in their midst. ‘He looks like a nasty piece of work.’

‘He is! His name is Sir Andrew de Limpsfield. He has no heart, and is only interested in that which can advance him. If he heard you had swallowed a ring, he would paunch you to see whether it was really there,’ Pierre said with a chill certainty. He was torn now. He was keen to go with Master Pyckard’s body to the church to pray for the soul of that good and kind man, but he also wanted to see where Sir Andrew was going and what he was up to.

‘You’re making a joke, aren’t you? Do you really know him?’

‘He is the most evil man I have ever met.’ And Pierre took Hamund’s shoulder and led him away from the crowds.

Hamo the cooper had finished making and mending the last of the barrels for the cog, and now he was rowing them out to the
Saint Denis
, ready for her sailing.

‘Ahoy! Anyone up there?’

He sat on the thwarts gripping his oars and staring up at the stern of the ship towering above him, waiting. It was a long while before a face appeared above him and a thin, tremulous voice called down to him. ‘Who’s that? Oh, it’s you, Hamo.’

‘Having a nice sleep, were you? Where is everyone?’

‘Didn’t you hear that Master Pyckard died? Most everyone from his crews will be with him now in the church. He was much liked, was Master Pyckard,’ the man said and burped.

Hamo vaguely recognised him. ‘You’re Dicken, aren’t you? Look, is there anyone else aboard? These barrels are full of fresh water. Gil asked for them. They’ll be the devil’s own job to pull up without a bit of help.’

‘There are some men up at the prow. Wait there.’

Hamo grimaced, muttering, ‘
Wait there!
’ to himself in a falsetto imitation of the man’s whine, adding in his normal voice, ‘Where else am I going to go, you blasted moonstruck fool?’

As he waited, he gazed idly about him. From here the two towns that had united to form Dartmouth were clearly visible and distinct. Each climbed the hills on either side of the cleave that was the mill pool, the white houses a series of rectangles. He could see the mill and the mill’s wheel, and could just make out the line of dark-clad men walking
slowly up the hill to Tunstal from Hardness. Bowing his head reverently, he crossed himself as he thought of Master Pyckard.

The men should have appeared by now. He had a sudden suspicion that the fellows on board were drinking the health of their dead master again, and he was about to shout up at them when he saw some boats – three long-oared vessels moving quickly through the water towards him.

Of course there were boats all over the haven. There was nothing unusual in that, but Hamo saw something glinting from them as they came, and he frowned, uncertain. It was odd for lighters to be moving so swiftly in such a busy haven, and although they all looked low in the water, it seemed to be more because they were full of men, than because there was a heavy load of goods aboard them. And then, as he watched, he saw a man in the prow of the first boat draw a sword and point it towards him, and he felt his stomach churn … and then rage filled him as he realised these men were about to board and attack the cog.