The Death Ship of Dartmouth: (Knights Templar 21) (6 page)

Simon was sitting in his favourite chair when John Hawley entered. ‘Master Hawley, good day. You have a rich prize, I see.’

‘Has your man told you about it?’

Hawley was a bluff, sturdy character. His eyes were as grey as Simon’s, but in Hawley’s there was a glint of steel. He had a reputation for fearlessness in the face of the elements, which was a good trait for a ship’s master, but there was another aspect: utter ruthlessness to those who stood in his path. It was rumoured that during the recent crisis in relations between King Edward II and the French King Charles IV over that place – Saint Sardos or somewhere; Simon wasn’t sure exactly, but the two nations had gone to war over it, wherever it was – Hawley had made himself some good profits by taking a privateer’s papers and capturing all the ships he could. There were many. Those which were owned by the King’s allies were supposed to have been freed and their crew unmolested, but there were strong suggestions that this Hawley, with his ‘Devil take you’ attitude and the quizzically raised eyebrow, had occasionally forgotten that rule.

He was shorter than Simon by a half head at least, and his
shoulders weren’t so broad, but for all that Simon would not have liked him for an enemy. He wore his short sword with the easiness that only professional masters of defence could emulate: it was a part of him, whether sheathed like this, or gripped in his hard, leathery fist.

Crossing the floor to Simon, Hawley held out a hand, and Simon stood to take it. Both nodded, each respectful of the other, if wary. They were aware that their objectives and ambitions were entirely different.

Respect was easy with a man like this. There were men of the sea whom Simon had known who knew nothing of ships and coasts, men who depended on their navigators and crew to keep the ship safe. They were invariably slothful, drunken fools, in Simon’s mind. Not so Hawley. He had been living aboard ships since he was a lad, and as the years passed, he had grown knowledgeable of all the coasts, if the stories were true, all the way down to the Portuguese king’s lands. Simon could imagine him being entirely uncompromising in the face of cowardice or incompetence. He was a determined man, as bold and daring as any knight, but less constricted by the code of ethics which so many knights claimed to espouse.

Not that many lived their lives constrained by them, if Simon was to be honest.

For the rest, Hawley was rich, as demonstrated by his crimson velvet cote-hardie, and the softness of his linen beneath. If salt had marred his hosen, they were still made of good, thick wool, and his shoes were of the best Cordovan leather. It made Simon feel tatty in his old robe from last year. Since the death of the abbot, he had not felt
it was the right time to ask for the annual replacement that was the perquisite of his position.

‘I saw it for myself,’ he replied now. ‘It was burned?’

‘Aye. All above decks quite badly, although below there’s little damage. There’s a stench of oil all about it, but I think much didn’t catch, by fortune.’

‘Do you know whose ship she was?’

‘She has the lines of the cog
Saint John
, one of Paul Pyckard’s ships, but I can’t be sure without looking through her more carefully.’

‘You mean your men didn’t?’ Simon asked with a slight smile. He wouldn’t call the man a liar, but it seemed unnatural for such a bold seafarer not to have looked.

Hawley stared at him blankly, not returning the smile. ‘We were sailing from here to Bordeaux as part of the fleet.’

Simon nodded. The haven was more empty than usual, because recently all the shipmasters had been ordered to sail in groups for their own protection. Since the opening of hostilities once again with the French, it was necessary to protect ships from the depredations of French privateers.

‘It’s a journey we’ve made often enough, Bailiff, with a hold filled with wool and tin amongst other things. Lots of produce to sell, and we should have made a goodly profit. Then, last night, when we’d only made a day’s journey, we saw the gleam of fire in the distance as the light faded. I ordered the sails to be reefed and sailed for her, wondering what had happened, whether this was a random act of piracy – you know what those French are like.’

‘Yes.’ Simon did. They were exactly the same as the man in front of him.

‘When we got closer, there was no sign of another ship. All we knew was, this cog was ablaze. So the first thing we did was stop the fire. I reckon what happened was, they soaked her sails in oil and put a torch to them, thinking the whole ship would go up in flames in an instant, but it takes a bit more than that to put paid to an old ship like her. It’s like burning stone, when the timbers are so well weathered. As her attackers sailed away, though, they’d have seen roaring flames, and maybe thought she was gone.

‘It took a long effort, hurling water from all the buckets we could grab,’ he went on. ‘We put paid to the worst of it by dropping a sail over the side, lifting it on the windlass, and aiming it filled with water over the worst of the fire. Then it was a case of climbing over there and putting out all the smaller ones.’

‘It can’t have been a pleasant sight.’

‘A ship in such a state is never pretty.’

Simon allowed a fixity in his stare. ‘I meant the people.’

‘There were none.’

‘What?’ Simon asked, unsure whether he had heard aright.

‘That’s correct, Bailiff. There was no one aboard. There’s already talk about her being a death ship, that the devil’s taken her crew.’

Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was sitting on his throne-like seat in the hall of Exeter’s Rougemont castle listening to the cases before the court of gaol delivery, at which the felons would be delivered from the gaol either to freedom or death,
and was delighted when the last case had been heard and justice passed down.

It was the hardest part of his function as Keeper of the King’s Peace, this listening to the miserable churls who passed in front of him. They were invariably fools, or brutal outlaws who should preferably have been throttled at birth, rather than being left alive to harm others. One in particular, a devil with one eye and a ferocious scar through his empty socket, spat when he heard the sentence of death, and swore he’d see the justices in hell.

Baldwin knew the case intimately. The man had stolen from a miller near Tiverton, killing the poor man in front of his family, then raping the mother and a daughter, before stabbing them both. The mother died, the daughter still lingered – although Baldwin was sure that her broken heart would never heal and she must die within a year and a day. And why had it happened? Because this man had taken offence at an innocent comment passed by the father. He was a foul creature, and the sooner he was dead the better. Others, though, did
not
deserve their punishment.

With that thought in mind, Baldwin scarcely noticed the man calling to him until he had almost walked into him.

‘Sir Baldwin? The bishop would like to speak with you.’

‘Oh? I shall come with you, then,’ Baldwin told the young cleric in black garb. ‘It’s only a short walk.’

‘He is not at the palace just now, Sir Baldwin, but at his manor at Bishop’s Clyst. He begs that you will join him there.’

Baldwin winced. It was late already, and he had hoped to be finished in time to ride homewards to see his wife and
Richalda, his daughter. Lady Jeanne was six or seven months into her pregnancy, and he was attempting to spend as much time as possible at her side while they waited for the day when their latest child might be born. ‘Very well,’ he said reluctantly.

‘I have already asked the grooms to prepare your horse, Sir Baldwin. I hope that wasn’t presumptuous.’

It was. Baldwin gave him a long, steady look. ‘I suppose not. No, it was sensible, if we are to go and visit my lord Bishop. Do you know whether it is a matter of business or simply for conversation that he wishes to see me?’

‘It is not a matter of pleasure, I fear.’

Baldwin nodded and grunted, marching to the inner ward.

Exeter’s castle was important as the administrative centre of the city, still, but from up here, gazing about him, Baldwin could see that the defences were falling into decay. The towers had been roofless for forty years or more, and the dereliction was becoming noticeable. Three of the towers had begun to collapse a few years ago, and now were little better than shells. If the city was held under siege again, as it had been so often before, the place could not withstand a single strike from a modern trebuchet.

It was a sobering thought. He swung up onto his horse, contemplating the walls and small piles of rubble from collapsed masonry. Two hundred years before, this had been strong enough to hold out for months when King Stephen besieged it. Now it wouldn’t last five minutes. Even the immense ditch and curtain wall were useless, the one filled, the other crumbling. And no one would do anything about it. It was that which made him most bitter. This was an
important castle, deserving of a little money to bring it up to standard, but no one would pay. It was so short-sighted, especially in these difficult times.

Putting it from his mind, he clapped spurs to his mount’s flanks and clattered over the old drawbridge.

It was not far to the bishop’s manor. The two men left by the east gate, then took the Heavitree road south-east, passing by the gallows on the way. Baldwin averted his eyes from the bodies hanging there.

By the time they had reached the new bridge to Clyst St Mary, Baldwin was looking forward to refreshment. It was only a few minutes’ ride to the bishop’s little manor, and soon they were rattling the boards of the drawbridge that spanned the small moat. Ahead was the hall itself, while left was the chapel. Baldwin had only been here a few times, but he knew it well enough. The stables were on the right, and he dropped from his horse, giving orders to the cleric to have the beast rubbed down carefully before he was fed, and strode off to the entrance to the hall.

‘Sir Baldwin, I am glad to see you.’

The bishop was a tall man, slim in build, and with a face that Baldwin privately felt had seen too much deviousness. Bishop Walter had spent too many years involved in the politics at the heart of the realm, supporting those who had sought originally to curb the King’s worst excesses, first by imposing rules on him, a course of action that was doomed to failure as soon as the King felt himself powerful enough to break with those who tried to enforce the rules; and more recently as the King’s ally. He had been responsible for the realm’s finances as the Lord High Treasurer, and even now
Baldwin knew he was a trusted confidant.

That, Baldwin found difficult to comprehend. To be an ally of Edward’s was to be an ally of the Despensers, father and son, both called Hugh, and Baldwin could not forgive any man who sought to aid them. Little better than licensed thieves, they were felons who could extort, steal, arrest, torture and murder anyone without fear of restraint. Yet the younger was the King’s closest friend and – so it was rumoured – his lover.

In all the years Baldwin had known him, he had held the bishop in the highest respect. He was an old-fashioned cleric, perhaps, but Baldwin had thought him honourable and compassionate. There was nothing in his dealings with the man that had led him to alter his opinions. Yet now the good bishop was supporting the King and the Despensers.

‘My lord Bishop, I am glad to see you looking so well,’ Baldwin said.

Stapledon held out his hand for Baldwin to kiss his ring. ‘Don’t be sarcastic with me, old friend. I’m sixty-three years old now and – by God! – I feel every one of them.
Wine!
’

Baldwin smiled casually, and was surprised when the bishop did not reciprocate. His face was pale and unsettled. He wouldn’t meet Baldwin’s eye directly, and that was most unlike him. It persuaded Baldwin not to speak openly about any political affair. As matters stood, any who spoke against the Despensers were likely to find their homes raided, their wives raped and tortured, children slain, and all that they prized ruined. He would not put his wife and children at risk even at the cost of alienating an old friend like Stapledon.

‘I am tired, Baldwin. Trying to keep the peace between
the King and his wife Isabella is like trying to mould water. You can make it take shape, but as soon as you remove your hand, all falls away! The latest plan on Despenser’s side is to make all the barons and lords swear an oath to him, saying they’ll live or die with him …’ Stapledon grew silent as the door opened and his old bottler entered with a tray on which were set out jugs and goblets. The bishop waved his hand and the man left after putting the tray on the table.

‘What would you do?’ Baldwin asked.

Stapledon eyed him, then picked up a parchment and peered at it short-sightedly. With a grimace, he reached into his robe and took out his spectacles, which he opened and held to his eyes. ‘I would have peace in the kingdom – first and foremost between that unhappy pair, the King and his Queen. The old King should have realised when he made them marry that sealing a pact with France was sure to lead to sadness. How could any man expect his son to find happiness with a Frenchwoman? We know what happened to her sisters-in-law. That was enough to kill her father.’

‘You speak of the affair of the silk purses? Yes, as I recall, she was the instrument of their downfall,’ Baldwin noted.

‘True enough,’ Stapledon agreed heavily. ‘I have seen her accounts, and she took ten torch-bearers with her to the French king to tell him that night. I think she was shocked by the result, though. All her sisters-in-law imprisoned, one dying so soon afterwards. And the men – to be killed like that …’

‘I have heard some of the story,’ Baldwin said, ‘but it was during a period when I was exercised with other matters.
Perhaps you know more?’

Stapledon took a gloomy sip of his wine. ‘It was in 1313. I was with her and the King. Isabella had travelled to France with her husband to try to heal the rift that had opened between the two kings. You remember all that? Edward was passing over gifts to Piers Gaveston, his … friend.’

Baldwin smiled at his diplomatic pause. Rumours of the King’s affection for the man had been heard by the meanest peasants. To hint at such an affair could cost a man more than money, though, and there was never any way to tell whether a servant could be listening. Baldwin could not help glancing at the door as he motioned to the bishop to continue.