The Death Ship of Dartmouth: (Knights Templar 21) Page 12

  Before anything else, Baldwin decided he would visit Simon and tell him about his mission on behalf of the bishop. If there was anything odd happening in the town, his old friend the Bailiff would be sure to know about it.

  Simon dressed himself slowly and went out to the privy. After performing his morning’s routine in the little hut, he pulled his cloak about him and went to the wall at the bottom of his garden.

  This was one of those perfect September mornings, the sort he had always loved on the moors. The weather had broken, and the fierce blast of the sun had abated somewhat. Now the air was fine and clear, the bushes filled with ripe berries. Simon’s little plot held some apple trees, brambles and pears, and all were bent with the weight of fruit. He would have to get someone to come and collect it all, for there was no possibility of his idle, good-for-nothing servant managing any such thing.

  Good gardeners were always a trial to find. Men liked to boast that they were good at gardening, but in truth it was mostly their women who knew about the plants. The men spent too much time at sea or in taverns to learn much about anything other than tying knots and throwing up, in Simon’s rather jaundiced view. He could do with someone out here, though. He looked casually over the wall into the garden beyond the back lane. That was tidier, and as he peered nosily, he could see a maid gathering the last of the year’s peas ready for drying.

  The lane went nowhere. There was a gate at the southernmost end, but that was kept locked to bar access from draw-latches. However, the attempt at security failed because some while ago the northern gate had been broken. Simon considered it was some poor fellow last winter who was desperate for firewood. No one had mended it in the last year or so, and now all too many people used the lane as a toilet. There was a familiar stench about it now – the sour, musty smell of faeces. He scowled. In the end he’d probably pay someone to come and clear it.

  For once the mists had not swept up the river to engulf the town, and the sun could shine down on the newly limewashed buildings, all painted to protect them during the winter weather to come. Standing up here, Simon could see along the line of the shore from Hardness to the north, down to the curve in the river that led to the open sea. Even up here there was a constant thrumming on the wind, the sound of thousands of taut ropes vibrating and setting masts humming.

  ‘BAILIFF! WHERE ARE YOU?’

  At the hoarse bellow, Simon winced, and then reluctantly turned back to his house. He only hoped that the Coroner would soon be finished here in Dartmouth.

  Chapter Eleven

  Moses threw open the shutters to his master’s room and looked back. Master Pyckard was in a dreadful way now, with his parchment-like flesh and grey lips. His skin looked as though it had been covered in a thin layer of wax overnight, and his eyes were dulled, while his breath rattled.

  ‘Master?’ Moses asked gently. He edged nearer to the bed, very close to sobbing. When he first came here, it was because his father had been lost at sea. His mother was already dead, and Moses and his younger brother Danny had nowhere else to go. The only childhood memories he had were of this house, because as soon as the parish had announced that they were without parents, Pyckard had come and taken them in.

  It had been the luckiest day of Moses’s life, and he would never cease praying to God for the soul of this kindly man. Paul Pyckard had rescued him and Danny from a life of poverty, misery and an early death. Both Moses and Pyckard knew it, and both knew the depth of the debt, although neither had ever referred to it. There was no need.

  ‘You have been a good servant, Moses. I am sorry to leave you.’

  Moses felt as though his throat would burst under the strain of unshed tears. ‘I am glad you’re happy, master.’

  ‘I will not live much longer. My affairs are in order.’ His face wrenched with a spasm of pain, and he collapsed. ‘Ach! God save you from such agony, Moses.’

  ‘Can I fetch you anything?’

  ‘Ale or wine, I don’t care which – but hurry!’

  Moses scurried to the jug and brought it back. He held Pyckard’s favourite goblet to his mouth while the man slurped clumsily.

  ‘Moses, my friend, this is the worst. A man gets used to being able to pick up a drink, stab a slice of meat or wipe his own arse, but the nearer he comes to death, the more he behaves like a muling brat. I feel pathetic. I was once a man with power and authority, damn my eyes!’

  ‘You still are, master. You have many who love you, you have—’

  ‘When I have died, I want a tomb that shows what I am really like. Just a sack of bones, that’s all,’ Pyckard said without noticing his servant’s comment.

  Moses bowed his head and wept, both for this man and for those other parents long lost to him and Dan.

  ‘Don’t cry on my account, lad,’ Pyckard said with some asperity. ‘I’ve not yet gone.’

  His tone made Moses grin through his tears.

  ‘I wish I didn’t have to leave you alone, lad,’ Pyckard said more kindly. ‘I know you miss your brother.’

  There was no one now. He had lost his mother, father, brother, and now his master. It felt as though the whole of his own life was close to ending. Moses sank his head into his hands.

  ‘Aye, well,’ Pyckard coughed. ‘I’m the last of my line, so perhaps I shouldn’t be sad to hear that one man grieves for me. At least you still have nephews and nieces, eh? Ach, this pain! More wine, please. Thank you!’ He rested his head a short while, staring up at the ceiling. ‘Moses, look after him. He reminds me of her. Will you do that for me?’

  Moses said nothing, but he nodded emphatically as the tears coursed down both cheeks. Pyckard lifted his hand and patted the young man’s head absently. ‘And now, perhaps you should fetch me the priest, old friend. My son.’

  ‘ALL THOSE WHO HAVE BUSINESS HERE, DRAW NEAR!’ Sir Richard de Welles bellowed.

  He stood at the front of the gathering men, arms crossed over his enormous chest, both arms partly covered by his beard, and eyed the crowd appreciatively. ‘My God, Bailiff, they may be seashore peasants, these, but they can dress well. D’you think any of ’em aren’t pirates?’

  Simon burped, all too aware of the acid in his belly grumbling away, and tried to grin. ‘I don’t know about that, Sir Richard. They are generally law-abiding down here.’

  ‘That’s because they refuse to acknowledge any laws they don’t approve of,’ the Coroner muttered knowledgeably. ‘NOW LISTEN TO ME! CAN YOU ALL HEAR ME AT THE BACK?’

  Simon closed his eyes and shivered as the roar died away. At that moment it would have taken little to persuade him to pull out his dagger and end the Coroner’s life.

  The freemen of the town were all present, and Richard and Simon’s clerk soon made a selection from all there of the men who would be required for the jury.

  ‘That’s better!’ Richard said happily. ‘I wouldn’t want to have to shout all day. Now, do you all swear on the Gospels to answer my questions honestly? Yes? Good. Does any here know this man?’

  There was a noticeable silence following the question. The jurors stood shuffling and avoiding each other’s looks.

  ‘Are you seriously telling me that a young fellow like this is completely unknown in the town where he’s died?’ Coroner de Welles demanded. ‘You two – come here!’

  The lads he had pointed at were a pair of grinning teenagers who had come along to enjoy the spectacle.

  ‘Undress him.’

  One of the boys, a slender, dark-haired fellow, looked down at the body, his grin frozen upon his face, while the other stared at the Coroner in shock. ‘Us?’

  ‘Get on with it!’ Richard de Welles had occasion to use one of his famed scowls. He was proud of them. They invariably succeeded in persuading the reluctant or recalcitrant to obey him, and it worked again now. While the darker of the two slowly climbed down into the hole with his lighter-haired companion, in order to heave the body out of it, the Coroner began talking again.

  ‘Hear me, now!
This man was found lying as you see him now. Be careful with him, there, lad. He’s suffered enough! You can see his head was resting alongside that large cobble there, as though he had fallen and broken his head on it. Except that would mean he fell in backwards. It’s possible he did – that someone pushed him, and he struck his head, say. But I doubt whether he just toppled back into the hole and happened to kill himself. More likely he was attacked and fell in. So that means it may be murder, and someone here in the town knows what happened.’

  He glanced down at the two lads in the roadway. ‘Haven’t you got him out yet?’ he snapped.

  Simon would have found the sight amusing, were it not for the feelings of cold and heat that chased themselves through his frame. He felt much as an old man would, after sitting too long, his muscles complaining and bones aching. Just now, all he wanted was a rest, with plenty of time to close his eyes. Instead he was getting over-familiar with yet another corpse.

  ‘Bailiff! Come and look at this!’ the Coroner called. He was pointing down at the corpse’s naked breast. Simon looked. There was no stab wound, but clear on the breast stood a large bruise. Even as he watched, the Coroner reached down and pressed. ‘Ha! Yes, someone clobbered him good and hard. The bones are broken. And yes! – if I press the man’s skull, the whole side caves in. Look, I’ll do it again. Did you all see that? Haha, and there’s not much doubt there, is there … Oh, mind that. Sorry, didn’t expect his juices to squirt like that …’

  Mercifully, as Simon spun on his heel, his attention was taken by the horse trotting along the roadway from Hardness and he heard no more.

  ‘Baldwin! Thank God!’ he managed, and then had to leave the inquest to go to the tavern a few doors away, and demand a strong ale urgently while he waited for his friend.

  Hamund Chugge had reached the area above the town as the sun gained its highest point, and he passed through the fertile lands until he came to the bottom of a hill. Here there were some thick woods, and he made his way through them, tramping on stolidly until he reached the top of the hill. Suddenly, the trees stopped and he could see the river laid out below him, and then, as he surveyed the land, he saw the glittering sea.

  He could only stand and stare in astonishment. Hamund had never been near the coast, and the largest mass of water he had ever seen was the Taw River as it passed by his old home. It was nothing in comparison to this, though. This, if proof were needed, showed that God’s power was absolute. It was daunting to think that before long he would be sailing on that twinkling expanse to a new land. Terrifying.

  As the sun scorched the ground about him, he gradually came to his senses again and set off, awed, following the road. It took him down past a little church, St Clement’s, and the village of Tunstal, and then down Tunstal hill itself and into the town of Hardness. He made the sign of the cross as he passed by the chapel of St Clarus, and then found himself at the water’s edge.

  It was tempting to kneel and dip his hands into the water. There was a suck and slap of little waves as he watched, and the boats which had been left beached on the shore were moving and shifting as the tide came in. It was also here that he began to smell the familiar stench of fish. Fishermen were cleaning and gutting their hauls, mending nets, salting and curing their catches, and they stopped and stared at him as he passed by, curiosity and suspicion mingled on their tough, tanned faces.

  He could feel their eyes on him all the way as he walked southwards along the shore, gritting his teeth against their condemnation. A man carrying a cross like him, clad in a pilgrim’s tunic, with only a staff and a bowl, was marked out as a felon. An Abjuror.

  A little way further on was a bridge of solid wood across the creek that fell from the ravine, and he crossed it, staring with fascination at the water-wheel set in the middle. It trundled slowly, making the entire bridge vibrate alarmingly, but what was most peculiar, he thought, was that although the stream must surely have led from the land to the sea, the wheel itself was revolving the other way, turning as though the sea was flowing towards the land. It was a wonderful sight – and rather scary. He peered down at it for a few minutes, but then his courage failed him and he had to stop his feet from taking him pelting across the planks towards the other side and the towns of Clifton and Dartmouth.

  Once there, he wandered idly along near the shore wondering where he might go to find a shipman.

  There had been nothing concealed about his murder of Flok. There were all too many witnesses. According to them, he had entered the inn with a face filled with malice. Seeing the man at the far side of the room, he marched haphazardly across the floor, plainly much the worse for drink, until he reached Flok and could stand staring at him. The inn was a small place, and had only three stools for clients, but Flok had taken one and two more for the men with him, a man-at-arms, Guy de Bouville, and a clerk. All the villagers who lived and worked about here were standing.

  Someone said that Flok had sneeringly asked whether his new servant should return home, he was so incoherent with ale. ‘Don’t serve him any more,’ he had drawled. ‘I don’t want to have to get the churl carried back!’

  ‘I’m not your servant, I’m servant to Lady Sarra,’ Hamund enunciated carefully.

  ‘Your master’s dead, and I shall be your master soon, man. Now leave this place. You are an embarrassment. You will have to improve your manners if you want to avoid a flogging when I arrive to take the manor.’

  ‘I’m a freeman!’

  ‘You’re a drunk – and now you’re also servile again, churl. You’ll do exactly as you’re told!’

  It was then that Hamund set his jaw and pulled his knife free. His first blow slashed Flok’s hand to the bone; the second stabbed into his shoulder, and caught in the socket, but the third finally ended the man’s screaming when he plunged it into his black heart, and Flok fell straight back, his heels rattling on the floor for some minutes.

  De Bouville had his hand on his hilt, but he hadn’t drawn his sword. He stood before Hamund uncertainly, his eyes going from Flok’s corpse to the bloody knife in Hamund’s fist. The clerk had left his stool, and was now pressed with his back to the wall behind him as though wishing he could melt into the cob.

  Then de Bouville made to unsheath his weapon, but before he could pull it free, Hamund had picked up Flok’s drinking horn and hurled it into the man’s face, followed by a heavy pottery jug slammed into his skull. He fell instantly.

  Hamund walked away slowly, his blade waving from left to right, suddenly drained. Outside, he stood a moment or two in the cooler air, his mind entirely blank. Only when he heard hoofs did he realise his danger. A groom from the inn was leading a rounsey, and he pressed the reins into Hamund’s fist, hissing, ‘Go! Go!’

  He stared at the leather in his hand dully, and then, as the first shouts came from inside, and he heard horns begin to be winded, Hamund shoved his knife back in the sheath, leaped upon the beast, and clapped heels. The horse surged forward, and Hamund covered the distance to the manor in a few minutes, dropping to the ground in the court and hurrying inside.

  ‘My lady, Flok won’t evict you,’ he panted. ‘I have killed him.’

  She hadn’t believed him. Not at first, anyway. And then the shock came into her eyes, although there was also delight. He was sure he could see that there too; and then the light of joy faded. Both knew he couldn’t remain. Despenser would soon come to avenge this slaying.

  ‘You must ride away!’ she burst out.

  ‘I can’t leave here. Not now,’ he said. His mind was too fuddled to think straight. All he could consider was that he had a stolen horse. ‘Must get the thing back.’

  ‘You’d worry about a horse when you’ll soon be killed for murder?’ she urged. ‘Go, man. Go with God, but ride!’

  She was never so beautiful to him as she was that evening. Her hair awry, hanging loose from her coif, her bright blue eyes dulled with sorrow and reddened with tears, her perfect white skin soft and smooth, the cheeks tinged wi
th colour. He could have worshipped her. ‘I can take my fate, mistress.’

  ‘Sweet Mother of God,’ she muttered, and then had three of the servants carry him. ‘Forget you have done this,’ she commanded them as the men took the protesting Hamund across the road, over the field, and quickly up the old roadway to Oakhampton. There they deposited him inside the church, kneeling at the altar.

  ‘This man has killed, Father,’ Lady Sarra said to the priest as she slipped coins into his hand. ‘Listen to his confession, I beg you, and give him sanctuary.’

  It was three days before he saw her again. The Coroner had already visited him and asked whether he would leave the sanctuary and see him to admit to his crimes, but Hamund had refused at that time. He had some days of sanctuary permitted before he need walk into the open. And in those days, he saw much of his mistress Sarra.

  At the end of thirty days, he agreed to abjure the realm. The Coroner came with his jury, and before them all, in the churchyard, Hamund swore to leave the land. His route was defined as the road to Dartmouth, and he was instructed to get there as quickly as possible, and to take the first ship that would bear him away. And if there were none on the first day, he would walk into the water in proof of his good faith and desire to adhere to his oath, and he would do likewise on every following day until he found a ship. And if he were ever to return to his native land, any might behead him without fear of punishment.

  Guy de Bouville had been there, his swarthy features black with anger. His fingers twitched about his sword hilt as Hamund took his cross and left the churchyard, and Hamund was sure that it was only the group of Lady Sarra’s men about him, ringing him, that stopped the other man from pulling out his sword and running Hamund through. De Bouville himself would almost certainly escape punishment – he was from Despenser’s household.

  No, there had been nothing concealed about his murder of Flok, and he had walked without concealment ever since he had sworn to abjure the realm, obedient to his vow. But now, as he looked over the waters towards the other side of the estuary, he knew that his action would not help Sarra. She had been given warning that her home was forfeit. Despenser wanted it, and what Despenser wanted, he would have. So Hamund had acted in vain.