The Death Ship of Dartmouth: (Knights Templar 21) (11 page)

‘You see a difference in me?’ Pyckard asked as he led the way down the passage.

‘I confess, I was surprised to see how you have changed, master.’

‘It began some weeks ago. At first it was just a bit of a pain in my belly, and I grew short of breath.’ As if to confirm his point, he wheezed and coughed wretchedly. ‘No, I need no help, I thank you. After a little while, the pain began to grow. Ach, and now it’s with me the whole time. I cannot concentrate at all.’

‘You’ve seen a physician?’

Pyckard threw him a look that combined contempt and annoyance. ‘I am not so poor that I would seek to save money at the cost of my life, Bailiff.’ He continued on his way, leading Simon into a large parlour at the rear of the house, where he walked painfully to a large chair, sinking into it gratefully.

‘Sir?’

‘Yes. You want a drink?’ Pyckard asked.

The servant who had opened the door so nervously stood by the buttery at the far side of the room. Simon asked for ale, and Pyckard a quart of wine, and the man disappeared. At least Simon could now comprehend his trepidation. The whole household must be in fear of the thought of the death of the master.

While he waited for the drinks to arrive, Simon studied the room. It was obvious that Pyckard had enjoyed a successful life. His walls were covered in rich hangings, one a set of three hunting scenes that gleamed and glimmered in the light. His hearth was paved with bricks, while the rest of his floor had been tiled, the cost of which Simon could only wonder at. High overhead there was a louvre arrangement
which was opened and closed by pulling on a rope. A sideboard with three shelves displaying highly polished pewter tableware added to the sense of opulence in the room.

The man himself was clearly unaware of it all. He sat uncomfortably, wincing every so often, shifting in his seat, grunting and sighing. His fingers rapped on the arm of his great chair as though in time to some internal music. When the drinks appeared, he grabbed for his jug, almost spilling the wine down his breast, and poured a large gobletful, all but draining it at the first draught.

‘Master Pyckard, it’s plain that you aren’t feeling well. Would you prefer me to come back later?’

‘That, Bailiff, could be a waste of your time if you tried it,’ Pyckard said with a twist of his lips that was intended to show humour. ‘I may not be here for much longer.’

‘This pain abates somewhat through the day?’

‘There are stupefactives which my physician has given me, but they work less and less well. No, there is no cure and no means of preventing the pain. I’ve confessed, and that took a weight off my soul, which helps a little.’ He looked past Simon’s shoulder to the tall window beyond. ‘There is some peace from that.’

‘Something you did in the past?’ Simon wondered.

‘Something that’s none of your affair, Master Bailiff!’ Pyckard snapped, but not rudely. He squirmed in his seat again. ‘So ask away. It’s what you’re here for!’

‘It’s your ship – the cog
Saint John
. I’d heard that there was nothing taken from her. Is that right?’

‘So far as I know, yes. I haven’t been to inspect her
myself, of course. I don’t think I could walk so far. Christ alive! It is hard enough for me to walk to my door and back. Only two days ago I could walk about the town – but now? Nothing!’

‘Does it not trouble you that the ship was taken and her cargo left aboard? That to me seems most strange.’

‘There are many strange things in life, Bailiff. The
Saint John
was one of my older vessels, so perhaps these pirates decided she wasn’t worth the capture once they’d taken her.’

Simon tried to keep the disbelief from his voice. ‘You are suggesting that mariners would take her, and then leave her to burn, still with a valuable cargo on board, because they thought she was too old and not worth their time? Surely they’d have seen that from the outset? If the craft was not worthy of capture, they would have left her.’

‘You are not a man of the sea, are you, Bailiff? Let me explain. The ship was perfectly well worth taking from the point of view of the cargo, but she herself was –
is
– old. Perhaps they saw the second ship arriving and knew there was no time to move all the cargo from the
John
to their own ship. And the
John
is a slow beast. Seeing a faster ship appear over the horizon, they may simply have sought to destroy evidence of their crime. It could have worked, were Hawley and his men less fast and seamanlike.’

Simon fiddled with the long tongue of his belt, which dangled over his thigh. ‘Master Hawley caught the ship and put out the fire in a very efficient manner.’

‘He’s a good man, Hawley.’

‘It was fortunate that he appeared at that moment.’

‘Yes. But it was on the main route we both use.’

Simon nodded. ‘Do you have any idea who could have attacked her?’

‘On the open sea? Are you joking? It could be any one of a hundred hundred men. There are pirates from all over Normandy, the Breton lands … they come here and pick off what they can all the time. They’ve stopped their raids on the shore now, but our ships are always at risk. Then there are the men from our own coast. If a ship from a Cinque Port saw a ship in danger, it might wonder whether it was worth taking her and stealing the cargo rather than helping her to port.’

‘What of the men of Lyme?’

Pyckard shrugged. ‘It’s possible, I suppose. Yes. They have had arguments with us for many years now. It’s only two years since the last fight. Probably about time one of us was caught by them.’

‘Is it so normal for you to fear the people from other towns?’ Simon asked. He
was
still very new to the ways of the sea, he reminded himself.

‘Those daft buggers from Lyme have no comprehension of the rules of the sea or of land. Well, what can you expect from a bunch of peasants from Dorset, when all’s said and done.’

‘But why should they pick on your ship?’

‘I think it all began when some Dartmouth men found some rich fishing fields. When the men from Lyme heard about it, they barged in and tried to take the fishing from them.’

‘I see,’ Simon said. This was one of those disputes that had started in the mists of history, and which was kept alive
by a number of unscrupulous folk who saw benefit in being able to steal from others who had worked for their rewards. ‘And the last fight was two years ago?’

‘About that. They helped the men of Weymouth and Portland when those thieving churls robbed a Plymouth cog. They took the ship, killed the men aboard, stole all the goods and scuttled her.’

‘Is it normal for them to sink an enemy’s ship?’

‘What else do you do with it if the thing’s clearly recognisable? Better to burn and sink her than leave her as evidence of your crime.’

Simon was tempted to ask whether Pyckard himself had engaged in such actions, but somehow this did not feel like the right time. The man was looking weaker and weaker, and his hand, as he reached for his wine, trembled like one who had the ague. If, as he had said, he had already confessed to his own crimes, what was the point in Simon’s asking too? He wasn’t going to be around for much longer, for good or ill.

‘There was nothing on the ship that would have tempted a man to rob it?’ he tried.

Pyckard’s hand stilled, as though he was concentrating with a massive effort. Then the goblet rose to his mouth, and he slurped at it thirstily, as if it was an elixir that could save him. ‘The cargo was all there – I’ve already said. There was nothing too valuable, anyway. The more expensive items I’d saved to be sent on my next sailing.’

‘And the crew were all dead. No one remained?’

He sighed and sat back again. ‘Apparently so.’

‘How many crewmen were there?’

‘Eleven all told, I think. The master and ten more. Yes, eleven.’

‘What can you tell me about them? Who were they?’

‘Oh, the master was Adam. I regret losing him, for he was my best man. He’s been with me for years. I trusted him with my life, and many times he has repaid my trust. Then there were Odo and Vincent, two men I’ve also known since they were young. They were rough and ready types, but sound in the ways of the sea. They were brought up to it from childhood, so it’s no surprise. They certainly knew how to sail, but they were bastards on board …
and
on land!’

‘Why do you say that?’

Pyckard stared at him and, for a moment, Simon thought there was genuine hatred in his eyes. ‘They would drink and fight, or even try to rape women in the town. I will not miss them, the churls! But there are others who deserve to be mourned: like young Danny from Hardness. He was an orphan I took in some years ago, along with his brother Moses, when his father died at sea. He always wanted to follow his father …’ his gaze turned inward sorrowfully, ‘and I suppose he has had his wish, poor Danny. There were others – three brothers from Exmouth I’ve used for many years … Why do you need to know?’

‘What of the others? That’s only half of them.’

With asperity, Pyckard spat, ‘There were men from Hardness, and some few from farther afield! Strangers, all of ’em. That black-hearted piece of hog’s dung Kena bought up four or five of my men just as the ship was sailing. I had to find new crew in a hurry, damn him! Who are they? I don’t know. I’ll see them in hell soon, so I’ll ask them then! Right
– what more do you want to know? I’ve told you most of them. The rest are dead, so their names hardly matter, do they?’ The merchant settled back and closed his eyes, drawing several deep breaths. ‘I am sorry, but this slow death is exasperating! A dagger in the throat would be preferable to this drawn-out torture.’

‘I am sorry, Master Pyckard. I am just trying to understand what could have happened. So you can think of no reason why the ship should have been attacked?’

‘Wrong, Bailiff,’ Pyckard said, but his voice was weary rather than bitter. ‘I can think of many. There are lots of people who might like to ruin me by destroying my ships and livelihood. Kena hates me, and he likes to thwart me. Perhaps
he
had
his
men take my ship – and then the cowardly sot saw a sail on the horizon and ran away before he was caught. You take your pick, Master Bailiff.’

Hilary Beauley swung himself from the ratline over the sheer and onto the rope ladder, letting himself down into his boat. ‘Cast off,’ he ordered.

The little vessel lurched under the strong pull of the two oarsmen, and he was soon on the beach at Hardness. Here he sprang from the craft onto the shingle and set off homewards.

His house was less impressive than those of Kena or Pyckard, let alone Hawley, but he was happy that he was making enough money. Soon he would have another ship, and then he could begin to expand his contacts, start to import more valuable goods, take tin and cloth further afield, bring back spices and dyestuffs. The things that made a man wealthy.

Others he had grown up with had taken to business of different forms. For him, though, the only thing that mattered was the quick route to riches. He had studied merchants when he was young, and as soon as he could save, he had invested in a mercantile venture to Portugal. The wines brought back had not been so successful as the Gascon ones, but he had hopes that if the French remained in Gascony, as they threatened, the value of foreign wines
would naturally increase. Until the Portuguese realised that, he could make a lot of cash. And it was easier than following the convoys. Damn that – in convoy every man was under the eye of his competitors. No one liked that.

His ship was almost ready. He’d looked to its fittings with care, and now, with a sudden injection of money, he had enough to order the new ship as well. Plans were being drawn up with the shipwrights, and when they were ready, he’d be able to order it. The new one would be a bigger ship, a cog of forty or fifty tuns.

The threat of war with France was worrying, of course. Like all the other merchants, he depended on the money which trade with Gascony brought in, and even if he kept his Portuguese interests going, there was always the danger of fresh piracy. The Bretons were very competent sailors and their fast boats could be a significant hazard to a merchant vessel. The fate of the
Saint John
would soon be forgotten. That was nothing: if the Bretons caught a ship, it’d be wholesale slaughter for the crew and the theft of everything on board. The money which one cog like her would bring to a small French fishing community could not be ignored.

As soon as war was declared, all the town’s ships would be pressed into the King’s service, too. Usually Edward would pay quite well, by the tun, but there was no saying how long it would take before the money would start to come in. Even if Beauley lived, it could be months or years before the King made good the debt. And by then, the ship could be sunk or stolen. War was a fickle master.

No, best look to making money while he could and try to avoid being pressed into the King’s host. Perhaps he could
ensure that his competitors were called into service rather than him. After all, other men had larger ships for transporting horses and men, while if smaller landing ships were needed, his was rather too large. The dangers of bringing an army over the water were well enough known to all. With any luck, his vessel should fall between the two stools. Especially if he was careful to make clear that the others in town had better craft for raiding as well.

The others would do the same to him if they had a chance. And he was shrewd enough to know that this was exactly what they would attempt: a brief talk with a government procurer, perhaps with a bribe as well because the devils were venal to a man. Well, if that was what the likes of Hawley, Pyckard and Kena would try, so would he.

Hawley, Pyckard and Kena … Pyckard would soon be no threat; he was dying, and anyway, since the loss of his wife in that squall in 1309, he had been a weaker man than the others. They were still fighting to be the most important merchant in town; while he had given up. Oddly, he had developed more of an interest in the future since his imminent death had become so obvious. A man didn’t need an oracle to foretell his end. It would be very soon now.