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

Yes. Now all Hilary had to worry about were the other two: Hawley and Kena.

Hawley had been first on the scene when the
Saint John
was discovered, he reminded himself, and Kena wanted more than anything to be able to damage Hawley. Perhaps there was some leeway for Beauley in that. He could set the two of them against each other. And anyone with a brain must see that Hawley was the most likely killer of the crew
of the
Saint John
. He had got there first. Perhaps he didn’t rob anything because he knew other ships were near, including Beauley’s own. The thieving old goat would scarcely have been able to keep his hands from the cargo else.

Perhaps he ought to visit Kena.

Baldwin had been offered a place on a ship to make his journey, but he rejected that in favour of a ride. The roads were appalling from Exeter down to Dartmouth, but the weather had not been too bad in the last few weeks and he hoped that the tracks would be dry at least. With luck it would take only a day and a half. He asked the bishop to send a messenger to his wife Jeanne explaining his delay and reassuring her that he would be home again as soon as possible, and then ordered that his horse be saddled and prepared. After packing his few belongings into a satchel, he walked down into the hall to take his leave of the bishop.

‘You are ready, Sir Baldwin?’

The knight nodded, sitting and drinking a little watered wine as the bishop finished surveying some papers and then passed them to a clerk to deal with. He looked at Baldwin. ‘I have already taken Mass for my servants. Would you care to join me at my chapel? I should like to pray for your success and safety.’

Nothing loath, Baldwin followed the bishop into his private chapel, and the two men washed their hands together before kneeling.

It was a proof of the bishop’s kindliness, Baldwin felt, that he should have asked Baldwin here to join him. It was
rare that he would ask someone to kneel with him. In fact, in all the years Baldwin had known him – eight now – he had never before been asked to pray with Bishop Stapledon. He felt honoured.

That feeling stayed with him all the way from Bishop’s Clyst to Exeter itself, and out the other side as he went over the great spans of the bridge, trying to ignore the foul stench from the tanners’ yards at Exe Island. He was still aware of the warmth of the bishop’s farewell as he rode along the well-beaten trail that led through the bustling town of Newton Abbot and on to the little village of Ipplepen in the early afternoon. He had covered a good many miles, perhaps seven leagues, and his horse was glad of the rest as he asked the keeper at the priory’s gate whether he might stop a short while and partake of their hospitality. Fortunately the priory had only that morning racked off a fresh ale, and he was offered a bench to sit at, bread, cheese and ale. The Augustinian monks who lived there were known for their generosity, and after a good quart and a half of their strong ale, Baldwin was determined to excuse himself and continue on his way, for else he must lose the afternoon’s travelling. He was keen to complete his mission, both so that he could return homewards, and also so that he might reassure the bishop that nothing untoward had happened to his nephew.

‘Ridiculous, anyway,’ he muttered to himself as he checked the girth and pulled a face. This horse was always keen to avoid too tight a strap, and all too often a lazy groom would fail to tighten it properly. Feeling the horse’s head turn towards him, Baldwin met his gaze sternly, then suddenly jabbed a thumb up into the beast’s belly. As he
neighed angrily, Baldwin tugged the girth hard and managed to buckle it two holes tighter than before. ‘Don’t be so froward,’ he grunted as he clambered up and began to make his way beneath the priory’s gatehouse.

The warm glow which he had felt began to fade almost as soon as he left Ipplepen. The hospitality there had been of the best – but only after Baldwin had made a donation to their funds. It was reasonable that a man like him should be asked to make a contribution, of course, but the change in attitude of their hospitaller had been so plain as soon as he had reached into his purse that Baldwin had felt a little insulted.

And yes, it
was
kind of the bishop to give him the comfort of a prayer with him before sending him off on his journey – a sign of his generous spirit – and yet there was something odd in his expression as he gave Baldwin his farewell. To Baldwin’s mind the bishop had looked almost shifty as he said the short prayer for a swift journey and safe arrival. The knight began to wonder at the reasons for the bishop’s behaviour, and the only explanations which occurred to him were not comforting.

Simon returned to his place of work and sat for a long time in his chair while Stephen scratched at his parchments. After some while, Stephen rose and offered to buy some wine for them both. ‘The weather is a little cool,’ he said.

‘What, this?’ Simon asked, surprised. He had loosened his jack because he felt so warm. ‘You have ice in your veins, man.’

‘Perhaps,’ Stephen said with a dry smile. He forbore to
mention that he sat in the full window with the chill gusts blowing through him, while Simon had the benefit of a chair in a draught-free part of the room.

‘Pyckard was in a dreadful way,’ the bailiff said reflectively. ‘I suppose learning that his crew is gone would hurt any man, but he seems to be ruined with this illness too.’

‘I had heard he was dying. He has sunk very quickly in the last few days,’ Stephen said. ‘It’s certain sure that he won’t last much longer.’

‘He spoke of several sailors – the dead man we found, Danny, then two others called Vincent and Odo. There were three from Exmouth, and he mentioned a man called Adam, too, although he seemed to forget him later.’

‘I’ve heard of them,’ Stephen said. ‘Vincent and Odo are well-known troublemakers. They’d fight and brawl with any. There was even a rumour about them attempting a rape.’

‘He said something about that. What of the others? Did you know this Adam?’

‘Everyone knew Adam. He was Pyckard’s best shipmaster. Adam was the sort of man to whom Pyckard entrusted all his most difficult missions – a strong, capable type, and an excellent sailor. He’s the one whom Pyckard will miss most sorely.’

‘There must be other sailors as capable?’

‘It’s not just a matter of competence, Bailiff. Adam was his longest-serving and loyal servant.’

‘So if someone wanted to ruin Pyckard, removing this man would have been very effective?’ Simon mused.

‘Certainly he’ll be missed more than Vincent and Odo.
They were vicious brutes. Few will mourn their passing.’

‘What of this Danny?’

‘He was a good lad, I think. Youngish, with a small family over towards Hardness. Moses was his elder brother, and Adam too was related to him somehow, I believe. They were brothers-in-law, maybe? I can tell you this: Adam was a powerful fighter, and if he saw someone hurt Danny, he’d have made the man pay. He looked after Danny from the day Pyckard took him in.’

‘He was an orphan, Pyckard said.’

‘Yes. His mother had died, then his father lost his life at sea. Pyckard took both the boys in after that, but it was Adam who looked after him really.’

Simon said tentatively: ‘I have heard that some sailors … they miss their women and can fall prey to …’

Stephen laughed aloud. ‘If you’d seen Adam, you’d know that was nonsense! No, he was a kindly man, that’s all. And he’d been devoted to his master from the early days when Pyckard had nothing.’

Simon sighed heavily. ‘Hard to imagine that so many can be taken away so suddenly. It wouldn’t be so bad if they’d all died in a gale, I suppose, but to be wiped out by pirates so incompetent that they fail even to steal the cargo, that is astonishingly pointless and wasteful. Poor bastards!’

John Hawley went up the rope to the ship with the agility of a man who had been a sailor for almost as long as he could walk, climbing hand over hand without pause. Once on deck, he glanced about him at the work going on even as Cynric bellowed that their master was aboard.

‘Cynric – what have you found?’

‘No more bodies, master. There’s some as said they’d prefer not to come here if there were,’ Cynric said with a chuckle. In his belt beside his dagger he had a long end of rope with a heavy knob plaited into the end. He tapped it happily. ‘They changed their minds, though.’

‘Is it obvious whose ship she is?’

Cynric looked at him from the corner of his eye. ‘As clear as you could want.’

Hawley nodded expressionlessly. It wasn’t any surprise. He’d had no doubt as soon as he’d seen the ship on the horizon, and even after the fire, most men from the town would recognise her outline as the
Saint John
. The cargo had been checked last evening, too, so it had been plain enough. If no one had recognised her, he could have claimed the whole value, perhaps. It would have been a good prize.

‘We may be able to claim salvage, of course,’ he wondered aloud.

The laws concerning the sea were variable and confusing even to those who lived by them, but if a ship was lost by her master and then her cargo or the ship herself were rescued, her saviour could claim half the value of the ship and her load. Likewise if she was wrecked, a man who found her could claim half. It was the only way to ensure that wreckage which could be of value to the King was reported.

Cynric was eyeing him again from the corner of his eye, and Hawley sighed, ‘Come on, then. What is it?’

‘You won’t like it.’

‘Maybe not. What’s new?’

‘Your clerk. Did you know he’s been gaming regularly?’

Hawley shrugged. ‘All men gamble every so often. It’s like breathing the air, drinking ale or laying a wench.’

‘He’s been losing a lot.’

‘Oh no! Not at the Porpoise?’

There were many establishments in Dartmouth catering for sailors who might have a couple of pennies to spend, but few, if any, had a reputation to match that of the Porpoise. The men there were without any doubt the worst fixers, felons and fiddlers known to any game which aspired to an element of chance. Hawley wrinkled his nose. ‘Any idea how much?’

‘Pyket reckons he owes them several marks.’

Hawley whistled. ‘I didn’t know he could afford that kind of misfortune.’

‘I don’t think he can.’

‘I see.’ The merchant clapped Cynric on the shoulder, took a last look about the deck then swung over the side again, slipping quickly down the rope and letting himself back into the little boat, which set off immediately for the shore. When it was beached, he sprang out and made his way homewards.

‘Wine!’ he shouted as he walked in, and went through the front room to the smaller counting-house behind. Here he found his clerk Peter running his pen down a long list of numbers, his face scowling with concentration.

‘Ah, master!’ he said as soon as he caught sight of Hawley. He continued to the bottom of the page and carefully scrawled a note with his metal scribe on a waxed tablet, before turning to the shipman.

Hawley grinned at him as he sat on his chair at the far
wall. He had too many enemies to trust an open door at his back, and preferred always to sit with a wall behind him, any doorways before him, and a strong blade always within reach. ‘Come on, then. What’s the best of it and what’s the worst? Any bad news for me?’

Peter Strete was the least likely-looking clerk Hawley had ever met. Usually they were scrawny, tedious fellows, but this Peter fairly bubbled with good humour: a cheerful man with smiling face, rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes, his manner seemed to show that he saw the best in everyone. He was occasionally prone to introspection, becoming a little quiet – usually in the mornings. Hawley now wondered whether those little moods had any connection with his gaming losses?

‘Well, master, I doubt you’ll regret collecting the
Saint John
in a long month of Sundays. If you succeed in winning her whole value, you’ll be taking on a hundred stones of weld, seven barrels of potash, eight hundred iron spurs, three posnets … Not a bad result.’

‘What’s the likelihood that Pyckard can win it back?’

‘Depends how keen he is to bother. Any legal argument is likely to last months. We can string it out, too, so he’s bound to be dead first. Actually, I doubt he’ll bother. It’s a good win for no expense, but there’s little of real value. The main thing is, the ship herself.’

‘Good. There’s no one to dispute our claim either, since he has no family left. Right! Do you arrange for the ship to be refitted at our expense, and we’ll get the thing back over to Britanny and sell her cargo. If she’s still seaworthy, we’ll soon know it. My only concern is, she’s slow. Perhaps it
would be better to have her valued as well, so we can decide whether to sell her off and take the money.’

‘We don’t want anyone taking her, do we?’

‘Like the men at Lyme, you mean?’ Hawley said with a cynical lift of his eyebrow. ‘I don’t think there’s any risk of that. Do you?’

‘No, sir.’ He bowed and walked from the room.

As his servant disappeared into the screens passage, Hawley glanced down at his cash boxes. Strete had no money of his own he reminded himself. All he had was what Hawley gave him. If he was losing money in gambling, he must have found a source of cash.

‘Have you robbed me, old friend?’ Hawley murmured aloud. ‘Because if you have, I swear you’ll regret every penny!’

The arrival of the Coroner late that afternoon spelled the end of Simon’s concentration for the day.

‘You Puttock?’ he boomed as he walked into Simon’s hall, and the Bailiff looked up with irritation from the numbers he and Stephen were so carefully trying to add up.

To Simon, the Roman numerals only made sense when they had been added and the total was already inserted at the bottom of his rolls. Just now, looking at the long list of pounds, shillings and pence, his head was spinning. He could hardly read the difference between one pound and ten on a tally-stick, his eyes were so tired. His response was abrupt.

‘I am Simon Puttock, Keeper of this Port. Who are you?’

The man who had entered stood with his legs set widely apart and gazed about him with an apparently approving expression on his face. He was tall, at least six foot one, and had an almost entirely round face, with a thick bush of beard that overhung his chest like a heavy gorget. His eyes were dark brown and shrewd, beneath a broad and tall brow. His face was criss-crossed with wrinkles, making him appear perhaps a little older than he really was, but Simon was sure he had to be at least fifty. His flesh had the toughened look
of well-cured leather that only a man who has spent much of his life in the open air would acquire.