Michael Jecks - The Death Ship of Dartmouth

‘Perhaps you should become an advisor to the King,’ the bishop went on. ‘You should go to Parliament.’

Baldwin shuddered. ‘I hope I shall always do my duty, but God forbid that I should be forced to such a pass! I shall seek the Frenchman for you, and I shall be happy to learn where your nephew is. Tell me, what does this Bernard look like?’

That morning, Simon had woken with a feeling that all was not well. He lay back in his bed and rubbed his eyes blearily. From the open window came the fresh smell of damp soil, and he was sure that it had rained overnight. He listened to the rattle and bump of carts, and hoofs clattering on the cobbled street, and above all, the steady thrumming of ropes in the wind. It was a sound that was all-pervasive here, with so many ships lying in the haven, and Simon was almost accustomed to it now.

The sun was still low in the sky, so at least he had not overslept. Scratching at a bite under his armpit, he wondered vaguely what it could be that seemed so strange to him. It was only when he gazed about and saw there was no smoke, that he realised his fire was not yet lighted, and he growled angrily.

Without a doubt, he was the unluckiest man in the world, to have been plagued with such a pathetic, god-forsaken churl as young Rob.

When he had first arrived, he had known that he must take on a servant, and it had seemed a good idea to get a fellow who was young and quick to learn. Rob he had found by the simple expedient of asking the woman next door if she knew of anyone. She had been happy to recommend the son of her own maid, and soon Rob arrived.

Scruffy the boy was certainly, but also sharp-eyed with a weaselly face, like a small ferret forever seeking the next rabbit. He was clad in a simple tunic, a leather jerkin and cowl, and bare-footed like so many who lived near the ships. Boots cost money, and when the sailors disdained such wastefulness, many of their children had to learn to do without too.

Simon had never heard of a husband to his neighbour’s maid, and he suspected that Rob was one of those lads who was born as a result of a ship coming to the haven for a brief stay. They said that many sailors had women in every port — the truth was, many had children too.

Rob was about as conscientious as any lad would be. He was lazy, slow to rise in the morning, always hungry and feeding himself from Simon’s larder, and invariably not near when he was needed. Like now. He was still in his bed with his mother, no doubt. Simon was tempted to march in there right now and tell the good-for-nothing fool that he was no longer needed, but that would entail searching for another brat. God’s ballocks, he didn’t need that!

Rising from his bed, Simon padded about the room. He poured water from a bucket into a bowl and rinsed his face as best he could, cleaning under his armpits and round his neck. His chin was badly stubbled — he’d have to go to the barber again. It was an annoyance, having to shave every couple of days to keep looking presentable. Still, every man had that problem. He dried himself on his shirt, then pulled it over his head. His tunic went over that, and he sat back on his bed to pull on his hosen, first his left leg, binding the laces that held it up, then the right. A cote-hardie over the top, and he was ready for the day. The fire was stone cold, and he kicked at the ashes of the night before with a brief anger before storming out.

In the street, he took a deep breath. There was a mist in the air, and its cool freshness reached down into his breast and set a tingle deep in his lungs. It made him feel like a reborn man and, smiling, he turned to his neighbour’s door and banged on it briskly. He recognised this door from halfway down the road, the hinges squeaked so badly. Why they didn’t put some grease on the hinges, he didn’t know. Today was no different.

‘When Rob’s awake, could you tell him that if he’s this late again, he’ll be without a master?’ he said with a cold politeness to Rob’s mother, and marched down to the pie shop with a spring in his step. A large jug of morning ale and a pie, and the morning would surely start to improve.

It was only as he sank his face into a foaming beaker of ale that the conversation of the day before returned to him, and his eyes became more introspective.

The last thing Dartmouth needed was a new squabble with an old enemy.

Why should the Lyme men have attacked that ship? Surely it was more likely French pirates?

Or a local ship with a gripe against Pyckard and his men? he wondered. Merchants were always bickering among themselves. Perhaps he should speak to Pyckard, just out of interest. See what he had to say about it.

Alred woke at almost the same time as Simon, but his head was so full of loose pieces of iron that they rattled with every movement. He opened an eye experimentally, then snapped it shut in a hurry. There was nothing worth looking at that way, and if he attempted to turn over, he ran the risk of his head falling off.

God’s teeth, but his head hurt. There was nothing quite so bad as a head like this first thing in the morning, he told himself. Then he reflected he was a liar as the gripes from his belly kicked in. Urgh! He knew he should have eaten something before going and drinking so much. He said it to himself every damned time. It wasn’t too much to remember, was it? Except by the time he realised it was a problem, he’d always just woken up with a belly that felt like this … He hurried to his feet, hitched up his belt, gave a pained hiccup and fled outside to the open air.

Odd how fresh air makes a man feel better most mornings when he’s been taking a little too much. It was that way now. He had felt ready to throw up in there, but now, with the smell of the sea in his nostrils … Yes, he was much better already. No need to be- Oh God!

After he had wiped his mouth and the first rough clenching of his belly muscles had subsided, he leaned with one arm on the doorframe, puffing out his cheeks. ‘I’m too old for this shite,’ he gasped.

‘What’s wrong, Dad?’

‘Law, I’m not your father, so don’t be so bleeding disrespectful.’

‘What’s the matter then, Al?’

‘Cheeky b- Just don’t ask. All I can say is, when you get to my age, if you get to my age, take things easier. There’s no point killing yourself every other night.’

‘You hung over again?’

‘There are times I really hate you, Law. You know that?’

‘You are my master still,’ Law said. ‘Suppose you could try to thrash me? It might make you feel better.’

Alred snarled, ‘If you’re going to talk rubbish, boy, go and fetch me a morning whet. Sweet Christ, but my mouth tastes like a rat crawled in and used it as a privy!’

‘You’re sure you can cope with more ale?’

‘Piss off!’ And as the lad laughed and went on his way, Alred said to Bill, ‘I really hate that kid sometimes!’

Bill was still sprawled on his blanket. He sat up now and yawned. ‘Law acting the fool again?’ he asked as he scratched and then stretched luxuriously.

‘You can have no idea.’

‘He’s your apprentice, Al. You ought to teach him respect.’

‘Oh, go swyve a mule,’ Alred said weakly. ‘You wouldn’t say that if you were in this body.’

‘Haha! That’s why I feel safe to take the piss today.’

Alred wandered to a large log and sat down, belching and releasing a gust of foul-smelling wind.

‘Ach, don’t fart as well,’ Bill complained. ‘It’s bad enough in here already.’

‘I know. Next time I’ll demand a better storeroom.’

‘It’s got straw, so it’s warm enough, I suppose. What we really need is a nice cuddly woman in here to keep us busy, though.’