Michael Jecks - The Death Ship of Dartmouth

‘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.

‘Me?’ The stranger’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Don’t ye know me? I’m Sir Richard de Welles. Coroner.’

His clothing would once have been valuable. A good soft tunic and velvet cote-hardie in red had both faded with the years, and now looked scruffy and over-worn. He had leather bracelets at his wrists, and his leather sword-belt was good quality, but for all that, he reminded Simon of his friend Baldwin. There was another man who rarely took any care over his appearance.

Simon swallowed back his annoyance and stood more civilly. ‘Ah, Sir Richard, I am glad to meet you. There is much for you to do.’

‘So I heard!’ the Coroner said. Simon was sure that the ships on the other side of the estuary could hear every word. ‘First, though, I’d appreciate a drink. It’s been a long, hard ride to get here today. Where’s the best inn in the town? Come on, man. You can show me the way, can’t you?’

Simon felt his hackles rise. ‘I happen to be very busy. There are figures here which need to be checked.’

The Coroner looked at him, then glanced at Stephen. ‘What’s he supposed to do, then?’

‘He is my clerk.’

‘So let him clerk. You’re the Keeper. You can keep me company! Ha! Come on!’

Somewhat to his surprise, Simon found himself outside his hall and in the street while the Coroner maintained a steady, loud monologue. ‘Look at the state of that house there. I remember when it was owned by the richest man in the town. Wouldn’t keep me dogs in it now. Looks like someone’s been having a piss up all the walls. Ha! Remember this place well enough. Used to have a maid there who’d look after any man who could afford to buy her a gallon of ale. Ha! Trouble was, by the time she was frisky, you’d had enough to melt your tarse. Still had the ability! Oh, Christ’s bones in a basket, I remember that house. It was where-’

‘You seem to know this town remarkably well for one who is so new to it,’ Simon observed acidly.

‘Well, I’m hardly new, you see. When I was a youngster, I was trained in arms, riding, hunting, drinking and fornication in this very town! Ha! In those days we had more fun, believe you me! We’d fight often enough when the King told us, but there was little of this modern garbage where you’re expected to change allegiances depending on who your lord and master thinks might be important at the turn of the moon. We had something called loyalty. HOI!’

The object of his shout was a youth who stood at the street corner up ahead of them. A maid had flinched as she passed him, and it was clear enough that the lad had offered her an insult.

‘What?’

Simon vaguely recognised him. He was an apprentice from one of the smiths down near the water’s edge.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Sir Richard.

‘I’m Humphrey. Why, what’s it to you?’

‘I’m the Coroner, lad, that’s why. If I see you molesting another woman while I’m here, I’ll have you arrested and sent to Exeter gaol.’

‘I didn’t touch her!’ the apprentice declared hotly.

By now Simon and the Coroner were level with him, and Simon could sense the fellow’s sudden trepidation as the big man leaned down, his jaw jutting. ‘I know what I saw, son, and if you touch her again, I’ll have you flogged in Exeter. Clear? ’

The fellow scurried away with an anxious look over his shoulder, and the fact that the Coroner did not move but remained staring at him until he had rounded the next street corner, must have lent wings to his feet.

‘Damned little turd! I’m not so old I can’t see when a lad sticks his hand down a woman’s …’

‘I didn’t see that,’ Simon protested.

‘You must have done it yourself when you were younger, eh? I know I did. And he thought I wouldn’t guess. That’s the trouble with these little bratchets today, they think sex started around the end of the famine and no one before that knew anything about it. Well, if the fool thinks he can get one over me, he’ll soon learn to regret his impudence, hey?’

‘Yes. Of course,’ Simon said coldly.

‘Cheer yourself, Bailiff. I was in court a little while ago, with a fellow accused of rape, and the justice called the victim to speak. He says, “What happened, chit?” “Well,” she said, “he was in the lane when I was walking to the cows, and he grabbed me.” “Aye,” said the justice, “what then?” “He pulled me into the barn.” “Aye,” says the justice, “what then?” “Well,” she said, “he took my hands and he bound them.” “Aye,” said the justice, “what then?” “He would have tied my legs too, but I thank God I managed to keep them apart and stop him!” Eh? Haha! Good one, eh?’

They had reached the doors of a tavern with a scruffy bush tied over the door, and Sir Richard looked up at it appreciatively. ‘This looks a good enough place. Vaguely remember it from when I was a lad. I think I was knocked out in here once during a fight. I’d called a sailor a lily-livered son of a whore, and he took umbrage. Seem to recall seeing a large lump of wood heading my way, and me too drunk to duck. Hurt like hell, too. Still, you live and learn, don’t you?’

He led the way in through the low doorway, and Simon, feeling more than a little bemused by the constant monologue, trailed after him with a sense of unreality. The only thought in his mind was, that any man who entered a tavern like this one and insulted the sailors inside was extremely fortunate to live at all. It did not indicate a proper appreciation of life’s little dangers.

‘Barman, bring a quart of wine for my friend and me!’ Sir Richard roared as he walked in, and without looking to see whether his instruction had been heeded, he crossed the floor to a small rough table in the corner. There was a pair of stools at the side, and Sir Richard drew one out for Simon with his foot, before sitting at the other and stretching his legs, his eyes flitting about the room at all the other men.

‘A fair selection of the seafaring type,’ he said loudly in what Simon was sure he considered was a confidential whisper. ‘Plenty of leather, tatty clothing stitched together too often, and strong hearts. Little in the heads, sadly. Always the way with these seafolk. HOI! Where’s our wine? ’

The sudden bellow took Simon by surprise, but still more surprising to him was the appearance of the host, who set down two large jugs on the table and made as though to withdraw.

‘Wait!’ Sir Richard snapped. He picked up the nearer jug, lifted it to his lips and took a deep draught. Sitting back, he allowed a moment to pass before nodding. ‘My host, you have a good wine here. I hope the ship didn’t sink so you could win it? Eh? Ha! Oh, don’t worry, just my little joke. Bring us some bread and meat. I’m famished. It’s a long ride from Lifton. Aren’t you drinking, Bailiff?’

Simon had been toying with the jug before him, but just for once, the thought of two pints of heavy wine was unappealing. ‘What do you wish from me?’

The Coroner’s eyes peered shrewdly at him over the rim of his jug. ‘A full explanation of what’s been going on here, of course. I may look as if I’ve lead between my ears, Bailiff, but I want to know who’s been turning to piracy and why. I don’t like too many corpses in my territory.’