Michael Jecks - The Death Ship of Dartmouth

It was one thing for a disloyal subject to see his lands and assets forfeited by the Crown. All those who had raised their swords in support of the Lords Marcher — it was fair enough that they should lose their lands. And the men who supported Earl Thomas, too. They were traitors to the King, so their lands and titles should be seized.

But a land in which those who were devoted to their King and gave their lives for him could see their family and servants deprived of their property and wealth, forced to give up all to the grinning brute who could take them purely because he had the King’s ear … that was a land where justice held no sway. It was a place in which bullying alone ruled: a bastard realm.

When that oleaginous shite Flok appeared and shoved the parchment at him, pushing him back into the passageway as he demanded to see the lady of the house, Hamund could only gaze uncomprehendingly at the words written so carefully. When Sarra appeared in the doorway, her hair escaping from the coif she had hurriedly pulled on, Flok eyed her like a drunk considering the whores in the stews. Still Hamund had done nothing. He had followed the two into the hall itself, shushing the other servants as they rebelliously eyed the man-of-law while he gazed about him, apparently well satisfied with all he saw.

‘This manor is to be forfeit. You, lady, will prepare to leave in two months. At that time I shall return to take over the management of all the demesne.’

‘You cannot think to do this, sir!’ Sarra had said, her hand at her throat. Hamund could see her despair. She stood tall and elegant in her flowing, green velvet tunic, and Hamund so wished to go to her side and clutch at her hand, but he daren’t. Instead he listened with the others as Flok sneeringly waved aside all protestations. Those which appeared to give him the most amusement were the defence that Sir John had been a devoted captain for the King.

‘He’s no use now, is he? He’s dead. So I’m sure that his loyal vassals will loyally support the installation of a new master here; a man who meets more accurately the King’s needs.’

There was a certain tone in his voice at that moment, and Hamund understood that it was this Flok who would become master in the hall when Lady Sarra had been thrown out.

Flok had departed a short while later, and the hall was left in stunned silence. There was a moment that seemed to last for an age, and then Lady Sarra moved slowly across the floor, almost as though gliding, until she reached the door behind the dais that led to her solar. Hamund saw her face just once as she walked that gauntlet of shame and ruined pride. She turned to close the door, and as she did so, her eye met his, and he saw a woman destroyed.

Hamund could have remained, of course. If he’d wanted to bow to the man Flok, he could have stayed there and had his daily ration of ale, his food, his annual tunic, and all the other little benefits that made for a good life. But he’d never forget the sight of his lady at that doorway. And he would never forgive himself, were he to leave that poor woman unavenged.

So instead, he had drunk a couple of quarts of ale, sitting near the fire, listening to the muted sobs from the solar, and telling himself that there must be a way to protect and serve his lady. But the more he drank, the more he saw that there was no means of defending her against this kind of attack. All he could do was avenge her and the memory of her husband.

As the light began to fade, he took up his long knife, a memento from the Welsh wars, and a staff, and left the hall. He walked the three miles in the gathering dusk to the vill, and stopped outside the inn. And that night he slew the man who had sought to steal his master’s property.

That night Baldwin could have continued on his way, but when he was still a couple of leagues from Dartmouth, he decided that it would be better to take his rest and have a good night’s sleep rather than try to complete the entire journey in one day.

He had reached Totnes when he made the decision. The weather was fine, but the sun was already sinking. Baldwin knew that the estuary on which the town of Dartmouth lay was long and winding, and he had no desire to fall into a deep pool in the dark.

The inn he found was a clean-looking long building. Perhaps it was an old place, but the owner had seen to the limewash regularly, and the thatch was only one summer old. Baldwin tied his horse to a ring and entered the stables, and when he saw clean straw and how tidy the stalls were kept, he was content.

Having seen that his horse was well served, he entered the main block and called for a meal. There was a good, thick pottage and some reasonable bread that filled his empty belly, although when he enquired about a room for the night, he found that there was none to be had. His only choice was the main bedchamber, in which five men were to sleep that night, or to remain here in the hall.

In many years of travelling, Baldwin had experienced different inns in several kingdoms, and never had he succeeded in sleeping well in a room with strangers. In preference he decided to remain in the hall. He went out first to see that his horse was well catered for. The grooms had already rubbed and brushed him, and now he was munching contentedly at a fork or two of hay in his manger. Baldwin slapped his shoulder and tickled his ear before leaving. A warrior should always see to the comfort of his mount before all else: it was a rule he had learned early on, and the lesson was ingrained in his soul.

The inn was loud, not raucous but happy, and he knew he would find sleep evasive until some of the patrons had left for their beds. Still, he was warm, full, and tired enough to doze, and he drew a bench to the wall and sat there with his chin on his breast.

In his mind still was the curious behaviour of the bishop. Guilty . That was the word Baldwin had been looking for. As though he feared he was sending Baldwin into danger.

The knight considered that for a while. The port of Dartmouth was by no means quiet and safe. No port ever was, of course — but he was going to find out all he might about a man who had raped a lady-in-waiting to the Queen. Such a man should be caught and exiled, rather than simply watched, but Baldwin thought he understood that. There was no need to further antagonise the French king. The countries were already smarting from the last short war.

He only hoped that he was not going to learn that the bishop’s nephew was dead. Bernard was a youngish man, Bishop Walter had said, with dark hair, narrow features, prominent upper front teeth, and grey eyes. It should be easy enough to find a man like that, Baldwin told himself, and settled back more comfortably. He would sleep in here tonight, and let the morrow take care of itself.

Simon woke with a head that thumped painfully.

In his life he had woken to hangovers of such variety that he could almost class them. There were those of his youth when, as soon as he had lain in his bed, he had known, by the spinning of the ceiling, that he would feel very poorly unless he was sick before sleep. Then there were the scrumpy mornings, after a bout of cider-drinking, when his blood seemed to have turned to acid, and his head was all but immobilised. After an evening with strong red wines, he felt as though someone had slugged him at the back of the neck with a leather cosh and then there were the days when he had to protect his head from the painful explosions of noise caused by a spider hurtling across a wall.

To this connoisseur of suffering, none of these could stand even a moderate comparison with the state of his head this morning.

‘Thought you were never going to wake!’ Sir Richard boomed from the corner, and Simon winced: the bellow appeared to make his entire skull vibrate. Reluctantly he opened his eyes and looked about him. For some reason he evidently had not made it to his bed. He was spread out precariously over his long bench, an arm over his breast, the other dangling. It remained asleep as he tried to sit up, racking his brain for a memory of the previous evening.