Michael Jecks - The Death Ship of Dartmouth

He could feel their eyes on him all the way as he walked southwards along the shore, gritting his teeth against their condemnation. A man carrying a cross like him, clad in a pilgrim’s tunic, with only a staff and a bowl, was marked out as a felon. An Abjuror.

A little way further on was a bridge of solid wood across the creek that fell from the ravine, and he crossed it, staring with fascination at the water-wheel set in the middle. It trundled slowly, making the entire bridge vibrate alarmingly, but what was most peculiar, he thought, was that although the stream must surely have led from the land to the sea, the wheel itself was revolving the other way, turning as though the sea was flowing towards the land. It was a wonderful sight — and rather scary. He peered down at it for a few minutes, but then his courage failed him and he had to stop his feet from taking him pelting across the planks towards the other side and the towns of Clifton and Dartmouth.

Once there, he wandered idly along near the shore wondering where he might go to find a shipman.

There had been nothing concealed about his murder of Flok. There were all too many witnesses. According to them, he had entered the inn with a face filled with malice. Seeing the man at the far side of the room, he marched haphazardly across the floor, plainly much the worse for drink, until he reached Flok and could stand staring at him. The inn was a small place, and had only three stools for clients, but Flok had taken one and two more for the men with him, a man-at-arms, Guy de Bouville, and a clerk. All the villagers who lived and worked about here were standing.

Someone said that Flok had sneeringly asked whether his new servant should return home, he was so incoherent with ale. ‘Don’t serve him any more,’ he had drawled. ‘I don’t want to have to get the churl carried back!’

‘I’m not your servant, I’m servant to Lady Sarra,’ Hamund enunciated carefully.

‘Your master’s dead, and I shall be your master soon, man. Now leave this place. You are an embarrassment. You will have to improve your manners if you want to avoid a flogging when I arrive to take the manor.’

‘I’m a freeman!’

‘You’re a drunk — and now you’re also servile again, churl. You’ll do exactly as you’re told!’

It was then that Hamund set his jaw and pulled his knife free. His first blow slashed Flok’s hand to the bone; the second stabbed into his shoulder, and caught in the socket, but the third finally ended the man’s screaming when he plunged it into his black heart, and Flok fell straight back, his heels rattling on the floor for some minutes.

De Bouville had his hand on his hilt, but he hadn’t drawn his sword. He stood before Hamund uncertainly, his eyes going from Flok’s corpse to the bloody knife in Hamund’s fist. The clerk had left his stool, and was now pressed with his back to the wall behind him as though wishing he could melt into the cob.

Then de Bouville made to unsheath his weapon, but before he could pull it free, Hamund had picked up Flok’s drinking horn and hurled it into the man’s face, followed by a heavy pottery jug slammed into his skull. He fell instantly.

Hamund walked away slowly, his blade waving from left to right, suddenly drained. Outside, he stood a moment or two in the cooler air, his mind entirely blank. Only when he heard hoofs did he realise his danger. A groom from the inn was leading a rounsey, and he pressed the reins into Hamund’s fist, hissing, ‘Go! Go!’

He stared at the leather in his hand dully, and then, as the first shouts came from inside, and he heard horns begin to be winded, Hamund shoved his knife back in the sheath, leaped upon the beast, and clapped heels. The horse surged forward, and Hamund covered the distance to the manor in a few minutes, dropping to the ground in the court and hurrying inside.

‘My lady, Flok won’t evict you,’ he panted. ‘I have killed him.’

She hadn’t believed him. Not at first, anyway. And then the shock came into her eyes, although there was also delight. He was sure he could see that there too; and then the light of joy faded. Both knew he couldn’t remain. Despenser would soon come to avenge this slaying.

‘You must ride away!’ she burst out.

‘I can’t leave here. Not now,’ he said. His mind was too fuddled to think straight. All he could consider was that he had a stolen horse. ‘Must get the thing back.’

‘You’d worry about a horse when you’ll soon be killed for murder?’ she urged. ‘Go, man. Go with God, but ride!’

She was never so beautiful to him as she was that evening. Her hair awry, hanging loose from her coif, her bright blue eyes dulled with sorrow and reddened with tears, her perfect white skin soft and smooth, the cheeks tinged with colour. He could have worshipped her. ‘I can take my fate, mistress.’

‘Sweet Mother of God,’ she muttered, and then had three of the servants carry him. ‘Forget you have done this,’ she commanded them as the men took the protesting Hamund across the road, over the field, and quickly up the old roadway to Oakhampton. There they deposited him inside the church, kneeling at the altar.

‘This man has killed, Father,’ Lady Sarra said to the priest as she slipped coins into his hand. ‘Listen to his confession, I beg you, and give him sanctuary.’

It was three days before he saw her again. The Coroner had already visited him and asked whether he would leave the sanctuary and see him to admit to his crimes, but Hamund had refused at that time. He had some days of sanctuary permitted before he need walk into the open. And in those days, he saw much of his mistress Sarra.

At the end of thirty days, he agreed to abjure the realm. The Coroner came with his jury, and before them all, in the churchyard, Hamund swore to leave the land. His route was defined as the road to Dartmouth, and he was instructed to get there as quickly as possible, and to take the first ship that would bear him away. And if there were none on the first day, he would walk into the water in proof of his good faith and desire to adhere to his oath, and he would do likewise on every following day until he found a ship. And if he were ever to return to his native land, any might behead him without fear of punishment.

Guy de Bouville had been there, his swarthy features black with anger. His fingers twitched about his sword hilt as Hamund took his cross and left the churchyard, and Hamund was sure that it was only the group of Lady Sarra’s men about him, ringing him, that stopped the other man from pulling out his sword and running Hamund through. De Bouville himself would almost certainly escape punishment — he was from Despenser’s household.

No, there had been nothing concealed about his murder of Flok, and he had walked without concealment ever since he had sworn to abjure the realm, obedient to his vow. But now, as he looked over the waters towards the other side of the estuary, he knew that his action would not help Sarra. She had been given warning that her home was forfeit. Despenser wanted it, and what Despenser wanted, he would have. So Hamund had acted in vain.

Perhaps not entirely in vain. He had removed that foul bladder of piss Flok, and that could not be thought to be a bad thing. A man who would go to a widow’s hall and tell her to leave her home even in the midst of her misery and mourning, he deserved all that he received.

‘You lost, friend?’

It was a heavy-set sailor who spoke, a man with a face the colour of walnut, clad in old hosen and a much-patched and stained linen shirt. He stood before Hamund, hands on hips, head set to one side as though assessing his value.

‘I seek a ship, master.’

‘Abjuring, eh?’ The man looked him up and down. ‘Perhaps I can aid you, then. My master needs more hands for the ship, and there are times a man can’t choose his shipmates. Why are you abjuring?’ His expression hardened suspiciously. ‘Did you rob a man?’