Michael Jecks: The Death Ship of Dartmouth

‘Ho, Cynegils, are you coming in?’ the host called over. ‘You want an ale?’

It was plain enough that the man was a local, and a regular here at this inn, but although he nodded and grunted at the landlord, he remained on the threshold studying the room. When his eyes fell on Pierre, the Frenchman saw the flash of recognition in them, and knew he was lost.

With a poor display of casualness, Cynegils left the room and disappeared, strolling back in a few minutes later with a nonchalance that would not have deceived a blind beggar. He went to the bar with the host and sat down facing Pierre.

If Pierre had entertained any doubts about the man, the way the host peered at the newcomer was enough to dispel them.

‘What you up to, Cyn?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘Nothing. Just get on and serve me, will you?’

There was a hurried discussion, and the landlord shot a confused glance at Pierre, but seeing the Frenchman’s fixed stare, he hurriedly moved away to draw a jug of ale for Cynegils.

Pierre gave an elaborate yawn, stretched, and drained his pot. Rising, he made his way to the rear door which gave out to the sleeping chamber, so he understood. He stumbled slightly, like a man unused to strong ale, and shut the door before darting along the passageway and out into the inn’s garden. There was an overwhelming stench of piss there, but at the moment Pierre cared nothing for that. He stepped behind the door, waiting.

Soon enough, he heard the door from the hall open quietly, and the sound of steps making their way down the passage, where they stopped.

Pierre debated whether to launch himself in through the door and tackle the man, but decided that if he did so, the fellow might scream to warn his companions, and they would be sure to come to their friend’s defence. This Cynegils was known here. No, better that he wait here until the man had checked the bedchamber, and then hurried out to the garden to see how Pierre had made good his escape. Except he wasn’t going to escape. He would hide here, catch the man and learn who had sent him.

But then suddenly there was a sharp knocking sound, then a rush of feet, and Pierre had to move away in alarm, as two men came barrelling out, a third held between them. The two looked at Pierre. It was the apron-clad workman and his older companion.

The apron-clad man looked Pierre up and down, then hawked and spat. ‘This one was going to knock you on the head, I reckon.’

‘You stopped him?’ There was some doubt in Pierre’s mind. These men had apparently helped him, but perhaps they were good at feigning. There had been a third at their table, he reminded himself. Where was he ? Fetching the man who had paid this Cynegils?

‘You want him or not?’ the older man demanded. ‘Personally I couldn’t give a-’

‘Calm down, Bill. He’s just been close to having a blade through his back, and he’s probably wondering about us. That’s fine.’ The man with the apron was eyeing Pierre with a knowing expression.

‘Friends, I owe you my thanks.’

‘Someone’s watching for you,’ the man said speculatively. ‘I’d reckon you should find somewhere safer to stay the night.’

‘I know one man,’ Pierre said. ‘But I don’t know where he lives.’

The other nodded his head towards the back of the garden. ‘If I was you, I’d be out of here now. There’s a big gap in the wall, over there. The landlord’s been trying to persuade me to get it fixed for him on the cheap. You can slip out there easy enough.’

Pierre needed no urging. He ran to the bottom of the garden and found the tumbled section, just as the man had said. Vaulting over it in an instant, he stood debating with himself, fear making him pant, and then he set off quickly but quietly round to the front of the inn again.

Further up the road, he noticed a paviour’s trestles set up. The roadway was being repaved, he guessed, and that was his last thought as the blade settled on his back just behind his kidney.

The appearance of the cog as she sailed into Dartmouth’s harbour was so peculiar that the men found their eyes drawn away from the corpse at their feet. Even Hamo, who was no sailor, found himself distracted and turned to stare into the haven with all the others.

‘Christ Jesus and all His saints,’ he murmured.

Everyone had seen ships which had been knocked about in foul weather, but from the look of her, this was no simple disaster of wind and wave. Some other fate had overcome her, and Hamo had an idea he knew what it was. The timbers looked more black than pitch alone could have made them; the rigging, even to the cooper’s untutored eye, was odd, as though it was all freshly replaced, and that in a hurry, while the mast was much too short.

In front of the cog was the Christopher , John Hawley’s ship, and the sight of it made Hamo’s lips twist into a grin. Yes, if Hawley had seen a rich prize like this, he would do his best to rescue her, in the hope of being able to keep her. Never a man to turn his nose up at a profit, was John Hawley.

‘Wake up, you churls!’ bawled Ivo le Bel, the local sergeant. ‘Let’s get this over with. Hamo, I know you want to get down there and sell some barrels, but that can wait, by God’s pain! Sweet mother of Christ, look at his head!’

Hamo glanced back at the corpse just as Ivo le Bel clambered out of the hole. The sight made him swallow hard to keep his breakfast down. At his side, the scruffy stranger with his leather apron was making a fuss.

‘What’s he doing here in the road?’ he whined. ‘I just don’t … Ach, if a man has to fall and kill himself, why should he wander up the road until he finds my hole and falls into that? Aren’t there enough damned wells around here to fall into?’

Ivo le Bel shot him a look. ‘Shut up, Paviour. There’s nothing to be done about this, least of all whining. We’ll have to get the Coroner here as soon as possible.’

‘Good. Is there one in this borough?’

‘Here?’ Ivo gave a loud chuckle. ‘No, we’ll have to send for one. We’re not big enough to justify our own down here.’

‘Oh, no! I’ve got to get cracking with my work, or I’ll be late. This is going to take days!’

Ivo shrugged. ‘You can do what you want, man. It’s no affair of mine. But if you try to move this body, I’ll tell the Coroner and the Sheriff. There’s no getting away from it. This poor fellow fell into your hole last night and brained himself on the rocks.’

Hamo the cooper peered down again. The trench here was quite deep, it was true. Alred, the paver, was here with his apprentice and labourer to mend several stretches of roadway that had begun to fall apart in the last few years; the burgesses were sick of the complaints from people saying that their carts couldn’t travel up here any more. A sum had been agreed, and this Alred Paviour contacted. The man had travelled all the way down from Exeter. If anyone could mend the roads hereabouts, it was a professional like this Alred.

However, it had to be admitted, he had left the road here in a state last night. The street was in constant use, and yet he’d lifted a large area and left only one wooden trestle at each side to stop people from falling in during the hours of darkness. That was plain foolish, when there were so many taverns along this stretch. Look — the Porpoise was only a matter of yards away!

His eyes went back to the strange ship in the harbour. He saw the enormous splash as the anchor dropped into the water, even as a rowing boat started off from the shore. It headed for the Christopher , at the same time as a boat was launched from John Hawley’s cog. Hamo could hear shouting, for noise always travelled clearly over the water here, but his ears could not discern any words. The little boats rocked on the gentle swell, men discussing the damaged cog, no doubt, and then the Christopher ’s rowing boat lurched forward to the shore, while the second began a leisurely perambulation of the strange ship.