Michael Jecks - The Death Ship of Dartmouth

‘At last the knight said, “Bishop, you are a good and excellent man. I am only a meagre knight. I have killed and raped across England, and I am known as a felon. But you are a good, kindly, honourable man. Would you pray for me?” “My son, for the rest of my life,” said the good bishop, and began immediately. When he was done, the knight nodded. “Thank you,” quoth he, and threw the bishop overboard! Eh? Haha!’

Simon winced and glanced at Baldwin.

The knight smiled thinly. Sir Richard de Welles’s sense of humour was famed. ‘What did you conclude about the two bodies, Simon?’

The Bailiff grunted. ‘The first was a churl in town for a drink who got seized by a whore’s pander, then was killed and robbed. The second died in a sailor’s fight and was concealed when the bale fell on him. No mystery with either of them. More concerning is the disappearance of the crew on the cog.’

‘The first appears to have been a well-nourished fellow,’ Sir Richard commented. ‘Probably not a farmer or local peasant. Certainly not a sailor.’

‘Why?’

Baldwin responded. ‘His hands were soft. They hadn’t worked with a plough or with ropes. He was no manual worker. His skin, too, was pale. He had a slight reddishness that looked like burning, although that could have been from after his death. Does a dead man get burned by the sun? Anyway, he was clearly a man who spent his life in a quiet environment. He was not well muscled or fit in the normal sense of the word.’

‘And he had a stain on his forefinger,’ Sir Richard said. ‘His right. It was slightly callused. And you saw his brow? A very deep set of frowning-wrinkles. I think it’s fair to think that his eyesight was not so good as it once was.’

Simon belched quietly, glancing from one man to the other as they nodded grimly. ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked tiredly.

‘He was a clerk. Probably one who spent much of his time in the cloisters,’ Sir Richard said absently. ‘The ink on his finger and the frowning point to a man who was used to spending his time with parchment and quill.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘Except I should think that he was from the Cathedral Close or a canonical church like Crediton’s, rather than a monkish cloister. Monks will pray more often than canons, and his knees were not overly callused.’

‘Ah, I missed that,’ Sir Richard said. He glanced at the door hopefully. ‘Where is that boy?’

‘I think you should look for a man who has come into some wealth,’ Baldwin said. ‘He may have a penner and reeds to sell, too. And a well-made purse, if I guess right.’ He knew that the bishop’s nephew would have the best quality — and money.

‘I shall put some words about. Not that it’s really my job to find the murderer. I only seek him as a diversion, as you well know.’

Baldwin smiled. ‘Of course.’

‘I am interested in this ship’s destruction as well, though,’ Sir Richard said. ‘There is something intriguing about a ship that’s had all her crew slaughtered, even if it is some distance away from my responsibility.’

‘If murder is committed off the land, you are hardly in a position to investigate it,’ Baldwin agreed.

‘It would be hard in any case,’ Simon said. ‘Almost all the ships from the town were at sea that day.’

‘This Hawley was first to pick up the ship, though?’ Richard noted.

‘Yes. But that means little, except I’d be inclined to consider him innocent for that very reason,’ Simon said. ‘If he’d been there all alone, he’d have taken the cargo, fired the ship, and waited to make sure it sank. He’s a cool, collected man. And surely the man who fired the Saint John knew little about ships,’ he added thoughtfully.

‘Why so?’ Baldwin asked.

‘The men who tried to fire her poured oil about the deck. It made the damage look bad, with charring to the timbers and the sails gone, but really, the ship herself was under no great threat. A sailor would have thrown more oil about the hold, so that the flammable goods in there might catch light.’

‘Many men might make that mistake. Couldn’t she have caught fire if Hawley was slower to reach her?’ Baldwin remarked.

‘No. From what I’ve heard, the oil was nothing like sufficient. You know how it is — if you want a fire to burn, you put tinder over the flame. Here it looks as though oil was spread about the place and set alight, but no tinder or kindling used. Even landlubbers like us wouldn’t expect that to work!’ Simon grinned.

‘Where is that lad?’ Sir Richard wondered as Baldwin narrowed his eyes consideringly.

As he spoke, the door opened at last and Rob stomped into the room before standing aside. A paid of apron-clad urchins appeared, holding trays on which were good-sized coffins of pastry. The room began to fill with the succulent aroma of gravy and meats. Rob had the pies set on the table at the side of the room, and then he sent the boys away. ‘Capon’s finishing cooking, and he’ll bring honeyed larks when he’s ready,’ he said. ‘No throstles.’

‘The drink?’

‘I’ve got it outside,’ Rob said waspishly. He left them and returned a moment or two later, rolling in a small cask. It was one of the ones used locally, made of oaken staves held in place by a binding of hoops shaped from split hazel, each hoop secured by fine strands of elder. He rolled it to the table and attempted to lift it, his face reddening as he strained.

‘Good God, boy!’ Sir Richard snapped, pushing him aside and grasping the little barrel. He hefted it easily, and placed it on the table. There was a wooden tap; he set it on the bung and drew his dagger, rapping it sharply. The tap slipped in, and he glared at Rob. ‘Well? Where are the goblets, boy? Do you expect us to drink from our hands?’

Hamund was lightheaded after the wine he had been given at the tavern. It was an ill-lit chamber, foul with smoke and sweat, and the men inside were all local folk. When he first appeared in the doorway, the room became subdued, as though all eyes were upon him. It was not so bad as an alehouse in a small vill, where the room would be silenced entirely by a strange face, but it was disconcerting nonetheless. All the faces in there seemed dark, mysterious, and threatening. At a time when not many men went bearded, all in there appeared to be unshaven; hair was worn long, so that it straggled greasily below coifs and caps; and every face was burned to the colour of the oaken barrels by wind and sun.

Gil himself appeared relaxed. He stood with his thumbs in his belt in the middle of the floor, nodding occasionally at a man he knew well, passing his eyes quickly over others. Hamund wondered whether they were men he did not know and thus could not trust. Except he had already taken Hamund while knowing nothing good about him. This reflection made Hamund look more closely at the men who were ignored by Gil, wondering what black history there must be lying on them .

‘I need three more men for the Saint Denis ,’ Gil said to one small group of men. ‘Who here would like a short journey with as much Guyennois wine as you can drink?’

There was a pause, and Hamund saw several men grin and shake their heads, while others stared from darkening brows. One man stood, shifting his heavy leather belt on his belly.

‘I could make one more sailing, I reckon.’

‘I’m glad there’s one fine fellow who enjoys the sailor’s life,’ Gil said. He ignored two more whose hands were in the air, and first one, then the other, wavered and sank. ‘Come on! There must be someone in here who’s got some fire in his belly!’

‘If you think we’re going to sea in a solitary ship while those bastards from Lyme are trying to kill us, you’re mad,’ a voice called harshly. ‘If they could take the whole crew of the Saint John , they could take the Saint Denis as well. How many more men do you want to see dead?’