Michael Jecks - The Death Ship of Dartmouth

‘You know Cynegils? I spotted him watching the fellow. Don’t know who he was, just some traveller. Like you say, he walked out to the back like he was going to find himself a space to sleep, and Cynegils shoved off smartish through the front door. He came back a little while later, and then sneaked out to the back, where our friend had gone.’

‘And then?’

Saul grinned. ‘The three pavers saw him, and they reckoned he was up to no good, so they went after him. A few minutes later, back they came, carrying him. Said that Cynegils had unfortunately tripped over and hurt his head. Good for them, I thought. Nasty piece of work, he is. I told them to put him back out in the yard. Anyway, the stranger had it away on his legs. There’s a break in my wall out back, and I suppose he bolted over that.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘French. Good quality clothes, dark blue and scarlet, all in the modern fashion, you know, tight-fitting? He had a weaselly face, all thin with a narrow little nose, and dark eyes with low eyebrows of dark hair. Looked like loads of the Norman sailors who come in here every so often.’

‘Have you seen him since?’ Simon asked.

‘Nope. No sign of him. I reckon he was scared and thought he’d bugger off quick. Why?’

‘Didn’t it occur to you that Cynegils was not acting on his own?’ Simon demanded. ‘He was ordered to follow this Frenchman by someone else, I assume, and that other person could have been anyone. And now this fellow’s been found dead. Was it the man in here that day?’

‘No. I’m sure of that.’

‘So perhaps the man who died was the one who ordered Cynegils to follow this Frenchman?’ Simon guessed.

Baldwin nodded pensively. ‘I should imagine so. I reckon the Frenchman escaped over the rear wall, ran to the front of the building, found this man hanging around for news from Cynegils and knocked him down. The victim would hardly have expected to be attacked by the very man whose death he had planned.’

‘There is one other possibility, of course,’ Simon considered as the host of the inn brought them a jug of wine and two mazers, then moved off to serve other customers. He leaned closer to Baldwin to prevent eavesdroppers. ‘What if the dead man carried something on him that was valuable? Something that was worth more than money?’

‘Such as?’

‘A ring, say?’

‘No. If he had something like that, there would have been a mark on finger or thumb to show where it had lain. This man wore no jewellery.’

‘A parchment then — deeds for property? A writ of some sort?’

‘Simon, that could be a good guess,’ Baldwin said. He felt the need for caution. Here at the inn he felt too exposed with so many men trying to listen in. He lowered his voice. ‘There is a tale I should tell you. I was sent here by the bishop to see if I could find his nephew. A Frenchman has left the Queen’s household and flees to the sea. Bishop Walter was convinced that he saw the man in Exeter, and told his nephew Bernard to follow the man.’

Simon absorbed the news calmly. ‘The Frenchman escaped — and you think that this corpse could be Walter’s nephew?’

‘The man in your hole in the road? Yes. I fear it. He matches the description I was given.’

‘Then we have to seek this Frenchman. He must be the one who ran from Cynegils.’

‘I should imagine so,’ Baldwin said. ‘We must keep our eyes open and tell those who may be able to seek him for us.’

Simon peered at his friend speculatively. ‘You said I may have guessed right about letters?’

‘It seems odd that this Frenchman should suddenly leave the Queen’s household,’ Baldwin shrugged. ‘Could he not be carrying messages?’

Simon nodded, but his eyes were going about the room now. ‘I don’t like the look of him .’

‘Who?’

‘That short fellow in pilgrim dress. He looks like an abjurer. Could he be our murderer?’

Hamund was feeling remarkably easy until he saw the two men stare at him. Seeing them walk towards him, he shivered and said beseechingly to Gil, ‘Shall we leave now?’

‘You!’ said a stern voice. ‘I am the Representative of the Keeper of this Port. I don’t recognise you. Who are you, and why are you here?’

‘Sir, I am Hamund Chugge. A miserable, but penitent sinner. I have committed a great crime, but I have abjured the realm, and all I do is seek a ship to take me away.’

‘What was your crime?’ Baldwin pressed.

‘I killed a man.’

‘Who, and why?’

Hamund sighed, and told the story: how his master was killed in the war, and Flok arrived with his little cavalcade to demand the manor for himself. ‘I was very angry. I struck Flok down with my knife and killed him, and then struck Guy de Bouville down too. De Bouville was his guard and man-at-arms. Because of these offences I’m being sent away. I arrived here today, and this kind sailor has offered me a place with his crew.’

‘You found him here, Gil?’ Simon asked.

‘Yes. And he’s already walked into the sea in proof of his ambition to leave.’

‘See to it that he does,’ Simon grunted. He had not seen the man about the town before, it was true, and he looked an unlikely murderer of a fellow so much taller than him.

There was a sudden stillness in the room. The door had opened, and now a tall, slim, fair man walked in, stooping under the lintel, and remaining just inside the doorway, eyeing the men in the room for a few minutes. He pulled off his fine gloves and slapped them on his forearm before crossing the floor to the innkeeper.

‘A jug of your best wine, landlord.’

‘Sir.’

The man turned from the bar and addressed the men in the room. ‘I have money for those who would aid the King.’

As he spoke, he rested his left hand on his purse and hefted it a couple of times. The leather bag rattled with the weight of coins, and Simon could almost hear every head in the room swivel to that magical sound.

‘There is gold and silver here for those who would help me find a traitor, a foul Frenchman who is guilty of raping an English lady. I will pay well for any information.’

Moses swept the floor to clear the old rushes. There were few things in life that would always make him feel more comfortable in himself, but one was the smell of fresh reeds on the floor, and he reasoned that what made him feel better might work for his master too; so he swept enthusiastically, while the dust rose in clouds and danced in the light streaming in through the great barred window.

He pushed the mess out through the door and into the street, where he would pay a scavenger later to clear it up, and returned with a couple of bundles of new reeds. He cut the ties with his knife and began to strew them about the place.

‘Please, Moses, come and sit,’ Pyckard called faintly.

Moses hurried to his master’s couch.

He looked worse than ever, Moses thought. There were lines of anguish on his brow, but although his eyes were bright and feverish, when he looked at Moses he was clearly rational. The pain was surely all but unbearable, yet his mind still functioned as efficiently as it ever had.

‘Moses, you have been like a son to me. Of all that I have enjoyed in this world, it is you I shall find most grief in leaving.’

‘Perhaps …’

‘You know I’m almost dead, Moses. I could see it in your eyes, even if I didn’t feel it already myself. Ach! It burns me from within! I shall die happy to know I will meet my Amandine again. It will be a delight to find her in heaven.’

Moses nodded tearfully.

‘I would have you protect this Frenchman,’ Pyckard went on. ‘He is dear to me. He is so like her, in so many ways. The same face, the same accent … Serve him as you may.’