Michael Jecks - The Death Ship of Dartmouth

Baldwin ignored her outburst. ‘I didn’t ask that. What did you do after you had recovered from your knock?’

‘I went home.’

‘Which way did you go?’

Edith shouted, ‘Leave him alone!’ but none of the men were listening.

Cynegils hung his head. ‘Down the hill straight homewards. I live over at Hardness.’

‘We know,’ Baldwin said unsmilingly. ‘So you would have passed right by the hole in the road where this man was found, wouldn’t you? Did you notice a body there?’

‘I was rolling drunk by then,’ Cynegils said, spreading his hands in a sign of honesty.

Baldwin peered down distastefully at the filth encrusted in his palms, and Cynegils hastily closed them again.

‘No, I don’t think I am inclined to trust you,’ Baldwin said after a moment’s sad contemplation. ‘I think that you are habituated to lying, and that you find it hard to confess to what you found there in the road. How much did you steal from him? ’

‘I stole nothing!’

‘I think you found this man, struck him, left him for dead, and stole all you could from his purse.’

‘I would hardly do that and stay here in poverty!’

‘Because there was much in it?’

‘Eh?’

‘Who here has mentioned how much was in his purse, my friend?’

‘No one!’

‘No, and yet you think it was enough for you to find a new life? You have betrayed yourself.’

‘I’ve done nothing!’

‘You have enough money to be drunk today. Is ale free at Hardness?’

‘My daughter works a little. I took it from her.’

‘You can do better than that!’ Sir Richard said.

‘It’s true! She helps nurse children …’

‘Good for her!’ Sir Richard said with a chuckle, glancing at the girl.

If Cynegils felt a momentary relief at the expression of amusement in Sir Richard’s eyes, it was gone when he noticed his daughter’s face. Edith never looked so much like his wife as when he had let her down again. And now he had. He’d lied about the body, about the money — about everything. And now he had demeaned her in front of these men.

Instinctively he turned towards the man whose face he trusted the most. ‘I’ll tell you all.’

Hamund was happier than he had been for an age as he sat and listened to the stranger calling to the men there for information.

He was, so he said, Sir Andrew de Limpsfield, the master of the cog, Gudyer , which had just sailed into the haven. This Frenchman had raped a gentlewoman in the north, and was fleeing justice. If any man knew of the felon’s whereabouts, he should say so now, because there was a good reward.

‘I wish I’d seen him,’ Hamund said, and burped. ‘Could do with some silver.’

‘When was the last time you had ale?’ Gil asked.

‘Oh, about three weeks or so,’ Hamund declared lightly. The world felt so much better now that he had found this excellent friend.

‘Leave off that, then. You’re pissed.’

Hamund was going to furiously deny the accusation, but Gil had already drained his cup and stood. Rather than be left behind, he trailed after his new companion, out into the road. The sudden cool made his head whirl, and he was forced to cling to a post for a moment.

‘God’s teeth!’

Muttering curses against all land-dwellers and especially the morons who committed murder and got themselves discovered, Gil took Hamund’s hand, ducked his head under his arm, and supported the abject abjuror as he walked down the hill.

Hamund was in no position to observe the route they took, but he noticed after a while that they were travelling sharply down the hill towards the water again. They passed along the mixed houses until they reached a place that was, even in Hamund’s befuddled state, considerably better decorated than the others.

‘In here,’ Gil said, and propped Hamund against a post while he banged on the door. In a moment or two it opened, and light spilled out into the darkening street.

‘Moses, I’ve got one man for the journey. We’re still light three good sailors, though. God only knows what we’ll do about that. Is the master here?’

‘Gil, I am sorry.’

Hamund watched with bemusement as Gil gaped, and then pelted along the corridor to the hall’s entrance. Touching the wall all the way, he followed behind Moses and Gil, leaning on the doorway as Gil ran to the far end of the hall and out through a small door. He could hear steps above him, and muttering, and a while afterwards Gil came back downstairs. He clung to the rope that had been set by the stairs to ease Pyckard’s way, head hanging, and he wiped at his eyes several times as he stood before them.

‘He was a good master to us all,’ Moses said.

‘It’s hard to believe he’s gone.’

Hamund listened as the two spoke in low voices. It was clear enough that they had lost a man whom they esteemed highly, and it was no great intellectual leap to guess that the man they mourned was the owner of the ship he was hoping to sail in.

‘What now?’ Gil said.

‘We’ll have to wait until his body is set in the ground and the Will read out, and then we’ll have to see what happens. Hopefully we’ll be looked after.’

‘Sweet Jesus! And here I was, trying to see to the last shipments. The Saint John ’s already lost, and there’s no point trying to break my cods filling another cog with crew.’

‘Why do you say that? You must set sail as planned.’

‘Set sail? When there’s no master to pay me and the men? What chance do I have of persuading men to join me when the merchant behind the sailing is cold in his coffin?’

‘It was his last wish, Gil.’

‘What was? That we should make money for his executors? He has no children, no wife!’

‘But she leaves relatives,’ Moses said. ‘And one of them is nearby.’

Gil frowned at him. ‘You’re saying he wanted his money to go to her family?’

‘One half, I think, will be disposed in favour of all those who worked for him, for the Church and for the poor. The other will go to his lady’s family.’

‘And so the ship will sail?’

‘With a new member of the crew,’ Moses nodded. ‘So you will only be two men short.’

He left the room, and Hamund heard him walking along the corridor to the back of the house. There was a long pause, and then steps approached from outside. Hamund looked up to see a tall, swarthy-skinned man with eyes set too close in a narrow face staring at him. A man in particoloured hosen and tunic.

‘The rapist ,’ he hissed to himself.

Cynegils spoke for some while. For the most part his story was laboured, repetitive and self-pitying, but the men gained a good feeling for his tale.

He had come to with a sore head, soaked with water from a bucket which the host of the tavern had thrown over him. Walking home, he almost fell into the hole in the road, and then, horrified, saw that another had already fallen in there. He recognised the man who had asked him to follow the Frenchman. Rather than see all profit lost, he went down into the hole and rifled his purse, taking his three shillings and another twelve pennies as payment for his trouble. He thought that was fair. Not being a thief, he left the rest in his purse. Some men came past, singing, and he ducked down, scurrying away later when all was quiet.

Edith helped her father to his feet, and sighed as Baldwin watched him closely. ‘Isn’t it enough you’ve shown him to be a drunken oaf who cares more about filling his gullet with ale than feeding his children?’ she asked. There were tears in her eyes.

‘Child, I am sorry, but I do need to know a few more details,’ Baldwin said gently. Then, with a more harsh tone, ‘Cynegils, how did this man find you? Was he a local?’