Michael Jecks - The Death Ship of Dartmouth

‘If you must, you must. It’s a shame, though. When I was younger, men were better able to hold their drink. Aha, but Bailiff, you can come and join me when this fellow’s resting his bones, can’t you?’

It was plain enough that the man was drunk, but Pierre would not normally have concerned himself with that. Everyone occasionally drank too much. No, it was the expression in his eyes as he took in the sight of Pierre, as though something clicked in his mind. There was recognition there. Merde! His description must be all over the town by now!

‘Master, you’ll go with these two men,’ Moses was saying, but Pierre was struck by a chilly concern.

‘Who are they?’

‘This is Gilbert, one of my dead master’s best shipmen. You can trust your life to him.’

‘And this?’

‘I am called Hamund. I too am travelling to France,’ Hamund managed, and belched.

‘He is to help sail the vessel,’ Moses explained. ‘There are not enough men in the town, and since the last ship was taken and burned, many fear pirates.’

‘You do not?’

Moses smiled thinly. ‘I do not sail. It is better that you go with these men. They can tell you all you need to know. In the meantime, I wish you well. Go with God, master.’

‘Why must I leave now? Is the boat ready to leave?’

‘The Saint Denis is a ship ,’ Gil said testily. ‘She will be ready soon, but just now it seems you’ll be safer hidden away on board than out here in the town where someone could clap eyes on you at any moment. If you come with us now, we can hide you.’

‘Men still seek me?’

‘Is it true you raped a woman?’ Hamund burst out.

There was a ringing sound, and Hamund felt his bowels turn to water as a grey steel flash ended with a cold, deadly sensation at his throat. He scarcely dared look down the length of the sword’s blade to the man’s staring, furious eyes.

‘Who accuses me of this?’ the Frenchman hissed.

‘It was s-said at the inn,’ Hamund stuttered.

‘He’s telling the truth,’ Gil said. ‘A man, a tall fair knight called Sir Andrew de Limpsfield, came in and said he sought a Frenchmen who’d raped a gentlewoman.’

‘He lies,’ Pierre said through clenched teeth. ‘He accuses me of this? This Andrew dares to say that I, I , would do such a thing, when his master …’

‘Who is his master?’ Gil asked.

Pierre gave him a look that was a mixture of dread, and pure, ferocious hatred. He seemed to be about to answer, but then he snapped his mouth closed as he reconsidered. Then he withdrew his sword and sheathed it again. ‘My apologies. I thought you sought to insult me, my friend. It is not you who is responsible for this.’

Hamund said nothing. It was enough that he dared breathe again. He was grateful for the sensation of blood pounding in his veins.

‘You’ll be safer aboard with us,’ Gil said.

‘Very well. Good. Farewell,’ Pierre said, bowing to Moses, but keeping his eyes on Hamund. As the other two left, he followed them out along the passage to the garden behind the house, and thence to a gate in the wall which led out to the shoreline.

Their path took them north, following the Dart’s shore towards Hardness, until they reached a group of beached boats. Gil motioned to Hamund, and the pair pulled one down to the water’s edge, thrusting it bobbing and swaying into the water. Once there, Hamund held it steady while Gil climbed in and grabbed an oar, beckoning to Pierre. The Frenchman splashed through the water, cursing the ruination of his fine clothing, and clambered in alongside him, and finally Gil helped Hamund up into the boat. The abjurer was shivering miserably already, and as the boat rocked and jolted, his face became green in tinge.

‘If you want to throw up, do it that side,’ Gil said gruffly.

Pierre was scarcely aware of Hamund’s suffering. All the way, he was considering the men who had sought him. To lie about him in so foul a manner was … was repellent! He had never raped a woman, and never would. His life was devoted to the service of his love, no one else. He would do all in his power to honour her with his acts of selfless courage.

‘Why did he want to help you so much?’

Pierre had not been listening, but now he looked at Gil as he rocked back and forth rhythmically. ‘What?’

‘I said, why did my master want to help you? There must be a reason.’

‘Did you ever meet his wife?’ the Frenchman asked.

‘She died long ago, when I was a child, but yes, I knew her. A lovely woman. Everyone liked her.’

‘Amandine was my sister, God rest her beautiful soul.’

Law watched as the little boat bobbed its way out into the river and from there up to the great cog standing out in the middle of the channel.

It had been Alred’s idea to stay on the quay here in case the man turned up. He had reasoned that if someone wanted to escape from Dartmouth, the best way to do so would be to take a ship. Bill had gone to Hardness to take a look at the fishing boats up there, and speak to the men who worked them, hoping to learn something of strange movements of ships, or even, if they were lucky, hearing of a sailor who was trying to win a passage to France. Law hadn’t reckoned much to the idea. If he was a Frenchie hoping to get away from the country, he’d have just hopped onto a ship and hidden away, wouldn’t he?

He was just thinking of leaving the riverside to go and find himself an ale or two, when he heard the voices.

All in all, it had been easier to find the man than even Alred had thought.

Sir Andrew smiled when the innkeeper told him that there were others already staying at the inn. He nodded understandingly, and asked who was intending to stay in the room with him and his men. Suddenly the inn was full of men contemplating their drinks and avoiding involvement in the discussion.

‘I think you will find that the room is now empty,’ he said to the innkeeper. ‘I will use it with my men for the night.’

Cynegils was already secured. Sir Andrew had checked on where the town’s gaol was, and the old sailor was presently enjoying the hospitality provided by the cell by the market square.

‘Stealing from a dead man’s purse,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Some will stick to nothing in their greed.’

‘What now, Sir Andrew?’ asked one of his henchmen.

‘For now, we shall rest. The Gudyer is to be victualled in the morning, and then we can consider what we shall do. The man will not be so difficult to find, I think; not with the whole town looking for the mad foreign rapist. I am sure that soon we shall be able to announce that we have the culprit, and then we can take him to the ship and leave for home.’

‘If you are sure.’

‘Oh, I am. I am.’

Sir Andrew sipped his wine and sighed. It was infinitely better to be here, sitting on a comfortable stool which wouldn’t rock and slide away every few moments. The ship was a fine creature, it was true, but Sir Andrew was not so convinced of the life of a sailor. He preferred the gait of a horse under his rump to the unpredictable rolling of a cog’s hull. Since he could not swim, every sailing was a source of some concern, if not alarm.

It was some years since he had managed to win his present position, and he was content with his life since then. Beforehand he had been a squire in the service of Bartholomew Badlesmere, working hard as squires often did, teaching others younger than himself how to handle weapons, showing them how to master a horse, and the more delicate points of serving good cuts of meat or loaves. It had been a good position for advancement, but he knew only too well that while he could have a position there for life, he would never himself become wealthy. Badlesmere had so many on which to lavish his largesse, the chances of Andrew growing rich in his service were low. And he wanted to be rich.