Michael Jecks - The Death Ship of Dartmouth

Hawley took it and glanced into the chest. He turned, but then hesitated and slowly went back to it, his face betraying a certain doubt. ‘I thought there would be two more sacks?’

Strete felt sweat break out on his back. ‘I don’t think so, master. Do you forget the two which went to the men victualling the cog ready to sail? It’s all in the account.’

‘Oh, I see. That’s good, then,’ Hawley said. ‘Right, I’d best be preparing myself for the funeral. Don’t forget to lock up.’

He walked out, and Strete drew a long sigh of relief. When his master had seen that the sacks were gone, he had thought he was about to be discovered. As soon as he could, he would put the money back in the chest. It would only take one more win …

Only a short while ago he had been close to winning enough to repay the whole debt. He had enjoyed a near-miraculous run of good luck at the gaming, and it was only when fortune turned against him that he realised he’d lost almost all his profit again. Thinking that his luck was on the turn, he had borrowed another sack. One more game or two, and with some heavy betting he’d recover the lot, and hopefully no one would ever know that he had stolen from Master Hawley.

But the clerk’s relief was short-lived.

‘I’m early still. Before I go, shall we check the contents of the chest?’ Hawley said.

Peter sat bolt upright. His master had returned and stood in the doorway watching him. ‘What — all of it?’ he gulped.

‘Yes. Why don’t we start adding up the coins?’ Hawley said with a thin smile, and Strete looked out at the sunlight in the street, giving a nervous grin.

‘There isn’t really time, is there, master? Not if you’re going to the funeral.’

‘I think I can make the time.’

Strete heard a sound at the door and glancing up, saw two sailors standing and staring at him with grim expressions. He felt a terrible sinking sensation in his belly. It grew worse as Hawley glanced at his belt. ‘By the way, Strete, that is a good new purse. Have you found some money to buy that?’

Pierre watched the procession slowly walk past, the bell tolling mournfully as they all went, and he bowed his head respectfully, remembering the man who had saved his life.

‘For God’s sake, let’s get back to the ship!’

‘Hamund, be calm. There is no need to hurry anywhere,’ Pierre said. With his hood over his face he felt invisible, and perfectly secure.

‘Oh yes, there is! I am an abjurer, and if I’m found here on the land I’ll be hanged. I don’t need to die, do I, to satisfy your curiosity about this master of yours?’

Pierre was about to reply with a stern reminder that the deceased had saved both their skins, when he saw a face he recognised. ‘Hamund,’ he hissed, ‘do you see the man behind me, he with the fair hair and the smile? You see him — with three men about him?’

Hamund shot a look over his shoulder. From here the four men were in plain view, and he could see the fair man in their midst. ‘He looks like a nasty piece of work.’

‘He is! His name is Sir Andrew de Limpsfield. He has no heart, and is only interested in that which can advance him. If he heard you had swallowed a ring, he would paunch you to see whether it was really there,’ Pierre said with a chill certainty. He was torn now. He was keen to go with Master Pyckard’s body to the church to pray for the soul of that good and kind man, but he also wanted to see where Sir Andrew was going and what he was up to.

‘You’re making a joke, aren’t you? Do you really know him?’

‘He is the most evil man I have ever met.’ And Pierre took Hamund’s shoulder and led him away from the crowds.

Hamo the cooper had finished making and mending the last of the barrels for the cog, and now he was rowing them out to the Saint Denis , ready for her sailing.

‘Ahoy! Anyone up there?’

He sat on the thwarts gripping his oars and staring up at the stern of the ship towering above him, waiting. It was a long while before a face appeared above him and a thin, tremulous voice called down to him. ‘Who’s that? Oh, it’s you, Hamo.’

‘Having a nice sleep, were you? Where is everyone?’

‘Didn’t you hear that Master Pyckard died? Most everyone from his crews will be with him now in the church. He was much liked, was Master Pyckard,’ the man said and burped.

Hamo vaguely recognised him. ‘You’re Dicken, aren’t you? Look, is there anyone else aboard? These barrels are full of fresh water. Gil asked for them. They’ll be the devil’s own job to pull up without a bit of help.’

‘There are some men up at the prow. Wait there.’

Hamo grimaced, muttering, ‘ Wait there! ’ to himself in a falsetto imitation of the man’s whine, adding in his normal voice, ‘Where else am I going to go, you blasted moonstruck fool?’

As he waited, he gazed idly about him. From here the two towns that had united to form Dartmouth were clearly visible and distinct. Each climbed the hills on either side of the cleave that was the mill pool, the white houses a series of rectangles. He could see the mill and the mill’s wheel, and could just make out the line of dark-clad men walking slowly up the hill to Tunstal from Hardness. Bowing his head reverently, he crossed himself as he thought of Master Pyckard.

The men should have appeared by now. He had a sudden suspicion that the fellows on board were drinking the health of their dead master again, and he was about to shout up at them when he saw some boats — three long-oared vessels moving quickly through the water towards him.

Of course there were boats all over the haven. There was nothing unusual in that, but Hamo saw something glinting from them as they came, and he frowned, uncertain. It was odd for lighters to be moving so swiftly in such a busy haven, and although they all looked low in the water, it seemed to be more because they were full of men, than because there was a heavy load of goods aboard them. And then, as he watched, he saw a man in the prow of the first boat draw a sword and point it towards him, and he felt his stomach churn … and then rage filled him as he realised these men were about to board and attack the cog.

‘Dicken! HOY, DICKEN! Look out! You’re going to be boarded!’ he roared at the top of his voice, thrusting with his oar at the steep clinker wall of oak and pushing himself off. He measured the distance: the boats would be here in a few moments. Making a swift decision, he set his oars ready and pulled himself away, back to his store on the Clifton side of the mill pool, watching as the men snagged anchor chains with grappling hooks and hurled grapnels before scrambling up into the ship herself.

Strete sat huddled in the corner of the room and stared as his master’s men went through his belongings.

‘You see, Peter, I think it’s a lot of responsibility looking after my money. It could tempt some men. Are you a strong man, Peter?’

Strete looked from him to the men at the doorway. ‘You can’t think any money’s gone missing, Master Hawley. I would have noticed if it had.’

‘Yes, you would, wouldn’t you?’ Hawley said with a cold tone. He waited while another sailor came in with a clerk. The two of them began to empty the chest, logging the items against Strete’s own rolls.

There was a relentlessness about the way that the two men lifted out the leathern sacks, one counting the coin inside aloud, and the clerk nodding and ticking off each against the notes. Neither of them looked at Strete. That was the prerogative of Hawley and the two guards at the door. All three watched him closely.

‘Master, surely you trust me? If you have any suspicions, you should tell me so that I can explain …’ Strete started, before he saw one man at the door pull a small cudgel from his belt and slap it into his hand rhythmically.