Michael Jecks: The Death Ship of Dartmouth

Stephen, he saw, was hunched a little more at his work. It was unkind of Simon to insist on having the shutter open, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. He needed the air. It was just a shame that no clerk seemed able to cope with it.

His experience of clerks was not extensive, and less than positive, but he was gaining an insight into them and their work.

The first, Andrew, had been a whining pest; the next had been a weedy, frail man, little better than a boy, really, who’d been sent back when his coughing had grown so insistent that Simon could not concentrate. He secretly believed the lad was faking illness to shirk his work, but the abbot had assured him that the fellow had been sent away to recuperate as soon as he returned because he was ravaged with a fever; the third had been wealthy, and clearly a great deal more fit. He had been sent back to Tavistock when Simon encountered him in a tavern’s bedroom with two women.

This Stephen was more pleasant than any of the others. Less cocky (in both meanings of the word) than his immediate predecessor, he managed to look ascetic, while still reserving some spirit. Simon’s occasional irritable outbursts could reduce a weaker man to tears in a moment, but Stephen would listen, and if there was a rational cause to the explosion, would sometimes offer useful advice. If there was no good reason, however, he would just sit back with a puzzled expression that was somehow amused and condescending at the same time. At first this had made Simon ashamed, then it infuriated him, and now, after some weeks, it actually soothed him.

The fact was, there were many frustrations to this job. As well as Simon’s anger at being removed from the job he knew and loved, he missed his family. Especially after the return of his old servant, Hugh. And now, of course, he wanted to be nearer home and Tavistock since the death of his patron, Abbot Robert.

Abbot Robert. There was a man who would be sorely missed. Simon had all but idolised him. To those who knew him, he was a powerful force for good. For those who did not, it was hard to know where to start to describe him: kind, generous, worldly, and a man of business like no other Simon had ever met. He had taken on Tavistock Abbey when it was in a terrible state, and had been forced to borrow heavily to keep the institution afloat. That was many years ago, forty-odd, and in the time since, he had built Tavistock up to become one of the most effective and wealthiest convents in the whole of Devon and Cornwall. Simon had respected him hugely … and loved him. Abbot Robert had replaced the father who had died some years ago, and Simon felt the loss sorely.

Without a spiritual and businesslike head, the abbey was marking time, and all could feel it. Stephen here was in a similar position to Simon. Both knew full well that their position would be discussed at the highest level, as soon as the new abbot was confirmed in his post, but neither could influence the outcome. It left a man feeling peculiarly isolated.

If Stephen was not wearing the cloth, Simon could easily believe that his slender frame, large blue eyes and fair hair could be a sore temptation to many of the women about the town. From what he had seen of other clerks, not even the cloth itself would protect them from womanly ways. Not that Stephen’s predecessor had needed much tempting …

Ach! It was no good. There was too much on his mind to keep him concentrating on his work.

‘The ship, master,’ Stephen prompted him now. ‘She was found on the sea some miles out, just over the horizon.’

‘Yes — and?’

It wasn’t only his work, either. He had his daughter Edith to worry about, and her impending marriage, long-threatened and now imminent. Well, she was old enough, and her young man, Peter, was bright enough. Simon had persuaded her not to marry, though, until Peter had completed his apprenticeship to Master Harold, the merchant. Better not to have the expense and worry of a woman to support when he wasn’t his own man yet. Except that now Peter had succeeded in winning his position, Simon was still anxious. For some reason he could not accept that his little girl was old enough to be wed. Well, he would have to grow accustomed to the thought, and that was an end to it!

‘She is fully loaded,’ the clerk went on, ‘but there’s no one alive on board.’

‘What do you mean? She must have had a crew of ten or more!’

‘Eleven, Bailiff.’ Stephen shook his head a little, and then tilted it. ‘Let me send for the master of the ship that found her.’

Master Hilary Beauley called an order, gripping the nearest shroud as he peered ahead. He shouted again, and felt the ship begin to slow. Until now she had been racing ahead while he kept his eyes on the far distance, but now he was near enough, and he bellowed a third command down to the men at the halyards and up on the sail itself. Soon the great sail was rising as the men reefed it in, clutching great handfuls and hauling it up until only a tiny fraction of the canvas was catching the wind. The ship slowed in her majestic progress, and he could feel her begin to level out.

‘Get my boat ready!’ he bawled down.

This delay would hold up all those in the convoy. His was the first ship to return, but just behind him, he knew, were the others. The law said all ships were to travel in convoy, to protect them from raiders, but this particular convoy had not started out that way.

Pyckard’s ship had been first to leave the port. His little vessel had careered away, and it was only when it was already gone that the others realised what a march he had stolen on them. Beauley had set off immediately with his own ship, with Hawley, so he felt sure, a short way after him. From that moment, time was critical. If Pyckard’s ship reached France a long time before they did, Pyckard’s merchants could make their own prices, and when the others arrived, their own cargoes would be less attractive.

Hawley had one of the fastest and best ships available, and since the concept of the convoy was already rent asunder, it was every man for himself. Each master knew that. Beauley could make good speed, but he must be overtaken by Hawley in the end.

So when Pyckard had gone, he quickly followed, desperate to beat his competitors. If he was to make his profit, he would have to be as quick and seamanlike as he ever had been.

‘Boat’s away!’

Beauley swung down and stepped lightly across the decking. He sprang up to the wale, the thickest strake at the top of the ship’s side, and let himself down the ladder into the boat. ‘Haul away!’

Sitting here in the rear of the boat, he felt a thrill of anticipation, which was only dulled by the lousy oar-strokes of the man in front of him. ‘Stop trying to look through the back of your head, man,’ he snapped. ‘I’ll tell you when to ship oars.’

Alred Paviour kicked at a pebble and glowered down at the body. This was one job he should have refused. A simple hole in the road, and a few other repairs, and he’d thought he couldn’t possibly lose; they were offering a fixed contract and it had seemed too good to turn down. But he’d always had a thing about sailors, and this damn town was absolutely full of them: great horny-handed, hairy-arsed, swearing sailors reeking of fish and seaweed and other things he’d prefer not to guess at.

‘You might as well go to the tavern, master. There’s no point waiting here.’

Glaring at the watchman standing guard over his hole, Alred swore softly. ‘You know how much this is costing me?’

Aye. And every time he entered the tavern alone, it went quiet. People didn’t like strangers down here, and when you saw that almost all the men in the taverns were sailors, who’d be willing to cut your throat as soon as look at you, you realised that this was a very dangerous place. Never trust a matelot, that was the paver’s rule.