Michael Jecks - The Death Ship of Dartmouth

‘What is your name?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I am Sieur Pierre de Caen.’

‘What are you doing here in Dartmouth?’ Simon said.

‘I am returning home. Is it illegal for a man to go to his homeland?’

‘It is said that you have raped a woman.’

‘That,’ Pierre said, slowly turning until he was seated on the floor, ‘is a lie. Ask my mistress.’

‘Who is she?’ Baldwin asked.

‘You don’t know?’ Pierre smiled drily. ‘I had thought that the dishonourable Sir Andrew would have told you. She is the Queen. My lady is Queen Isabella.’

Hawley stared at him. It was one thing to upset a local magnate, but he had probably offended the Queen herself, if this man was telling the truth. ‘Oh, shit!’

Alred left the tavern feeling considerably happier than he had on his way in. Those blasted fools! Bill should know better than to upset Law. The lad was only young. It served no useful purpose to get him all annoyed. Sweet heaven, if they didn’t keep sensible they’d never complete this damned roadway, and then where would they be? He needed the money in his pocket as soon as possible so he could go and leave this forsaken collection of hovels.

He didn’t know why, but sailors made him nervous, and living here for so long amongst so many was making him even more twitchy than the lateness of the project. The threat of violence, which had seemed merely latent when he first arrived here, appeared now to be all too specific: everyone hated him.

Perhaps he was just superstitious, but he didn’t think so. The paver was a mild-mannered man, and the idea that he might be living in a place where violence was part of daily living, was appalling. The sailors of this place cared only for other sailors. They didn’t give a damn for other men. Hah! They’d soon notice if there weren’t paviours about the place, though. Without his roads, they’d be stuck. They might be able to sail off around the coast, but they’d not be able to get fish and cargoes loaded on carts. Not that many did, he told himself. They were lucky to have a packhorse to carry their wares to the local community. Oh, the devil take it. He was wasting his time here. They didn’t care, and they didn’t need him.

He was just reaching this grim conclusion when he heard a door open, grating on the rough ground, and a man walked past him to the rough bar set in the corner of the room, and asked for a strong ale.

Alred had seen him before. This was the man who had been in this same tavern only a few days ago, talking and laughing with his companions. It was just before Alred and the other two had gone out and saved the man from the fellow who’d meant to knock him down. Only they’d apparently hit the wrong bloke. You just couldn’t do right for doing wrong in this life.

The man drained a horn of ale while Alred watched, and then walked slowly from the inn. For some reason, his attitude spoke to Alred entirely of despair. It quite destroyed any remaining pleasure in being there in the tavern, and Alred stood and made his way to the twilight outside. There were the smells of suppertime now: fish stews and pottages lending their wholesome scents to the evening air, and he snuffed them for a moment or two before making his way back to the storage shed he shared with the others, wondering how much longer they must all remain here. Tomorrow he would make sure that they got that section of road finished so that they could get away from here.

He set off up the lane, and as he walked he passed by the pale-featured man from the gambling room. ‘Evening,’ he called.

The man leaped as though shot by a sling.

Alred eyed him askance and said no more. Someone that jumpy was plainly not in his right mind, and he didn’t wish to be attacked by a lunatic.

‘Sir, please, tell us your tale,’ Baldwin requested.

‘My story is not long,’ Pierre said. He had been passed a towel by Simon, and he dabbed gingerly at the bruise on his skull. ‘Who did this? I have grown a goose-egg on my brow!’

Hawley smiled. It was not his concern if a felon was knocked down. ‘My apologies. My men were perhaps overkeen to obey my command, friend. They sought to restrain someone we had felt was a wild and uncontrollable criminal, driven by his humours to attack and ravish a lady.’

‘Well, I am no such thing. I am Pierre de Caen, as I say. I was the son of Philippe de Caen, and a loyal servant of the French king. I came to the notice of my Lady Isabella when she visited her father in France, and I was not loath to come and see this country.

‘My Lady Isabella is a lovely lady. She is honourable and devoted to her husband,’ he said, his eyes on the ground before him. ‘She wishes only to serve him. I was in her service for nine years. However, in that time I began to grow enamoured of a lady. It hurts me to tell you this, but I was so stricken with desire for this lady that I began to pine for love, and to cut my tale short, I decided that I could not remain at the side of my Lady Isabella. My health must suffer and my joy in service must fade. So I asked her if I could serve her in some other capacity, and she graciously permitted me to leave her household in England and travel to France once more.’

‘What will you do there?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Remember the woman I loved, and hope to be deserving of honour. I shall seek trials of combat at every opportunity and hope that my example may serve to inspire others. I will not be able to marry. I have lost the only woman who could ever have filled the hole in my heart.’

‘Did you murder a man here when you arrived?’

‘You mean the man in the hole in the road? No. When I reached this town, I found myself lost. I sought my brother-in-law’s house, but it was so long ago that I was last here, that it was impossible. Instead I went to an inn for the night, deeming it better that I should seek his home in the morning. As it happened, while I was in this place, I realised I was being watched. There was a dullard there, a short, grizzled, rather foolish old sailor, who sought to keep me watched. It was plain what was on his mind. So I slipped out to the back, pretending to seek a bed for the night, and when he followed me, I was determined to strike him down.’

‘Kill him?’ Simon asked.

‘No. Just break his head to keep him away from me while I decided what to do.’

‘What happened then?’

‘Some friends had seen this man follow me, and they believed he was about to murder me for my purse. They knocked him down for me and let me escape.’

‘Who were these charitable men?’ Baldwin enquired.

‘I will not name them. They were kind to a stranger. What good would it serve me to have them punished for saving me?’

Simon grunted, ‘It might just save you from arrest and a period in gaol.’

‘It is a risk I can afford. So I ran from the inn, and went up to the top roadway, where I came upon the hole in the road. There I was accosted by a man with a knife. I thought I was about to die, but it was not my enemy from earlier, but my brother-in-law himself.’

Simon looked up and peered at Pierre keenly. ‘You say Master Pyckard was out in the roadway?’

‘Yes. I had sent a message to him when I arrived in Dartmouth, and he was looking for me.’

Simon shot a look at Baldwin. ‘This sounds unlikely. Master Pyckard is dead, as you know, and the day after Pierre’s arrival, I saw him. He looked dreadful. I’d be surprised if he could have made it to the inn — he found it hard enough to get to his own door when I visited him.’

‘I swear it is true. You may ask his servant, Moses. He was there, and he saw me with his master.’

Baldwin nodded slowly, his chin cupped in his hand. ‘I have known men to have the most appalling illnesses or wounds, and yet be able to go and fight. The reaction hits them all the harder afterwards, but they do not know that at the time. Perhaps, Simon, this man Pyckard did go to the tavern as our friend here asserts, but was then brought down severely as a result. I should enquire of his servant, certainly. Please, continue.’