Michael Jecks - The Death Ship of Dartmouth

‘No! No! You would throw me to the dogs? You inveigled my story so you could destroy me? Do not send me to that evil man Stapledon! It would be giving me to my murderer!’

Hawley reached his house late, after a detour past a tavern. He had needed time to think after all he had heard about the rapist at the Port Keeper’s house, and now he stood at his door with a frown marring his features.

If he was getting himself into deep water without a sail, he would need to make sure that he had a degree of protection. Just now he felt very exposed.

From all he had learned from the Frenchman, Despenser wanted him. Clearly that was why that poxed whoreson Sir Andrew had demanded the arrest of the man. And Hawley had only handed him over to the knight and Bailiff because he had thought they would keep him until Despenser might come and take him. That was all well and good, provided no one forgot who it was who had sent men to catch the fellow in the first place. If there was to be a good reward, Hawley didn’t want it frittered away in the direction of Sir Baldwin or Simon Puttock. That was all too often the way that officers behaved. The last Keeper of the Port here had been as corrupt as a Cinque Port sailor.

However, there were other considerations to keep in mind. It wasn’t only a matter of the money which should come to him from one reward: there was the matter of the men on the ship. If Sir Andrew and his merry men had killed all the sailors on the Saint John , they should be forced to pay. Hawley was utterly devoted to the rights of men at sea, especially insofar as they affected him personally. If some captain of a warship decided to come and take a Dartmouth merchantman, that was a very serious interference in the maritime trade of the port. He would not have that happen.

He thought how much he would like to go to Sir Andrew’s ship with a force of Dartmouth sailors, and put the vessel to the torch — after relieving her of any useful little dainties, of course — but it was not a part of Hawley’s plan to die young after provoking the most important man in the country after the King himself.

Yet … he had no proof of any criminal actions by Sir Andrew. More likely was his earlier suspicion. Beauley was a desperately ambitious man, and with Pyckard out of the way, it would be easier for him. Yes, Hawley had a feeling that this was nearer the truth.

It was at this stage in his mental consideration that he opened his door and entered his home.

He made no concession to those who might already be asleep, for which man does in his own house? As soon as the door slammed, kicked closed by his boot, he noticed the flickering light from the doorway to his hall. Instantly the light was extinguished, and Hawley stood silently, listening. He crossed the screens slowly, shuffling like a man whose brain was fuddled, and entered his hall. The fire was out, and he stood by it a moment, considering. The light had not come from here, because there was only a slight residual heat from the stones of the hearth. He shambled over to the box on the wall where some candles lay, and took one up. Striking flint and steel, he made some burned cloth catch, and used it to light his little candle. This he set in a holder by his chair, and then he drew his sword and sat down, the blade across his lap as he waited, watching the doorway to his little counting-room.

‘I can wait as long as you want,’ he said conversationally. ‘What? You don’t wish to come out and talk? That seems discourteous in one who is happy to rifle through my chest.’

There was no sound, and he grinned wolfishly. ‘There’s no way out, except past me. But you know that, don’t you, Peter? How much were you going to take tonight? I knew I was right. You can’t keep gaming in a shit-hole like the Porpoise without being flayed. Only you never had enough money to afford that, did you, so you had to be getting it from somewhere else. Where did it come from, eh? Did you steal it?’

‘I am sorry … so sorry.’

Hawley smiled broadly. ‘I expect you are, yes.’

Strete had appeared at the doorway now, and he stood, rubbing his hands together as though washing them. ‘I didn’t mean to …’

‘To steal from me?’

‘I didn’t! I wouldn’t! I paid everything back, master. You know that!’

‘How much?’

‘Now? Four marks.’

‘In how much time?’

‘Just this evening … but it all started so well, that’s what I don’t understand! It’s not fair ! I should have won, but the dice went against me.’

‘Much like life, dice,’ Hawley said, rising. ‘As soon as you think they’re in your favour, that’s when the damned things turn against you. Where’s my money?’

‘I’ve taken nothing, master. I was just-’

‘About to take what you could,’ Hawley completed for him. ‘But I got here too soon. Did you think you’d be able to hide it from me?’

‘I was going to repay you, like last time.’

‘How many times, Strete? How many times have you robbed me?’ Hawley asked sweetly.

‘I haven’t robbed, sir, only borrowed. And then I gave more than I’d taken, in compensation for the loan.’

‘A loan is normally agreed between both parties, Strete,’ Hawley said. He was still grinning widely, even as he swung his sword and brought the heavy pommel swinging round to Strete’s head. The unfortunate clerk tried to block the blow, but the pommel struck him behind his ear, and his raised hand merely caught the blade and lost a flap of skin as he tumbled to the ground.

Hawley kicked him, hard, in the cods. ‘You’ll never work for me or anyone in Dartmouth again, you stupid shit . Jesus!’

‘What on earth is wrong with Stapledon?’ Simon demanded. ‘He is a friend of ours. A more decent, honourable cleric would be hard to imagine.’

‘You are allies of his? I am lost then!’

Baldwin watched the man clench and unclench his fists, gazing about him distractedly as though seeking a means of escape. ‘Please, my friend, just explain to us what you fear. I swear we will not unnecessarily endanger your life.’

‘You swear? On your oath as a knight? On the Gospel?’

‘I do so swear.’

Pierre glanced up at Simon, who had moved to stand nearer Baldwin, and the Bailiff nodded silently in agreement.

‘Believe me, I am no spy,’ Pierre said passionately. ‘But my poor lady, the Queen, is assailed on all sides. I told you of the shocking way in which the Despenser has treated her. He is a monster! Vile and rapacious! And his willing ally is this Bishop of Exeter. He is as evil as Despenser!’

Baldwin shook his head. ‘No, my friend. You are wrong there. Bishop Walter is a devoted servant of the King, and he is in no way evil, I assure you.’

‘Do you say so? But I have seen his words written to the Queen. He has threatened her. He hates her because she is French, and he thinks she will betray her husband just because of that! As if she would behave in such a dishonourable manner!’

‘It is true that the bishop seeks ever to protect the King and the nation from danger,’ Baldwin said, ‘but he is not so mad that he could consider harming the lady. He is fair and reasonable, I promise you. I know the good bishop well.’

‘If you give me to him, you thrust a dagger into my heart,’ Pierre said dramatically. He rent his shirt, bearing a hairless breast. ‘Do it now, and do it quickly. I would not be tortured like my brothers. At least spare me that!’

‘It will not come to that,’ Baldwin declared quickly. He had lost his friends and companions to the tortures, and could not inflict that on another man. ‘Bishop Stapledon is but one man we could ask for advice. I think he is the best, but there are others. Calm yourself, my friend. You are safe here with us.’