Michael Jecks - The Death Ship of Dartmouth

‘I am in the land of my enemies,’ Pierre said sadly. He huddled down again, his hands pulling his shirt together. ‘I am hated for my nationality, for my family, for my loyalty to my mistress … I cannot be safe until I escape from England. And you two, who declare yourselves my friends, will try to save me by delivering me to my worst enemies!’

As the clouds passed over the sickle moon, there was a sudden darkening of the world. The silver light, which had seemed so bright, was extinguished, and a deeper blackness was all that remained.

The ship was silent, apart from the slow tramp of a solitary sailor who yawned and scratched as he moved about the ship, desperate to remain awake. Those who failed in their duty of guarding were flogged, so Hamund had heard. Gil was a hard taskmaster, albeit considerate to those who demonstrated obedience. If he had wanted, Hamund could have remained here on board, become part of the crew and settled here in Dartmouth. Others had done so. When abjurers were released to make their way to the coast, many slipped off the roads and became outlaws or merely walked to a distant town and began a new life. So long as he never returned to where he had been convicted, he should be secure enough.

The ship would set sail in the morning, and he could then travel over the sea with this crew and find himself a new home in France. But without his friend .

Although he had only known Pierre for a short time, a matter of some hours, he felt sure that the Frenchman would desert him, were the tables turned. He knew it, and yet in the depths of his heart, he also knew that this man had meant to help him when he had been desperate for a word of comfort. What’s more, Pierre had promised to look after Hamund when they arrived in France.

Slipping over the side of the ship, Hamund let himself down the rope slowly. From the ship here to the shore was only a matter of some tens of yards, no more than that. The pond at home used to be wider, and he swam that from side to side every summer.

The chill of the river caught his breath. He clung to the rope for a moment, growing used to the cold and staring up at the sheer of the hull, considering the safety that it represented, the promise of a new life … and then he let go and started swimming for the shore.

He didn’t know where Pierre was, nor did he know what he could do to save the man, but he knew he had to try.

Will the gaoler was irritated to be on duty tonight. Normally he’d be snuggled up to his wife, not here in this godforsaken dump.

‘Shut up!’ he bellowed as someone underneath him shouted again, demanding to be allowed to see his master, and warning Will that he’d suffer for this later, sticking servants of the King’s Advisor in gaol without reason. ‘You murdered eleven of our men at sea, you did, and we don’t let murderers go without trial down here. Don’t know what you do up north, boy, but here we stick to the law.’

‘We did nothing of the-’

‘My daughter Annie was keen on one of the lads you murdered, so if you think I’m going to let you out so you can go and cut the throats of others, you’re mistaken! Now pipe down and let a body sleep!’

It still rankled. Little Annie had been sweet on that brawny young matelot Ed, who’d died on the Saint John . God’s teeth, since the ship appeared, she’d near had conniptions, poor maid. The weeping and wailing in the house … Well, that was one attraction of remaining out here, he supposed.

‘Open this door, gaoler!’

This command, given in the tone of a man who was used to issuing orders and having them acted upon, worked on Will like a small bolt of lightning. He shot up from his chair and peered suspiciously at the barred and latched door to the street. ‘Who is it?’

‘Sir Andrew de Limpsfield, acting on the King’s warrant. I want to have this door opened now.’

‘I was told to leave the door locked, Sir Knight,’ Will whined, and chewed his lip. The orders had been quite definite: he was to keep these men down in the cell until Master Hawley said they could be freed. This Sir Andrew sounded a powerful, dangerous man, but Will knew he must obey Master Hawley.

There was a loud crash from the door, and the timbers shuddered. It was barred with a large piece of oak, and the latch was pegged shut, but just now neither appeared to offer a great deal of security. A fine cloud of soot and dust fell from the loose timbers of the roof.

‘Don’t do that, the roof’ll fall in!’ Will shouted in alarm, choking on the thick air.

‘Open the door, or I’ll have it off its hinges,’ Sir Andrew stated implacably.

Will waited until there was one more crash, but that was enough. There was no possibility of the door surviving the onslaught, and even if the door had survived, he reckoned the roof would have fallen about his ears. ‘I’m opening it, master, just give me a moment,’ he declared, and started to pull the peg from the latch, lifting the heavy timber from the locking slots.

As soon as it was opened, the door was thrust wide, and a powerful sailor pushed him aside. A second marched in after him and held a knife to Will’s belly, forcing him against the wall. Only then did Sir Andrew cross the threshold, glancing about him distastefully as he did so.

‘What a repellent hovel! Release the men.’

The knife was moved at Will’s belly, and he took the hint. He lifted the keys from his belt, and the sailor threw them to his companion. He caught them and bent to the trap door, unlocking the great padlock and lifting the door up and over.

‘Good,’ Sir Andrew said as the ladder was dropped down into the hole. He waited, tapping his feet as the prisoners began to climb up and stood about the room disconsolately, one or two throwing looks at Will that made him anxious.

‘I do not expect to have to rescue you and your men from a gaol again, Jan,’ Sir Andrew said to the leader. ‘None of you. You may be able to redeem a little honour, if you can capture this traitor and spy. He is currently at the home of Bailiff Puttock, the Keeper of the Port. You have your orders. Go and bring him to me. I shall be back at the ship. We sail first thing in the morning.’

‘What of the Bailiff?’

‘What of him?’

‘If he refuses to hand over the man, what do we do then?’

‘You have your orders. You know under whose authority we work. Any man who wilfully obstructs the King’s men will suffer the consequences. I trust that is clear?’

‘What about this old fart?’ asked the man guarding Will.

Sir Andrew walked over the floor and eyed Will contemplatively. ‘He kept my men here, and then would have prevented my entering, wouldn’t he?’ he said, and all of a sudden took hold of the sailor’s forearm and thrust his knife forward, placing his other hand over Will’s mouth.

He watched dispassionately as Will jerked and tried to pull away, his eyes wide and maddened. Unable even to scream, his body wrenched and lurched as Sir Andrew pulled the blade slowly upwards, opening Will’s belly to the breastbone. When the gaoler began to slip down the wall, Sir Andrew let go of his sailor’s arm and took his hand away from Will’s face, eyeing the saliva-sodden palm disdainfully. Will slumped at the floor, trying to hold his belly together, shivering with shock, unable now to make more than a whimper.

Sir Andrew turned and found all his men staring. ‘What are you all waiting for? Get going!’

When he reached the shore, Hamund was shivering badly, his teeth chattering. There was a stone jetty, at which some rowing boats were tied, and he had to clamber up the rough stones to reach Lower Street. Here he huddled for a moment, trying to quell the spasms that rattled through his body, his arms wrapped about his upper torso. Dripping, he was frozen to his core, and desperate for a fire to warm himself.