Michael Jecks - The Death Ship of Dartmouth

As he stood there, he saw a glow from the northernmost tip of the street. As soon as he had begun to swim, he realised how powerful the current was just here, because he could see from the few lights at the shore that he was being swept out towards the mouth of the river and the open sea. One light in particular attracted his attention: a large open brazier near the mill. It took all his strength to keep to a more or less straight course towards South Town. Desperate for heat, he forced himself to his feet and hurried along the street towards the fire.

Blessed heaven! The coals glowed with a fierce heat that began to scorch him almost before he could feel it. He sighed with relief, holding hands out to it reverently, wondering what he could do next. Hamund had no idea of the town’s layout, but most small towns had a holding gaol somewhere, probably near the market square itself. He would go there.

‘You all right?’

‘I …’

Hamo eyed the dripping figure with alarm in his eyes. ‘You fallen off a ship, mate? You’re drenched.’

‘I am fine, I thank you, but I have some business to attend to.’

‘Business, eh? At night? Only felons go about in the dark, friend.’

‘I am no thief!’ Hamund exclaimed indignantly, and then he could have laughed at the thought that no, he was no thief , he was merely a murderer. How he had fallen!

‘Come in here, then, and dry yourself off. Whatever your business, it’ll be easier to conduct if you’ve warm clothes on instead of soaking wet ones,’ Hamo said kindly. ‘Come on. I’ve cloths in here. You can get dry and then the brazier will do more good.’

With a feeling of great good fortune, Hamund followed his benefactor the cooper inside.

‘What did you think, Simon?’ Baldwin asked when they had left Pierre in the lower storeroom at the back of Simon’s house. It was impossible to hold him in the gaol when the crew who wanted to kill him were all there. Safer by far to keep him here.

‘Entirely convincing, I thought. It’s rubbish, of course, but he does seem to believe it.’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said. He was struck by Pierre’s sincerity, and yet why should anyone think that the good Bishop of Exeter would behave in such a fashion? He and Simon knew Walter Stapledon personally, and the idea that he could be working to destroy the Queen would be laughable, were it not for the unaffected earnestness of Pierre’s manner.

‘He was determined not to have his name given to Walter,’ Simon said.

‘For the moment we can indulge that, I suppose,’ Baldwin said. ‘But we do have to decide what to do with the men in the gaol. They will be clamouring for release, I expect. And when they are out, what then?’

‘I’d be all for telling them to weigh anchor and bugger off,’ Simon said, ‘but I suppose you’ll tell me not to be so mad.’

‘I agree with you that the best course would be to be well rid of them,’ Baldwin admitted, then added more quietly, ‘but if you behave in too high-handed a fashion, all that will happen is that you’ll antagonise them. And if you don’t fear Sir Andrew himself, you know what Despenser is like.’

Simon nodded. All knew how ruthless he could be. Force was not a last resort for him, but rather an everyday means of achieving whichever ambition he possessed at the time. ‘What shall we do, then?’

‘I wish I knew. Where is the Coroner?’

Simon shrugged. ‘Probably in a tavern somewhere insulting the locals, if I know him at all.’

‘Send your boy to find him. I think we would benefit from his experience and knowledge. I have to confess, Simon, I find this situation very worrying.’

He sat for some while after Rob had been roused and sent to seek Sir Richard. Simon fetched them both wine and poured liberal measures into two mazers. For once Baldwin did not remonstrate about the quantity. Although he was usually abstemious, this was one occasion when he felt the need of a stimulant.

The country was falling into despair, and the fault lay with the King. Edward II had been weakly and foolish for so long, people had grown used to his manner. But now he had shown himself to be pitiless and brutal in his pursuit of his enemies. It was incredible to many that he should seek to destroy his cousin, Earl Thomas of Lancaster, but it was his callous behaviour to all Thomas’s allies and friends, not least his own widow, that shocked and terrified many in the country. Yes, some praised the King for his determined actions and first military success, but Baldwin feared that there was a destruction of the trust between ruler and ruled. It scared him.

Perhaps he should go to Parliament as Stapledon had suggested. There he might be able to show his peers how damaging the King’s actions were. It was a subject’s duty to show where the King was failing, surely.

He rubbed his temples. If only he could be back at Furnshill with his pregnant wife and their child. He was not made for great political intrigues and dealing with matters of such danger and importance.

‘Baldwin, it’s late. Perhaps you should go and rest,’ Simon said gently, sensing his mood.

Baldwin grinned quickly. ‘Do I look decrepit? No. I am fine. But this issue of the Frenchman is a problem. How can we resolve it, I wonder?’

His question was answered by a sudden pounding at the door.

The Coroner had left Sir Andrew shortly after identifying the corpse in the church, determined on an investigation of the little tavern out by the Tunstal road. As a lad, he had been there, he recalled, and got into a glorious fist-fight, during which he had knocked down two opponents. Now, standing in the little space, it was hard to imagine that he had truly been able to throw the first to the floor and pound the second three times in the nose before kicking his legs away and dropping onto his chest, driving out the air from his lungs in an almighty ‘whoosh’ that could be heard, so they said, at the other side of the road. Aye, happy days.

Now it looked too cramped to hold a cock-fight in. Sad how a man’s memory could play him false. He left that place and wandered on up the hill to look in at the Porpoise. Here he only had three pints of strong ale, on the basis that he ought to save a little room for some of the Bailiff’s wine. Simon was a generous man with his drink, even if he did suffer for his generosity afterwards. Still, that was hardly Sir Richard’s fault.

It was at the Porpoise that Rob found him.

‘Looking for me, eh? Fine. You want a drink while you’re here?’

Rob was well used to the drinks from this place, and he took a quart of their stronger ale. The Coroner watched him over the rim of his horn as the lad closed his eyes and tipped the jug back, slowly drinking the quart in one long draught.

‘You enjoy your ale.’

‘Always, sir.’

‘You’ll go far. A lad who drinks so firmly,’ Sir Richard said, standing and making his way to the door, ‘is a fellow of substance and determination. You must have both in life, lad. Remember that.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And when you’re Sheriff in charge of this whole county, remember me in your prayers for having told you how to make your fortune, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And …’ Coroner Richard stopped. Along the street there were shouts and curses, while a small mob swung a bench at a door. ‘Good God in heaven, that’s the Bailiff’s door!’

The first battering had made Simon and Baldwin leap to their feet. They listened to the angry shouting and the clattering of weapons against the door, and then with one accord, they sprang out into the small passage that led to the front of the house. There they could see the door shaking, a timber working loose from its nail.