Michael Jecks - The Death Ship of Dartmouth

‘Weather has changed, hasn’t it, Law?’ Alred called. He had set up a brazier near their hole so that he could heat a pot of water ready for a cup of hot mint drink, and was watching the pot with his hands held to the warmth.

The lad grunted in response. ‘When you spend all night in an alehouse, I suppose you feel the cold more.’

Alred sniffed, but couldn’t be bothered to deny it. His hands were shaking, and his eyes felt like someone had scuffed sawdust into them. It wasn’t his fault, though. He hadn’t been intending to go to the tavern. It was only because that baggage of pus and wind had been arguing with Bill that he’d gone. He’d have stayed out here else. Still, while his belly was rumbling like the lid on a heavy cooking pot, he was in no position to argue.

Arguments were the bane of his life. Now, no doubt, these two would be at each other’s throats all day, too. Or worse, they’d not be talking. He hated it when they got like that. Working steadily at either side of a trench, as though the man three paces away didn’t exist.

‘How was Bill last night?’ he asked tentatively.

Law was still for a moment. ‘He was all right. We both were.’

It was not quite true. When they returned to shore, they had a brief battle with the owner of the boat and his friends. The fact that they’d brought the thing back had saved them more of a pounding, but as it was they had been struck down, and the menace in the boat-owner’s voice had been unmistakable when he explained what he would do to any ‘thieving landlubberly sons of whores’, and Law and Bill hurried away from the river as quickly as they could. Alred was still in his tavern when they got there, and the two of them wrapped themselves in their blankets with many a grunt of pain from bruises and scratches. When he stumbled in, burping, humming merrily, and tripped over a pile of tools to fall on his face in the hay, giggling inanely until he started to snore, neither spoke.

‘Good. Good,’ Alred said. ‘He’s taking his time, though.’

Law shrugged. It was all one to him. Bill had only been sent to fetch some pies. No doubt he’d be back when he had them.

Alred threw him a look that mixed offence with loathing, before turning back to his drink. The water was boiling well, so he wrapped a strip of cloth about his hand and drew the pot from the heat, pouring a liberal measure over the crushed mint leaves. The smell made his mouth water. Good and pungent, just as he liked it.

‘Gaming’s a fool’s errand,’ he said, blowing to cool the drink. ‘You know, I saw a man yesterday, must have been playing dice or something, because when he came out into the road, he was like a man with his brain cut out. No sense at all in him.’

‘Can’t imagine anyone like that,’ Law said sarcastically.

‘Law, what is the problem?’ Alred demanded with despair.

‘Oh, it’s nothing. Look — here’s Bill.’

Bill was trotting up the lane, pies in his hand, and as he passed them around, he looked at Law, who shook his head. ‘You’ve told him nothing?’

Alred was instantly listening. ‘About what?’

‘Last night we took the Frenchie back to his ship to let him escape,’ Bill said bluntly.

‘You … you did what ?’

‘Aye, but then we didn’t know he was going to be caught as soon as he put his feet on the deck.’

Law gaped. ‘You don’t say!’

‘I bleeding do. And he was taken to the Bailiff’s house, but then a mob broke in and tried to catch him. Didn’t manage it. Still, Sir Andrew, rot his soul, is in gaol with most of his crew, and Pierre is safe.’

‘Who caught him?’

‘What I heard, this man Hawley took over the ship in the dark with some of his crewmen, and they knocked the poor devil down as soon as his head was over the rail.’

‘Will he be safe now?’ Law asked, goggle-eyed.

Alred felt the need to interpose at this point. ‘We have this roadway to finish.’

‘He should be safe enough, so long as he gets back to the ship … and there’s no one else trying to catch him there.’

‘I said : this hole here has to be filled, Bill.’

Law frowned. ‘Do you know where he is, then? If he’s found in town without any help, he could be taken again.’

‘Ivo won’t do that. Poor sod’s acting gaoler now, since old Widdecombe Will got killed last night. Sir Andrew did that himself, so they say.’

‘No!’

Bill nodded dourly. ‘Stabbed him slowly. He likes killing, that bastard.’

‘So is Pierre still at the house?’

‘I reckon he’s hiding somewhere.’

Alred smiled brightly. ‘Good. So in that case, there’s nothing more to be said. The man’s safe enough for now, and while he’s in his sanctuary, wherever it is, we can finish the road here.’

Bill nodded. Law scowled.

‘What are we?’ Alred asked.

‘Paviours,’ Law muttered. Bill was silent.

‘What are we?’ Alred repeated, turning his ear as though deaf.

‘Paviours,’ Law said. Bill murmured the word condescendingly.

‘I said, What are we ?’

‘Bloody paviours, you arse,’ Bill snapped. ‘Now stop this daftness and let’s get to work, eh?’

Stephen hurried back to his place of work, still feeling guilty for snapping at the Bailiff. The poor man must have been in quite some pain from the look of his brow. Terrible business. And the gaoler dead! Poor Will didn’t deserve that.

He was scarcely heeding where he was going, when he saw her again. There at the end of the alley was Danny’s widow, talking to a man. Oh yes, there were lines of worry and sadness on her face, but for all that she was as animated as a maid with her first lover as she expostulated with this man.

His back was to Stephen, but then the clerk felt a devil tempt him, and he turned back to the alley, pushing past her with a muttered apology. The man stood aside, and for an instant Stephen saw him. It was the same man who had made Peter Strete stop and frown the other evening. His face was as square as he recalled, and the line of his jaw was prominent, uncovered as it was by any beard. It had a pale look, as though it was only recently shaved after a long time.

Stephen nodded to him and continued on his way. The man was familiar, but why ?

Hamund and Pierre left the little garden by springing over the wall into the foul lane beyond, and thence hurried northwards towards the alley that led down to the waterside.

Pierre suddenly tugged Hamund back, and for a second the older man thought he was pulling rank on him, as though a lowly abjuror and peasant was not significant enough to be permitted to lead the way before a noble knight … but then he saw Pierre put his finger to his lips and peer cautiously around the corner.

‘Two men down near the shore,’ he whispered. ‘We cannot get past them without raising the alarm.’

Hamund nodded. They could not fight their way through this. If they did, they must be captured when the Hue and Cry was raised against them.

Pierre eyed him, then breathed, ‘ Viens, mon ami ! With me, friend, quickly!’

Hamund saw him dart out and lean against the wall of a house as though overcome with tiredness. Hamund joined him, and Pierre put his arm about the other man’s shoulder, singing a saucy tavern-song in a deep voice. Hamund joined in with the chorus about the tapster’s daughter, and the two sang their way up the alleyway, staggering from side to side and out into the lane.

Once there, Pierre stopped singing, and peered back along the alley. ‘We are safe, I think. They were too dull-witted to consider that we could be the men they seek. Now we must go this way, perhaps. The ship is there? Yes.’

It looked so near. Yet it was such a distance out in the river. Hamund felt his hopes failing. ‘Can we swim to her?’