Michael Jecks: The Death Ship of Dartmouth

‘Has your man told you about it?’

Hawley was a bluff, sturdy character. His eyes were as grey as Simon’s, but in Hawley’s there was a glint of steel. He had a reputation for fearlessness in the face of the elements, which was a good trait for a ship’s master, but there was another aspect: utter ruthlessness to those who stood in his path. It was rumoured that during the recent crisis in relations between King Edward II and the French King Charles IV over that place — Saint Sardos or somewhere; Simon wasn’t sure exactly, but the two nations had gone to war over it, wherever it was — Hawley had made himself some good profits by taking a privateer’s papers and capturing all the ships he could. There were many. Those which were owned by the King’s allies were supposed to have been freed and their crew unmolested, but there were strong suggestions that this Hawley, with his ‘Devil take you’ attitude and the quizzically raised eyebrow, had occasionally forgotten that rule.

He was shorter than Simon by a half head at least, and his shoulders weren’t so broad, but for all that Simon would not have liked him for an enemy. He wore his short sword with the easiness that only professional masters of defence could emulate: it was a part of him, whether sheathed like this, or gripped in his hard, leathery fist.

Crossing the floor to Simon, Hawley held out a hand, and Simon stood to take it. Both nodded, each respectful of the other, if wary. They were aware that their objectives and ambitions were entirely different.

Respect was easy with a man like this. There were men of the sea whom Simon had known who knew nothing of ships and coasts, men who depended on their navigators and crew to keep the ship safe. They were invariably slothful, drunken fools, in Simon’s mind. Not so Hawley. He had been living aboard ships since he was a lad, and as the years passed, he had grown knowledgeable of all the coasts, if the stories were true, all the way down to the Portuguese king’s lands. Simon could imagine him being entirely uncompromising in the face of cowardice or incompetence. He was a determined man, as bold and daring as any knight, but less constricted by the code of ethics which so many knights claimed to espouse.

Not that many lived their lives constrained by them, if Simon was to be honest.

For the rest, Hawley was rich, as demonstrated by his crimson velvet cote-hardie, and the softness of his linen beneath. If salt had marred his hosen, they were still made of good, thick wool, and his shoes were of the best Cordovan leather. It made Simon feel tatty in his old robe from last year. Since the death of the abbot, he had not felt it was the right time to ask for the annual replacement that was the perquisite of his position.

‘I saw it for myself,’ he replied now. ‘It was burned?’

‘Aye. All above decks quite badly, although below there’s little damage. There’s a stench of oil all about it, but I think much didn’t catch, by fortune.’

‘Do you know whose ship she was?’

‘She has the lines of the cog Saint John , one of Paul Pyckard’s ships, but I can’t be sure without looking through her more carefully.’

‘You mean your men didn’t?’ Simon asked with a slight smile. He wouldn’t call the man a liar, but it seemed unnatural for such a bold seafarer not to have looked.

Hawley stared at him blankly, not returning the smile. ‘We were sailing from here to Bordeaux as part of the fleet.’

Simon nodded. The haven was more empty than usual, because recently all the shipmasters had been ordered to sail in groups for their own protection. Since the opening of hostilities once again with the French, it was necessary to protect ships from the depredations of French privateers.

‘It’s a journey we’ve made often enough, Bailiff, with a hold filled with wool and tin amongst other things. Lots of produce to sell, and we should have made a goodly profit. Then, last night, when we’d only made a day’s journey, we saw the gleam of fire in the distance as the light faded. I ordered the sails to be reefed and sailed for her, wondering what had happened, whether this was a random act of piracy — you know what those French are like.’

‘Yes.’ Simon did. They were exactly the same as the man in front of him.

‘When we got closer, there was no sign of another ship. All we knew was, this cog was ablaze. So the first thing we did was stop the fire. I reckon what happened was, they soaked her sails in oil and put a torch to them, thinking the whole ship would go up in flames in an instant, but it takes a bit more than that to put paid to an old ship like her. It’s like burning stone, when the timbers are so well weathered. As her attackers sailed away, though, they’d have seen roaring flames, and maybe thought she was gone.

‘It took a long effort, hurling water from all the buckets we could grab,’ he went on. ‘We put paid to the worst of it by dropping a sail over the side, lifting it on the windlass, and aiming it filled with water over the worst of the fire. Then it was a case of climbing over there and putting out all the smaller ones.’

‘It can’t have been a pleasant sight.’

‘A ship in such a state is never pretty.’

Simon allowed a fixity in his stare. ‘I meant the people.’

‘There were none.’

‘What?’ Simon asked, unsure whether he had heard aright.

‘That’s correct, Bailiff. There was no one aboard. There’s already talk about her being a death ship, that the devil’s taken her crew.’

Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was sitting on his throne-like seat in the hall of Exeter’s Rougemont castle listening to the cases before the court of gaol delivery, at which the felons would be delivered from the gaol either to freedom or death, and was delighted when the last case had been heard and justice passed down.

It was the hardest part of his function as Keeper of the King’s Peace, this listening to the miserable churls who passed in front of him. They were invariably fools, or brutal outlaws who should preferably have been throttled at birth, rather than being left alive to harm others. One in particular, a devil with one eye and a ferocious scar through his empty socket, spat when he heard the sentence of death, and swore he’d see the justices in hell.

Baldwin knew the case intimately. The man had stolen from a miller near Tiverton, killing the poor man in front of his family, then raping the mother and a daughter, before stabbing them both. The mother died, the daughter still lingered — although Baldwin was sure that her broken heart would never heal and she must die within a year and a day. And why had it happened? Because this man had taken offence at an innocent comment passed by the father. He was a foul creature, and the sooner he was dead the better. Others, though, did not deserve their punishment.

With that thought in mind, Baldwin scarcely noticed the man calling to him until he had almost walked into him.

‘Sir Baldwin? The bishop would like to speak with you.’

‘Oh? I shall come with you, then,’ Baldwin told the young cleric in black garb. ‘It’s only a short walk.’

‘He is not at the palace just now, Sir Baldwin, but at his manor at Bishop’s Clyst. He begs that you will join him there.’

Baldwin winced. It was late already, and he had hoped to be finished in time to ride homewards to see his wife and Richalda, his daughter. Lady Jeanne was six or seven months into her pregnancy, and he was attempting to spend as much time as possible at her side while they waited for the day when their latest child might be born. ‘Very well,’ he said reluctantly.

‘I have already asked the grooms to prepare your horse, Sir Baldwin. I hope that wasn’t presumptuous.’