Paul Doherty - The Waxman Murders

‘Master!’ the lookout shouted. ‘The first one to the north is The Segreant ; its pennant shows a green griffin rampant.’

Blackstock clawed his face. Paulents! That powerful merchant of the Hanseatic league had decided to take his revenge.

‘And the other?’ Blackstock shouted back, though he already knew the answer.

‘ The Caltrop ,’ the lookout shouted back. ‘It flies the silver wyvern.’

Blackstock staggered to the taffrail and held it; staring down at the swelling sea, he felt sick. Von Paulents the German and Castledene the Canterbury merchant, the Kentish knight with fingers in every pie cooked in England, had plotted to trap him.

‘They are flying the Beaussons,’ Stonecrop yelled.

Blackstock, peering through the haze, could now see both ships clearly as they closed, sails billowing, poop and stern crammed with fighting men. From the masts of both cogs floated blood-red ribbons, a sign that it would be a fight to the death, no quarter given, no terms, no mercy offered.

Throughout that grim grey afternoon, Blackstock used every trick, every device he knew, but it was futile. The two ships were intent on a fight a l’outrance , to the death. Blackstock was beside himself with fury; it clouded his mind and dimmed his wits. He had certainly been betrayed, but by whom? Somebody on board? His brother? Had Hubert been taken, had he been arrested and tortured? The pursuers closed mid-afternoon, eager to bring their prey to battle before darkness fell. Blackstock’s only hope vanished. Despite rallying his crew, he knew it would be a futile fight. He swiftly clattered down to his small, narrow cabin to collect his armour before being summoned back by the cries of Stonecrop. The Segreant was now approaching rapidly, sails furled; it was trying to swing alongside. The Caltrop was still some way off. Blackstock donned his mailed hauberk and his helmet with its broad noseguard. He drew both sword and dagger, steadying himself against the sway of the ship. All around him massed his crew, attired in the most grotesque collection of rusty armour and animal pelts, the heads of dogs, wolves, foxes and bears still attached to them.

The Segreant approached, turning slightly under the watchful eye of its rudder men; Blackstock realised these must be skilled seamen. The cog was broad-bellied but swift, and slightly higher than his; the men on board were dressed in dark brown or Lincoln green. Blackstock suppressed a shiver of fear as he glimpsed longbowmen amongst the enemy; Paulents must have the support of royal troops. Blackstock turned. The Caltrop was doing a broad sweep to pass The Waxman ’s stern and approach from the other side. Something was wrong! Castledene was taking his time. The Segreant was closer. Blackstock stared across. The enemy were all hooded and masked; they looked like a horde of sombre, ghostly monks. Why were they wearing those masks across their faces? Then he saw one of the enemy urinating on to a piece of cloth before putting it over his face. Immediately he recalled what old Dieter had told him, about how the great privateer Eustace had been captured and defeated during the minority of the present king’s father. Blackstock gazed wildly around.

‘Lime!’ he screamed. ‘Lime!’

Already the archers on The Segreant were leaning back, yew bows bent, yard-long shafts notched. They loosed and the arrows fell like a deadly rain amongst The Waxman ’s crew; some of these staggered back or twirled round as the goose-quilled shafts thudded into face, neck and chest. Blackstock ran forward, turning his face away. Too late: men-at-arms on The Segreant now released small sacks of lime. They’d taken careful note of the wind direction and the powder flowed across to sting the eyes and clog the mouths of The Waxman ’s crew. The lime caused chaos. More arrows fell. The Segreant drew alongside, crashing into The Waxman , its men pouring across. Blackstock, eyes sore, mouth burning, ran to the other side as The Caltrop closed the trap, its captain using the powerful surging tide to come alongside, shattering the side rails of the enemy ship. Boards were lowered. Men-at-arms and archers poured across from both sides. The deck of The Waxman soon ran with blood from the vicious melee of hand-to-hand fighting with club, mace and dagger which ensued. The enemy, screaming and shouting, pushed Blackstock and the surviving members of his crew back towards the stern. Blackstock, standing on the top steps, stared down at the enemy pressing close. Paulents was there, small and balding, his smooth round face wreathed in smiles as if already savouring his triumph. Beside him was Castledene, in full armour except for a helmet, his chest covered in the livery of a silver wyvern couchant against a green background. The merchant prince’s sallow, pointed face beneath a mop of wiry grey hair was splattered with blood. He was already directing his men to finish off the enemy wounded with a swift thrust across the throat with a misericord dagger.

Blackstock watched all this as he and what remained of his crew were forced back up on to the stern castle. At last the fight petered out. The Waxman ’s crew were exhausted; eyes streaming, their skin blighted by the lime, they threw down their weapons and were dragged away. Blackstock, armed with sword and dagger, remained alone on the deck of the stern castle. He glanced around. Both rudder men were dead, arrows deep in neck, chest and face. Castledene and Paulents approached, the German slipping on the blood-soaked deck. Castledene shouted at his own men to sluice the lime from the boards. He came to the bottom of the steps and glared up.

‘Finished, Blackstock!’ he yelled. ‘I’ll take you back to Orwell to hang, your brother next to you.’ He stroked his neatly clipped grey moustache and beard, his watery blue eyes flinty-hard as he glared hatefully at this pirate who had sunk three of his ships. ‘The Cloister Map!’ he demanded. ‘Hand me that and I’ll give you a swift death.’

‘How did you know?’ Blackstock countered, staring round. Behind the two enemy captains, his men were being bound hand and foot. Stonecrop, however, remained unfettered, standing apart from the rest. Blackstock had his answer. He glared down at Castledene and Paulents. ‘Hang?’ He smiled. ‘No, I’ll not hang, nor will my brother. You are both marked and sealed by the Angel of Death.’

Blackstock lunged forward, the image of his brother bright in his mind as the longbows twanged and the deadly shafts pierced his face and neck. His life was over even as he tumbled down the steps. Castledene turned the body over with the toe of his boot and stared down. Blackstock’s eyes were already clouding in death, blood gushing out of nostrils and mouth. Castledene knelt down, pulled back the mailed hauberk and rifled through the dead man’s clothes and wallet. When he found nothing, he shouted at his own lieutenant to go down to the cabin and search. The man came hurrying back up the steps, an empty coffer in his hands.

‘Nothing, sir, nothing at all. What shall we do with these?’ He pointed at the prisoners.

‘Hang them all!’ Castledene shouted. ‘From stern and poop! Especially this.’ He kicked Blackstock’s corpse.

Stonecrop came forward, hands extended.

‘You promised me my life.’

‘So I did.’ Castledene, suffused with anger, walked to the side. He turned and gestured at Stonecrop. ‘I promised this man his life. I keep my promises. Throw him overboard; he can swim to the shore.’