The Death Ship of Dartmouth: (Knights Templar 21) (16 page)

He glanced down at the two lads in the roadway. ‘Haven’t you got him out yet?’ he snapped.

Simon would have found the sight amusing, were it not for the feelings of cold and heat that chased themselves through his frame. He felt much as an old man would, after sitting too long, his muscles complaining and bones aching. Just now, all he wanted was a rest, with plenty of time to close his eyes. Instead he was getting over-familiar with yet another corpse.

‘Bailiff! Come and look at this!’ the Coroner called. He was pointing down at the corpse’s naked breast. Simon looked. There was no stab wound, but clear on the breast stood a large bruise. Even as he watched, the Coroner reached down and pressed. ‘Ha! Yes, someone clobbered him good and hard. The bones are broken. And yes! – if I press the man’s skull, the whole side caves in. Look, I’ll do it again. Did you all see that? Haha, and there’s not much doubt there, is there … Oh, mind that. Sorry, didn’t expect his juices to squirt like that …’

Mercifully, as Simon spun on his heel, his attention was taken by the horse trotting along the roadway from Hardness and he heard no more.

‘Baldwin! Thank God!’ he managed, and then had to leave the inquest to go to the tavern a few doors away, and demand a strong ale urgently while he waited for his friend.

Hamund Chugge had reached the area above the town as the sun gained its highest point, and he passed through the
fertile lands until he came to the bottom of a hill. Here there were some thick woods, and he made his way through them, tramping on stolidly until he reached the top of the hill. Suddenly, the trees stopped and he could see the river laid out below him, and then, as he surveyed the land, he saw the glittering sea.

He could only stand and stare in astonishment. Hamund had never been near the coast, and the largest mass of water he had ever seen was the Taw River as it passed by his old home. It was nothing in comparison to this, though. This, if proof were needed, showed that God’s power was absolute. It was daunting to think that before long he would be sailing on that twinkling expanse to a new land. Terrifying.

As the sun scorched the ground about him, he gradually came to his senses again and set off, awed, following the road. It took him down past a little church, St Clement’s, and the village of Tunstal, and then down Tunstal hill itself and into the town of Hardness. He made the sign of the cross as he passed by the chapel of St Clarus, and then found himself at the water’s edge.

It was tempting to kneel and dip his hands into the water. There was a suck and slap of little waves as he watched, and the boats which had been left beached on the shore were moving and shifting as the tide came in. It was also here that he began to smell the familiar stench of fish. Fishermen were cleaning and gutting their hauls, mending nets, salting and curing their catches, and they stopped and stared at him as he passed by, curiosity and suspicion mingled on their tough, tanned faces.

He could feel their eyes on him all the way as he walked
southwards along the shore, gritting his teeth against their condemnation. A man carrying a cross like him, clad in a pilgrim’s tunic, with only a staff and a bowl, was marked out as a felon. An Abjuror.

A little way further on was a bridge of solid wood across the creek that fell from the ravine, and he crossed it, staring with fascination at the water-wheel set in the middle. It trundled slowly, making the entire bridge vibrate alarmingly, but what was most peculiar, he thought, was that although the stream must surely have led from the land to the sea, the wheel itself was revolving the other way, turning as though the sea was flowing towards the land. It was a wonderful sight – and rather scary. He peered down at it for a few minutes, but then his courage failed him and he had to stop his feet from taking him pelting across the planks towards the other side and the towns of Clifton and Dartmouth.

Once there, he wandered idly along near the shore wondering where he might go to find a shipman.

There had been nothing concealed about his murder of Flok. There were all too many witnesses. According to them, he had entered the inn with a face filled with malice. Seeing the man at the far side of the room, he marched haphazardly across the floor, plainly much the worse for drink, until he reached Flok and could stand staring at him. The inn was a small place, and had only three stools for clients, but Flok had taken one and two more for the men with him, a man-at-arms, Guy de Bouville, and a clerk. All the villagers who lived and worked about here were standing.

Someone said that Flok had sneeringly asked whether his
new servant should return home, he was so incoherent with ale. ‘Don’t serve him any more,’ he had drawled. ‘I don’t want to have to get the churl carried back!’

‘I’m not
your
servant, I’m servant to Lady Sarra,’ Hamund enunciated carefully.

‘Your master’s dead, and I shall be your master soon, man. Now leave this place. You are an embarrassment. You will have to improve your manners if you want to avoid a flogging when I arrive to take the manor.’

‘I’m a freeman!’

‘You’re a drunk – and now you’re also servile again, churl. You’ll do exactly as you’re told!’

It was then that Hamund set his jaw and pulled his knife free. His first blow slashed Flok’s hand to the bone; the second stabbed into his shoulder, and caught in the socket, but the third finally ended the man’s screaming when he plunged it into his black heart, and Flok fell straight back, his heels rattling on the floor for some minutes.

De Bouville had his hand on his hilt, but he hadn’t drawn his sword. He stood before Hamund uncertainly, his eyes going from Flok’s corpse to the bloody knife in Hamund’s fist. The clerk had left his stool, and was now pressed with his back to the wall behind him as though wishing he could melt into the cob.

Then de Bouville made to unsheath his weapon, but before he could pull it free, Hamund had picked up Flok’s drinking horn and hurled it into the man’s face, followed by a heavy pottery jug slammed into his skull. He fell instantly.

Hamund walked away slowly, his blade waving from left
to right, suddenly drained. Outside, he stood a moment or two in the cooler air, his mind entirely blank. Only when he heard hoofs did he realise his danger. A groom from the inn was leading a rounsey, and he pressed the reins into Hamund’s fist, hissing, ‘Go! Go!’

He stared at the leather in his hand dully, and then, as the first shouts came from inside, and he heard horns begin to be winded, Hamund shoved his knife back in the sheath, leaped upon the beast, and clapped heels. The horse surged forward, and Hamund covered the distance to the manor in a few minutes, dropping to the ground in the court and hurrying inside.

‘My lady, Flok won’t evict you,’ he panted. ‘I have killed him.’

She hadn’t believed him. Not at first, anyway. And then the shock came into her eyes, although there was also delight. He was sure he could see that there too; and then the light of joy faded. Both knew he couldn’t remain. Despenser would soon come to avenge this slaying.

‘You must ride away!’ she burst out.

‘I can’t leave here. Not now,’ he said. His mind was too fuddled to think straight. All he could consider was that he had a stolen horse. ‘Must get the thing back.’

‘You’d worry about a horse when you’ll soon be killed for murder?’ she urged. ‘Go, man. Go with God, but ride!’

She was never so beautiful to him as she was that evening. Her hair awry, hanging loose from her coif, her bright blue eyes dulled with sorrow and reddened with tears, her perfect white skin soft and smooth, the cheeks tinged with colour. He could have worshipped her. ‘I can take my fate,
mistress.’

‘Sweet Mother of God,’ she muttered, and then had three of the servants carry him. ‘Forget you have done this,’ she commanded them as the men took the protesting Hamund across the road, over the field, and quickly up the old roadway to Oakhampton. There they deposited him inside the church, kneeling at the altar.

‘This man has killed, Father,’ Lady Sarra said to the priest as she slipped coins into his hand. ‘Listen to his confession, I beg you, and give him sanctuary.’

It was three days before he saw her again. The Coroner had already visited him and asked whether he would leave the sanctuary and see him to admit to his crimes, but Hamund had refused at that time. He had some days of sanctuary permitted before he need walk into the open. And in those days, he saw much of his mistress Sarra.

At the end of thirty days, he agreed to abjure the realm. The Coroner came with his jury, and before them all, in the churchyard, Hamund swore to leave the land. His route was defined as the road to Dartmouth, and he was instructed to get there as quickly as possible, and to take the first ship that would bear him away. And if there were none on the first day, he would walk into the water in proof of his good faith and desire to adhere to his oath, and he would do likewise on every following day until he found a ship. And if he were ever to return to his native land, any might behead him without fear of punishment.

Guy de Bouville had been there, his swarthy features black with anger. His fingers twitched about his sword hilt as Hamund took his cross and left the churchyard, and
Hamund was sure that it was only the group of Lady Sarra’s men about him, ringing him, that stopped the other man from pulling out his sword and running Hamund through. De Bouville himself would almost certainly escape punishment – he was from Despenser’s household.

No, there had been nothing concealed about his murder of Flok, and he had walked without concealment ever since he had sworn to abjure the realm, obedient to his vow. But now, as he looked over the waters towards the other side of the estuary, he knew that his action would not help Sarra. She had been given warning that her home was forfeit. Despenser wanted it, and what Despenser wanted, he would have. So Hamund had acted in vain.

Perhaps not entirely in vain. He had removed that foul bladder of piss Flok, and that could not be thought to be a bad thing. A man who would go to a widow’s hall and tell her to leave her home even in the midst of her misery and mourning, he deserved all that he received.

‘You lost, friend?’

It was a heavy-set sailor who spoke, a man with a face the colour of walnut, clad in old hosen and a much-patched and stained linen shirt. He stood before Hamund, hands on hips, head set to one side as though assessing his value.

‘I seek a ship, master.’

‘Abjuring, eh?’ The man looked him up and down. ‘Perhaps I can aid you, then. My master needs more hands for the ship, and there are times a man can’t choose his shipmates. Why are you abjuring?’ His expression hardened suspiciously. ‘Did you rob a man?’

‘No! I killed a man who sought to defraud my master’s
widow.’

‘Oh, a murderer, eh? I may be able to help you, then.’

Baldwin met Simon as the jury moved from one body to go and hold inquest on the second, poor Danny’s. It had taken a short while to find a good stables and see that his horse was properly rubbed down and fed, before he felt he could leave it and seek his friend. The group of men a short distance from Simon’s front door was evidence that there had been something of interest happening, and when Baldwin heard the stentorian tones of the Coroner rising clearly over the normal hubbub of the town, he felt a brief anxiety that he might be too late to serve the bishop.

‘Old friend! How are you?’ Baldwin asked when he saw Simon. His sympathy was genuine. There were few times he had seen his companion so flushed and feeble-looking. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Death is attractive just now,’ Simon said thickly. ‘Don’t ask. That Coroner has a belly of steel, I swear. He arrived yesterday to view two bodies, and I feel as though someone has kicked me in the head and … you aren’t listening, are you?’

‘What bodies, Simon?’ Baldwin asked.

Simon glanced back at the place where the body had lain. The two young fellows were about to place it on a board to carry it to the churchyard for burial. ‘Hey, you two, wait!’

Baldwin and he strode to the board and stared down at the naked corpse lying there.

‘What do you think, Baldwin?’

‘It matches a description I was given, I fear,’ Baldwin said with a frown. He glanced at the two boys listening nearby. ‘We need to talk, old friend. Somewhere quiet.’

‘And in the meantime, I suppose we ought to speak to the Coroner,’ Simon said without enthusiasm. Filled with self-pity, he added, ‘He’s looking at another corpse. It’s a miracle he hasn’t a third to look at.’

‘A third?’

Simon was in no mood to explain. His belly was a roiling torment, and all he wanted just now was his bed. He led the way to Lower Street in silence, too absorbed in self-pity to consider Baldwin’s words further.

Pierre was standing in the shadows when the voice hissed urgently from the open doorway.

‘Master? Master Pierre?’

He had drawn his sword before sleeping, and now he moved as quietly as possible across the hayloft, then crouched at the edge, peering down at the entrance. Seeing it was Moses, he waited a short while, carefully staring at the patch of bright sunlight to see if any shadows might betray the presence of other men, before sheathing his sword and climbing down the ladder.

‘Moses. You have news of a ship?’

This foreigner was as selfish as any, Moses reckoned inwardly. He was incapable of thinking of anyone but himself, even when the man who had saved his life lay dying in the house nearby. ‘Not yet, no. But I am sure that there will be news before long. First, here’s some food. My master asked me to bring you food every day until you can make
your way back over the water.’

‘He is a good man.’

‘Yes.’ Moses felt no need to add to the flat statement.

‘Have there been men asking for me?’

Moses had no idea what this man might have done. There were enough fellows who had done little or nothing to deserve being chased like foxes for him to feel too worried by that. Still, it rankled with him that this Frenchman did not enquire after the health of Master Pyckard.

‘There has been nothing,’ he answered carelessly. ‘I doubt there’s anyone here looking for
you
.’