The Death Ship of Dartmouth: (Knights Templar 21) (18 page)

‘It is no matter! I am seeking three more men, and won’t have some arse murdering you here when I need you on the ship. So! Enough of this meandering, come! We have to get to the taverns before all the men are too drunk.’

Sir Richard sat back and belched after consuming the best of the food Simon’s boy had been able to find.

Rob was still smarting. When his mother had been called by the lady of her house to repeat the Coroner’s words: ‘If that lazy bratchet doesn’t get up now, I’ll have the steward beat him from his bed!’ she had been furious to have her position in the place put at risk, and had kicked him from his palliasse. Then, as soon as he arrived in the Bailiff’s house, he had been bellowed at by this huge stranger, who told him to scramble to the pie shop immediately if he didn’t want a boot up his arse and to be kicked from one end of Upper Street to the other. When he glanced at the Bailiff for support, all he saw was a look of sheer fury. Simon’s eyes were narrowed to slits, and his mouth was a thin line, he was so cross. Rob ran.

He hadn’t expected them all back so soon this morning. Usually the Bailiff went out to an alehouse for a drink and took a pie from the shop on his way back to his counting-house. Not today, though. Today these three men had descended just as he was thinking about wandering over to the Blue Dolphin himself. He nodded sulkily when he was commanded to seek out pies and honeyed thrushes, six, as
well as a capon. And a loaf, and was there any ale in the house? Or wine? At that point he hurried out before they could think of anything else he might carry.

‘Glad that lad’s sorted,’ the Coroner boomed. ‘Seems more inclined to work now. You can’t let the idle buggers wander about as if they own the house, Bailiff. Can’t imagine how you could have let him get so above himself. Still, he’ll be more cautious now. You all right? You look as if you could do with a drink, man.’

‘I am fine,’ Simon lied. He walked slowly to his chair and settled himself in it, his elbow on his knee, hand supporting his head. It felt appallingly heavy.

Baldwin looked from him to the Coroner, and suddenly understood his friend’s malady. He had thought Simon was simply queasy as a result of the sight of the two bodies, knowing the bailiff’s horror of corpses.

It was a matter they rarely discussed, but Baldwin himself had seen too many bodies for him to be upset at the sight of another one. He looked upon the dead as mere husks of the people who had once inhabited them. Once the soul had fled, the flesh remained as food for worms. In his youth he had travelled out to Acre in a fit of Christian enthusiasm, seeking to hold back the tide of Saracen hordes which were throwing the Crusaders from the kingdoms of Outremer. He had arrived in Acre as the siege was nearing its end, and he had witnessed the full brutality of war at its worst. He had seen women and children squashed to a splash of crimson by the rocks of the massive catapults; men flung against walls by the enormous bolts of the machines the Arabs fired. They could pass through one thickness of a gate, snatch up a man,
and pin him to the stone behind. Yes, Baldwin had seen enough death to last many lifetimes.

When he looked at a body, he did not generally feel grief. The time for that was when the man or woman was still living, and his sympathy or support could save a person from pain. No, when the corpse was in front of him, he was more interested to see what it could tell him about the manner of its death. Some said that when a man died, the last image he saw was imprinted within his eyes, but although Baldwin had peered closely at many dead men over the years, he had only ever seen himself reflected. Yet there was always something to be learned if the man searching was open to clues, no matter how small.

‘I am parched!’ Sir Richard exclaimed. ‘Good God in heaven, you live like a pauper, Bailiff! D’you have no wine in the house fit for a thirsty Coroner?’

Simon gave him a sour look. ‘Until last night, yes. Now I fear there is nothing left.’

‘Was that all you had?’ Sir Richard showed surprise. ‘It was such a small—’

‘And after the ales and the burned wines, I should have thought there would be no need for more,’ Simon said. He felt a little bilious again at the memory.

‘Let’s hope that idle beggar of yours gets back soon with some vittles, then,’ Sir Richard said. ‘Ha! Sir Baldwin, did I ever tell you the story of the peasant, the merchant, the knight and the bishop? They were all in a small boat, and the wind built up, and it was clear that they must sink, so the first man, the peasant, said, “I am unimportant. I have done many ill deeds in my life: once I even took my neighbour’s
sow and knew her carnally, before killing her and curing her. I feel remorse, and I am sure it is my fault God is punishing us for my sin, so I shall jump into the sea to save you, if you all pray for my soul and beg for God’s forgiveness,” and so saying, he prayed with them, and leaped into the waters. But the weather deteriorated.

‘Then the merchant stood up, and he said, “I do not matter. I have made men suffer. When they have owed me money, I have demanded high profits in usurious transactions. I am detested by Christ because I am mercenary and seek to make money from war. But if I jump into the waters, He may relent and let you live, and I may be saved for that one good deed. If you pray for me, I shall go.” So saying, he prayed with them, accepted their thanks, and jumped.

‘But it did no good. If anything, the weather grew still worse, and the two remaining men stared at each other. It was plain that they must die if both stayed in the boat. Only one could live.

‘At last the knight said, “Bishop, you are a good and excellent man. I am only a meagre knight. I have killed and raped across England, and I am known as a felon. But you are a good, kindly, honourable man. Would you pray for me?” “My son, for the rest of my life,” said the good bishop, and began immediately. When he was done, the knight nodded. “Thank you,” quoth he, and threw the bishop overboard! Eh? Haha!’

Simon winced and glanced at Baldwin.

The knight smiled thinly. Sir Richard de Welles’s sense of humour was famed. ‘What did you conclude about the two bodies, Simon?’

The Bailiff grunted. ‘The first was a churl in town for a drink who got seized by a whore’s pander, then was killed and robbed. The second died in a sailor’s fight and was concealed when the bale fell on him. No mystery with either of them. More concerning is the disappearance of the crew on the cog.’

‘The first appears to have been a well-nourished fellow,’ Sir Richard commented. ‘Probably not a farmer or local peasant. Certainly not a sailor.’

‘Why?’

Baldwin responded. ‘His hands were soft. They hadn’t worked with a plough or with ropes. He was no manual worker. His skin, too, was pale. He had a slight reddishness that looked like burning, although that could have been from after his death. Does a dead man get burned by the sun? Anyway, he was clearly a man who spent his life in a quiet environment. He was not well muscled or fit in the normal sense of the word.’

‘And he had a stain on his forefinger,’ Sir Richard said. ‘His right. It was slightly callused. And you saw his brow? A very deep set of frowning-wrinkles. I think it’s fair to think that his eyesight was not so good as it once was.’

Simon belched quietly, glancing from one man to the other as they nodded grimly. ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked tiredly.

‘He was a clerk. Probably one who spent much of his time in the cloisters,’ Sir Richard said absently. ‘The ink on his finger and the frowning point to a man who was used to spending his time with parchment and quill.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘Except I should think that he was from
the Cathedral Close or a canonical church like Crediton’s, rather than a monkish cloister. Monks will pray more often than canons, and his knees were not overly callused.’

‘Ah, I missed that,’ Sir Richard said. He glanced at the door hopefully. ‘Where is that boy?’

‘I think you should look for a man who has come into some wealth,’ Baldwin said. ‘He may have a penner and reeds to sell, too. And a well-made purse, if I guess right.’ He knew that the bishop’s nephew would have the best quality – and money.

‘I shall put some words about. Not that it’s really my job to find the murderer. I only seek him as a diversion, as you well know.’

Baldwin smiled. ‘Of course.’

‘I am interested in this ship’s destruction as well, though,’ Sir Richard said. ‘There is something intriguing about a ship that’s had all her crew slaughtered, even if it is some distance away from my responsibility.’

‘If murder is committed off the land, you are hardly in a position to investigate it,’ Baldwin agreed.

‘It would be hard in any case,’ Simon said. ‘Almost all the ships from the town were at sea that day.’

‘This Hawley was first to pick up the ship, though?’ Richard noted.

‘Yes. But that means little, except I’d be inclined to consider him innocent for that very reason,’ Simon said. ‘If he’d been there all alone, he’d have taken the cargo, fired the ship, and waited to make sure it sank. He’s a cool, collected man. And surely the man who fired the
Saint John
knew little about ships,’ he added thoughtfully.

‘Why so?’ Baldwin asked.

‘The men who tried to fire her poured oil about the deck. It made the damage look bad, with charring to the timbers and the sails gone, but really, the ship herself was under no great threat. A sailor would have thrown more oil about the hold, so that the flammable goods in there might catch light.’

‘Many men might make that mistake. Couldn’t she have caught fire if Hawley was slower to reach her?’ Baldwin remarked.

‘No. From what I’ve heard, the oil was nothing like sufficient. You know how it is – if you want a fire to burn, you put tinder over the flame. Here it looks as though oil was spread about the place and set alight, but no tinder or kindling used. Even landlubbers like us wouldn’t expect that to work!’ Simon grinned.

‘Where is that lad?’ Sir Richard wondered as Baldwin narrowed his eyes consideringly.

As he spoke, the door opened at last and Rob stomped into the room before standing aside. A paid of apron-clad urchins appeared, holding trays on which were good-sized coffins of pastry. The room began to fill with the succulent aroma of gravy and meats. Rob had the pies set on the table at the side of the room, and then he sent the boys away. ‘Capon’s finishing cooking, and he’ll bring honeyed larks when he’s ready,’ he said. ‘No throstles.’

‘The drink?’

‘I’ve got it outside,’ Rob said waspishly. He left them and returned a moment or two later, rolling in a small cask. It was one of the ones used locally, made of oaken staves held in place by a binding of hoops shaped from split hazel, each
hoop secured by fine strands of elder. He rolled it to the table and attempted to lift it, his face reddening as he strained.

‘Good God, boy!’ Sir Richard snapped, pushing him aside and grasping the little barrel. He hefted it easily, and placed it on the table. There was a wooden tap; he set it on the bung and drew his dagger, rapping it sharply. The tap slipped in, and he glared at Rob. ‘Well? Where are the goblets, boy? Do you expect us to drink from our hands?’

Hamund was lightheaded after the wine he had been given at the tavern. It was an ill-lit chamber, foul with smoke and sweat, and the men inside were all local folk. When he first appeared in the doorway, the room became subdued, as though all eyes were upon him. It was not so bad as an alehouse in a small vill, where the room would be silenced entirely by a strange face, but it was disconcerting nonetheless. All the faces in there seemed dark, mysterious, and threatening. At a time when not many men went bearded, all in there appeared to be unshaven; hair was worn long, so that it straggled greasily below coifs and caps; and every face was burned to the colour of the oaken barrels by wind and sun.

Gil himself appeared relaxed. He stood with his thumbs in his belt in the middle of the floor, nodding occasionally at a man he knew well, passing his eyes quickly over others. Hamund wondered whether they were men he did not know and thus could not trust. Except he had already taken Hamund while knowing nothing good about him. This reflection made Hamund look more closely at the men who were ignored by Gil, wondering what black history there must be lying on
them
.

‘I need three more men for the
Saint Denis
,’ Gil said to one small group of men. ‘Who here would like a short journey with as much Guyennois wine as you can drink?’

There was a pause, and Hamund saw several men grin and shake their heads, while others stared from darkening brows. One man stood, shifting his heavy leather belt on his belly.

‘I could make one more sailing, I reckon.’

‘I’m glad there’s one fine fellow who enjoys the sailor’s life,’ Gil said. He ignored two more whose hands were in the air, and first one, then the other, wavered and sank. ‘Come on! There must be someone in here who’s got some fire in his belly!’

‘If you think we’re going to sea in a solitary ship while those bastards from Lyme are trying to kill us, you’re mad,’ a voice called harshly. ‘If they could take the whole crew of the
Saint John
, they could take the
Saint Denis
as well. How many more men do you want to see dead?’

‘First, Tom, we don’t yet know what happened to the
Saint John
,’ Gil responded calmly enough. ‘Second, even if we knew for certain it was the men of Lyme who took her, that wouldn’t change anything, would it? If you allow them to scare you all into remaining in here, cuddling up to each other, you’ll have no livelihood to speak of. What’ll you do, stick to fishing until the big bullies of Lyme come here to take your fishing as well? Or fight them now, while you’ve a chance? I’ve got the
Saint Denis
kitted and fitted, and she’s carrying as many men as I can put aboard her. Any who can handle an axe or sword is welcome, and we’ll soon put the Lyme men to flight if they try any funny business. Come on,
now! Are you all going to give up the sea because of some bandy-legged bastard sons of she-goats from Dorset?’