The Death Ship of Dartmouth: (Knights Templar 21) (25 page)

Their path took them north, following the Dart’s shore towards Hardness, until they reached a group of beached boats. Gil motioned to Hamund, and the pair pulled one down to the water’s edge, thrusting it bobbing and swaying into the water. Once there, Hamund held it steady while Gil climbed in and grabbed an oar, beckoning to Pierre. The Frenchman splashed through the water, cursing the ruination of his fine clothing, and clambered in alongside him, and finally Gil helped Hamund up into the boat. The abjurer was shivering miserably already, and as the boat rocked and jolted, his face became green in tinge.

‘If you want to throw up, do it that side,’ Gil said gruffly.

Pierre was scarcely aware of Hamund’s suffering. All the way, he was considering the men who had sought him. To lie about him in so foul a manner was … was repellent! He had never raped a woman, and never would. His life was devoted to the service of his love, no one else. He would do all in his
power to honour her with his acts of selfless courage.

‘Why did he want to help you so much?’

Pierre had not been listening, but now he looked at Gil as he rocked back and forth rhythmically. ‘What?’

‘I said, why did my master want to help you? There must be a reason.’

‘Did you ever meet his wife?’ the Frenchman asked.

‘She died long ago, when I was a child, but yes, I knew her. A lovely woman. Everyone liked her.’

‘Amandine was my sister, God rest her beautiful soul.’

Law watched as the little boat bobbed its way out into the river and from there up to the great cog standing out in the middle of the channel.

It had been Alred’s idea to stay on the quay here in case the man turned up. He had reasoned that if someone wanted to escape from Dartmouth, the best way to do so would be to take a ship. Bill had gone to Hardness to take a look at the fishing boats up there, and speak to the men who worked them, hoping to learn something of strange movements of ships, or even, if they were lucky, hearing of a sailor who was trying to win a passage to France. Law hadn’t reckoned much to the idea. If he was a Frenchie hoping to get away from the country, he’d have just hopped onto a ship and hidden away, wouldn’t he?

He was just thinking of leaving the riverside to go and find himself an ale or two, when he heard the voices.

All in all, it had been easier to find the man than even Alred had thought.

Sir Andrew smiled when the innkeeper told him that there were others already staying at the inn. He nodded understandingly, and asked who was intending to stay in the room with him and his men. Suddenly the inn was full of men contemplating their drinks and avoiding involvement in the discussion.

‘I think you will find that the room is now empty,’ he said to the innkeeper. ‘I will use it with my men for the night.’

Cynegils was already secured. Sir Andrew had checked on where the town’s gaol was, and the old sailor was presently enjoying the hospitality provided by the cell by the market square.

‘Stealing from a dead man’s purse,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Some will stick to nothing in their greed.’

‘What now, Sir Andrew?’ asked one of his henchmen.

‘For now, we shall rest. The
Gudyer
is to be victualled in the morning, and then we can consider what we shall do. The man will not be so difficult to find, I think; not with the whole town looking for the mad foreign rapist. I am sure that soon we shall be able to announce that we have the culprit, and then we can take him to the ship and leave for home.’

‘If you are sure.’

‘Oh, I am. I am.’

Sir Andrew sipped his wine and sighed. It was infinitely better to be here, sitting on a comfortable stool which
wouldn’t rock and slide away every few moments. The ship was a fine creature, it was true, but Sir Andrew was not so convinced of the life of a sailor. He preferred the gait of a horse under his rump to the unpredictable rolling of a cog’s hull. Since he could not swim, every sailing was a source of some concern, if not alarm.

It was some years since he had managed to win his present position, and he was content with his life since then. Beforehand he had been a squire in the service of Bartholomew Badlesmere, working hard as squires often did, teaching others younger than himself how to handle weapons, showing them how to master a horse, and the more delicate points of serving good cuts of meat or loaves. It had been a good position for advancement, but he knew only too well that while he could have a position there for life, he would never himself become wealthy. Badlesmere had so many on which to lavish his largesse, the chances of Andrew growing rich in his service were low. And he wanted to be rich.

At the time it seemed a miserable circumstance when his lord was killed. Andrew had thought his prospects were completely ruined – but then matters took a turn for the better, and he began to climb the mountain of social prestige and honour which had brought him here.

It was – Christ’s pain, was it really only three years since Badlesmere’s downfall? So much had happened since then.

In the Year of Our Lord 1321, the Queen had been travelling in Kent, and late one night in October, on the thirteenth, she asked for hospitality at the gates of Bartholomew Badlesmere’s castle at Leeds. Badlesmere
himself wasn’t there, but his wife was, and she, knowing that the King detested her husband, suspected a ruse to gain entry with an armed force. Not surprisingly, she refused entry, pointing out that in the absence of her husband she couldn’t let others in. In a rage, the Queen stormed off to a neigbouring priory, but commanded her household to force the castle’s gates. In the ensuing fight, six of her men were killed, and their deaths sealed the fate of Badlesmere.

The King had called upon the posse of the county to assist him in laying siege to the castle. Meanwhile, Andrew was inside, wondering how best to turn matters to his advantage. The castle fell in a week. Lady Badlesmere was sent to Dover Castle to be imprisoned; her kinsman, Burghersh, was sent to the Tower; and thirteen men from the garrison were hanged. Andrew had been held in chains for another week, convinced at every moment that he would be taken outside to join the rotting bodies at the gibbet, but then, thank Christ, he had been released. The bloodshed was over for a while.

War was coming. It was clear even then, and when rumours of the muster reached Andrew’s ears, he was keen to join the King’s host. Soon he was marching west, and he won his spurs after Tutbury, when he was one of those who mortally wounded and caught Damory, one of King Edward II’s enemies. His fighting with Harclay against the Lancastrians a short while later won him more praise, and he was noticed by Despenser, who began to take an interest in him.

There was no concealing the avarice and determination of Hugh Despenser the Younger. He had sold his soul in order
to win ever greater prizes, so some said, but Andrew, or now
Sir
Andrew as he had become, was happy to be clinging to Hugh Despenser’s belt as the man rose to become the wealthiest lord in the country after the King himself. On the way, Despenser’s followers were themselves rewarded richly.

Now he was here in this God-forgotten hole.

It was one of the most curious missions which Sir Andrew had been asked to conduct. A man had left the Queen’s entourage and fled. Many suspected her and her household, but there were none more suspected than the men who had come to England to serve her from France. Not that it was a surprise that she sought her protectors from so far afield. Since her husband the King had slaughtered the most noble men of the country in the last few years in retribution for the Lords Marcher war, there were few whom she could trust in this country. And her brother, the King of France, was ever willing to foment trouble between her and her husband.

The French were always gazing at Britain with greedy eyes. Their king wanted Britain as a vassal state, just as he wanted the British possessions on the continent for his own, and he would stop at nothing in his intrigues. That was why, when the traitor Mortimer escaped from the Tower, he was welcomed with open arms in Paris. The French could scarcely conceal their glee. And in retaliation, the Queen of England was beginning to have her wings clipped. Soon the King would have to act if he wanted to protect himself. That much was plain to all who knew the real state of affairs. There was no love lost between the couple anyway. Not any
longer.

A shame, really. She was a lovely thing, the Queen. If Sir Andrew had been brave enough, he could have been tempted to try his luck with her himself. Perhaps that was why he was here? Perhaps this impecunious French knight had attempted to storm the citadel of her heart. If he had done that, he would suffer the most painful death King Edward II could contrive. Ironic, too, since it was Isabella who had warned her own father of the adultery of her sisters-in-law, and who had thus seen to the destruction of the two men who had dared become their lovers. What a race the French were!

There was no possibility that the man would escape Sir Andrew now, though. Not with all the men he had aboard his ship the
Gudyer
.

Alred gazed at his apprentice with consternation. ‘On the bloody ship? How’re we going to catch him if he’s out there in the river?’

‘Perhaps he’s just visiting it,’ Law said.

Bill looked at him. ‘He’s safe aboard a cog and you reckon he’s likely to come back to shore to take a last look around?’

‘It’s possible!’

Alred and Bill exchanged a look. ‘If you say so, Law,’ Alred sighed. ‘Me, I’ll put my money on him staying there and waiting until it’s time for him to sail. And I’d bet the ship’s not there in the morning.’

Law scowled at the ground. He’d been sure that the others would be as pleased as him to see the man getting onto the
cog, and to be receiving their contempt was worse than annoying. ‘I did better than you, anyway. At least I found him.’

‘Never did find out where he was hiding. He must have some friend here in the town,’ Bill said. He frowned. ‘Maybe we could use that? Like setting a trap for birds, when you flush them from a tree into the nets. I wonder …’

‘What?’ Alred demanded.

‘Ach – nothing. We’ve lost him. And probably not a bad thing. If he escapes,
we’re
safe.’

‘So long as no one figures out it was us knocked his man down. If that fool from the inn says something about paviours, we’re right in the stuff,’ Alred said grimly.

‘He won’t know himself, will he? He was out as soon as you tapped him. So if anyone was going to say something, it’d be the innkeeper or his fellows, and we’re here, so none of them has,’ Bill pointed out.

‘Let’s hope it stays that way.’

Stephen closed his rolls, stored them safely in the thick leather cylinders, and walked out from the main room.

He was lucky here, he knew. He had a good master in the Bailiff, a warm room to sleep in, and a plentiful supply of ale and bread. No man could ask for more. And yet of an evening, sometimes he wished to have a little company. Not women – he took his vows too seriously for that – but just occasionally, it was good to have a drink with other men. And tonight, looking out at the fellows walking past, he decided that he needed to join them.

Locking the door behind him carefully, he walked up the
alley opposite until he reached the Porpoise. It was not the sort of tavern which his abbot would have appreciated his entering, but he felt justified today. He had been working hard on various reports and figures, and even a clerk needed relaxation occasionally. So he pushed the door open and cautiously stepped inside.

There was a mass of faces within, all lighted by the candles that sat in the holders about the room. He smiled at some, nodded recognition at others, and walked over to the tavern-keeper to ask about an ale. It arrived in a cheap jug, and he drank it gratefully, eyes all but closed. At the rear of the room, he knew, was the gaming room, and as he stood there, he saw Peter Strete leave it, an expression of anguish on his face. Well, it was no more than he had heard rumoured about the town. Strete was regularly fleeced by the men in there. Stephen shrugged. It was none of his concern.

But Strete saw him, and with an inward sigh, Stephen made space beside himself. Strete soon began to talk to him about a shipment of cargo he was overseeing for Master Hawley, but then he stopped. Following his gaze, Stephen saw a heavy-set, very drunk man leaving the gaming room.

‘Is there something wrong?’ he asked.

‘That man … I am sure he is familiar.’

‘So? It’s only a small town.’

‘Yes, but I thought he had left port … Ach, it’s just my memory playing tricks.’

Stephen privately thought it was more likely to be something connected with his gambling, but that would have been discourteous. Tactfully, he changed the subject.

Hamund lay on his back on the deck and stared up at the stars, a heavy cloak over his legs. Every time he moved, the nausea returned, but for all his feelings of sickness, there was a sense of relief that he must soon leave these shores and escape to France. There, perhaps, he could make a new life, and forget all about the past.

He glanced at the Frenchman’s shape over near the mast. He was a strange one, too. Desperate to be out of the country, and the man at the inn had said it was because he had raped a woman. He didn’t seem the sort to do something like that, though, from the little Hamund had seen of him, and he wondered whether the accusation had been made maliciously. The fact that Pierre was here on the ship was proof that he believed his life to be in danger if he was caught.

‘There are too many of us in the same boat,’ Hamund reflected, and winced at the pun even as he closed his eyes once more.

‘That man will be the end of me,’ Simon growled as he rose slowly from his bench.

‘He was only trying to be friendly,’ Baldwin countered. ‘And you didn’t have to accept.’

‘I thought if I drank one cup with him, he would grow weary and seek his own bed,’ Simon protested, scowling at his friend from eyes narrowed in pain. ‘Instead the damned fellow kept refilling our cups.’