The Death Ship of Dartmouth: (Knights Templar 21) (35 page)

It was harder than Law had realised to steer a little vessel like this one. He had thought the things must be easy, because no sailors ever had trouble, and it wasn’t as though sailors were particularly bright, by and large. For some reason, though, as Bill pulled his oar, the boat bobbed and dodged, and then seemed to go its own way.

‘There is a small group of men at the shore watching us,’ Pierre said with restrained anxiety. They were pointing at the four, and one man was all but hopping from foot to foot. ‘I think one is the man who owns this boat.’

‘What do you expect us to do about it?’ Bill panted.

Gradually the thing began to come under control. It was much like a small pony in many ways. It would go its own way, but after having its head a while, it would obey them. Slowly but surely they were approaching the great
Saint Denis
, and at last an enormous shadow fell over them all, and they were in the lee of the huge hull.

Pierre grabbed at the rope ladder, clambering up the side of the ship. At the top he risked a quick glance all about him in case of ambush, but there was nothing he could see that indicated danger. That in itself should have been warning enough.

He swung himself over the sheerstrake and landed inelegantly on the deck, his ankle twisting slightly, and his attention was distracted as Hamund pulled himself over and sprawled at his feet. The Frenchman reached down and took
his wrist, helping him up.

‘Ah, ain’t that sweet?’

Pierre turned. Three sailors he didn’t recognise were standing at either side of the mast. Thoughts of springing to the ladder and escaping were quashed as he saw the rowing boat already returning to the shore. He spun back, reaching for his sword, determined to sell his life as hard as he may, but as he moved he heard Hamund shriek, and grew aware of more men rushing towards him from his left. He pulled his sword free, but as he did so, a rope whipped about his legs, weighted with lead that whirled and cracked into his shin. It was tugged, and even as he tried to maintain his balance, he felt himself topple, and must throw his arms out to break his fall.

A man stepped on his sword; he saw Hamund try to pull the leg away, but Hamund was knocked aside with contemptuous ease, his face running with blood. Then Pierre rolled to his back, reaching for the dagger at his belt, even as he was hauled along the deck by main force, and another fellow gripped his wrist firmly.

‘Evening, Frenchie!’ he heard, and then a cudgel slammed into his head and Pierre felt the decking open up and swallow him into a pitch blackness.

Strete was already at the tavern at the time when Hamund and Pierre were captured. The little chamber behind the main hall was small and noisome, but the fug of sweat, damp wool and sour ale was to him the very epitome of hope and possible fortune.

‘You want more?’ the dealer said. He held up the
knuckles with a questioning eyebrow.

‘No, no. I’m only here to repay my debts,’ Strete said with a comfortable smile.

He could feel nothing but satisfaction as he took out his new brown purse and withdrew a handful of coins. The eyes of the sailors in the room were avariciously fixed on his hand. They knew how much strong ale that handful of coins represented, and he could almost hear their minds considering his good luck in possessing so much.

As they should. These men were really contemptible. They thought they were so clever because they could sail, and they thought that the fact that they could brawl and lift heavy weights made them better than a man like him. Well, they were mad if they believed that. They called him ‘only a pissy clerk’. He’d heard them! Yes, he’d heard them. When he was unlucky and lost a little money, they were all scathing about him, as though the fact that a man made a small loss once in a while made him inferior. But at least he knew that soon his luck must change, while they only gambled because they thought they must always win. More fool them!

‘It’s enough?’

‘Yes, that covers your debt,’ the man with the knuckles declared. ‘So, you want to play again?’

‘I have work to do,’ Strete said easily. He thrust the spare coin back into his purse and, smiling, set it back dangling from his belt. ‘You carry on.’

It was in this bar that he had learned what had happened on the ship all those years ago. Danny and he had been here, and Vincent and Odo were drinking hard, back from a
sailing to Guyenne for wine, when a short fight broke out. Amongst others, Vincent and Odo were ejected from the tavern. It was a regular enough event, just an average afternoon’s squabbling.

It meant nothing to Strete, and he continued drinking, watching the gambling in the corner, thinking he ought to join in, when he saw Danny’s face. ‘What is it?’

‘That noise! It’s terrible!’ The lad was petrified – literally! He was fixed there as though nailed to the floor, his face appalled.

‘What
is
that?’

As Strete asked, there was laughter from the roadway outside, and Vincent’s voice came loud and clear. ‘Ripe like a French whore, eh?’ and then there was a scuffle, a resounding crash, a sudden sharp scream and the noise of bare feet running. Madam Kena had been attacked by the two in the street, and it was only when Adam saw Vincent and Odo trying to hustle her into an alley that he realised what was happening. He called to some of Kena’s men who were also in the tavern, and they ran after the two, who left her and pelted away.

‘That noise,’ Danny said, white-faced. ‘They had her mouth covered!’

‘Wouldn’t want her screaming in the road, I suppose,’ Strete agreed.

‘That moaning – it sounded like the ship …’ Danny’s voice halted. It had not taken long for Strete to understand his fear. And then he had been able to capitalise on Danny’s anxiety by asking him to remain quiet until he, Strete, could speak to his master. Calling her a ‘French whore’ indeed!
They shouldn’t have said that.

The man shook the knuckle bones in his hand, setting them rattling, and then threw them across the floor, and all in the room peered forward to see the score. It was a game of raffle, in which three knuckles were thrown, and if they all landed the same, or if there was a pair, the next player must throw a higher pair or trio.

‘This is ridiculous!’ Strete said to himself. He shook his head and began to leave the room, but even as he did so, he was itching to know what the man had thrown. Common sense told him to leave and return to Hawley’s house, but it surely couldn’t hurt to drink one ale with these men. They were such fools, all staring down at the knuckles. And the score was useless. The man must lose, no matter who went against him. No, it would be silly, when he’d just covered the amount he’d borrowed from his master’s chest, to run the risk of losing more. He watched as another man threw. This time the knuckles were unlucky. They did not even equal the first throw.

‘Let me show you how it’s done!’ he shouted at last.

‘Bailiff, I am happy to present you with the man you’ve been hoping to meet,’ Hawley said. His men brought in the body and set it on the floor, not gently. ‘Why it took you and that fool Sir Andrew so long to find him, I don’t know. I laid a trap and caught him. Oh, and two of the paviours who’ve been in a fight on the shore, too. They may need help.’

Simon’s brows dropped as he heard this. ‘You attacked them?’

‘No. The owner of the boat they stole to deliver these two
men to the ship attacked them,’ Hawley said easily. He cocked a leg over a stool and rested his backside on the table. ‘All we did was stop the fight when the two were already still on the ground.’

‘How did you get him?’ Baldwin asked, walking around the figure lying on his back on the floor.

‘I paid the master of the ship to let my men wait there. Cynric stayed on board with them, and when this disreputable-looking fellow appeared, Cynric knocked him down and brought him to me.’

‘That easy?’

‘If you know the man to bribe, life is always that easy,’ Hawley said comfortably. ‘Do you have a pail of water?’

Simon bellowed for Rob, who soon returned carrying a leather bucket. At a nod from Simon, he up-ended it over the snoring man’s face.

There was a spluttering, and then Pierre started to roll over. He lifted himself on all fours, shaking his head and moaning softly.

The room was dark, and he could scarcely hold his head level, but where he expected the planks to move with the ship’s rolling, these felt firm. Not that it helped his head. He felt as though he had been drinking ale all evening, and his belly was unsettled. He could be sick at any moment, and then his head ached abominably too, and his eyes felt swollen and gritty, as though he had been awake too long. ‘Who has done this to a poor traveller?’ he attempted at last.

‘What is your name?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I am Sieur Pierre de Caen.’

‘What are you doing here in Dartmouth?’ Simon said.

‘I am returning home. Is it illegal for a man to go to his homeland?’

‘It is said that you have raped a woman.’

‘That,’ Pierre said, slowly turning until he was seated on the floor, ‘is a lie. Ask my mistress.’

‘Who is she?’ Baldwin asked.

‘You don’t know?’ Pierre smiled drily. ‘I had thought that the dishonourable Sir Andrew would have told you. She is the Queen. My lady is Queen Isabella.’

Hawley stared at him. It was one thing to upset a local magnate, but he had probably offended the Queen herself, if this man was telling the truth. ‘Oh, shit!’

Alred left the tavern feeling considerably happier than he had on his way in. Those blasted fools! Bill should know better than to upset Law. The lad was only young. It served no useful purpose to get him all annoyed. Sweet heaven, if they didn’t keep sensible they’d never complete this damned roadway, and then where would they be? He needed the money in his pocket as soon as possible so he could go and leave this forsaken collection of hovels.

He didn’t know why, but sailors made him nervous, and living here for so long amongst so many was making him even more twitchy than the lateness of the project. The threat of violence, which had seemed merely latent when he first arrived here, appeared now to be all too specific: everyone hated him.

Perhaps he was just superstitious, but he didn’t think so. The paver was a mild-mannered man, and the idea that he might be living in a place where violence was part of daily
living, was appalling. The sailors of this place cared only for other sailors. They didn’t give a damn for other men. Hah! They’d soon notice if there weren’t paviours about the place, though. Without his roads, they’d be stuck. They might be able to sail off around the coast, but they’d not be able to get fish and cargoes loaded on carts. Not that many did, he told himself. They were lucky to have a packhorse to carry their wares to the local community. Oh, the devil take it. He was wasting his time here. They didn’t care, and they didn’t need him.

He was just reaching this grim conclusion when he heard a door open, grating on the rough ground, and a man walked past him to the rough bar set in the corner of the room, and asked for a strong ale.

Alred had seen him before. This was the man who had been in this same tavern only a few days ago, talking and laughing with his companions. It was just before Alred and the other two had gone out and saved the man from the fellow who’d meant to knock him down. Only they’d apparently hit the wrong bloke. You just couldn’t do right for doing wrong in this life.

The man drained a horn of ale while Alred watched, and then walked slowly from the inn. For some reason, his attitude spoke to Alred entirely of despair. It quite destroyed any remaining pleasure in being there in the tavern, and Alred stood and made his way to the twilight outside. There were the smells of suppertime now: fish stews and pottages lending their wholesome scents to the evening air, and he snuffed them for a moment or two before making his way back to the storage shed he shared with the others, wondering
how much longer they must all remain here. Tomorrow he would make sure that they got that section of road finished so that they could get away from here.

He set off up the lane, and as he walked he passed by the pale-featured man from the gambling room. ‘Evening,’ he called.

The man leaped as though shot by a sling.

Alred eyed him askance and said no more. Someone that jumpy was plainly not in his right mind, and he didn’t wish to be attacked by a lunatic.

‘Sir, please, tell us your tale,’ Baldwin requested.

‘My story is not long,’ Pierre said. He had been passed a towel by Simon, and he dabbed gingerly at the bruise on his skull. ‘Who did this? I have grown a goose-egg on my brow!’

Hawley smiled. It was not his concern if a felon was knocked down. ‘My apologies. My men were perhaps overkeen to obey my command, friend. They sought to restrain someone we had felt was a wild and uncontrollable criminal, driven by his humours to attack and ravish a lady.’

‘Well, I am no such thing. I am Pierre de Caen, as I say. I was the son of Philippe de Caen, and a loyal servant of the French king. I came to the notice of my Lady Isabella when she visited her father in France, and I was not loath to come and see this country.

‘My Lady Isabella is a lovely lady. She is honourable and devoted to her husband,’ he said, his eyes on the ground before him. ‘She wishes only to serve him. I was in her service for nine years. However, in that time I began to
grow enamoured of a lady. It hurts me to tell you this, but I was so stricken with desire for this lady that I began to pine for love, and to cut my tale short, I decided that I could not remain at the side of my Lady Isabella. My health must suffer and my joy in service must fade. So I asked her if I could serve her in some other capacity, and she graciously permitted me to leave her household in England and travel to France once more.’

‘What will you do there?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Remember the woman I loved, and hope to be deserving of honour. I shall seek trials of combat at every opportunity and hope that my example may serve to inspire others. I will not be able to marry. I have lost the only woman who could ever have filled the hole in my heart.’