The Death Ship of Dartmouth: (Knights Templar 21) (22 page)

Pierre was quiet. ‘What man? I know of no dead man! I
was being followed when I tried to find my way to Master Pyckard’s house, but I attacked no one.’

‘Let’s hope you don’t have to explain that to the Coroner. He’s looking for the murderer.’

‘You must tell your master that I had nothing to do with this. I am no murderer!’

Moses had been emptying his basket. Now he stopped for a moment, not meeting Pierre’s eyes. ‘I wish I could,’ he said quietly. ‘My master died this afternoon.’

‘What else do you know, I wonder?’ Baldwin said aloud.

‘I know nothing, lord. What can I know? I was told to watch a man, and I did, that’s all.’

‘You are a poor man, Cynegils,’ Baldwin said.

‘He’s a good man!’ his daughter exclaimed.

‘And you are a loyal child, but you are scarcely able to judge him,’ Baldwin said coldly. He approached Cynegils. ‘Churl, you reek. If we pricked you with a sword, you would bleed ale!’

‘What of it?’ Cynegils mumbled. ‘Can’t you leave me alone?’

‘I do not think so,’ Baldwin said. Then he snapped, ‘What did you do when you came to?’

‘I was cold for a long time.’

‘He was hit by that madman! His poor head was hurt!’ Edith spat, and threw her arms around her father. ‘He’s been taken for a fool, but that’s no reason to keep on at him.’

Baldwin ignored her outburst. ‘I didn’t ask that. What did you do after you had recovered from your knock?’

‘I went home.’

‘Which way did you go?’

Edith shouted, ‘Leave him alone!’ but none of the men were listening.

Cynegils hung his head. ‘Down the hill straight homewards. I live over at Hardness.’

‘We know,’ Baldwin said unsmilingly. ‘So you would have passed right by the hole in the road where this man was found, wouldn’t you? Did you notice a body there?’

‘I was rolling drunk by then,’ Cynegils said, spreading his hands in a sign of honesty.

Baldwin peered down distastefully at the filth encrusted in his palms, and Cynegils hastily closed them again.

‘No, I don’t think I am inclined to trust you,’ Baldwin said after a moment’s sad contemplation. ‘I think that you are habituated to lying, and that you find it hard to confess to what you found there in the road.
How much did you steal from him?
’

‘I stole nothing!’

‘I think you found this man, struck him, left him for dead, and stole all you could from his purse.’

‘I would hardly do that and stay here in poverty!’

‘Because there was much in it?’

‘Eh?’

‘Who here has mentioned how much was in his purse, my friend?’

‘No one!’

‘No, and yet you think it was enough for you to find a new life? You have betrayed yourself.’

‘I’ve done nothing!’

‘You have enough money to be drunk today. Is ale free at Hardness?’

‘My daughter works a little. I took it from her.’

‘You can do better than that!’ Sir Richard said.

‘It’s true! She helps nurse children …’

‘Good for her!’ Sir Richard said with a chuckle, glancing at the girl.

If Cynegils felt a momentary relief at the expression of amusement in Sir Richard’s eyes, it was gone when he noticed his daughter’s face. Edith never looked so much like his wife as when he had let her down again. And now he had. He’d lied about the body, about the money – about everything. And now he had demeaned her in front of these men.

Instinctively he turned towards the man whose face he trusted the most. ‘I’ll tell you all.’

Hamund was happier than he had been for an age as he sat and listened to the stranger calling to the men there for information.

He was, so he said, Sir Andrew de Limpsfield, the master of the cog,
Gudyer
, which had just sailed into the haven. This Frenchman had raped a gentlewoman in the north, and was fleeing justice. If any man knew of the felon’s whereabouts, he should say so now, because there was a good reward.

‘I wish I’d seen him,’ Hamund said, and burped. ‘Could do with some silver.’

‘When was the last time you had ale?’ Gil asked.

‘Oh, about three weeks or so,’ Hamund declared lightly.
The world felt so much better now that he had found this excellent friend.

‘Leave off that, then. You’re pissed.’

Hamund was going to furiously deny the accusation, but Gil had already drained his cup and stood. Rather than be left behind, he trailed after his new companion, out into the road. The sudden cool made his head whirl, and he was forced to cling to a post for a moment.

‘God’s teeth!’

Muttering curses against all land-dwellers and especially the morons who committed murder and got themselves discovered, Gil took Hamund’s hand, ducked his head under his arm, and supported the abject abjuror as he walked down the hill.

Hamund was in no position to observe the route they took, but he noticed after a while that they were travelling sharply down the hill towards the water again. They passed along the mixed houses until they reached a place that was, even in Hamund’s befuddled state, considerably better decorated than the others.

‘In here,’ Gil said, and propped Hamund against a post while he banged on the door. In a moment or two it opened, and light spilled out into the darkening street.

‘Moses, I’ve got one man for the journey. We’re still light three good sailors, though. God only knows what we’ll do about that. Is the master here?’

‘Gil, I am sorry.’

Hamund watched with bemusement as Gil gaped, and then pelted along the corridor to the hall’s entrance. Touching the wall all the way, he followed behind Moses
and Gil, leaning on the doorway as Gil ran to the far end of the hall and out through a small door. He could hear steps above him, and muttering, and a while afterwards Gil came back downstairs. He clung to the rope that had been set by the stairs to ease Pyckard’s way, head hanging, and he wiped at his eyes several times as he stood before them.

‘He was a good master to us all,’ Moses said.

‘It’s hard to believe he’s gone.’

Hamund listened as the two spoke in low voices. It was clear enough that they had lost a man whom they esteemed highly, and it was no great intellectual leap to guess that the man they mourned was the owner of the ship he was hoping to sail in.

‘What now?’ Gil said.

‘We’ll have to wait until his body is set in the ground and the Will read out, and then we’ll have to see what happens. Hopefully we’ll be looked after.’

‘Sweet Jesus! And here I was, trying to see to the last shipments. The
Saint John
’s already lost, and there’s no point trying to break my cods filling another cog with crew.’

‘Why do you say that? You must set sail as planned.’

‘Set sail? When there’s no master to pay me and the men? What chance do I have of persuading men to join me when the merchant behind the sailing is cold in his coffin?’

‘It was his last wish, Gil.’

‘What was? That we should make money for his executors? He has no children, no wife!’

‘But she leaves relatives,’ Moses said. ‘And one of them is nearby.’

Gil frowned at him. ‘You’re saying he wanted his money to go to her family?’

‘One half, I think, will be disposed in favour of all those who worked for him, for the Church and for the poor. The other will go to his lady’s family.’

‘And so the ship will sail?’

‘With a new member of the crew,’ Moses nodded. ‘So you will only be two men short.’

He left the room, and Hamund heard him walking along the corridor to the back of the house. There was a long pause, and then steps approached from outside. Hamund looked up to see a tall, swarthy-skinned man with eyes set too close in a narrow face staring at him. A man in particoloured hosen and tunic.

‘The
rapist
,’ he hissed to himself.

Cynegils spoke for some while. For the most part his story was laboured, repetitive and self-pitying, but the men gained a good feeling for his tale.

He had come to with a sore head, soaked with water from a bucket which the host of the tavern had thrown over him. Walking home, he almost fell into the hole in the road, and then, horrified, saw that another had already fallen in there. He recognised the man who had asked him to follow the Frenchman. Rather than see all profit lost, he went down into the hole and rifled his purse, taking his three shillings and another twelve pennies as payment for his trouble. He thought that was fair. Not being a thief, he left the rest in his purse. Some men came past, singing, and he ducked down, scurrying away later when all was quiet.

Edith helped her father to his feet, and sighed as Baldwin watched him closely. ‘Isn’t it enough you’ve shown him to be a drunken oaf who cares more about filling his gullet with ale than feeding his children?’ she asked. There were tears in her eyes.

‘Child, I am sorry, but I do need to know a few more details,’ Baldwin said gently. Then, with a more harsh tone, ‘Cynegils, how did this man find you? Was he a local?’

‘I was in the tavern at the top of Smiths’ Street, when he came in. He was looking for someone who had knowledge of the town and the people who lived in it, and came to me.’

Baldwin glanced at Edith, then back at Cynegils. ‘So he knew of you? How can that be? Was he a friend of yours?’

‘No! I don’t know how he’d heard of me. Could have been anything.’

‘Hardly!’ Coroner Richard said derisively. ‘A spy should be someone unremarkable, who can blend into a crowd. Not a drunken sailor with shit for brains!’

Baldwin eyed Cynegils reflectively. ‘You have spied before, have you not? And this man had heard of you because of that.’

‘I’m no spy! But a man will do what he must for some money.’ This with a sidelong glance at his daughter.

‘So you
have
done work like this before?’

‘I suppose. Only a couple of times. When there has been reason.’

‘For whom?’

Cynegils shrugged. ‘I was paid by the last Keeper of the Port to watch the fisheries and keep an eye on foreigners in the town.’

Baldwin called, ‘Simon, who was the last Keeper of the Port?’

‘It was poor Sir Nicholas until his death, I think.’

Cynegils was nodding. ‘That was him.’

‘Who did
he
work for?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Sir Nicholas was always the King’s own man,’ Sir Richard said. ‘I never heard a word against his loyalty.’

‘I see,’ Baldwin said. ‘Well, then, spy: what have you
heard about the destruction of the ship? And the men who’ve disappeared?’

‘Nothing! I was here – how can I tell what was going on out to sea?’

‘Do you know of anyone who might have wanted the sailor Danny dead?’ Baldwin asked. ‘It seems curious that he alone was left behind.’

‘Danny had no enemies! He was a pleasant lad, kindly and good-hearted,’ Edith declared.

‘I’ve heard of no one hating him enough to do that,’ Cynegils acknowledged.

‘Yet he was murdered.’

‘In the tavern they’re saying that it was the devil came and took the crew.’

‘Why not Danny too?’ Simon asked, trying to conceal the shiver that ran up his spine at those words.

‘Because Danny wasn’t a foul sinner like the others. Vincent and Odo were hard men, you understand me? They’d slit your throat soon as look at you. Adam was known for a good fighter, and the others, well they were …’

‘Adam?’ Simon asked, remembering the name Pyckard had mentioned.

‘Yes. He was Pyckard’s right-hand man. They’d been together since the first sailing Pyckard had made.’

‘The others were foreigners, weren’t they?’ Baldwin said.

‘Yes. Kena managed to bribe some of Master Pyckard’s crew to leave him and join his ship. They’re always trying to stuff each other, those merchants.’

‘Would Kena have tried to buy in a man like Adam too?’ Simon guessed.

‘I expect so,’ Cynegils belched, ‘but Adam would never accept. He had a good berth with Pyckard. Danny wouldn’t either: he’d remember how well his master had treated him from the moment his father died. A man doesn’t turn traitor to someone who’s protected them, does he? No, Adam and Danny wouldn’t be bought. Master Pyckard had no choice but to hire some strangers.’

‘Who would naturally have been evil souls whom the devil would wish as company,’ Baldwin said dismissively. ‘No. These deaths were conducted by some human agency, of that I am assured.’

Yes, he thought inwardly – and if the Frenchman has killed Bishop Walter’s nephew, I must take some sort of action, surely. No matter how troublesome, wouldn’t Walter want him brought to justice?

He realised the others were watching him, and he pulled a smile to his face. ‘I am grateful for your patience, maid. And sorry to have taken so much of your time.’

‘That’s all right,’ Edith said, but ungraciously. He leaned towards her and she was about to move away, when she felt something in her hand.

‘I hope your family is fortunate,’ he said, his dark eyes serious, and then he was gone, striding back to his companions.

She said nothing, but helped her father over the rough ground until they reached the street. Only there did she open her hand and see the pennies resting there. It was enough to make her heart pound with gratitude, and she kept her booty hidden from her father as they made their way up the street.

Usually at twilight there would be people busy clearing
up after the day’s work, stray dogs barking, and children screaming, women shouting, men bellowing. Tonight there was an odd calm, and Edith wondered whether a new ship had entered the port. Sometimes when a rich vessel arrived, the people would go to gawp at it.

Sure enough, when they could peer along the street, she could see a great cog in the harbour. Even in the dull light it was plainly a beautiful craft, with richly painted hull and gold gleaming.

‘I should go for a job with one of them. Get some money in,’ her father said. ‘I’m sorry, Edie. God, I’m so sorry!’

‘Shut up, Father. You’ve had too much to drink again,’ she said impatiently. It was always the same when he’d got drunk at lunchtime. When he woke he’d be maudlin and apologetic. Later he’d be foul-tempered and threaten her and the others. At least for now he was still docile.