Read Online The Death Ship of Dartmouth: (Knights Templar 21) by Michael Jecks - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Jecks
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him, he was stabbed first,’ Simon said, looking reluctantly at the corpse.
‘Makes me wonder whether there’s any more down there,’ Hawley said speculatively. ‘Perhaps the rest of the crew are there as well?’
‘Yes, Master Hawley? You think there could be more, eh?’
This was from a heavy-set man with an enormous paunch, who staggered up the ladder to the deck and stood there, puffing a little as he gazed about him. Behind him came another man, taller, and more wiry.
Simon shrugged. ‘It’s possible, Master Kena. Good day, and good day to you, Master Beauley.’
The two were well known to the Bailiff. The portly Master Philip Kena, clad in a thick fur-trimmed cotte with a hood that had an extravagant liripipe and gorget in bright blue, was a close competitor to Master Hawley. He had twinkling eyes of grey-blue that were often wreathed in wrinkles as he laughed uproariously at some joke or other, but Simon disliked and mistrusted him. He was too sure of his own position and importance, and Simon sensed that he would be a dangerous enemy.
The slimmer man, Master Hilary Beauley, was a lesser merchant of the town, who lived still in Hardness, north of the mill, where more of the poorer people had their dwellings. His colouring was in stark contrast with Master Kena’s, for where the latter was pale with some colour, like an apple which has been left out in the sun over the autumn, Beauley was as dark as a moor, with skin the colour of an oak apple. His dark eyes were everywhere at once, as though he was always looking for a new customer or supplier.
‘Who could have done this?’ Beauley wondered now,gazing about him.
Hawley shrugged. ‘French privateers. Maybe the men of Lyme? They’ve always hated us. When they see our ships, they often try to board and fight.’
‘They’re a weird lot in Lyme,’ Kena said.
‘Cut your throat as soon as look at you, if they know you’re from Devon,’ Hawley nodded.
‘The men from Lyme? What’s the matter with them?’ Simon asked.
‘They reckon they own the oceans, that’s what,’ Kena explained.
‘It was fifty years ago they last had a pitched battle, wasn’t it?’ Hawley said.
‘Aye, before my time,’ Kena agreed. ‘They had a great fight that day. But we won it.’
Simon had never heard of a fight that the pugnacious Dartmouth, Clifton and Hardness men had lost – not from here in the towns, anyway. ‘And that’s all? Because of a fight before any of us were born, you say that they must have taken this ship?’
‘No. Last time they took a ship and plundered it, that was two years backalong,’ Hawley said.
‘You just said it was fifty-odd years ago.’
‘That was when there was a battle between us and the men from Lyme. If you’re talking about simple piracy against a Devon ship, that’s different. The bastards joined with some sailors from Weymouth or somewhere, took the ship, stole the cargo, killed the crew, and scuttled her. God rot them!’
Sitting in his little chamber later, Simon recalled theexpression on Hawley’s face as he spoke those words. Here was a man who was more than happy to repay a debt. Especially a debt of blood, visiting vengeance on the men who had caused him grief.
It was an attitude much in evidence about the town. As he’d left the ship, returning with relief to terra firma after giving permission for the cargo to be brought ashore, Simon had noticed others muttering as they looked at the vessel moored close to the harbour. Their eyes were full of anger and resentment, and many was the time he heard the words ‘Lyme bastards’.
Many years ago, an arrogant squire at Oakhampton Castle had said to Simon that the locals here in Devon were as patient and calm as the cattle they herded. ‘They can’t be roused by anything,’ he had drawled.
Simon had replied, ‘If you want to rouse a Devon man, insult his woman, or his child, or his dog, or his cattle. But before you do, make sure you have some men
‘Makes me wonder whether there’s any more down there,’ Hawley said speculatively. ‘Perhaps the rest of the crew are there as well?’
‘Yes, Master Hawley? You think there could be more, eh?’
This was from a heavy-set man with an enormous paunch, who staggered up the ladder to the deck and stood there, puffing a little as he gazed about him. Behind him came another man, taller, and more wiry.
Simon shrugged. ‘It’s possible, Master Kena. Good day, and good day to you, Master Beauley.’
The two were well known to the Bailiff. The portly Master Philip Kena, clad in a thick fur-trimmed cotte with a hood that had an extravagant liripipe and gorget in bright blue, was a close competitor to Master Hawley. He had twinkling eyes of grey-blue that were often wreathed in wrinkles as he laughed uproariously at some joke or other, but Simon disliked and mistrusted him. He was too sure of his own position and importance, and Simon sensed that he would be a dangerous enemy.
The slimmer man, Master Hilary Beauley, was a lesser merchant of the town, who lived still in Hardness, north of the mill, where more of the poorer people had their dwellings. His colouring was in stark contrast with Master Kena’s, for where the latter was pale with some colour, like an apple which has been left out in the sun over the autumn, Beauley was as dark as a moor, with skin the colour of an oak apple. His dark eyes were everywhere at once, as though he was always looking for a new customer or supplier.
‘Who could have done this?’ Beauley wondered now,gazing about him.
Hawley shrugged. ‘French privateers. Maybe the men of Lyme? They’ve always hated us. When they see our ships, they often try to board and fight.’
‘They’re a weird lot in Lyme,’ Kena said.
‘Cut your throat as soon as look at you, if they know you’re from Devon,’ Hawley nodded.
‘The men from Lyme? What’s the matter with them?’ Simon asked.
‘They reckon they own the oceans, that’s what,’ Kena explained.
‘It was fifty years ago they last had a pitched battle, wasn’t it?’ Hawley said.
‘Aye, before my time,’ Kena agreed. ‘They had a great fight that day. But we won it.’
Simon had never heard of a fight that the pugnacious Dartmouth, Clifton and Hardness men had lost – not from here in the towns, anyway. ‘And that’s all? Because of a fight before any of us were born, you say that they must have taken this ship?’
‘No. Last time they took a ship and plundered it, that was two years backalong,’ Hawley said.
‘You just said it was fifty-odd years ago.’
‘That was when there was a battle between us and the men from Lyme. If you’re talking about simple piracy against a Devon ship, that’s different. The bastards joined with some sailors from Weymouth or somewhere, took the ship, stole the cargo, killed the crew, and scuttled her. God rot them!’
Sitting in his little chamber later, Simon recalled theexpression on Hawley’s face as he spoke those words. Here was a man who was more than happy to repay a debt. Especially a debt of blood, visiting vengeance on the men who had caused him grief.
It was an attitude much in evidence about the town. As he’d left the ship, returning with relief to terra firma after giving permission for the cargo to be brought ashore, Simon had noticed others muttering as they looked at the vessel moored close to the harbour. Their eyes were full of anger and resentment, and many was the time he heard the words ‘Lyme bastards’.
Many years ago, an arrogant squire at Oakhampton Castle had said to Simon that the locals here in Devon were as patient and calm as the cattle they herded. ‘They can’t be roused by anything,’ he had drawled.
Simon had replied, ‘If you want to rouse a Devon man, insult his woman, or his child, or his dog, or his cattle. But before you do, make sure you have some men
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