‘Damn that son of a whore!’
Second Monday following Easter10
Sandwich
They had made good time, Simon thought to himself as he splashed ashore, uncaring about the water that soaked his thighs and feet. He held his sword high at his chest to protect it from the salt spray, but his attention was more fixed on the shore and the sand, gleeful at the sensation of solid, safe ground beneath his feet once more.
He had been on ships too often for him to count now, and he held a firm and unswerving hatred of his experiences. Each occasion he had been thoroughly sick, and so demoralised that he had actively wished for death. On one journey, while returning from pilgrimage, he had been attacked by Breton pirates and shipwrecked, only narrowly escaping with his life. Ships were for sailors, so far as he was concerned, and if he never so much as saw a ship again in his life, it would be all the same to him. He disliked the feeling of wobbling about on the water more than any other.
They had been blown north. Oh, Baldwin had said that it didn’t matter, that they were still heading more or less westwards, but Simon knew better than that. They’d ended up on the Isle of Ennor when they were heading for Cornwall last time he’d crossed the Channel, and now they were going up the English Channel. Knowing Simon’s luck they’d end up in some ungodly damned country like the Norwegian lands, or even Scotland!
But instead, here they were. He wriggled his toes in his boots. Sand! Sand! Glorious, firm, solid, sound sand! He could have bent and kissed the ground, it was so wonderful to feel the shore under his sodden boots. Instead, he took the more acceptable opportunity to close his eyes and utter a prayer of thanks.
‘Pleased to see you’re rightly grateful,’ Baldwin said drily.
‘It’s all right for men like you to be cynical,’ Simon said righteously, ‘but for those of us who actually suffer, there is nothing quite so wonderful as feeling the earth again.’
‘You were hardly even sick this time.’
‘Perhaps to you it looked like that,’ Simon growled. ‘“Hardly” does not cover the feelings I had whilst in that bucket.’
‘Well, with any luck you’ll never have to see a ship again,’ Baldwin said soothingly.
‘No.’
There was a shortness to Simon’s response which made Baldwin shoot a look at him. ‘You’re not missing your position at Dartmouth?’
‘No. No, I couldn’t say that. I disliked that job more than any I’ve ever had. I only really want to get back to Tavistock and return to my old duties on the moor. I’m a moorman by nature. The idea of sitting in a room and agreeing bills of lading with shipmasters, or more likely arguing over the customs due, is ideally suited to some blasted clerk, but not me. I don’t like it.’
‘It is sad that our old friend promoted you.’
Simon nodded. He had been a contented man before, riding out over the moors and wasteland of Dartmoor, maintaining the peace however he may, and making his way homewards each night whenever he could to see his wife and family. But then he had provided a service to his master, Abbot Robert of Tavistock, who owned the revenue from the moors. That kindly old man had been so pleased with Simon’s efforts that he had given him a new post, that of his chief official in Dartmouth, responsible to him for all customs. Abbot Robert had been an enthusiastic gatherer-up of positions that might bring in precious treasure to his abbey, and he had paid many pounds to the King for the rights to the port.
But it was not a job to Simon’s taste. He had felt divorced from his family, as though cast adrift on an unpleasant sea. Perhaps not all sailors were disreputable thieves who looked upon life at sea as a form of legalised piracy, but there were few who did not appear to do so. They all looked upon war as a wonderful excuse for them to break the heads of any foreign sailor and steal his whole cargo, ideally taking his ship as well.
He had quite liked some of the sea-farers. Most, however, were simply rough, violent men who were little better than outlaws. They would never have made a living on land. Although he held little sympathy for men like those of Brittany, who raided the English ships unmercifully, he had little, too, for those from Devon who waged war on the Bretons. And the men of Lyme. And those from the Cinque Ports … and those from any other town in England whose ships they felt they could steal without being seen. The law of the land only held force while a ship was in view of the land, after all. Beyond that, a man had to see to his own protection.
‘Ah, there’s the dog,’ Baldwin said. ‘He’s a beautiful animal!’
Simon glanced back to see that the great beast Baldwin had so admired before had launched himself into the water from the rowing boat that was bringing the Bishop to shore with all the other dogs. Baldwin’s favourite paddled through the waves with nose upward, as waves crashed over his head and smothered him, reappearing a moment or two later, blinking and straining determinedly for the land.
‘I think he likes ships as much as you, Simon,’ Baldwin said.
‘No one can appreciate the depth of my detestation for ships,’ Simon countered.
His grimness made Baldwin look at him. ‘Not long now, and we’ll be home,’ Baldwin said quietly.
‘Cannot be soon enough for me,’ Simon said.
Chapter Five
Christ Church Priory
Prior Henry eyed the coroner as he approached. ‘Have you any news?’
‘Little enough.’
Coroner Robert grimaced as he pulled off his thick riding gloves and wiped his brow. It was unseasonably hot today, and he had ridden fast from the last inquest.
‘Sir Robert, please, I am forgetting my manners. Would you like refreshment? Wine?’
‘Ale if you have it, Prior. It is a little warm for exercise.’
The prior watched while one of his servants ran for the drink. The coroner appeared almost uneasy, avoiding the Prior’s eye as he stood, tapping his foot and waiting.
Soon the ale arrived, a large pewter jug and a silver goblet that looked ridiculously small in comparison. It took five refills of the goblet before the knight looked comforted and could nod to the Prior with a look of resolution on his face.
‘Very well. Can we speak here in privacy?’
‘Of course,’ the prior said.
‘Your dead man, Brother Gilbert, was undoubtedly murdered by the man who took the oil, but I am not sure that he was entirely blameless.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Just this: the man who killed Gilbert was seen. Or, at least a man who appeared to have been trying to escape attention was seen on that night, running away from the convent. There is a peasant outside the city wall who’s prepared to swear that he saw a man with what looked like a damp tunic running away from the postern. He said nothing at the time because it didn’t occur to the cloth-headed fool. I daresay he was drunk and just thought that it was someone else who had been drinking. Now he has heard of the murder, he’s had fresh thoughts, though.’
‘He should have come forward sooner,’ the Prior said bitterly.
‘Perhaps. Maybe he knew something else, though, and chose not to.’
‘That sounds a little strange, Sir Robert. What do you mean by it?’
‘In the days before his death, you had guests, did you not?’
‘Yes, you know that we had the embassy for the King pass by. They were asking where the King was, and I was able to direct them to Beaulieu. They stayed one night only.’
‘In that night did you notice any of the monks speaking with the men in the embassy?’
‘Yes. Of course they did. The monks here may be devoted to God, but that doesn’t mean that they take no interest in affairs outside the convent.’
‘Clearly that’s true.’