The Elixir of Death

by Bernard Knight

  William Vado rode ahead of them and Osbert the reeve and two other men loped easily behind them, as the horses went at a mere walking pace along the rough track out of the village. They retraced their route of the previous evening towards the bare downs behind the cliffs, but then descended the little wooded valley that led to the fishing huts that John had seen on the small beach. Although the rain and wind had died down, it was much colder, and the first chills of approaching winter were in the air. John wore leather riding gauntlets, but most of the other men had rags wrapped around their hands to keep some feeling in their fingers. The two village men, who seemed to be some sort of assistants to the reeve, were bare-footed, but their horny soles seemed impervious to both sharp stones and the cold. When they reached Challaborough beach, the bailiff turned left along a track that followed the edge of the low cliffs that formed Warren Point, the promontory opposite Burgh Island. Sheep scampered out of the way as they turned the corner above the estuary, where William Vado led them down a gully out on to the beach.

  The firm sand stretched for many hundreds of yards, both over to the island and far across the river to sand dunes on the other side of the estuary, towards Thurlestone, named after the huge perforated rock pillar on the shore. The tide was coming in, but the surf was still far off, a long way short of the wreck, which lay away to their left. As they crossed the wide beach, de Wolfe noticed the imprints of bare feet running ahead of them, and soon they were met by a ragged old man, swathed in an uncured cow-hide, and a boy of about twelve, shivering in a threadbare tunic.

  'This is the pair I left on guard,' explained the bailiff, though what such a frail-looking couple could do against a determined band of pillagers was beyond John's understanding.

  'Haven't seen a soul, William,' said the old man in a quavering voice. 'Naught but a couple of tide fishermen going across to Bantham strand.'

  They walked up to the beached vessel and circled it as it lay on its side on the sand. There was a line of seaweed on the beach just above it, showing the limit of the high tide. A typical trading cog, it was about forty feet long and had the general shape of a Norse long boat, but broader, with a high free board and almost vertical stem- and sternposts. It was half decked, there being no planking over the central section of the hull, which was used for carrying cargo. Thomas, the only literate one among them, read out the name chiseled into the upper strake next to the stem-post.

  'Mary and Child Jesus,' he intoned reverently, crossing himself again. 'It's Thorgils' boat right enough.'

  As they had just seen the ship-master's body lying in Ringmore church, this confirmation seemed superfluous, but John let it pass. He turned to Gwyn, as the authority on seafaring matters.

  'What's to be done about this? Is it a total wreck?'

  The Cornishman pulled at the long, drooping ends of his ginger moustache as an aid to thought. 'She's sound enough at the moment, until the rising tides throw her on to those rocks.' He indicated the jagged reefs at the foot of the low cliff, fifty paces away. Advancing right up to the deck of the ship, he inspected the damage before continuing. 'The hull is not breached, so she should float if she was upright.'

  'So why is it lying on its side?' snapped Thomas, ever ready to contradict the coroner's officer.

  Gwyn pointed to the canvas cover that had been stretched over the single opening that occupied half the deck area abaft the broken mast. It was ripped across the top and the lower part was bulging outward, as objects pressed against the inner side.

  'The cargo has shifted, that's why. Whatever they have in the hold has tumbled to one side and capsized her.'

  'At least it hasn't been stolen yet!' said de Wolfe, with a touch of sarcasm. He clambered on to the bulwark, which was half buried in wet sand. The deck rose vertically in front of him and, with Gwyn's help, he tore down the tattered canvas. There was a rumble and they both stepped aside hastily as several kegs and boxes rolled out of the hold, having lost the support of the hatch cover.

  The bailiff joined the two larger men as they peered into the gloomy cave that formed the entire inside of the hull. Thomas, sniffing miserably at a dew-drop that dangled from the end of his long, pointed nose, cautiously held back with the other men from the village. A few dozen barrels and a collection of crates lay on the lower ribs of the hull. Several kegs had cracked and a smell of wine permeated the air inside.

  Gwyn hauled at one of the casks to gauge its weight, then did the same to a crate. 'These are damned heavy. No wonder she keeled over when they shifted!'

  'Why should that have happened?' demanded John. 'Thorgils was one of the best ship-masters along the coast.'

  'Not if he was dead, he wasn't!' retorted his officer. 'With the crew stabbed or thrown over the side, the vessel would have broached to in the strong winds and waves we've had these past few days, especially this close to the shore.'

  He pointed a hand the size of a small ham towards the stern.

  'With no one at the steering oar nor men to attend to the sail, she would have been thrown on her beam ends and this cargo would have tumbled to one side, preventing her from righting herself.'

  'So what happened to whoever murdered them? Did they drown as well?' asked Thomas, but no one answered him. The coroner had stepped over the coaming of the hatchway, and as his eyes became more accustomed to the gloom he walked along the planking between the low horizontal ribs.

  'This isn't only cargo - someone has been living down here,' he rasped.

  Gwyn and William Vado followed his pointing finger and saw four sodden mattresses floating in the few inches of water between the ribs. They were no more than sacks filled with straw, some of which was spouting from the torn end of one bag.

  'There's some pots and a broken jug there, too,' observed the bailiff. 'Maybe the crew lived down here?'

  'No, they would take turns to be on watch and to eat and sleep in that shelter near the stern,' said Gwyn. He indicated the remains of a low structure abaft the hatch, which had been smashed but was still recognisable as a wood-and-canvas hut, little larger than a privy. '

  'So Thorgils must have been bringing some passengers back from wherever he had been,' mused de Wolfe. 'I know he took our goods to Harfleur at the mouth of the Seine, but God knows where he went after that.'

  There seemed nothing else to be learned from the vessel. There were no bloodstains on the planking, but given the battering the cog had received from tide, wind and rain, this was to be expected, even if at least three men had been slain there.

  'What's to be done about the ship, Gwyn?' demanded the coroner. 'Can she be saved?'

  The ginger giant made a show of deep thought, pursing his lips under their hairy fringe and staring first at the vessel, then at the line of rocks at the top of the beach.

  'Have to be quick - a few more rising tides and she'll be pounded to bits. But if this cargo can be taken out of her, then she'll float upright and could be towed upriver on a flood tide.'

  'Why take her up the Avon?' asked the coroner.

  'Because then she could be beached somewhere safe a mile or two inland, until she could be remasted and sailed back to Dawlish,' reasoned his officer. 'Or a rough mast could be jury-rigged, enough to get her to Salcombe or even Dartmouth for repairs.'

  De Wolfe stood immobile for a long moment, as the glimmerings of a plan came into his mind. The bailiff thought that he now looked more like a black cormorant than a crow, as with his hands on his hips the drape of his dark cloak resembled the outstretched wings of one of those seabirds drying itself on a rock.

  'I'm seizing this vessel and her cargo in the name of the King,' announced de Wolfe formally. 'It is part of my duties as coroner to confiscate wrecks of the sea, as well as royal fish - the whale and sturgeon - to the use of our sovereign.' He cleared his throat. 'At least until I hold an inquest ... it may be that I will decide to restore the property to the rightful owners.'

  'The owner's dead!' objected Thomas, with unusual boldness.

 
'Then to his heirs!' snapped John. 'And the cargo was not his property, he was just the carrier. I need to discover the true owners.'

  He glared at Thomas. 'No doubt you've got writing materials in that bag you always carry,' he grunted, indicating a shapeless pouch that hung from his clerk's shoulder. 'So make a tally of everyone of these casks and boxes. I want them all accounted for when they're carted back.'

  'Back to where, Crowner?' asked the bailiff.

  'I don't know yet. Enquiries will have to be made among various importers. Thorgils usually dealt with merchants in Exeter or Topsham.'

  He turned to Gwyn once again. 'You said this vessel will have to be towed. How can that be brought about?'

  'Once she's afloat, given calmer weather like we have today, then a couple of pulling boats can drag her out towards the middle of the estaury. The incoming tide will take her up without effort, as long as the towing boats keep her bow to the middle of the stream.'

  De Wolfe spent the next ten minutes giving orders to William Vado and his reeve, using his authority as the King's law officer to impress on them that there would be trouble if his wishes were not carried out. The cargo, which thankfully was only about half a full load, was to be carted back to the tithe barn at Ringmore, and the coroner promised dire consequences if any of it went missing. He was only too well aware of how goods and even the fittings and timbers of a stranded ship could vanish overnight. In fact, one of the purposes of the coroner was to try to stop the depredations of the locals on what was royal booty.

  'And what about moving the vessel?' he demanded. 'Can two boats be found, together with some men who have a knowledge of these matters?'

  William consulted the old man with the smelly hide cloak, who apparently was a beach scavenger who lived in a hut near the mouth of the river. After a muttered discussion, in accents so thick that John missed half the words, the bailiff turned back, somewhat abashed.

  'He says it could be done, but the men would wish for payment, as they would lose their fishing for that day.'

  John nodded curtly. 'We'll no doubt be able to find them a few pence for their trouble. They only need to beach the craft in a safe place, then I will send a shipwright down to see what needs to be done.'

  As they began walking back along the beach, Gwyn came close to his master and murmured in his ear.

  'Why are you concerned with the vessel, Crowner? Thorgils is dead.'

  John tapped the side of his curved nose. 'Firstly, I feel I should do what I can for the widow Hilda. That vessel is worth nothing to her smashed on the rocks.'

  'I thought the coroner had to sell salvaged wrecks for the benefit of the King's treasury?' grunted his officer. He was well aware of the long history of John and Hilda and wondered what the coroner was planning.

  'It's up to the coroner and his jury. As with deodands, there is a discretion to give some or all of the value to the widow or surviving relatives.' He was referring to the object that caused a death, such as a sword, a cart or even a mill-wheel. Normally this 'deodand' was confiscated for the Crown, but its value could be given to the dependants, especially if the dead victim was the breadwinner and his demise had caused hardship to the family. But Gwyn was still curious about the coroner's motives.

  'D'you think Hilda would want to keep on Thorgils' seafaring business? She will be a comfortable widow anyway, with that fine house in Dawlish and no doubt quite a few pounds sitting in his treasure chest.'

  John was quite ready to talk about his plans with his trusted companion of more than twenty years.

  'It occurs to me that as Thorgils carried abroad almost all the goods from my enterprise with Hugh de Relaga, it might be more sensible for us to run the vessel ourselves. When she has overcome her grief, I will put it to Hilda that she could enter our partnership, as a passive member. We could have the use of the Mary and Child Jesus and she could share in the profits.'

  As they trudged across the sands, Gwyn gave a broad smile that was almost a leer. 'You must like living dangerously, Crowner, to take as a partner such a lovely woman, when you have two other ladies in Exeter who are only too well aware of your partiality for her.'

  'This would be purely a business arrangement, man!' he snapped. 'Where's the harm in that?'

  'None, though I suppose you will need to go to Dawlish quite often to discuss that business,' replied Gwyn, with an innocent expression that did not fool his master.

  Thomas, who had been limping behind listening to this exchange, piped up with a practical question. 'Beg pardon, Crowner, but you are no ship-master! How will you manage such a venture, which is so foreign to your nature as a soldier and a knight?'

  'Pah! I'll leave that side of the matter to Hugh de Relaga. He can appoint one of his clerks to run the business or find some former shipman to advise him. If the portreeve thinks that he can make more profit, he'll find a way, never fear!'

  As they were nearing the bottom of the gully, their conversation lapsed, but privately Gwyn was still worried. He feared that John's proposed intimacy with Hilda, even if allegedly only commercial, would be ill received by certain ladies in Exeter. He knew that de Wolfe's youthful romance with the blonde Saxon and his irregular adultery with her over the succeeding years, was more than just casual lust. The Cornishman cared nothing for any problems with the coroner's wife Matilda, with whom Gwyn shared a virulent mutual dislike - but he was concerned about anything that might cause another rift between the coroner and Nesta, the landlady of the Bush Inn.

  His anxious ruminations were suddenly interrupted by shouting from behind them, coming from the direction of the river, where it fanned out across the sand in its last rush towards the sea. The old flotsam-raker stopped and stared in that direction. 'It's one of the beach fishers,' he said in a quavering voice. 'But there's a packhorse and some other men coming up behind him.'

  The bailiff and his manor-reeve began walking towards the man who was hollering and waving his arms to attract their attention. A beach fisher was one of those shore-dwelling folk who scratched a living by catching crabs in the rocks and by pegging out baited lines at low tide, following the next ebb back to retrieve any fish that might have been hooked. The coroner's trio waited for the men to approach and saw that the last pair were leading a thin packhorse across the shallow delta of the river.

  'There's something strapped across its back,' observed Gwyn, shading his eyes from the glare of the weak sun on the sea. 'It looks like another body.'

  Minutes later, this was confirmed, as when the group arrived they saw a limp shape draped over the sumpter horse's bare back, held on by a rope tied around the beast's belly. William Vado came up and repeated what he had just heard from the other men.

  'Crowner, these are fishermen from Bantham, just across the river. On Monday, they found this young man washed up on the beach, still alive, but near to death.' Gwyn gently lifted up the head of the corpse, which had been drooping face down against the rough hide of the pony.

  'Little more than a lad, by the looks of him. Dressed like a seaman, the same as the others.'

  'Must be the missing one from the crew,' suggested Osbert the reeve. The compassionate Thomas began shriving the dead boy in murmured Latin, repeatedly making the sign of the Cross on himself as if he were in a cathedral quire, not shivering on a wintry beach.

  'He was still alive when you found him?' demanded de Wolfe. 'Did he say what had happened?'

  One of the fishermen, the one leading the pony, shook his head.

  'The poor lad died on us within a couple of hours. He was half drowned when we found him on the beach, then he began retching and gasping.'

  'We took him to our hut on the Ham, where we had a fire and warmed him up, intending to take him back to the village,' said the other man, a gaunt figure with a hacking cough that suggested advanced phthisis. 'But he never made it. We were going to bury him above the high-water mark, as is done with the corpses of most washed-up shipmen, but then yesterday we heard that there had been others f
ound over here, so we thought we'd better bring him across.'

  'Did he get his wits back at all before he died?' asked Gwyn.

  The haggard fisherman looked at his mate first, then shrugged.

  'Nothing that made sense. He came round a bit and mumbled, but old Joel said the only word he could make out sounded like "Saracens".'

  John sighed at the obtuse way of speaking of these rural folk.

  'Who's Joel, for God's sake?' he demanded.

  The man pointed up to the top of Burgh Island. 'He's a hermit who lives up there in the stone cell of St Michael. A bit crazy, but useful, as he acts as our huer, spotting shoals of pilchard and herring for us.'

  'If the boy said it was Saracens, perhaps the vessel was attacked by Barbary pirates?' suggested Thomas. 'Remember what happened at Lynmouth last year, when that galley appeared? They were Turks or some brigands from beyond Gibraltar.'

  It was true, conceded de Wolfe, that both the Channel coast and the Severn Sea were visited by these swift rowing vessels filled with bloodthirsty villains, not only from Moorish Spain but from as far away as North Africa or the Levant. Though the distances were great, they seemed to have no difficulty in reaching these islands, where abundant trading ships and coastal villages offered rich pickings. Some even set up camps on islands such as Lundy or along the coast of southern Wales.

  'Has this young fellow been injured in any way, like the others?' he demanded, waving a hand at the lifeless form slumped across the packhorse.

  'Not that we could see, sir,' said the first fisherman. 'He died of having his tubes and lights filled with sea water and sand.'

  His emaciated companion gave him an uneasy glance once again.

  'There was one other thing, my lord,' he muttered, playing safe with John's rank. 'The same day, when we went to attend to our fishing lines at Aymer Cove, a mile or so up the coast, we found a curragh.'