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Four
    Simon was sitting in his favourite chair when John Hawley entered. ‘Master Hawley, good day. You have a rich prize, I see.’
    ‘Has your man told you about it?’
    Hawley was a bluff, sturdy character. His eyes were as grey as Simon’s, but in Hawley’s there was a glint of steel. He had a reputation for fearlessness in the face of the elements, which was a good trait for a ship’s master, but there was another aspect: utter ruthlessness to those who stood in his path. It was rumoured that during the recent crisis in relations between King Edward II and the French King Charles IV over that place – Saint Sardos or somewhere; Simon wasn’t sure exactly, but the two nations had gone to war over it, wherever it was – Hawley had made himself some good profits by taking a privateer’s papers and capturing all the ships he could. There were many. Those which were owned by the King’s allies were supposed to have been freed and their crew unmolested, but there were strong suggestions that this Hawley, with his ‘Devil take you’ attitude and the quizzically raised eyebrow, had occasionally forgotten that rule.
    He was shorter than Simon by a half head at least, and hisshoulders weren’t so broad, but for all that Simon would not have liked him for an enemy. He wore his short sword with the easiness that only professional masters of defence could emulate: it was a part of him, whether sheathed like this, or gripped in his hard, leathery fist.
    Crossing the floor to Simon, Hawley held out a hand, and Simon stood to take it. Both nodded, each respectful of the other, if wary. They were aware that their objectives and ambitions were entirely different.
    Respect was easy with a man like this. There were men of the sea whom Simon had known who knew nothing of ships and coasts, men who depended on their navigators and crew to keep the ship safe. They were invariably slothful, drunken fools, in Simon’s mind. Not so Hawley. He had been living aboard ships since he was a lad, and as the years passed, he had grown knowledgeable of all the coasts, if the stories were true, all the way down to the Portuguese king’s lands. Simon could imagine him being entirely uncompromising in the face of cowardice or incompetence. He was a determined man, as bold and daring as any knight, but less constricted by the code of ethics which so many knights claimed to espouse.
    Not that many lived their lives constrained by them, if Simon was to be honest.
    For the rest, Hawley was rich, as demonstrated by his crimson velvet cote-hardie, and the softness of his linen beneath. If salt had marred his hosen, they were still made of good, thick wool, and his shoes were of the best Cordovan leather. It made Simon feel tatty in his old robe from last year. Since the death of the abbot, he had not feltit was the right time to ask for the annual replacement that was the perquisite of his position.
    ‘I saw it for myself,’ he replied now. ‘It was burned?’
    ‘Aye. All above decks quite badly, although below there’s little damage. There’s a stench of oil all about it, but I think much didn’t catch, by fortune.’
    ‘Do you know whose ship she was?’
    ‘She has the lines of the cog
Saint John
, one of Paul Pyckard’s ships, but I can’t be sure without looking through her more carefully.’
    ‘You mean your men didn’t?’ Simon asked with a slight smile. He wouldn’t call the man a liar, but it seemed unnatural for such a bold seafarer not to have looked.
    Hawley stared at him blankly, not returning the smile. ‘We were sailing from here to Bordeaux as part of the fleet.’
    Simon nodded. The haven was more empty than usual, because recently all the shipmasters had been ordered to sail in groups for their own protection. Since the opening of hostilities once again with the French, it was necessary to protect ships from the depredations of French privateers.
    ‘It’s a journey we’ve made often enough, Bailiff, with a hold