Free The Death Ship of Dartmouth: (Knights Templar 21) by Michael Jecks

close to his chest, preventing any others from hearing of it, and made a good killing. And then, because that early trade still rankled, he mentioned his suspicions about Pyckard’s trading to the man.
    As luck would have it, the Purveyor had only a short while before he tried to buy some cloth for the King’s household, only to discover that there was little to be had. Now he researched that market day and some others, and heard that much more cloth had been sent to market than had eventually been sold. It was a simple case of forestalling. Pyckard was meeting the dealers outside the town, offeringa good sum for the whole lot, and then reselling it in the market when it opened for a better profit. However, he was keeping back a large proportion of the goods to sell in France, where the profit would be even greater.
    The fine imposed after the Purveyor’s report had hurt Pyckard, although it had made Kena laugh. The next time Pyckard saw him in the market, he turned his back on Kena, and would have nothing more to do with him from that moment.
    That was fine by Philip. He had no wish to be friendly with Pyckard, especially not after the way his men had behaved. One day he had let his wife out alone, and Pyckard’s men had … well, enough. Kena had one ambition: to be the most powerful merchant in Dartmouth. To achieve that, he would stop at nothing.
    Especially if it could hurt Pyckard and his men.

Chapter Six

    Baldwin had slept in a guest room at the manor. Usually in an older house everyone would sleep together, but Stapledon had invested quite a sum already in ensuring that this little estate was as comfortable as possible, and there were several small chambers for guests up in the roof area. For once, while sleeping away from his home and his wife, Baldwin fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit his pillow.
    The bishop had been born in Devon – in Holsworthy, if Baldwin recalled correctly – and it was a source of astonishment to the knight that this kindly, generous man could have sought to become embroiled in politics at so high a level. Bishop, Lord High Treasurer to the King, an expert in administration as well as consummate ambassador and negotiator, Stapledon had been at the heart of the nation’s political life for fifteen or sixteen years now, and the effect was all too plain on his features. The last months had been unkind to him.
    Ever since Baldwin had first met the bishop, Walter had been involved in the government of the country. Stapledon was driven by a desire to do good: his creation of a school at Ashburton, his founding of Stapledon College in Oxford, his constant round of visitations in his diocese, all pointed to aman who took his duty of care seriously, to help the people whose souls he must serve. It was that aspect of his nature that appealed to Baldwin.
    Now Baldwin dressed slowly in the cool morning. From the open shutter he could see over trees, which sparkled and gleamed in the sun as the drops of dew caught the light. It was a scene of perfect beauty and it made him beam with contentment.
    Then his face hardened. The previous evening, the discussion about the dreadful affair of the silk purses, followed by the memory of the destruction of his Order, had lent a deadly edge to his enjoyment. It felt almost as though the bishop was reminding him of the frailty of men, and the vague idea that he was warning Baldwin would not leave the knight as he pulled his shirt on over his head, tugged on his crimson tunic and cote-hardie, and buckled on his small riding sword.
    Entering the hall, he found it full of the first servants. They were eating four to a mess, while the second servants waited on them. Soon the first would all leave, and then the second would break their fast. Up on the dais at the far end of the hall, the bishop sat in his great chair, a careworn cleric in black garb with no decoration but his ring and the crucifix about his neck, and did not touch the bread or meats that