The Outlaws of Ennor: (Knights Templar 16)

by Michael Jecks

  The melancholy thought made him decide. He had a small flock of sheep, and before this weather hit, he must bed them down. Otherwise the lot would disperse all over the island … and there were some people who were less trustworthy than others. Better that he should prevent a peasant from being tempted. One of his lambs would be enough meat for a month for most of the families here, and many would be pleased to accept such a gift without asking God why He had so enriched them.

  A sharp gust blew at him, hurling salty mizzle at his face, and he glanced back at the sea, murmuring a short prayer. Before long night would fall, and then any poor devils out there on the water would be at God’s mercy. It would be a terrible death for those who were thrown against the cruel spurs of rock that surrounded the islands. William set his jaw at the thought, then marched off to the lean-to shed behind his church. Stabbing a forkful of hay, he thrust it over his shoulder and followed the mud-filled track that led upwards to the fields that were a part of his glebe behind the church.

  Here, he whistled and called to his little flock. A boy from La Val was there to guard them, but tonight William commanded him to return home. If the foul weather came here, it would be cruel to keep the lad out in the elements. Besides, as William gathered up his flock and took them down to the little rough-walled shed at the bottom of the pasture, he reflected that there was little point in the lad remaining. Protection against animals was unnecessary here. There were no wolves, no foxes; the worst pests were crows and dogs, and neither of them would be out once the storm hit.

  There was a rock set at the highest point of his wall, where he often sat to muse and plot his sermons. The view from here, over the seas towards Geow and beyond, was always fascinating to him, and he found his thoughts cleared even on his worst days. Here he could create sermons even when in a lousy mood. Just the sight of ships on the sea made his heart swell with joy, and the thought of their cargos made the words leap into his mind.

  Today he gazed about him anxiously. Out to sea there was no sign of any sails, and that at least was a relief. William wouldn’t want to think of a ship approaching the coast in this wind. It was already pulling at his habit, snapping at his cowl, a chill, bitter wind that felt as though it held sparks of ice even though it was too early in the year for that. The whipping at his skin set his cheeks tingling, as though they were licked by a hundred tiny candleflames. ‘Pity the poor mariner,’ he thought aloud.

  Out to sea, he could make out the islands of Agnas, with Anete beyond, their shapes thrown into stark relief as the sea exploded into white mountains and then subsided against the rocks that fringed them. The sight was awesome, and the priest sat there entranced for a long while, until his buttocks told him that it was too chill to remain here.

  Standing, he found himself facing the castle on its little crag above the town. Instantly William’s face darkened.

  ‘Have a good meal, I hope,’ he muttered sarcastically. ‘And if the storm must take a man’s life, I pray it may be yours!’

  Only then did he see the man striding along the lane, and William glanced at the coming storm pensively before making a decision. He hurried down the path and began to follow the man.

  Chapter One

  Although he wasn’t tall, Robert of Falmouth gave the impression of height in the way that he held himself. He strutted – rather like a pigeon – with his chest thrown forward and his head lowered, jaw jutting in imitation of a truculent man-at-arms. He strutted now, as he made his way to the beach at the northernmost tip of Ennor.

  The posture was all an act. Robert had never yet been on the receiving end of a blade. When he was a child he suffered no bullying. That was why he was here, so he often thought, because he had no idea how to defend himself. If he had been bullied, he might have learned how to use his fists, and, seeing his chance, destroyed his enemy quickly, with no one getting seriously hurt. Instead, he was unsure of himself, and that made him reach for his dagger too quickly.

  Long ago, when he was a youth, back in his home of St Cleer, a rival for the affections of a girl in the vill had met him in the road and sneered, calling him names, shouting that Robert was only after her for her father’s money, and then, his voice sinking, he let slip the warnings – that he’d see to it Robert had no chance with her. His thick forefinger stabbing Robert’s breast, the other youth brought his face down until Robert could see nothing but his hog-like eyes, raw and angry.

  Robert was scared. He had never been pushed around before and was fearful that he might get hurt if he didn’t pre-empt an attack – but he didn’t know what to do. So he entered the fray wholeheartedly, arms flailing wildly. In the span of a minute or two, his enemy was on the ground, his nose fountaining blood, and then Robert saw his hand move. Yes, the bastard was reaching for his knife, and that sight gave Robert the chill certainty that one or other must die. Fear had started his fighting, now it forced him to act again. He kicked at the fellow, trying to knock the hand away from the blade, but even as he did so, he was pulling his own dagger free. It whirled in an arc, cutting a slice from the lad’s cheek; a second wild slash opened his throat, and then suddenly, before Robert could swing his arm again, a jet of blood shot across his vision and two others grabbed his arms and pulled him away.

  Aghast, he had stood panting while his victim fell back, his legs thrashing while his lifeblood pumped away, like a hog whose throat was cut. There was no shrill screaming, but Robert was sure now that there had been a loud gurgling sound, like water in a small stone-lined leat hurrying away from a moor.

  There was no pleasure in his victory, only more fear. The fellow had brothers, aye, and a powerful father who’d take pleasure in avenging him. Rather than wait for that, or the long, slow process of the law, Robert had taken the advice of the men with him and left home. He had never returned. He had run away to the coast, first to nearby Liskeard, thence to Falmouth, where he was taken on as a sailor and tried to learn his new trade.

  He spent much of his time aboard ship in terror. While the master was an unholy, drunken fool, prone to beating and lashing his crew-members, another sailor, Jack, was a sodomite who saw it as his duty to assault any youngsters – and he soon made it clear to Robert that he was next. One night – Christ’s bones, Robert could remember it so clearly still – he had been reduced to a gibbering wreck, trying to evade the man while he was hunted from stem to stern of the cog. Only by concealing himself behind boxes of merchandise had he managed to escape, his dagger gripped tightly in his hand, and then the ship had landed at Dartmouth, and Robert fled.

  Rather than seek another ship, he thought remaining on dry land would be preferable – and he should be safe so far from his home. Having found himself a job working in a tavern, which seemed ideally suited to his needs, since it not only paid his living but also employed a pretty serving wench whom he intended to know rather better, he was appalled one night to hear a familiar voice in the main room.

  Over the hubbub of thirty or more voices roaring at one another, as though all were talking in the midst of a storm, he recognised one: Jack. He was in the tavern. From the slurred way he spoke he was already drunk, and Robert made sure that he remained at the farther end of the hall, away from Jack, as he served customers. Someone else could serve him.

  There was a practical issue he hadn’t considered, though: that there was only one other servant there that night. When Robert heard the wench he desired give a short scream, he felt his blood freeze in his veins, but then in an instant it was boiling.

  Yes. That was why he was here on the island of Ennor: because of another woman. He had rushed into the hall as soon as he heard that cry of terror. The maid had been picked up and slammed down on a table; her skirts were thrown up and over her waist, exposing her lower body as far as her belly, and Jack was between her legs, holding her wrists with one hand, preventing her from covering herself and hiding her shame, while gripping her cheeks in the other hand and trying to make her kiss him, laughing uproariously the while
.

  Robert had not hesitated. He ran in, pulling out his knife as he went. There was a rushing noise in his ears, and he felt an unholy thundering in his breast. Raising his arm, he struck once, twisting the blade deep inside his tormentor’s flesh. Then, when his victim roared and flailed his arms about, trying to catch his assailant and kill him, Robert began to stab and slash, again and again, desperate to kill Jack before the man could take him in those awful arms and break him to pieces, and then … all went black, as though he had fainted. Afterwards, all he remembered was waking, doused with water.

  ‘Come with me!’ The man’s voice was low and urgent.

  Robert couldn’t recall where he was, nor how he had arrived there. ‘I … who are you?’ he stammered.

  ‘You misbegotten son of a Southwark whore! Are you so stupid you need to question me? Isn’t it enough that I’ll save you? If you stay here, the watch will catch you, and then what’ll happen, eh? Follow me.’

  And he had. He was taken to a ship and hidden aboard, and later he felt the ship begin to heel over as she made sail. Only then was he taken up to the deck from his hiding place to be introduced to his rescuer.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked again.

  ‘I am Sergeant to the Lord of the Manor at Ennor,’ the man said. ‘You can call me Thomas.’

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  Thomas had an easy manner about him. He eyed Robert speculatively, and appeared to like what he saw. For his part, Robert was impressed with this Sergeant. He was a slimly built man of maybe four or five and twenty years, with a narrow chin and thin lips. His hair was fair and he had the brightest eyes Robert had ever seen. With fingers as elegant as a lady’s, he tapped his chin thoughtfully. ‘I’m taking you to sanctuary, boy. To my master’s manor. You’ll be safe from the law there, and you can help us. We have need of a brave man.’

  Robert could still remember the sight of that bloody corpse. The whole of Jack’s back had been crimson with blood. Someone had pulled him over, and Robert had seen his face. It had been terribly cut about, but underneath the blood there was an awful pallor. White, waxen – it had been even more fearsome dead than alive. There was evil in that face, an unholy foulness. At the time, Robert had shivered with revulsion and relief. But then he realised he would never see her again. That made him sigh.

  ‘Don’t worry, boy! Where you’re going, you’ll be safe enough,’ Thomas had chuckled.

  So he had saved Robert. For some reason, Robert’s reputation soon spread over the island of Ennor. He was considered a berserker, and no one would dare to insult him. Even when he was given the post of gather-reeve, no man in Ennor was rude to him. They were all scared. And while he strutted, he felt sure that no one could see through him. He was no murderer, no bloodthirsty killer, he was just a man protecting his woman. Although he’d not been able to taste the sweet fruits of his prize, because he had bolted with Thomas.

  Women would be the death of him, he thought with a quick grin, little knowing how soon that thought would be proved true.

  On St Nicholas, the large island north of Ennor, David the reeve rose to his feet as the first gusts blew through the hut, and went to the door.

  Outside, the low scrubby bushes were being thrown from side to side by the wind. Out over the sea he could see the dark line on the horizon, and when he sniffed the air, he could smell the metallic edge. This storm was going to be a mad, curling one, he thought.

  There were many different types of storm, and having lived here all his life, David knew all of them. Most peculiar were the water-spouts, which appeared suddenly like tall cones of terror, moving with fearsome speed across the water, the dread of any craft which got in their path. Then there were the sudden squalls, the ferocious gales. It was as though the flat seas that surrounded the islands allowed the very worst of all weathers to take the place by surprise.

  This did not look to be one of the worst, but nonetheless an unpleasant little tempest in its own right. He wouldn’t want to be out at sea in it. A curling storm was one in which the wind seemed confused. It whipped about from one side to another, ripping at sails until they sheared, unless they were reefed carefully.

  At least it wasn’t racing to the islands like some bad blows. There was time for the islanders to protect their own vessels, and as he glanced down towards the vill, he could see the last of the boats being brought into safer waters, the two sailors rowing hard. Around the islet, David knew that the other boats would all be up on dry land or sheltered by the encircling arms of the porth. They should be safe enough. That was more than could be said for ships blown by the storm from their allotted courses. All too often they would be hurled against the rocks of the islands and broken to pieces. If that happened, all the men aboard would die.

  The people of the islands had learned to enjoy the benefits when ships were wrecked, for despite their sorrow for the dead, all shared in the sea’s generosity when cargoes washed up on the shores. The thought was enough to cheer David. If there were a gift for the islanders in the midst of the storm, so much the better – so long as the ship foundered here on St Nicholas and not on Ennor. That was the main thing. It would save him and the men of the island from turning to piracy once more to find food for their families.

  David looked towards Ennor, and as he did so, his thoughts inevitably turned to the scandal that was affecting the vill. It was a disgrace that the two of them, Tedia and Isok, should have failed in their marriage, but far worse was the shame that Tedia’s adultery would bring upon them all.

  A distance away, on the cliffs of Ennor, he could see a slender figure bent against the wind. It looked rather like Robert, the gather-reeve, the third man in the triangle. The man who was determined to cuckold Isok.

  Baldwin felt the ship’s progress alter slightly. There was a sharper sound to the sheets, as though the great sail was trying to tear the ropes apart. The wind was coming from over Baldwin’s shoulder, and he felt it whipping across his face whenever he turned to glance behind them.

  They were still coming.

  The pirates were in a small boat, maybe a quarter as long as the cog, with an enormous, square sail billowing. Above it was a long, thin, red and white flag, something like a lance’s pennon, which snapped in the wind like a serpent’s tongue. Baldwin could see the men on board, their pale faces showing as flashes of light in the Anne’s own shadow.

  ‘What are they after?’ he wondered aloud.

  The master was not far away, and he grunted. ‘They’re after our cargo, the murdering sons of pox-ridden stoats! They know we’ll likely be carrying wine and iron, let alone all the other goods. We’ve got a hundred and fifty tuns of wine below decks – that’s what they’re hoping for, beshitted knaves! I swear, when I return home this time, I’ll turn privateer and catch me some of these devils!’

  ‘Are they a constant problem now?’

  ‘As constant as the waves.’

  ‘Then we must show them that attacking an English ship is foolhardy,’ Baldwin said. He drew his sword and studied it a moment. On one side of the bright, peacock blue blade was an inscription: BOAC – Beati Omnipotensque Angeli Christi, ‘Blessed and Omnipotent are the Angels of Christ’. Even as he gazed down at it, he felt his soul stirring. Turning the blade over, he gazed at the other side. Here was a neatly carved Templar Cross to remind him of his time in the Order before its destruction by an avaricious French King and his henchman the Pope. All of Baldwin’s former comrades had been humiliated, many murdered, and all so that the King and Pope could profit from the Templars’ wealth.

  It was a period Baldwin was not prepared to forget, nor would he relinquish memories of his Order and his youth spent there. Baldwin had laid out a small fortune, having an expert cut this symbol and the letters with a burin, hammering fine gold wires into the lines, but he felt that the money was well spent. The little sword with its blade of less than two feet was comfortable to carry and comfortable in his hand. While he held it, he usually felt all b
ut invincible.

  Today, though, gripping his sword he felt a sudden sadness sweep over him. Perhaps this time the sword would be inadequate to protect him, for this was not his element. He had no love of the sea even if he did not fear it as much as many men did. For him to fight at his ease, he needed to be seated upon a destrier, ideally with a lance in his hand and a roar of defiance in his throat, not here, on a wobbling wooden platform far from safety. Perhaps he had seen the last of his beloved Jeanne and his darling daughter Richalda.

  ‘They’re going to come on as night falls,’ the master predicted gruffly.

  Baldwin’s spirits plummeted. The first rule taught by any master of defence was that the feet should be firmly positioned before attempting a blow of any sort, and here he was, about as secure as a man standing on the back of a bucking stallion. No, it was worse. There were ropes of all different thicknesses lying about, and an assortment of boxes of merchandise, all ready to trip the unwary. Fighting here would be very difficult.

  The pirates’ boat was a low, sleek vessel, some sort of keeled ship. Cogs were large, ungainly brutes, to Baldwin’s eye, all huge arse and swelling sides, designed for carrying large amounts of merchandise; keel ships were more suited to raiding parties and pirates. Their low lines were strong, but importantly they gave the master the ability to use oars to propel the vessel those last, crucial few yards. Galley-like, the boat was similar to the ones Baldwin had seen in the Mediterranean: it also resembled the ships used by the arch-enemies of the world, the detested Vikings, whose raids had been made possible by the use of fast, seaworthy ships like this one.