‘On the sands between St Sampson and the priory.’
Baldwin looked enquiringly at Ranulph, who slapped his thigh where his empty scabbard dangled. ‘Yes, we can get there in a little time.’
‘How long?’ Baldwin asked.
Ranulph glanced at the sun. ‘In as much time as it would take for a gallon of water to boil.’
‘Then go, with all your men.’
He nodded, then glanced at Simon. ‘My sword, Bailiff?’
Simon was reluctant. He had won this in a fair fight. ‘Are there swords on the ship?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then you must take one of those. I shall need a weapon, and there is nowhere for me to borrow one.’
Ranulph nodded towards Thomas. ‘Do you trust him?’
‘No.’
‘Then take his sword. I know my weapon: it suits my hand and shoulder. You take another man’s, since you have none of your own.’
There was a fair comment in his words. A man grew accustomed to his own blade. Simon brought his lips together firmly, then nodded and passed the hilts to Ranulph. ‘Thomas, give me your sword and belt.’
With a very poor grace, the Sergeant pulled apart the laces and ungraciously dropped them on the sands before stalking away.
‘I fear you have upset him, Simon,’ Baldwin said drily before speaking to David: ‘How many men can you command?’
‘Perhaps fourteen men,’ he answered, gazing over at the ranks of men who were unharmed from the morning’s battle.
‘Collect them, then. We shall have to aid the priory before it is overrun.’
If Jean could have heard Baldwin, he would have laughed aloud. The place was already in his hands, and all he had to do was load the valuables onto his ship.
It had been ridiculously easy. He and his men hurried up to the gates and found them gaping wide in the most welcoming manner. A gatekeeper was there, some sort of layabout lay brother, from the look of his tonsure and garb, but a sword in the belly stopped his attempts to delay them. Jean thrust without thinking, although while the man shrieked on the ground gripping the entrails falling in coils from his belly, Jean was so put out by the noise, on top of the pain in his arm, that he swung his sword again, cleaving through the man’s head almost to the jaw. That shut him up, but it took a while for Jean to wrench his sword free from the man’s skull. In the end he planted a bare foot on the fellow’s breast and yanked as hard as he could. That made his bad arm jerk in its sling, and he thought he would pass out from the agony.
Then he and his men were running across the courtyard towards the priory church. That, they knew, was where the decent items would be stored – the crosses, the pewter, the goblets of gold or silver. Jean also sent three men to the Prior’s chamber. He’d probably have several things in there which would be ideal, too. With any luck, they would find a good stash. This was only a tiny island, but even the smallest could win good incomes from pilgrims and visitors. With luck, this would be one of them.
As soon as the doors were opened, there was a great shrieking as monks and novices pelted from their cells and places of work to stop this violation, but most held back when they saw the weapons arrayed against them. One man stood barring their way to the church, so he was cut down. All satisfactory, Jean thought. None of them had so much as a dagger with which to protect the place. There was a scruffy youth near a door, and Jean saw a man knock him down with a club. The boy fell, eyes wide open still, his blood staining the soil.
The church was at first a great disappointment. The altar itself looked like a lump of rock rough-hewn from a block lying on the island, and the drapery was ancient, with little merit. It didn’t even have any golden thread. As for the goblets and candle-holders Jean had expected to find, there was remarkably little. It was only when they caught a young servant and began to trace patterns on his naked torso with a couple of razor-sharp daggers that they learned about the big chest in the chapter-room, and after despatching the youth, they made their way there. Here, at last, they found what they were looking for: an oaken chest filled with all manner of plates and goblets. Jean commanded two men to grab it, and soon they were on their way to the ship again. Passing the door to the Prior’s chambers, they heard laughter, and Jean guessed the worst.
When he went inside, he could smell it. Fresh wine from the Prior’s own stores, discovered in the Prior’s buttery and opened by the men in there. They had caught a young monk and while two held him down, another raped him.
Jean was tempted to kill them there and then, but the feverish mood which kept swamping him was too exhausting. He eyed them with disgust, but said nothing. Ordering them to kill the man, and not to forget to bring a barrel or two to the ship, for the Prior had several small casks in his storeroom, Jean led the way down the stairs to the courtyard again. There he breathed a little more easily as the men began to manhandle their trophies past the now still body of the gatekeeper, then were out in the open again. In front of them they could see their ship ready and waiting, and that filled them with a new high-spiritedness, the men all but running with their loads.
They were only a matter of yards from the ship when Jean heard the roar, and he realised the danger as soon as he heard it. There was nothing so formidable as a peasant who saw others despoiling the church which he viewed as his own. Now, glancing over his shoulder, he saw that there were ten or more men running towards him, and he swore under his breath even as he looked to his own men and how they might be deployed. Making a quick decision, he ordered the church plate and casks to be taken to the ship, and all those who carried nothing to support him. Turning, he watched the oncoming men with a sense of resignation rather than excitement.
It was his arm – he was sure of it. The swelling was so bad, he scarcely dared look at it, and the smell which was coming from the stained bandages was particularly foul. Nothing felt, really, as though it mattered. It would be good to return home with a handsome prize, but if he died on the way, he wouldn’t mind. The main thing was, making the profit. There should be something for his woman. His boys could fend for themselves.
This damned arm … he could feel the blood being poisoned in his veins, all because of that evil bastard who had stabbed him on board that blasted ship. If he saw the man again, he would kill him.
And then, blessed miracle, he saw the fellow. There, in front of the men racing towards them, was the man with the ridiculous beard that followed the line of his jaw, the peacock-blue sword glittering furiously in the sun as though it actually had a life of its own and was seeking fresh blood to taste. The sight made Jean shiver with loathing; or perhaps it was the returning fever. He suddenly felt frozen to the marrow, but he wasn’t sure what it was that made him feel like that. There was a suspicion at the back of his mind that he was about to die. It was a premonition which he had never had before, and he felt terrified for a moment, as though he could see the long centuries ahead in which he would not exist. It lasted a moment only. Then he roared his defiance and waved his sword about his head twice, before marching forward to join battle.
Chapter Thirty
Baldwin saw him at the same time, and as soon as the black-haired man stepped forward, Baldwin ran to meet him.
Both knew that this was a personal challenge; whichever of the two was to fall, the other would be victor. If the pirate captain were to die, the pirates would lose; Baldwin preferred not to think of the consequences of his own death.
Not that he would have much to fear, he thought. The pirate was clearly badly wounded, and he panted as he lifted his sword to strike at Baldwin. It was easy to block it with a sharp flick of his wrist, and then Baldwin stepped back, waiting for the next blow. But it was terribly slow. Baldwin parried it easily, waiting for the hidden attack under the obvious, but there was nothing, and then he saw the edge of the flesh at the pirate’s neck. It was red, with veins showing darkly, as though the man had fallen into a fire and his flesh scorched.
Suddenly Baldwin felt sick
. This man had been wounded by him days ago, and he had fought valiantly, trying to preserve his life, and now Baldwin had the duty of ending a life which must have been appallingly painful, from the way that the man favoured his arm in its sling. It was cruel to destroy someone who was all but incapable of defending himself, but Baldwin had responsibilities. If this fellow lived, he would return and he would try to rob and plunder again. It was in his nature. Baldwin could see it in his eyes, red-rimmed though they were: this man had no comprehension of the suffering of others, only of his own inordinate greed.
There was a slow, slashing sweep of the man’s sword, and Baldwin put out his sword to block it, but the blade had already moved with a flick of the pirate’s hand, and now Baldwin felt the snagging at his tunic.
He leaped back, seeing the cruel delight in his enemy’s face. The front of his tunic was soaked with blood. The blade had nearly eviscerated him, and if he had tried a thrust himself, which he would have done, had he not been distracted by the pitiable condition of the pirate, he would have been spitted like a hog over a fire.
The sting of the wound woke him to the realities of fighting. He held his sword out to stop another thrust, then blocked a sweeping blow to his head. When the pirate tried to kick, Baldwin was already out of reach, but he managed to swing a blow to the man’s thigh, and he felt the sword catch on the bone as he withdrew it.
That was enough to enrage the pirate. Without taking account of the agony in his arm, Jean jumped forward, dancing lightly on his feet, trying to ignore the dull throbbing in his thigh. It was nothing. No, he had to attack, press this shit-eating moron back, and wait for the chance to run him through, and then make his way to the ship.
He pushed forward, his arm stabbing with an extensive pain that seemed to swallow his entire soul. The knight fell back, and the pirate took a moment to glance back at his ship to see whether he could bolt for it if he needed. What he saw made him gape.
The ship had been pushed out to sea, and as he watched, he saw the sail drop and ripple in the wind. It was a moment before the ship started to move, helped by the ranks of oars on either side. There were enough men to propel the ship and manoeuvre her for a short distance, and as he watched her, Jean knew he had been betrayed. The men he had thought his companions had deserted him and his fellows; they were doomed.
With that thought, he realised how long he had been staring. He turned just in time to see the sword that swept off his head and his arm in one long blue shimmer of steel.
Baldwin watched the body collapse. Instantly he could smell the foulness in the rotten arm, and he retreated a step.
The men about him were almost all finished. David stood at his side panting, a scratch all down his cheek, from which a pale, watery blood ran steadily. Next to him was Simon, unscathed, while before him two pirates lay, one still twitching, Baldwin saw.
It was not these men who took Baldwin’s attention, though. It was the pirate ship, which was even now heading away from the island. Once it rounded the western tip of Ennor, that would be the end of the matter, he knew. The ship could take to the open sea.
Just then, he saw a great sail above the area of St Nicholas known as St Sampson, white and massive as a cloud, and then, a few moments later, the great hull of the cog herself hove into view.
The vessel moved steadily with the wind, which was almost behind her, and she had already built up speed after passing about the western edge of St Sampson. Now she was moving with great wings of froth at the prow, her bow rising and falling gently, all her motion taking her like an arrow towards her target.
Too late the pirate ship saw the danger. The men ran about the ship, the helmsman leaning on the rudder, the sailors running up the ratlines and out on the yards, hauling on ropes from below while those above untied the reefs, trying to get a few more yards from the wind. It was no good. With a loud cracking noise, the cog drove into the flank of the pirates’ hull, the oak smashed and wrecked, and all those on the beach could hear the terrible cries of the pirates who couldn’t swim as the cog’s bows rammed on, while sailors leaped aboard from the Faucon Dieu and began to finish the butchery.
It was enough. Baldwin couldn’t watch the last of the pirates being cut down and tossed overboard like lures to attract fishes. He supposed that was all they were now, but he did not like the fact, and he also thought to himself that the idea of eating fish on these islands had grown peculiarly abhorrent.
He was about to walk away from the place when there was a familiar roar, and he saw a strange figure striding towards him with a glowering demeanour and a ferocious appearance, largely due to the dagger gripped firmly in his fist. It said much for Baldwin’s impression of Sir Charles that the streamers of kelp which trailed from his arms and legs – and the air of seedy dampness given off by his filthy and now sodden clothing – did nothing to detract from the awesome power which emanated from him.
‘Where are the castle’s men? I want Ranulph de Blancminster now! Where is the coward? May heaven witness that I intend beating him with this dagger, if he won’t meet me in equal combat!’
‘My friend,’ Baldwin said with some tiredness, ‘I think you are a little too late.’
Simon was desperate to see Hamo and make sure that the boy was all right. As soon as the last of the pirates was captured, he left the men there on the beach and ran up the lane which he thought must lead to the priory.
And then he arrived and found the pathetic corpse, and all thoughts of the murders left him. He knelt, gently picking up the lad, while his eyes fogged and the breath threatened to throttle him. There was no need to check whether he was living. The dent in his skull where a mace had struck was all too obvious, and Hamo’s eyes were almost forced from their sockets from the violence of the blow.
‘Simon?’
Baldwin had been with him all the way back from the beach, concerned about his friend, and now he saw the body in Simon’s arms.
‘It’s ironic. I’d intended to save the boy, sending him away from the developing fight, and in so doing, I sent him into the midst of a more brutal battle. In such a way might a man fail his friends. All I wanted to do was save him from the castle and the bloodshed.’
‘I am sure he knew that,’ Baldwin said. ‘Let us take him into the church.’
Simon nodded. ‘I saved his life from the boat, I thought, when I needn’t have bothered – the thing didn’t sink. Now he’s dead, poor lad, because I wanted to protect him. I couldn’t have served him worse had I intended to.’
‘That is what happens sometimes, Simon. All we can do is treat people in the best way we can. No man can tell the consequences of his actions. We must simply behave as best we can.’
Simon bent his head, eyes closed, before walking on towards the church. They laid the small body by the others which were being brought in: the gatekeeper with his hideous wounds, a young monk found in the Prior’s own room, another fellow cut down by the church’s door. The two knelt in front of the altar in prayer for a few moments. It was only a short while later that the noise of wheezing heralded the arrival of the Prior. Cryspyn nodded to them, knelt, made a hasty obeisance, glanced at the dead, and then motioned to Baldwin and Simon to join him.
Baldwin was soon finished, and stood, a hand on Simon’s back. He left Simon there, walking slowly and contemplatively towards the back where Cryspyn waited.
‘I should like to offer you both wine and food when you are ready. I wanted to thank you for your warning this morning. And your friend for his attempt to warn me about the men from Ennor, of course.’
‘That is most kind. We shall be delighted to join you,’ Baldwin said, but his attention was absorbed by Simon’s distress.
Cryspyn saw his gaze. ‘Do you think we could do anything to help him?’
‘He was truly attached to that young fellow. I heard once that a man who saves another’s life can feel more responsibility than the one who has been saved. It is a great duty. And then to lose the life saved, can mak
e a man feel doubly guilty.’
‘Perhaps. And yet it is a greater thing than killing. Killing can be too easy,’ Cryspyn said.
Baldwin surveyed the rows of dead men with Cryspyn. ‘Yes. And too many men learn that skill too young.’
The Prior bent his head sadly. ‘I fear so. Even I once committed that gravest of sins.’
‘You?’
‘What, you didn’t realise?’ Cryspyn said. ‘You think that only the happy, well-behaved monks would be sent here? I am afraid not. Luke was not the only …’
His voice trailed away, and he winced. Baldwin thought it was at a memory, but in reality, the Prior was merely aware of a fresh twinge of pain in his belly. The acid was stirring in his stomach, and swallowing achieved nothing. It had been the same ever since he had returned to his room and encountered the fresh, sweet odour of blood and something else: the taint of sex. He had been told what had happened to young Daniel in there, and it was as though the air that had supported the men who raped and murdered him had forever stained the room.
‘Not the only?’
‘Sorry?’ Cryspyn was brought back with a start. ‘Oh. I assumed you knew about me – I thought everybody knew why I was sent here. You know Abbot Robert, after all. I was sent here after a fight about a woman. I loved her … so did another man. I killed him. That is all. But it was much at the time.’
‘Homicide is always a terrible crime, I suppose,’ Baldwin said, but without censure. He had killed enough men in his time to know that the mere killing of another was not evil – it was the reason for killing that was foul. Sometimes homicide was necessary.
‘It can be,’ Cryspyn said, as though reading his mind. ‘But when it’s over a woman, the crime is doubly terrible. I killed him just because he had … won her.’
Baldwin studied him dispassionately. Cryspyn did indeed look guilty, as though this murder was weighing upon him. ‘A man who kills because another has stolen his wife … it is understandable.’
The Outlaws of Ennor: (Knights Templar 16) Page 38