The Outlaws of Ennor: (Knights Templar 16) (12 page)

‘Ranulph de Blancminster, the Lord of the Manor. He owns all these islands, apart from the northern ones, of course. They are the Abbey’s.’

Now Simon remembered the name. Of course! Tavistock Abbey owned property in a place called Ennor. This must be the same place. That was a stroke of luck, since he was himself in the Abbey’s employ. ‘Thank God,’ he breathed.

‘Salvage is the law that means a man can win himself a share of half the value of the ship he finds, if he helps it to be saved. Half of the value of the ship and all the goods inside it.’

‘Yes,’ Simon said as testily as his tiredness allowed. ‘I know.’

‘Better than a wreck, of course.’

‘I know … Why?’

Hamadus grinned, as though acknowledging that he had won Simon’s interest against his will. ‘Because salvage means that they will save lives if they can. They’ll win money anyway, but if it’s supposed to be a wreck, then they have the problem.’

Simon
waited impatiently. His head was hurting already, and he had no wish to sit here listening to the old dollypoddle. ‘Well?’

‘It’s not a wreck if there is a man, woman, dog or cat left alive, is it? In the good old days, people would sometimes kill everyone, just to remove witnesses, and then they’d take the ship and its cargo for themselves. It was profitable in those days. Unless the King’s Coroner, or the Earl’s Havener got to hear of it. Many were hanged for taking a ship that wasn’t theirs. The law of salvage is better: a man knows he can go and save a ship and all the souls in her, and be paid up to half the value of the vessel and her cargo. It means losing the whole value and only claiming a part, but at least a man doesn’t risk his neck for the money. Better for all.’

‘They would kill people to prevent witnesses giving testimony against them?’ Simon asked, appalled.

‘Do you realise how much some of these ships can be worth?’ Hamadus asked scathingly.

‘So a King’s Coroner lives here?’ Simon said. ‘A Coroner must view all wrecks.’

‘Not here. We have the earldom’s Haveners to answer to. The money goes to the earldom.’

Simon was frowning. His head ached, and his eyes felt gritty and foul from saltwater, as though someone had thrown a handful of sand into each. ‘That makes no sense. I thought the King owned all wrecks. It’s nothing to do with the islanders.’

‘The King?’ Hamadus laughed aloud. Standing, he walked over to Simon and crouched at his side, eyes gleaming like a demon’s. ‘You think the King’s writ runs here? He’s a clever man, so they say – witty, generous and bold – but that means nothing here. We live miles from him. He would have to cross the seas to find us.
We
have our
own
laws.’

Simon felt a sudden shaft of fear as the man lifted his hand to Simon’s face, but there was nothing he could do to protect himself. It was just the exhaustion of the ship’s foundering, he told himself; that and the loss of his closest friend. To have lost Baldwin was
appalling. It made him feel a renewed grief, and as though in sympathy, his eyes watered again.

It was good, though. As soon as the old man’s hand touched his face, he felt refreshed. His eyes were less sore, his body a little less worn. Instead he felt overcome with an enveloping lassitude.

‘But the King’s laws …’ he muttered.

‘Here we have the Earl’s laws,’ Hamadus said, his voice showing that he was concentrating on other things. ‘Well, usually. If a ship is wrecked, it’s not the King’s. It may be the Prior’s, and it may be the earldom’s, but if Ranulph claims it, the earldom won’t argue. Ballocks! It’ll probably never even hear of it!’

His voice seemed to come from a long way away. Simon knew that the hand was gone, but he didn’t care. For the first time in weeks he felt secure. In Spain he had suffered from illness and wounds; while travelling he had been constantly on his guard, worried that a sailor might rob him, or a footpad cut his purse, and this felt a soothing, reassuring place in which to rest. ‘Sleep well,’ were the last words he heard.

There
had been no such calm voice speaking to Jean de Conket when he finally felt secure enough to drop exhausted on the thwart and cover himself with a blanket. He was asleep almost before the thick blanket had settled over him.

Waking in the warmth of the noonday sun, Jean stared about him with confusion. His men were still, for the most part, sitting at their rowing positions, backs bent over their oars, snoring, some of them, fit to raise the dead from the deeps. But they were alive. A stabbing pain made Jean wince and snap his eyes shut. It was awful, but he had once been told that the worse the pain, the better the wound. Worst of all was a cut that felt fine, but when you touched the skin, you could feel the fever burning beneath. No, the fact that it hurt like hell was good. It meant that something was going on. The flesh was living still.

It was good, so good, to feel the sun on his face when he had not honestly expected to live to see another morning. Jean stood and peered about him. To one side was a quiet, tiny island, which must surely be uninhabited, except by birds. Southwards the view changed dramatically. Here was a broad expanse of land, a low-lying, flat place with few trees, none of which was more than a few feet tall, and much long grass. The shoreline was all vicious rocks, black with water. They could not go there for provisions. At least the mast could be mended, Jean thought sombrely. Last night it had cracked some thirty feet up with a noise like a cannon, and the top had sagged. It had taken a great deal of effort to rescue it, preventing it falling into the sea and dragging much of their rigging with it. By hard effort and with great good fortune, his men had saved it.

The sooner they were away from here, the better. Jean began assessing the work to be done before he would be happy that his ship
was ready for the open sea again. There was no point in a voyage when Jean was unhappy with the ship’s worthiness. He wouldn’t risk her and his men so lightly. First they had to make the mast usable, and Jean wasn’t sure how, yet; there must be some way of strengthening what was left. Arnarld was a competent carpenter. When the man woke, Jean would ask his advice.

Jean himself was a cheerful man. A quirk of nature made him smile at any adversity, and his apparently easygoing character had led some enemies or business competitors to misjudge him. Most of them had later had cause to regret their mistake as they realised that the smile could remain on a man’s face as he killed another.

His woman would wonder what had happened to him. She would know that the storm had been worse than they could have expected, of course, but that was the nature of the sea. Sometimes it threw up worse weather than a man had reason to fear, and that was when the real mariners earned their reputations. At least Jean’s woman had seen him return after similar storms. She would know that he could win over it and get home. If he didn’t, he wondered now what would happen to her and their four sons. She’d probably have to resort to prostitution again. He shrugged. No doubt if she had to, she’d make the best of it. At least it would bring in some money.

Meantime, to make the mast good again would mean at least a day’s work, he estimated, and a day here in the open sea was not sensible.

It had felt like a miracle. When the storm had blown itself out, they had drifted for some while, until at last the light cleared and they saw that there were these islands to the south. Jean ordered the men to row them near to the shore, so that they would be a little protected. There was the lumpish island north of them, and the main land mass at the south meant that they were shielded from most eyes. The only danger here would come from someone on the land itself, and as Jean looked, he felt sure he could spot a roof of thatch on the island. It was a proof that they were not yet safe, but he had a feeling that there must be a safe harbour not far away.

He was sure, as they reached this place this morning, he had seen two massive rocks between this island and the lump. Either was long
enough to conceal the ship from the land, and he could anchor there, far from nosy inhabitants, and effect the works that the vessel needed before they could set sail again.

First, though, he would take a small rowboat and have a man row to the island to check that there was no raiding party forming up to take the ship. Jean had to go and seek out any witnesses.

Mariota heard the footsteps return, and when Tedia had seated herself chastely, her hands in her lap, eyeing the sleeping man, Mariota shrugged.

There was nothing for her to say. Tedia knew full well that Mariota and all the others here had heard of her visit to Luke. Some had already started their tongues wagging, saying that Tedia couldn’t get satisfied by her husband, so she’d been forced to go to a priest. Funny how so many men laughed at that, as though it was hilarious to see a buxom little wench cuckold her husband with a priest. There were enough men who didn’t realise what their wives got up to. Men thought that theirs was the only sex which sought adventures outside marriage, but it was only because their women knew how to conceal their affairs.

Mariota wasn’t sure about Tedia, though. The rumours were strong enough, but the old woman fancied herself more able to see the truth than many of her neighbours. They all believed that any woman in Tedia’s position would throw herself at the first man who showed interest in her, compared with living with a man like poor Isok. Mariota was not so certain. She had been in love herself once, and she wondered whether even if her man had failed in the way that Isok had, she would have been ready to dive into the bed of any other man at the slightest opportunity.

Before she could question the girl, she heard approaching footsteps, and then the doorway was darkened by the heavy-set figure of the vill’s reeve in the doorway.

‘David,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d be out with the fishermen.’

‘What, looking for wrecks when we already have a man here? No, I heard of this fellow and thought I should see him for myself.’

He
entered, head bowed low under the lintel, and stood up, hands on hips, a broad man, with a belly that was rapidly running to paunch. His hair was black, other than where flecks of white marred the overall appearance, and framed a face that was formed by the weather and the sea. The deep-set grey-blue eyes were steady and calm, his face a deep brown from years spent on the sea in boats of all sizes. His hands were large and powerful, strong enough to smash a man’s head in anger, but Mariota had never heard of his losing his temper. He was too confident of his own position as reeve on St Nicholas for that. The reeve was the leader of the men of the vill, the representative of the Prior among his villeins – but he was also master of the men when they went seeking ships to raid. Few dared answer him back, other than their lord, the Prior.

‘Well, child?’ he asked of Tedia. ‘Who and what is he?’

‘I found him on the beach this morning,’ she said.

‘Which beach?’ He had walked to Baldwin’s side and now stood staring down at the gently snoring man.

‘At the point, the nearest beach to Ennor.’

‘I see. There is no wreckage there,’ he mused. ‘Perhaps he was brought in with the water at high tide, or washed in on the storm, while his ship foundered on the eastern rocks, or Bechiek. It would make sense.’

Mariota chuckled richly. ‘You think a man could have been blown all that way, in between the islands, that easily? Reeve, you’ve been drinking too much wine.’

‘Learn respect,’ the reeve said, but lightly. He liked Mariota, and always had. She was irreverent, certainly, but that was no great difficulty. Reeve David was not afraid of people making fun of him. He felt it was a proof of his leadership that he dared to permit people to joke at his expense – especially the women. Any man who was disrespectful soon learned to regret his impertinence. ‘I have seen timbers land on our shores, and so have you. It’s possible that this man clutched a beam – or perhaps he was just blown in, through the gap between the isles and Ennor. I don’t care which. If Tedia says he was there, that is enough for me. Now, the question is, what do we do with him?’

‘Take
him to the priory, of course,’ Tedia said.

‘Ah, but should we? He’d be safe enough there, it’s true, but if he’s worth a little money, and you have to admit that he looks as though he is, then we’d be better served, perhaps, to deliver him instead to La Val.’

‘No.’ Tedia was emphatic. ‘I found him on priory land and I am a villein to the Prior. It is nothing to do with La Val, and think what the Prior would say if he learned you’d delivered a poor man like this to Blancminster.’

‘Perhaps Blancminster will pay for him,’ David said, adding unkindly, ‘and you may have need of funds soon, good wife, in order to pay your procter to gain your freedom from Isok!’

‘I think,’ Mariota said, heaving herself to her feet, ‘that you should wait until he is fit, and then bring him to the priory, before taking him to La Val. That way, you make sure that he has the protection of the priory, and he couldn’t ask for more than that.’

David nodded thoughtfully, and then, as she sidled from the small room, turning at the doorway so that her massive hips wouldn’t snag on the timbers which made up the doorframe, David followed her, holding the door to one side as he went. ‘Mariota? May I speak with you?’

She nodded, but did not turn or acknowledge him. ‘Well?’

‘Luke – is it true about him and her?’

‘It’s true that he told her to get a divorce.’