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

‘She wouldn’t make it to shore without my ships hauling her,’ Ranulph stated flatly. ‘That means she is salvage, and it also means she’s my responsibility now. Under the law, half of the cargo and half the vessel is mine as Lord of this Manor.’ He nodded sternly to the knight.

‘So, you are going to take her?’

Ranulph
eyed him. ‘There’s no mast, no sailors … do you mean to paddle her all the way to shore? I can save the cargo, and all I’ll do is take half. If I leave you here, wreckers may come and take it all. They could kill you and lead the ship to rocks to founder, and claim that you wrecked far off out to sea. Which do you prefer?’

Without waiting for an answer, Blancminster turned his back and went to the side. ‘Send up a cable,’ he bellowed. ‘We’ll need to tow her to port. I’ll come down and—’

Suddenly he was aware of a pricking at his back and heard a voice saying pleasantly: ‘Now, Master, before you begin to order this vessel into dock, perhaps we should discuss what I’ll require for me and my companions aboard. We wouldn’t want any of us falling into the sea and drowning, would we?’

Blancminster turned slowly and faced the smiling man. He was an unprepossessing fellow, with a ragged day or two’s growth of beard, and a vaguely mad look in his blue eyes. It was the eyes which held Blancminster’s attention: they were the eyes of a man who had killed, who would kill again, and who felt no qualms about it. Blancminster recognised that look. It was the sort of look which his own men often wore.

‘Who are you?’ he asked softly.

‘Sir Charles of Lancaster.’

Ranulph sneered. Everyone knew about Earl Thomas of Lancaster and the destruction of his army. This man looked like one of his loyal adherents, now down on his luck and destitute.

‘And
your
name?’ Sir Charles enquired politely.

‘I am Lord of this Manor. They call me Ranulph de Blancminster.’

Sir Charles opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly there was a slamming blow at the back of his head which made his teeth rattle together. His legs lost all their strength, and he felt himself tumbling into a great blackness even before he struck the deck.

Baldwin came to with a sweet sense of comfort. There had been a delightful dream of Jeanne gently soothing his forehead, kissing his lips, easing his troubles and massaging away his bruises. It was so seductive that he fought waking for a long while, and even when his
mind was fully alive once more, he resolutely kept his eyes closed, as if by doing so he could retain his dream. A ridiculous notion, he scolded himself. If he wanted to continue his dream, he need only open his eyes and look upon Jeanne his wife.

But then, while he lay back on the uncomfortable palliasse, he realised that it was not his bed. The smells were not those of his home, nor were the sounds. Where was the whistling from Edgar? The chickens in the yard, the neighing from the stable? With a frisson of anxiety – no more than that yet – he opened his eyes and peered about him.

He saw a gloomy little room. In a corner was a single small table and stool. A fire smoked in the middle of the floor, giving off a rank odour. In another corner he noticed a small pile of dung – probably left behind by a sheep or goat – and an all-pervading but unfamiliar scent. Only later would he learn that it was the smell of drying kelp. Baldwin was quite tall, and lying full length, he was almost as long as the room was broad, so it must be some twelve feet long and maybe eight broad. He became aware of voices outside and pricked up his ears, listening intently.

To his alarm he realised he could understand nothing. The language here sounded much like that of the Bretons, and with that thought, he suddenly recalled the attack of the pirate ship, the death of so many good men: the helmsman, the sailors. It made him shudder, and as soon as he did so, his shoulder hurt like the devil, and so did his face. When he tentatively lifted a hand to it, he found that his cheek was swollen and sore. For the life of him, he couldn’t think where that had come from.

With the failure of his memory, panic seized him. He could remember the fight, but everything from then on was a blank; he was convinced he had been captured by the Bretons and taken back to their lair. It could be anywhere, perhaps in Brittany, perhaps in a quiet inlet elsewhere. There were tales of raiders who had found landfalls in Ireland and other places. They would run their ships up the estuaries late at night, come upon the inhabitants in their sleep or at first light, and slaughter them all before taking their ease among the corpses and seeing what could be stolen and carried away. Baldwin
felt his spirit chill at the thought. However, if this was an English territory, at least he might be able to escape and find his way to safety.

The voices appeared to be raised, and Baldwin saw shadows appear at the doorway. After a sharp altercation, a large man walked in, a big fellow with hunted eyes and a twitch at the corner of his mouth, like one who had been given a long sight of Hell and would never be able to forget it. When he saw Baldwin, his expression hardened like moorstone, and Baldwin feared that the stranger would launch himself upon him. He was quite unable to defend himself.

A woman followed after the man, a slender, attractive, dark-haired woman with an oval face. She had high cheekbones, and slightly slanted eyes that looked as though they would find it easier to laugh than scold. Her lips were very full and tilted up, albeit petulantly. She looked to be some two or three and twenty years, and Baldwin knew in an instant that this was the woman who had cared for him – she had saved his life.

The man stood over Baldwin. Instinctively Baldwin’s hand started to move to his sword, but then he realised he was naked. His sword was not at his side. Worse, he could see no sign of it.

‘Well, man! You’re lucky to be alive,’ the man rumbled in a deep voice. He could speak English, but with a strange dialect – stronger than a Cornishman’s. Baldwin could understand it, but only if he listened carefully. ‘You’re luckier still that the Prior has heard you are alive, because I wouldn’t offer much for your chances otherwise.’

Baldwin said nothing. He kept his attention fixed on the man, but all the while his ears were straining for other voices. The fact that the man spoke English was a relief. Where did that accent come from, though?

He shivered. The strains of the last days had caused a reaction, and he felt as though ice had entered the marrow in his bones. It would have been easier if he knew where he was, and how he had got here.

The man was still glaring at him, but no longer looked as though he was about to launch himself upon Baldwin in a murderous assault, so the knight felt safe enough to look up at the woman again.

She
gave an exclamation of frustration, huffed loudly, and left the room. Returning shortly thereafter, she barged past the man with her arms full of Baldwin’s clothing, ready washed and almost white again. He received them thankfully, and slowly he rose from the palliasse, naked. She stood eyeing him with her head cocked a little to one side rather like a thrush studying a patch of soil for worms and under her gaze Baldwin felt himself flushing. He was not used to being given so intimate an inspection by any woman other than his wife, and when he looked up, he saw that the man did not like the affair any more than he. His expression was furious.

Dressing as quickly as he could, Baldwin glanced about the place for his sword.

‘What do you seek, man?’

‘My sword. Where is it?’

‘Perhaps it is in the sea, still,’ the man said with a nasty chuckle. ‘What would you need of a sword, anyway? It’s only a bar of metal. Who needs protection here on St Nicholas?’

‘St Nicholas?’ Baldwin asked. ‘I find the name familiar, but—’

‘This is St Nicholas’s Isle,’ the woman said quickly. ‘You are here, and the Prior would like to meet you.’

‘The Prior?’

‘The Prior of St Nicholas, man!’ the man said. ‘And he’s important: answers only to the Abbot of Tavistock, so you’d better be on your best behaviour!’

Baldwin felt his heart pounding in sudden gratitude. ‘The Prior? You mean that this isle belongs to Tavistock Abbey? That is a great relief!’

‘You think so?’ said the man, and leaned towards Baldwin, his lip curling into a sneer. ‘We’ll see what you say when you’re in front of him, and the Prior has an opportunity to question you!’

Southwards, on the isle of Ennor, Simon woke in the little bed near the fire, and stretched contentedly. This was all much better than he had hoped. Perhaps, he thought, he would soon be on a ship to the mainland, then at last he could walk home and see Meg. The idea was
delicious, and he gave himself over to a daydream of his arrival home.

The scent of fresh bread was circulating, and his nostrils twitched happily. With it came the distinct odour of frying bacon, and Simon smacked his lips. William was whistling cheerfully outside while he pulled some leaves for a salad, and all in all, Simon felt at his ease.

Last night he had been exhausted, but his mind was working still, and he begged William to explain a little about the islands before he went to sleep. The other man was nothing loath, and squatted on his stool in front of his fire, talking quietly about all the islands and their master.

Simon learned that shipwrecked mariners must rest and wait for the Lord of the Manor to arrange for their journey back to the mainland. It was not always easy, William implied, but they should be able to find a berth for Simon on a ship before long.

The place was run by Ranulph de Blancminster, who had an evil man underneath him, his Sergeant, Thomas. The latter was nothing more than a bloodsucker, it appeared, who would sell his own grandmother if he was guaranteed a good price. Blancminster was a lazy man, but he saw to his duties with enthusiasm, building up the castle so that it could repel invaders, William said. ‘Although the way he’s gone about it, it’s more like a fortress to protect himself against the islanders here.’

‘They would hardly dare to lay siege to their own lord,’ Simon scoffed.

‘Would we not?’ William demanded. ‘We have seen that monster bringing over ever more foul felons to guard himself. Why should we not want to destroy him?’

‘Why? What does he do to you?’

‘He steals from all.’ William’s face was hard, but then he looked up with a sparkle in his eye. ‘Most of us, anyway: he leaves me alone. His men, too, take what they want, when and wherever they want. His gather-reeve, Robert, is the worst of them all. He steals from everyone with impunity. There are even rumours that he is involved in smuggling. I doubt whether Blancminster knows that, though.’

Last
night, Simon was too tired to take in any more, but as he felt his chin start to sink towards his chest, he wondered what Blancminster’s story would be on this subject. He had a shrewd guess that it would sound starkly different. As Simon knew, peasants would often describe the local officials in less than complimentary terms. That was not to say that all officers were corrupt or criminal. In fact, it probably meant that they were simply zealous in their duties. Simon himself had been accused of accepting bribes in order to see to a man’s conviction, his accusers failing utterly to comprehend the idea that it was wrong to release a man who was guilty, just as it was wrong to see a man pursued when he was innocent.

Simon had been more than happy with William’s hospitality. A real bed was a great improvement compared with the rough boards of the old cog, and it was wonderful to smell the homely odours of this little place rather than the stench of vomit and death.

Baldwin was dead, of course. Simon had no doubt about that. He was close to tears as he remembered his old companion, the quiet smile, the acerbic tongue in interrogation, the intelligence and skill of his investigations. All gone for ever, washed away in a storm.

Others had died too. Before he did anything else, Simon decided to attend church. He dressed quickly, and then walked to the door. As he went, he met the lad from the ship coming in. He gave the youngster a grin and welcome. ‘How are you today?’

‘I’m well enough, sir,’ Hamo said, and he looked it. To Simon’s faint disgust, the boy looked almost fresh – a little tired, certainly, with bruises under his eyes, but apart from that, he had apparently suffered little from his near-drowning. His recovery was remarkable.

‘I wish I felt the same.’

‘Sir, come with me, please!’ Hamo said, eyeing William suspiciously.

‘I am going to the church to pray for the men who died on that ship.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll come too.’

The boy was touchingly keen to remain with Simon. It was endearing in a way, but also rather pathetic, like a woman who was so jealous she wanted to follow her husband no matter where he
went. Simon was about to respond sharply that he needed no company – he wanted no one there to witness his tears for his old friend – when he saw the lad’s eyes go past him towards a group of men-at-arms standing up at a rock, staring out to sea. A couple of donkeys with pack-saddles were tethered behind them.

‘Very well, boy,’ he agreed gruffly. ‘Come along, then.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

They walked on for some distance, avoiding teams of donkeys carrying goods back towards the castle. ‘What’s your name, boy?’

‘Hamo, sir,’ he said in a hurt tone of voice. ‘Don’t you remember me?’

‘I am sorry. Since the storm …’ Simon glanced down at him. Hamo was loping along at his side like a hound who distrusted the surroundings. His eyes were flitting here and there, his head was held low, and he kept a hand close to his sole means of defence, a knife in an old sheath at his belly. As they stood aside to let a larger cart go past he asked, ‘Why did you go to sea?’