The Outlaws of Ennor: (Knights Templar 16) (33 page)

Baldwin gave a low whistle. ‘So I was fortunate indeed to have been won by a beautiful woman who would not only save me, but who was captivated by my good looks.’

‘They aren’t bad,’ she admitted. ‘Although you are dreadfully old.’

‘My thanks,’ he growled.

After a moment, she asked, ‘What is the matter, Baldwin? You are quiet, and your face is so sad.’

‘It’s my friend. He was on my ship too. I think he must have died.’

‘Oh, my love! I am sorry – I didn’t think to ask whether you lost a companion on her.’

As he saw a pair of women appear around the corner of the beach, he felt her arm go about his neck, and then the cool, moist touch of her lips on his, and he revelled in the kiss while feeling revulsion for his behaviour. So this, then, he thought,
this
is dishonour.

He had to admit that it felt extremely pleasant.

Jean de Conket had lost it. Yes, he could confess to his rage. When the fool of a helmsman had misjudged the ship’s motion, so that the two vessels collided, and most of the men preparing to sling their grapnels and shin up the cog’s sides to take her had been knocked from their feet, Jean’s anger had all but choked him. He went to the helmsman, his sword already in his hand, and hacked at the man until his body was in pieces on the deck. Only then did he look at his crewmen. They were staring at him, some with sympathy, others with horror. ‘Get on with it, cretins!’ he shouted, waving his gore-besmottered weapon, and the men returned to their stations while Jean himself took the tiller.

The
men on the deck above were watching with fear in their eyes. They all knew what a pirate ship could do. As soon as Jean came nearer, the first missile was hurled, a pig of lead, which fell into the water before the pirates could reach her side. Jean gritted his teeth and pushed the tiller. At once there was a ripping pain in his underarm and breast, a pain that made his heart stop and the blood shrill in his veins. He wanted to scream, but daren’t give so obvious a proof to his men that he had lost his energy and strength. ‘Go on!’ he roared, urging the tiller about with sheer, brute willpower.

They had caught sight of the cog sailing lazily towards them almost as soon as the lightness rimmed the eastern horizon. It was a large ship, with a massive, billowing sail like a flag set out just to attract a pirate ship. To Jean it was a beautiful sight. She must be crammed with good produce. Surely God had taken pity on him, he reflected as he bawled commands at his crew.

They sprang to their posts, and soon they were bucketing through the water, the deck rolling and lurching and making Jean wince as his wound gave him more pain. The cog had seen them almost at the same time, and put on more sail in the hope that they might ram their raiders, or at least scare them away and race on past, putting them far beyond Jean’s craft. Anticipating this, he had his ship turn. If he could have bet, he would have said that the cog was heading straight back the way he had come, to Ennor. If that was so, he would win them long before they could reach the islands.

It was the regular thumping of his arm against the mast which had first caused his mood to grow ugly. He couldn’t help it. Every buffet from a wave as they turned, agonisingly slowly, made his arm clump against the side of the ship; each blow was like razors running from armpit to hand. Now, when he recalled his concern yesterday that he might be forced to have the limb amputated, he could smile wryly. Having it cut off had become an attractive option.

The helmsman had tried to run the pirate ship up to the side of the cog just as the cog began to tack. Instantly their ship was overwhelmed by the cog taking their wind. Their sail sagged, they began to lose way, the ship grew as sluggish as a hogged hulk, and then there was the collision. Jean was thrown to the deck, and he screamed
as his arm took the full force. That was when he cut his helmsman down in a rage.

A large feather of spray was thrown into the air as the two ships came together again. Jean gripped the tiller with his good arm, but it was no good. Every thrust of the sea against the tiller caused his body to lurch, and that meant his bad arm shook and his whole body shuddered with agony. He had to give up the tiller to another man; they had lost her now, he could see that. Without the steady hand of a good helmsman, they had no chance. This lad was a mere boy: he had less feel for the ship than an ape.

Three times they had come close enough to try to board her, but each time, something had gone wrong. The ships struck and bounced apart twice, the second time a hapless sailor from Jean’s crew had fallen between the two and disappeared for ever. After the third collision, there was an audible crunch, followed by a hideous wrenching sound. As soon as he heard it, Jean knew that they had lost the battle. He called to the helmsman, and the ship took a new course, more with the wind, while another man raced to the spot where the noise had originated. The strakes were loosened, and water was coming in. It wasn’t desperate, yet, but they couldn’t make it back to Brittany. Jean reluctantly accepted that they would have to find a safe harbour to sit and repair her.

The cog was clearly heading towards the port at Ennor, and they followed behind her, their course slanting across hers. It was clear that the others were racing to the port as fast as they could, and Jean gave orders to take their own vessel around the eastern edge of the isles, and thence to the little harbour where they had rested the previous few days.

This whole fucking voyage was turning out to be a disaster, he told himself as he kicked a lump of the helmsman’s flesh from his foot.

Simon woke with the feeling that all was not well. It was after dawn, he could see from the light shafting in through the window at the side of the hall. Sitting up and blearily rubbing his eyes, he realised that his hosts had mostly departed. Many others were already up and about. He was one of a few sleeping men.

Getting
up and making his way to the trestle tables at the far side of the room, he sat with a hunk of bread and a good jug of ale. Soon he found that the world was taking on a more pleasant aspect; he speared a slab of cooked meat and ate it with gusto.

‘Bailiff?’

The quiet voice startled him at first, but then he recognised Hamo. ‘Lad! How did you sleep? Have they been treating you well enough up here?’

Hamo was certainly looking a great deal improved. He had lost his pallor; his features had regained the ruddy complexion which had impressed Simon when he first met the lad. ‘Sir, I have to speak to you,’ he muttered agitatedly.

‘Why? What about?’ Simon asked, and then realised that his voice was not as quiet as he might have liked. The last bit of meat had caught in his teeth and he was concentrating on excavating it, rather than being as hushed as Hamo would have preferred. Fortunately, no one appeared to be taking any interest in their conversation.

‘Sir, it’s Sir Charles and his companion. I heard someone talking,’ Hamo whispered. ‘They intend to make an example of Sir Charles by putting him on a rock and leaving him there to drown.’

‘No!’ Simon declared with a burp. ‘They wouldn’t dare treat a man like him in that way.’

‘I heard two of the guards discussing it,’ Hamo hissed.

‘You must have misheard them,’ Simon said, but he was worried. It was possible, of course, that guards might give out such a story in the hearing of a gullible lad like Hamo, but what if someone had let the truth out by mistake? ‘Why should they do that to Sir Charles?’

Hamo gave him a longsuffering look.

‘Sir Charles did nothing, apart from try to protect his ship from invaders,’ Simon said reasonably.

‘That’s not what they say here. They reckon he pulled a sword on Ranulph, and that’s enough to deserve a slow death,’ Hamo said. ‘They say they’ll drag him out to sea as soon as they have someone to keep him company.’

‘Who do you think they meant?’

‘This
man who killed the gather-reeve. If they can, they’ll catch him and set him out on a rock, too.’

‘They have little idea who that murderer can be,’ Simon said easily.

Hamo stared at him, his eyes wide with fear. ‘Sir, I’m telling you because they may try to harm you too. You have to know what sort of men you are living with.’

‘I am aware,’ Simon said. ‘Hamo, you aren’t as experienced in the ways of the world as I am. Take my word: the lord here is as good a lord as you could hope for and he indicated to me yesterday that our friends would soon be free!’

‘Sir, please!’

Hamo was going to speak again, but a man at the far end of the room called out, and the boy ran over to him.

Simon watched him go. It was typical of the lad that he should be jumping at shadows. Hamo had been a nervous sailor, and now he was on dry land, he was still seeing dangers at every turn. Simon actually felt a little attached to him. There was a warm, paternal smile on his face when Hamo hurried past him.

‘Don’t worry so much, Hamo,’ he counselled. ‘Leave things to me.’

‘That man just told me not to talk to you,’ Hamo whispered, looking round, and then, in a rush, ‘
Please
, Bailiff! You must try to save Sir Charles! Speak to William – see what
he
says!’

Simon chewed more slowly. What if Hamo was right? Then Simon recalled the look which passed between Thomas and Ranulph, and suddenly he was less sure. He instinctively liked William, but could he trust him? The man might be a pirate himself or in league with pirates.

Hamo gave him an agonised look and said, before scampering away, ‘William saved our lives, Bailiff. We can trust him.’

It was true that the cabin-boy had been saved by the priest, but that was no proof that he was better than any other man. Anyone finding a body on the beach would have done all they could to save that person. Ranulph could be a vicious brute as an enemy, he had no doubt, but Simon had a responsibility to the law. He was a
Bailiff of Abbot Robert, and that meant he must be careful of his actions.

Not that Simon was convinced that William was guilty of the offence which Ranulph and Thomas ascribed to him. The moving from one chapel to another was a case of mere chance, nothing else; there was no need to think him guilty of spying for felons. Simon had heard the tale from another man the previous night, after Ranulph had dismissed him. William had been quite happy on his little island, a place called St Elidius, which had a small chapel and not much else, because William wanted peace, but he was asked to move to the main island when the previous chaplain was recalled to the Bishop’s Palace. The chaplain had been guilty of bringing a woman with him, and living with her in imitation of matrimony, although as a priest he was bound to his vows of chastity.

Priest’s mares were no rarity, and Simon was surprised that his friend Bishop Walter could bother himself with such a matter. He had plenty of other issues to concern him, after all, since he was regularly involved in affairs of the state. In any event, apparently Walter
had
recalled William’s predecessor; and that was why William had been called to St Mary’s Church. Someone else had taken over at St Elidius.

That being so, it seemed unlikely that William could be guilty of acting the spy. He had probably been the unwitting victim of tittle-tattle. Simon thought it would be a good idea to speak to William and warn him …

Mariota smiled but shook her head. ‘You’re talking nonsense.’

‘You saw them as clearly as I did, you old fool!’

‘Brosia, if I want insults, I can think of enough of my own without listening to your viperous tongue!’

Brosia tried a more placatory tone. ‘What was she doing sitting in the knight’s lap with her arms about him then, her lips on his, if she wasn’t making love to him?’

‘They were both clothed, so they weren’t—’

‘Oh, come on! So they weren’t rutting! They weren’t rolling on the grass with no clothes and little other than their smiles to cover
them, but they were at it, and you know it, you old baggage! They were at it while her husband was away.’

‘Where is Isok?’

‘No idea. His boat isn’t in the harbour or on the sands.’

‘So you’ve been to look already, have you?’

Brosia flushed. ‘I happened to notice! Wives often go to look for their husbands’ boats, don’t they?’

‘Your man was away last night?’

‘No, he was with me. As a husband should be.’

‘So you weren’t looking for
his
vessel.’

‘I was watching to see it was safe … that’s got nothing to do with it! Mariota, your niece is an adulteress.’

‘You have no proof of that.’

‘What more proof do you need than the evidence of your own eyes, woman?’

‘I saw nothing, Brosia.’

‘You saw the same as I did!’

Mariota’s voice sharpened. ‘But I didn’t want to make any assumptions like you.’

‘That’s unfair!’

‘Is it?’

‘You won’t believe it? Very well. I shall take it to my husband.’

‘You can’t! If you do that, you know what will happen.’

Brosia drew away from Mariota’s grabbing hand. ‘Keep off me! You won’t help me, and that’s fine, but I won’t hide this from my husband. I have a duty to him, as a wife and as a member of the vill.’

‘Very good, but Brosia, remember this, Isok is going to have to submit to investigation no matter what happens. If Tedia has sought a little pleasure, it’s no surprise. She’s a woman – just as you are.’