The Outlaws of Ennor: (Knights Templar 16) (4 page)

‘God’s turds!’ the master swore, and reached for the nearest shroud. As agile as a monkey, he swung himself upwards climbing until he could stand at the side of the lookout. Then he dropped down, hand over hand, legs crossed about the rope, and as he came, he bawled with all his might.

‘
Pirates! Breton pirates!
’

A gabbled stream of commands followed, and the
Anne
turned her bows westwards. Immediately, the ship began to make heavier weather, the prow rolling and twisting against the horizon, but it
apparently didn’t affect the master as he struggled with a heavy crate whose lid had jammed. He prised it off with a crowbar, and Baldwin could see it was filled with weapons.

‘So, Sir Baldwin. This should make your voyage more memorable!’ Gervase grunted when he noticed the knight’s glance.

‘Perhaps. I think I should be agreeably satisfied without excitement,’ Baldwin replied easily. He would not show a sailor that he could be alarmed by mere Breton thieves, and intentionally did not so much as glance behind to see what manner of boat was making towards them.

But although he wanted to hide his feelings, he could not help but feel his sword and make certain that the blade moved easily in the scabbard.

He had the feeling that he might soon need to use it.

On the island of Ennor, William of Carkill opened his door and peered out; a short, but thick-bodied man, he had a round head and almost no discernible neck. The wind was picking up, and the sea was turning a grey colour, the wavetops whipped white.

Born near the River Tamar, William had not seen the sea until he was more than five-and-twenty years old and already a priest. There hadn’t seemed much point in going to look at a mass of water. Then he had sailed here, first to St Elidius, and more recently to Ennor, to his little church of St Mary’s, and he had loved the place immediately.

The church was set at the western edge of Porthenor, the ‘doorway’ to Ennor, the place where a boat could put in or go out. Here the church stood, high above the water, so that it should be safe even if there were a storm. There was a monk on St Nicholas Island who remembered storms which had brought the seas up the beach as far as the doors of his church; the saltwater had washed through the priory’s main undercroft, and it was only the speed of the monks that had rescued their wine.

Those storms must have been terrible, William thought. Not that the idea worried him. He had an entirely fatalistic attitude to life. If God wanted to take him, He would, and that would be that. In the meantime, William intended making the best fist of his life as possible.

On
the opposite side of the bay he could see the cottages of the fishermen and peasants in the little town of La Val, as the monks from Tavistock called it. La Val – ‘Down There’. It was a silly name for the place, but William rather liked it. It made him feel as though he was set apart, up here on his hillside, peaceful in his isolation.

In the bay in front of him, he saw a small boat come racing in on the wind. That was strange in its own right. Usually ships had to make their way laboriously against the wind when they came up into this bay. The fact that this vessel was speeding along must mean that the wind had changed direction again. William gazed back out to sea and felt the first prickings of concern.

Far off to the east and south, a mass of blackness loomed menacingly on the horizon. It was the sort of weather that broke doors, tore away roofs, slaughtered cattle, and dropped tree limbs on unsuspecting fools as they lay in their beds. Awesome, impressive, and as terrible as God’s rage. If this storm came here and struck the islands, William reckoned he would be called out to many a burial.

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.

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.’