The Outlaws of Ennor: (Knights Templar 16) (5 page)

Robert could still remember the sight of that bloody corpse. The whole of Jack’s back had been crimson with blood. Someone had pulled him over, and Robert had seen his face. It had been terribly cut about, but underneath the blood there was an awful pallor. White, waxen – it had been even more fearsome dead than alive. There was evil in that face, an unholy foulness. At the time, Robert had shivered with revulsion and relief. But then he realised he would never see
her
again. That made him sigh.

‘Don’t worry, boy! Where you’re going, you’ll be safe enough,’ Thomas had chuckled.

So he had saved Robert. For some reason, Robert’s reputation soon spread over the island of Ennor. He was considered a berserker, and no one would dare to insult him. Even when he was given the post of gather-reeve, no man in Ennor was rude to him. They were all scared. And while he strutted, he felt sure that no one could see through him. He was no murderer, no bloodthirsty killer, he was just a man protecting his woman. Although he’d not been able to taste the sweet fruits of his prize, because he had bolted with Thomas.

Women would be the death of him, he thought with a quick grin, little knowing how soon that thought would be proved true.

On
St Nicholas, the large island north of Ennor, David the reeve rose to his feet as the first gusts blew through the hut, and went to the door.

Outside, the low scrubby bushes were being thrown from side to side by the wind. Out over the sea he could see the dark line on the horizon, and when he sniffed the air, he could smell the metallic edge. This storm was going to be a mad, curling one, he thought.

There were many different types of storm, and having lived here all his life, David knew all of them. Most peculiar were the water-spouts, which appeared suddenly like tall cones of terror, moving with fearsome speed across the water, the dread of any craft which got in their path. Then there were the sudden squalls, the ferocious gales. It was as though the flat seas that surrounded the islands allowed the very worst of all weathers to take the place by surprise.

This did not look to be one of the worst, but nonetheless an unpleasant little tempest in its own right. He wouldn’t want to be out at sea in it. A curling storm was one in which the wind seemed confused. It whipped about from one side to another, ripping at sails until they sheared, unless they were reefed carefully.

At least it wasn’t racing to the islands like some bad blows. There was time for the islanders to protect their own vessels, and as he glanced down towards the vill, he could see the last of the boats being brought into safer waters, the two sailors rowing hard. Around the islet, David knew that the other boats would all be up on dry land or sheltered by the encircling arms of the porth. They should be safe enough. That was more than could be said for ships blown by the storm from their allotted courses. All too often they would be hurled against the rocks of the islands and broken to pieces. If that happened, all the men aboard would die.

The people of the islands had learned to enjoy the benefits when ships were wrecked, for despite their sorrow for the dead, all shared in the sea’s generosity when cargoes washed up on the shores. The thought was enough to cheer David. If there were a gift for the islanders in the midst of the storm, so much the better – so long as the ship foundered here on St Nicholas and not on Ennor. That was
the main thing. It would save him and the men of the island from turning to piracy once more to find food for their families.

David looked towards Ennor, and as he did so, his thoughts inevitably turned to the scandal that was affecting the vill. It was a disgrace that the two of them, Tedia and Isok, should have failed in their marriage, but far worse was the shame that Tedia’s adultery would bring upon them all.

A distance away, on the cliffs of Ennor, he could see a slender figure bent against the wind. It looked rather like Robert, the gather-reeve, the third man in the triangle. The man who was determined to cuckold Isok.

Baldwin felt the ship’s progress alter slightly. There was a sharper sound to the sheets, as though the great sail was trying to tear the ropes apart. The wind was coming from over Baldwin’s shoulder, and he felt it whipping across his face whenever he turned to glance behind them.

They were still coming.

The pirates were in a small boat, maybe a quarter as long as the cog, with an enormous, square sail billowing. Above it was a long, thin, red and white flag, something like a lance’s pennon, which snapped in the wind like a serpent’s tongue. Baldwin could see the men on board, their pale faces showing as flashes of light in the
Anne
’s own shadow.

‘What are they after?’ he wondered aloud.

The master was not far away, and he grunted. ‘They’re after our cargo, the murdering sons of pox-ridden stoats! They know we’ll likely be carrying wine and iron, let alone all the other goods. We’ve got a hundred and fifty tuns of wine below decks – that’s what they’re hoping for, beshitted knaves! I swear, when I return home this time, I’ll turn privateer and catch me some of these devils!’

‘Are they a constant problem now?’

‘As constant as the waves.’

‘Then we must show them that attacking an English ship is foolhardy,’ Baldwin said. He drew his sword and studied it a moment. On one side of the bright, peacock blue blade was an inscription:
BOAC
–
Beati
Omnipotensque Angeli Christi
, ‘Blessed and Omnipotent are the Angels of Christ’. Even as he gazed down at it, he felt his soul stirring. Turning the blade over, he gazed at the other side. Here was a neatly carved Templar Cross to remind him of his time in the Order before its destruction by an avaricious French King and his henchman the Pope. All of Baldwin’s former comrades had been humiliated, many murdered, and all so that the King and Pope could profit from the Templars’ wealth.

It was a period Baldwin was not prepared to forget, nor would he relinquish memories of his Order and his youth spent there. Baldwin had laid out a small fortune, having an expert cut this symbol and the letters with a burin, hammering fine gold wires into the lines, but he felt that the money was well spent. The little sword with its blade of less than two feet was comfortable to carry and comfortable in his hand. While he held it, he usually felt all but invincible.

Today, though, gripping his sword he felt a sudden sadness sweep over him. Perhaps this time the sword would be inadequate to protect him, for this was not his element. He had no love of the sea even if he did not fear it as much as many men did. For him to fight at his ease, he needed to be seated upon a destrier, ideally with a lance in his hand and a roar of defiance in his throat, not here, on a wobbling wooden platform far from safety. Perhaps he had seen the last of his beloved Jeanne and his darling daughter Richalda.

‘They’re going to come on as night falls,’ the master predicted gruffly.

Baldwin’s spirits plummeted. The first rule taught by any master of defence was that the feet should be firmly positioned before attempting a blow of any sort, and here he was, about as secure as a man standing on the back of a bucking stallion. No, it was worse. There were ropes of all different thicknesses lying about, and an assortment of boxes of merchandise, all ready to trip the unwary. Fighting here would be very difficult.

The pirates’ boat was a low, sleek vessel, some sort of keeled ship. Cogs were large, ungainly brutes, to Baldwin’s eye, all huge arse and swelling sides, designed for carrying large amounts of merchandise; keel ships were more suited to raiding parties and
pirates. Their low lines were strong, but importantly they gave the master the ability to use oars to propel the vessel those last, crucial few yards. Galley-like, the boat was similar to the ones Baldwin had seen in the Mediterranean: it also resembled the ships used by the arch-enemies of the world, the detested Vikings, whose raids had been made possible by the use of fast, seaworthy ships like this one.

All at once, he saw the oars breaking out on each side. To the beat of a thunderous drum, he saw them slash into the water. Seeing the young cabin-boy Hamo passing him, Baldwin caught him by the arm. ‘Go below and ask my three friends to come up here –
kick
them up the stairs, if you have to. I will not leave them to die there. Better that we should all die together up here.’

The lad sniffed and wiped a grimy sleeve across his face before giving Baldwin a duck of his head and darting off.

The pirates were approaching more quickly now. Their leader stood in the prow, gripping an axe with which he beat the air in time with the oarsmen’s drum. He was a short, burly man with very white teeth all but concealed by a thick growth of beard. Baldwin at that point would have given much for a cross-bow and a well-made bolt. From here he could have pricked that devil without too much effort, he estimated, as the deck beneath him rolled and plunged.

He heard a stumbling step immediately knew who it was.

‘This is terrible,’ Simon said thickly.

Baldwin gave him the once-over. His friend the bailiff did indeed look awful. His hair was matted and smeared with vomit, his intelligent grey eyes were dulled and bloodshot showing up unnaturally in his waxen face. There was the yellowish cast of a corpse about him, and Baldwin was quickly anxious. ‘Old friend, you are not—’

‘Dead – which is a great source of regret to me,’ Simon said shortly. The sight of the horizon rising and falling had a disastrous effect on his belly, and closing his eyes didn’t seem to help. His stomach ached from spewing, he knew he smelled foul, and his mouth tasted like a midden: Christ Jesus, he detested sailing! He detested ships, and right now he detested himself. A liquid sensation in his bowels made him wince and clench his buttocks. ‘That
gormless youth told us you wanted us. Why? What’s so hellfire important that you forced us— Christ’s pains!’ Leaning over the rail, he caught sight of their pursuers.

‘Yes, pirates,’ Baldwin answered as another passenger joined them.

‘What is all this? I can’t understand a word that blasted boy says.’

This was Sir Charles, a tall, fair Englishman who had met Simon and Baldwin in Compostela. His blue eyes were haughty, as though the whole world was an amusement designed to please him, but Baldwin was unpleasantly aware that he was a mercenary, a ruthless and dispassionate killer. The man was a knight whose lord had died, leaving him with no means of support. There were many such knights wandering Christendom now. Some of them ended up in the most peculiar places. Baldwin had even heard of one who was captured while fighting Crusaders on the side of a Moorish Sultan!

With Sir Charles was his companion Paul – a shorter, Celtic-looking fellow in a faded green jack. Of the three, Paul had the clearest eyes and the fastest mind. ‘They going to board us?’ he asked Baldwin.

‘They mean to.’

Simon grimaced and felt for his sword. ‘They’ll pay if they try.’

Sir Charles stumbled as the ship dropped sickeningly from the top of one wave down into the trough beyond; he grabbed hold of a rope. When he spoke, his voice was a little breathless. ‘How many are there on this ship?’

‘Too few,’ Baldwin said. ‘There are four and thirty in that keel.’

‘And we have only six sailors and us. Not a good wager.’

‘Be damned to a wager!’ Simon declared. ‘We can thrash a boatload of French pimps! Pox on you all! Sons of turds! You …’ He drew his sword and waved it defiantly, before hastily leaning over the side again.

Baldwin shot a look at Paul. ‘What of your longbow? Could you hit that man?’

Paul did not bother to gauge the distance. ‘The string has been soaked. I looked at it last night, and the thing’s useless. I couldn’t even hit our sail.’

‘Then
we shall need to repel them,’ Baldwin said heavily. ‘So be it.’

The distance was closing all the time. Master Gervase used every trick of seamanship to escape the smaller craft, but the oars made a great difference, propelling the Frenchmen towards them at a surprising pace. The four stood watching, all holding tightly to the rail as the ship rode up massive waves, hesitated as though wavering at the crest, and then pointed the prow down into the trough. Time and again, Baldwin saw Gervase cross himself, saw other sailors reach for the nearest rope and close their eyes as though they felt that this dive would be the ship’s last, and they would all be carried through the trough and down into the depths.

The Frenchman had bided his time, but now Baldwin was sure that there was a greater urgency in his voice as he roared at his men. It was the light, Baldwin realised. The sun was going down behind leaden clouds in the west, and even as he looked ahead hopefully, he felt the first flecks of rain strike at his cheeks. There was a brief flash of orange light as the sun peeped through the clouds, and Baldwin felt a sudden awe at the sight of the bright orange finger stabbing towards him across the water. It made him feel as though God was showing him that he was safe. Then the light was swept out as though by a massive grey hand, and Baldwin glanced back over the stern.

He stared in astonishment. A column of blackness seemed to be racing towards them, overtaking them and the pirates.

‘Thanks be to St Nicholas,’ the master breathed. Baldwin glanced at him and saw that he was crossing himself again.

‘Master, what is that?’

‘Foul weather. If we survive it, we’ll be safe. Even Breton pirates wouldn’t try to attack in that,’ the master said, and sneered at their pursuers, bellowing, ‘
HEAR THAT? KISS MY BUTTOCKS GOODBYE, YOU DUNG-EATERS!
’