The Outlaws of Ennor

Chapter Seven

It was cold on the island of St Elidius, and Brother Luke woke to the sound of water slapping at the rocky shore. It made him remember the meeting last night. At the memory, he began to sob anew.

Christ’s pain, but he hated this place. It was miserable. No one here apart from the swine-like peasants who infested this far-western group of islands, and they were good for nothing, not even rutting. The one woman, Tedia, with the soulful eyes and soft breasts thrusting at the thin material of her tunic, she would have been worth a rattle, but as soon as Luke thought he had her convinced, up she’d jumped like a rabbit seeing the ferret, and she bolted. He could almost imagine the ferret where she had been sitting, a mouthful of white fur from her arse in his mouth. Luke would dearly have loved to get his own mouth about her arse, but she obviously didn’t want him. There was still Brosia, but Luke had noticed the looks which David threw his way. No, he’d best leave her alone for a while.

This was the usual process of his waking. He would curse the place first, for he loathed and detested it. Then he would dream idly of Tedia and one or two other women, before he set himself a task or two during the day. Two was the most, because so much of his day was spent sitting at the highest point of St Elidius, staring eastwards towards the mainland and home.

It wasn’t his fault he was here. Any man would have succumbed to the luscious nuns in that convent. He couldn’t help the fact that he still had warm blood beating in his veins, and yet the Bishop had made his feelings very clear on the matter. Luke had been sent here in exile. He could repent his crimes in solitude, over a long period, for it would be a very long period, Bishop Walter said frostily, before he could be brought back to civilisation. All Luke had done was make one nun pregnant. And then there was Ireland too, but Luke didn’t want to think about that right now.

At first he hadn’t believed that any man could be so cruel. Sure, as the priest at the Belstone nunnery, he shouldn’t have got the nun with child. But it seemed impossible that he had been sent here to die. He was only young, and he’d had so much life in him. All he had wanted was feminine company. There was nothing wrong in that for most men, and he knew perfectly well that other priests were allowed their concubines. They were not ejected, forced into exile. Why should he not be allowed back? Yes, fine, she was a nun, but that wasn’t his fault. He would argue that the Church had sent him to Belstone to perform an impossible task, expecting him to be immune to her attractions. Any priest would have desired her; most would have tupped her. It wasn’t his fault!

He felt the familiar gloom assailing him. It was so unreasonable. And now, here he was, on this miserable little island of Elidius in the middle of the sea. No women to speak of, and few ships. The ones that did stop at Ennor were no good for him. He couldn’t just walk out of here and ask for a ride. The shipmaster would laugh at him, and Luke had had enough of ridicule. He wouldn’t try that.

This was why he had taken to drinking strong wine at midday and snoozing through the afternoon. He had been told to mend his ways by the Prior, but what was the point? He was here to die, so why behave like a martyr? He was depressed, and he saw no reason to hide the fact. His last chance had been last night, but that had come to nothing. All he had wanted was a ship to take him away from this place. He could have gone to the mainland, maybe even to Guyenne, but no! He would get no help from Thomas, the bastard!

Luke, after the last two years, was no stranger to self-pity.

Originally, after being uncovered in Belstone, when he and the suffragan Bishop Bertrand had both been sent away to Ireland, Luke had thought that this was the worst possible fate a man could suffer. He had been convinced of it all the more during the hideous voyage. The Bishop had sent him away to pay for his offence. And there Luke had found … well, she had been willing enough, God’s blood. It wasn’t all Luke’s fault.

No, it wasn’t his fault that he’d found the little strumpet there. She’d seen him when he first arrived at Ferns, a lovely green city with a beautiful little cathedral. Not far from the cathedral had been the old holy well, and he had met her there one day, a beautiful, green-eyed, red-haired woman with a body that would have tempted St Peter! Her long neck was like a swan’s, her legs perfection, her oval face smiling and welcoming, her breasts like … Ah, but she was beauty itself!

He was not to know that she was related to a lord. It was not his fault: after all, she had been as keen as he, and she had made her desire for him quite plain. They had repaired to the field above the spring, and yes, he had sort of forgotten to mention that he was a priest, and when she asked him in that lovely, soft voice of hers whether he’d want to marry her, he might have given her a hint that he’d be a mad jackass not to be willing to jump from the cathedral’s battlements for the chance of a single kiss from her juicy lips, but that was mere poetical language. It was the sort of crap that women wanted to hear.

The row when he’d been found out had astonished him. He’d not thought that a quick tumble with a willing maid could cause so much noise, but by Christ’s balls, he’d soon learned his mistake! He was out of Ferns and on a ship homewards in moments, lucky to get away with both ballocks attached, from what he understood of the furious father’s words.

Back home to England, he’d thought. That was good news. Now he’d be able to persuade the good Bishop Walter that he was a changed man, that this second failing had taught him his lesson, that his experience of exile had made him a better man, more capable of heeding his vows. He was convinced that the Bishop would listen and then sympathetically nod and agree to send him on to the Bishop’s college at Oxford, or somewhere else where his talents could be honed and put to good use. In God’s name, Luke was not the first priest to have rattled a well-bosomed strumpet!

As it turned out, the Bishop wouldn’t so much as give him an audience. He actually had Luke held in chains in his gaol. In his own gaol with all the vagrants, misfits and outlaws! It was humiliating! And outrageous, because what possible reason could there be to hold a man of God like Luke in those conditions without reason? Taking a willing mate for an hour’s fun was hardly the crime of the century.

It was probably jealousy. That was it! Luke reckoned that Bishop Walter was just a spiteful old lecher who couldn’t see further than the end of his nose without his spectacles, and that was why he’d sent Luke here, to this bleak, wasted midden of an island. The Bishop no doubt told other people that Luke was an habitual womaniser, but it wasn’t true. He’d never raped a maid. All his companions were perfectly willing and eager. It wasn’t his fault that he was attractive to pretty women. It was, he supposed, a curse.

Well, a curse on Bishop Walter for sending him here! Luke prayed fervently that the Bishop’s piles might grow ever more painful.

A year and a half he had been here. A year and a half, and now he knew the meaning of purgatory. The worst had been last night, though. That storm had been appalling. Really alarming. He’d thought he wouldn’t get home at first, and when he did, it felt like his whole cottage was going to lift from its moorings and fly off the islands, and he’d cowered in his bed, the heavy blanket pulled up to his forehead, shivering from the cold and his fear, convinced that he was about to die. In the end, he’d risen and fetched himself wine, drinking steadily until either the storm ceased or he collapsed in a stupor. He wasn’t sure which. Either way, at least he slept, although now his mouth felt and tasted as though an incontinent cat had defecated in it overnight.

Only when he had reached for the jug to rinse his mouth did he remember that sight. The man’s body arched like a bow as the dagger was thrust in his breast.

He felt sick. The roiling in his belly was foul, and he had to swallow hard to keep the liquid down. He had seen men die before, of course. Who hadn’t? The usual scene wasn’t that alarming — if anything it was oddly amusing, with the vendors calling out their wares while the men stood stoically, or shivered and pissed themselves, or declared their contempt for the executioner, the public and all others, while a priest muttered prayers beside them until the executioner slapped the rump of the bullocks and the cart slowly moved off, leaving the men dangling. Yes, there was some fun in going to see them dancing their last.

Not the slaughter of a man like Robert of Falmouth, the gather-reeve of Ennor, though. That wasn’t funny. That was petrifying. To see that knife slip in so easily while the hand gripped Robert’s throat, holding him there — that was hideous. Really hideous. Robert had stood there, his body curved away so that his flesh was as far from the killer’s knife as he could keep it, and then the blade was planted slowly inside him. The curvature of his back eased, and he had relaxed, falling gradually towards his assassin like a woman sinking slowly against her lover. Then the knife was withdrawn, and Robert simply collapsed. And his killer stabbed the sand again and again to clean his blade before making off. He hadn’t seen Luke, though. Luke was sure.

He stood, a little unsteadily, and the breeze from the door lifted his fair hair and blew it back. Living here, he had little access to a barber, and had neither interest nor inclination to ask the Prior if he might be allowed to use the Priory’s, a man who came over once a two-month from Ennor.

Picking up his jug again, Luke peered inside. The last of his wine. He drained it and belched. It was depressing. Only wine had kept him moderately sane here, and now that he had witnessed a murder, he felt the loss still more. He set the jug down on his little table, then petulantly hurled it at the wall. ‘I don’t want to be here!’ he cried out, and sank to his knees weeping.

It was no good. The room was stifling him in the afternoon’s heat, and the smell of his unwashed body, filthy clothes and vomit all made him crave the open air. He stood, wiping the tears of self-pity from his eyes and lurched towards the door. Perhaps, he thought, he could use this murder as a means of escape for himself? If nothing else, it would show that he was in danger, if he could point the finger at the murderer. And then the Bishop would have to rescue him from this hell. If he was to do that, he must go to the priory first, to tell Cryspyn what he knew, the old devil, and then go to La Val for the Coroner’s inquest. They were sure to have found the poor bugger’s body by now, and his evidence could be vital.

Satisfied with his logic, he stumbled as he hauled the wooden door open. It was a hard job because the leather hinges had rotted and the door scraped along the floor, but soon he was out, blinking in the open air. He walked past his chapel, out through the gate, and then he stopped.

‘Brother, I wanted to speak to you,’ the man said.

Luke hesitated at the sight of him. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He couldn’t say anything. It was impossible.

Luke shook his head. ‘It wasn’t me!’

‘What wasn’t?’ the murderer asked evenly, a small smile on his lips.

Even as Luke took a deep breath and tried to command his legs to turn and let him flee, he knew it was too late. He saw the lunge. To his surprise, he scarcely felt the blow at all. It was merely a thump, as though someone had struck him with a clenched fist but, looking down, he saw the dagger’s hilt in the man’s hand. Then there was a very curious sensation. As the blade was withdrawn, he was aware of a subtle snagging, dragging sensation, an awareness that became more perceptible as the metal caught on a bone and grated. He saw how his flesh clung to the blade as though reluctant to give it up, as though his body knew that the metal was removing his own life’s essence, and wanted to hold it there inside him.

Luke opened his mouth to scream, but suddenly there was a hot, liquid effusion in his throat; it went up into his mouth like vomit, and he felt its warmth in his nostrils. No sound came. He fell back, twisting, his hands clutching, heels spasmodically jerking and kicking, trying to cough up the blood that was drowning him, suddenly desperate to cling to the life which he had grown to detest.

Once the heels stopped their frantic dance, the man peered down at him indifferently. He stabbed the blade clean in the sandy soil and sheathed it once more. Then he chewed his lip a while thoughtfully before finally hoisting the body over his back, and carrying it down to the sea.

It was evening when Simon awoke, the scent of soup burning at his nostrils. When he opened his eyes, he saw William at a little pot, stirring furiously and periodically feeling a lump of unleavened bread which was cooking at the side of the fire on a large flat stone.

Suddenly Simon felt a pang. The scene was reminiscent of his home: the smell of bread cooking, the figure bending over the pot — and yet the figure was not his Meg. All at once, Simon longed to be at home in Lydford, watching his wife at their fire, waiting for her to serve him. Instead he was here on this miserable island of Ennor, waiting to be fed by this strange, thick-set priest. His raw feelings were exacerbated by the loss of Baldwin. The sight of his comrade being swept from the deck of the ship by that massive wave would never leave him: it was a picture which must haunt him until the end of his days. And the knowledge that he was already so near to his wife made him restless. It was ridiculous, but he was already within the King’s realm, and yet there was another expanse of sea between him and his home. It made him miss his Margaret with a more poignant longing than he had ever known before. He was alone, and he wanted to be home again. Oh, Christ’s bones, how he wanted his home again!

‘Still alive, then? That’s good,’ William said pleasantly.

Simon grunted as he rose to an elbow. ‘Where’s the old man? He was here, telling me all about the place. I couldn’t understand what he was going on about, much of the time. He was explaining about the laws here.’

‘That was Hamadus, my sexton. He’s always rabbiting on about the customs here. Personally I find that they can be safely ignored. Just behave like a decent man and no one will give you trouble,’ William advised. He frowned at the food. ‘I hope you like pottage.’

‘I do.’

‘In that case, let’s hope this strikes you as similar to pottage, then.’

As William set about finding a bowl, peering into it with a suspicious glare and wiping it clean with his fingers, Simon asked about the youth he had rescued from the sea.

‘He’s at the castle. Hamadus has seen him and made him comfortable. The poor fellow was not well. I think he tried to drink half the ocean on his own. No doubt he was jealous that you were there to take the other half,’ William said drily. Seeing the expression on Simon’s face, he apologised. ‘When you live in a place like this, you forget how to behave towards other people. He is well enough, but I thought he could do with a little care. I can make some foods,’ he added, gesturing towards the pot, ‘but he needs some real nursing, and Hamadus is better than most healers I’ve known.’

‘He is a physician, then?’

‘Of a sort, yes. He will cure warts, treat cows with swollen udders, or help a dog with a bad sprain. Whatever needs curing, he can do it.’ Glancing at Simon, he added defensively, ‘I don’t know how he does it, but he is very successful.’

‘I wasn’t judging,’ Simon said. He gratefully took his bowl, a thick hunk of bread floating in the greenish soup. He tasted it and beamed. ‘This is wonderful!’

William smiled with satisfaction. The pottage was made by a woman in La Val who came to cook and clean for him each morning, but he saw no need to explain that to this marooned stranger. While Simon drank from the rim of the bowl, William poured himself a little more and ate it fastidiously with a spoon.

‘I suppose I shall have to take you to the castle to speak to the Lord of the Manor,’ he said. ‘But it is already getting late. That can wait until tomorrow.’

Simon had finished his bowl. His belly felt as stuffed as it did after a great feast and he realised that he had not kept any food down since leaving port four days ago. When William made to offer him more, Simon shook his head. In a moment, he told himself; once this meal had gone down a little. ‘This lord — Ranulph, I think Hamadus said?’

‘Yes,’ William said, and his face hardened. ‘Ranulph de Blancminster.’

Simon frowned. ‘I know my Abbot owns lands here. Does Ranulph owe Abbot Robert allegiance?’

‘I don’t think Ranulph agrees to owe honour to any man other than himself,’ William said. ‘He is the employer of thieves, wastrels, outlaws and murderers. No man is so evil that Blancminster won’t take him in. I know, because I have had to hear the confessions of a few when they have been at death’s door. Ranulph is scared of no man. He even takes the King’s fish. Fourteen odd years ago, he imprisoned the King’s Coroner and fined him a hundred shillings because the man did his duty and impounded a whale washed up on the beach. Ranulph wanted it himself, so he had the Coroner flung into his gaol.’

Simon felt the first twinge of anxiety. ‘But would he dare harm an Abbot’s man?’

William gave him a level look. ‘There is nothing he wouldn’t dare.’

‘Perhaps I should make my way straight to the priory then,’ Simon said, and explained about his position in the Abbey’s staff.

‘Well now, Bailiff. Since you are an official yourself, perhaps you can dare to feel a little safer.’ William sat musing for a moment, staring at the fire’s flames. ‘For now, sleep. You’re safe enough here with me, and not many are likely to wander abroad when darkness falls. But just in case, I shall send a message to Prior Cryspyn at St Nicholas so that your presence is noted. It can’t hurt to have the Prior on your side.’

Sir Charles woke with a feeling of dog-weariness. His neck was cricked, his shoulder hurt from lying on the hard wooden deck, and he had a sore hip for the same reason.

Still, he was alive, and that, right now, was a cause of gratitude. It was a miracle that the Anne hadn’t foundered. More miraculous still was the fact that she remained afloat even now. After the terrible storm, they had drifted for a day, wondering what might happen to them, and all had fallen asleep where they were.

Sir Charles offered up a prayer of thanks as he rubbed salt-sore eyes and stretched, feeling the torn and bruised muscles all along his back and flank. At his side, his squire snored loudly. Paul could sleep through a massed charge of chivalry, Sir Charles sometimes thought.

An entirely secular man, Sir Charles dealt with life as he found it, which meant that he tended to look upon all individuals as potential enemies or friends. He had been a loyal companion to his master, Earl Thomas of Lancaster, but Earl Thomas had died when he was captured at Boroughbridge, executed by a King jealous of his power. The Earl had dared to oppose King Edward II and subsequently paid the price, along with many of his companions.

Only good fortune had saved Sir Charles and Paul. They had not been at that fateful battle, and therefore had time to flee before the King arrived to exact vengeance on any he considered disloyal or treasonous. The two had taken ship to France, and then took up a life of adventure until their money had run out and they were forced to join the company of a fellow from Portugal. Travelling with him to Compostela and then on to Tomar in Portugal, they had met Sir Baldwin and threw in their lot with him.

A great shame that he was gone, Sir Charles thought to himself. Hearing a hoarse shout, he glanced about him.

The ship’s mast was a broken, splintered stump; ropes lay scattered about the decking, mingling with pieces of timber and strips of ripped sailcloth. On his left, where the hull had ended in a thick beam of oak and small rail, there was a ragged, gaping void. The mast top had fallen here, shearing through the wood like a razor through parchment. On the torn deck boards, there was a dark stain. That was where a sailor had been standing when the mast fell. Sir Charles eyed it with a certain surprise. He would have expected the waves and rain to have washed it away. Not far from the stain was Gervase. The master was breathing very shallowly, his features extremely pale and grey, lips blue, and all about him there was a thin smearing of blood. His hands were reddened claws that clung to his belly as though they clung to life itself. In a way, Sir Charles thought that they probably did. The poor devil clearly had little time left.

Used to warfare, and experienced in all the different forms of death, Sir Charles was nonetheless drained after last night. Fighting men was very different from battling the elements, withstanding wind and waves in their relentless efforts to smash and destroy all in their path. The realisation that God could have sent such a storm was fearful to a man. It made him realise his own puny frailty compared with His power.

‘They thought you’d sink, didn’t they?’ he muttered to the Anne, patting the mast’s stump. ‘Simon and the others, they reckoned you’d fail and go to pieces. Shit on a plate! I thought it myself! If I’d the brains to have learned to swim, I’d have done as the Bailiff did and jumped overboard. A man doesn’t sit on the field of battle waiting for the enemy to finish him off. If he’s got half a brain, he finds a horse and bolts. But if you can’t swim, you can’t escape a sinking ship.’

That was the reason why he was still here, but it was also why the master and two others were with him. None of them could swim, so they had chosen to remain, praying that they might be spared, and not long after Simon and the others had jumped, the storm had begun to abate somewhat.

A sailor, one of the two who had remained with Sir Charles, was pointing northwards and saying something. Standing, Sir Charles was astonished to see that only a few miles from them there was a group of islands.

He gaped in wonder. Being no poet, he could find no words to express his feelings, but he was thrilled enough to offer up a short prayer of thanks. The islands gave the impression of security and beauty, set here in this sparkling ocean as though God had singled out this little area for his best and most detailed experiment. Spray was thrown up over a rock, and Sir Charles admired the spume like one befuddled by drugs. It was astonishingly lovely.

Then he saw the little armada which was heading towards them. The sailor saw it at the same time, and Sir Charles heard him swear. The sailor was staring with suspicion in his dark eyes, although Sir Charles could not understand why. He walked over to him. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘We’re sitting on top of tuns of wine and other merchandise.’ The man jerked his chin at the armada. ‘I just hope they won’t try to pretend that there were no survivors on this old tub so that they can take the lot.’

Sir Charles gave a smile. His friends knew that smile and recognised the danger in it: he had no living enemies who had ever witnessed that smile. Those who had seen it were dead. The sailor knew nothing of this: he saw only a knight who appeared to be laughing at him, and he walked away irritably. It was bad enough having to worry about the thieving devils approaching, without having a stuck-up, landlubber of a knight sneering at him.