The Outlaws of Ennor

Prologue

He couldn’t stay below decks, it was too stomach-churning with the ceiling apparently remaining still while his head and belly told him it was swaying violently to and fro, whirling wildly through the roiling waters. Instead, while his companions groaned and bemoaned their fate between bursts of retching, the tall knight with the soiled white tunic made his way up to the deck.

Sir Baldwin Furnshill sniffed the air and felt his temper improving as the wind flung salt spray at his face. It was refreshing, invigorating. He walked carefully to the mast, grabbing at stanchions and ropes on the way, and, when he reached it, took hold of a convenient cord and leaned back so that he could stare up at the sail.

Some twenty or more yards above him, Baldwin could see a man sitting with his buttocks resting on a short plank of wood. Like all the sailors, this fellow seemed unworried by the ship’s movement. He held on with an arm hooked about a rope, his thighs wrapped about the mast in front of him as he surveyed the horizon with a careless ease. Baldwin had noticed so many other sailors up there, all demonstrating the same indifference to height. The knight, who treated even short ladders with a degree of trepidation, felt quite faint to think of being so high. One slip, he told himself …

It was better to avert his gaze. The sail itself was enormously impressive; that the thick woollen material could harness the power of the wind and propel this ship, the Anne, in almost any direction, wherever the master chose, bellowing his instructions to the helmsman, seemed almost God-like, and entirely thrilling.

While the daylight lasted, all was well, he knew. If it was dark, he might have cause for concern because here, in the sea between Galicia and England, there were often alarming waves and sudden squalls, but at least with the compass held in full view of the helmsman, and with the lack of land in sight and several hours before dark, they should be safe, especially now, in the late summer of 1323. Such foul weather was rare at this time of year. It was only dangerous at night, when the compass couldn’t be seen (since this elderly ship had no binnacle with an enclosed candle to show the way) and rocks and other hazards might be hidden out there in the murk. Too many sailors died each year for Baldwin to be sanguine about their chances of survival in such conditions. How men could become inured to a life on the sea was beyond his comprehension. For him, sailing was a necessary but often unpleasant experience; he would never be able to actually enjoy it.

The only joy he felt in his own heart was at the thought that he would soon be home again. He had a bone-deep craving to be there. He missed his wife Jeanne, his young daughter Richalda, his comrade Edgar … and his dogs. It felt as though he had been away from Furnshill for years, rather than a few months. For Simon, his old friend, it must be even worse. The fellow had never spent an extended period away from his country, let alone from his wife and daughter. He’d only ever left his home for a night or two at a time. Even when he was called away by his lord, he tended to bring his wife with him. Now Simon was returning to a new job and new responsibilities. That would make the homecoming more exciting: more of a challenge.

A sudden lurch made Baldwin smile. Simon was a lousy sailor, and right now, Baldwin knew he’d be heaving and retching on an empty stomach. He’d be good for nothing for days after all this.

Baldwin looked up at the mast again, listening to the crackle of the sail, the whining of the wind in the shrouds. The top of the mast inscribed a lazy circle against the sky, and Baldwin was again glad that he had not accepted the lunch offered to him by the cabin-boy, Hamo.

At the time it had been the sight of the runny-nosed brat which had put him off, rather than the ship’s movement. Hamo was a short, rickets-ridden, underfed boy with a moon-like, pale face, whose eyes were hollow with exhaustion. He was filthy. And scrawny too; he looked swamped by the linen shirt made for a grown man, and his bare feet were already as horny as those of the older sailors, but at least he was quick-witted and bright. Baldwin felt sorry for the lad, was often amused by his chatter, but was repelled by the thought that Hamo could prepare Baldwin’s food or touch his bread. Not that there was much — already that which they had brought with them was all but used up, and they couldn’t venture inland to buy more, not in this weather. Better to stay away from land until the wind died a little.

The master stood near the helmsman. He was a powerful-looking man, this Gervase from Truro, and Baldwin instinctively liked him. He stood only as high as Baldwin’s breast, but he had the thick thighs and biceps of a fighting man, and the face of an elderly peasant, wrinkled and brown as a baulk of ancient oak. When his expression changed, Baldwin could almost hear the muscles squeaking, as though they were composed of wooden fibres as tough as those of the ship herself. Not that Gervase’s expression altered very often. Usually, as now, his face was set in a grim scowl, eyes narrowed against sun and salt, his brow creased into a thousand furrows. Even when he joked, he remained po-faced, a fact that always confused Simon. The plain-speaking Bailiff was easier with men who smiled occasionally. With Gervase, a man could not be sure when he was serious or making fun.

Now Gervase was crossing the deck beneath the huge rectangular sail, his manner thoughtful. He turned his face upwards, then back to the horizon with a glower, as though he was challenging the sea to try to sink him.

‘Are you well?’ he roared when he caught Baldwin’s eye. He had a pleasing cadence to his voice, like so many of his countrymen.

Against the squeaking of timbers, the howling of the wind in among the sheets and shrouds, the thump and hiss of water at the hull, both men had to bellow to be heard.

‘As well as may be expected, I think,’ Baldwin cried back, grabbing hold of a rope as the ship bucked beneath him. A fine mist of spray was hurled up over the deck as the ship crashed into a high wave.

‘This is nothing. You should see her in a bad squall!’ the master shouted without humour, his knees flexing to accommodate the deck’s movement. Then he gave a slow smile.

It was the sort of smile an esquire might wear while speaking to a boy who had just been unhorsed and winded by the quintain during weapons training. Many an esquire would take pleasure in describing how much more painful the shock of falling would be while wearing armour, or when prodded from one’s seat by a lance in the lists. Professionals, as Baldwin knew, always took pleasure in the anguish of those unused to their environment, no matter whether it was a seaman or a man-at-arms. There was a curious delight in the sight of others suffering an experience to which they themselves were grown immune.

‘Aye, and you should join me for a ride in the lists some day,’ Baldwin growled, but not loudly enough to reach the master, who was already striding back towards the helmsman.

Baldwin was glad to be alone again. He was a tall man, with features bronzed by the summer’s travelling. Thick in the neck and shoulder from many years of practising with weapons, he was strong and healthy for a man who was about fifty years old, but he was always conscious of the size of his belly, and at present he was keen to return to normality.

He was content with thoughts of his wife and the warm homecoming he could expect — but other, less attractive thoughts, occupied him, too. His dark eyes stared unseeing at the horizon, brow furrowed. With the deep tracks at either side of his mouth, lines graven by years of doubt and sorrow, the intensity of his expression made him look stern, an impression which was enhanced by the thin black beard that followed the line of his jaw. It was neat and trimmed, but oddly out of place on the face of a modern knight, and it gave Baldwin a curiously intimidating look.

His thoughts were grim enough. When he had left England, the country was on the brink of disaster. The King’s rapacious advisers, the Despensers, father and son, were setting the entire country against themselves, and by association, against the King himself. Baldwin was convinced that the realm must force the Despensers from the reins of power, and he hoped it could be done without more bloodshed. The Despenser wars of two years before had demonstrated that the Despensers could only be removed by force; they were too firmly installed in the centre of power, like spiders in their webs: the King and his realm their prey. Yet those who had once possessed the strength and will to destroy them were now all dead or scattered. The Welsh March was in uproar: the Marcher lords, who once had controlled the dangerous borderlands, were crushed. The Despensers had tried to take over the whole of the Welsh territories, and when the Marchers had rebelled, complaining about the extortion and theft of the invaders, they were themselves broken, imprisoned or forced to flee the realm. There was no one left around whom an opposition could form.

And even if there were, Baldwin told himself, they would be keeping quiet. In the threatening atmosphere that pervaded the kingdom, no man wished to put himself forward as an opponent to the King or his favourite, Hugh Despenser the Younger.

The knight was roused from his gloomy reverie by a sudden movement. It was the master, who had snapped his head around and was staring up at the mast once more, a questioning glare on his face.

Following the master’s look, Baldwin saw that the sailor who had been lounging up at the mast-top was now peering out to the east, his whole posture one of vigilance. He roared something down to the deck and pointed.

‘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.