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!’
Glancing at him, seeing his joy, Baldwin gave a heartfelt prayer of thanks to God for saving them from attack. Surely this was the miracle they had hoped for.
Chapter Two
At the Priory of St Nicholas, on the island of the same name, Cryspyn set the brothers to work as soon as the shepherd had rushed in to warn them. It took only a moment’s glance south-east from the roof of their little priory church, to see what he meant, and Cryspyn had instantly ordered the lay-brothers and monks to their various tasks.
God had no mercy sometimes, the Prior reflected, glancing heavenwards. ‘Why now?’ he muttered aloud, staring out at the approaching storm, watching to see where it might strike first.
There was never enough time these days to sit and consider things in peace. Since the famine, this priory had been teetering on the brink of collapse. At least they had sheep and the support of the mother-house, Tavistock Abbey, which meant that there was rarely a shortage of ale and grain, but that was not everything. Cryspyn had the unpleasant feeling that the priory was beginning to fall apart.
It had all begun with the disastrous appointment of Peter Visconte, the chaplain of St Mary’s Church on Ennor until his concubine was discovered. The fellow had been hauled up to Bishop Walter’s court in Exeter so quickly he hardly had time to pack. It was essential that a new man be appointed as chaplain, so Cryspyn had immediately sought out William of Carkill, who lived, hermit-like, on the small island of St Elidius, and sent him to run the church on Ennor until a replacement could be found. The Prior had his doubts about William, but the man appeared to have done a fair job, persuading some of the more disreputable characters to attend his church. His replacement at the little chapel of St Elidius was a strange young man. Luke needed watching, Cryspyn felt. The Prior was still unhappy about Luke’s motives for talking to Isok’s wife about her problems and giving her advice.
As though his thoughts guided his eyes, he turned towards the little hump of rock north of his priory where, at this time of day, the tide would be on its way out. He glanced at the waters between St Nicholas and Ennor to gauge the depth against the trathen, the sand bar that reached between the two. Even as he did so, he felt sure he could see Luke. The man was down on the beach, striding towards the seas.
Cryspyn drew in a deep breath and bit his inner cheek. Then, taking a fateful decision, he walked to the ladder, and climbed down, crossing the yardway to the gates.
He wo
uld go and speak to the priest Luke.
At the water’s edge, Tedia stood hopefully.
Her husband had said that he was going to go out in the boat, and that gave her a little while to come here, to the southernmost point of St Nicholas, from where she should be able to see her lover on his way over from the main island of Ennor.
It was hard to control her beating heart. Tedia was nearly two and twenty years old now. She had been married for some three years, and still the marriage was unconsummated. By committing adultery, she hoped she might find a little ease. She was desperate.
That cow Brosia was so cruel, with her snide little comments about women who couldn’t please their men in bed. Brosia boasted that she found it easy. Her breasts were enough to make any man mad with lust, but then, as she would say with a sweet smile of pure venom, looking at Tedia, not all women were lucky enough to be so well-endowed.
It was nothing to do with that, Tedia was sure of it. In a way, she still felt sorry for her man. Isok appeared desperate and ashamed, but there was nothing he could do. They had tried all forms of cure; Tedia had even gone to see a woman who was supposed to be wise, but the old whore had merely cackled and advised Tedia to put her hands to better use.
Her hands were perfectly able with other men. There had been lovers enough when she was young who had enjoyed the way she used her hands. She had loved the feel of them, and she liked to watch the boys as their eyes grew languid, then urgent, their breath coming more swiftly, their hips thrusting. It was a form of power that she relished – until it came to scare her.
That was when Peter Visconte, the priest at St Mary’s on Ennor, had been found out and removed from his position. Suddenly Tedia herself had realised that the pleasure she was giving, the pleasure she received, might be forbidden by God outside marriage. Eve had tempted her man and wrought terrible damage; Tedia was doing the same.
Some of the men she had loved tried to persuade her otherwise: some had succeeded. The four years from hearing of the priest’s misbehaviour to her marriage had been sexually active, but with each coupling had come still more guilt. Tedia knew that only within marriage was a woman supposed to perform those acts which made a man cleave to her, and she had chosen her Isok because he was entirely innocent of such offences. Oh, he was generous to a fault as well, and he was kindly, and he had a good future with his fishing skills: all that swayed her, but not so much as the fact that he was still a virgin. To her knowledge he had not tried to take advantage of her, or of any of the girls in the islands. Religious, she felt sure he was holding his carnal desires in check.
That was a joke! She soon found out that he had no carnal desires! His prickle wouldn’t rise even after the most careful and deliberate attention. She had even submitted to a tale told by a friend, who had heard from a sailor what some whores in the Sutton Water stews did, and set her lips to the task. All to no avail. Poor Isok did what he could, but nothing seemed to work.
And so now, after three years of trying and failing to tempt her husband to service her, Tedia was here, standing at the southern tip of St Nicholas Isle some yards from her house, hoping to catch sight of her first lover since her marriage.
The first drops of rain spat into the sand at her feet, and Tedia realised that she had been so deep in thought that the weather had overtaken her. The clouds were black and angry, and what looked like a wall of rain was approaching. It was two miles out to sea still, but approaching as though resolved to roll over the islands and crush them.
Struck at first with anger that God should prevent her lover’s journey to her, she stamped her foot. Then she had a moment’s regret for her husband: if Isok was far out to sea, he would be right in the thick of this terrible storm … and then her feelings returned to pique. This was God’s way of preventing her from breaking her marriage vows.
She only hoped, as she turned and marched homewards, that God hadn’t decided to make her lover pay for her lusts with his life. If he was caught out in the banks with this weather, he must be drowned.
She turned and stared, a hand shielding her eyes. If he died, she would never forgive herself. The poor fellow. All he wanted was a companion. He was like her, lonely. To die, just for seeking friendship, was cruel in the extreme.
There was no sign of him, though. That gave her a moment’s relief, and then she saw another figure. Someone was wading back the other way, from St Nicholas to Ennor. Not many people were supposed to know of that route, but one man obviously did. She wondered who it could be, and then a freak gleam of light from the heavens answered her question.
‘Where are you going, Brother Luke?’ she wondered aloud, but then shrugged. Before the weather broke seriously, she wanted to be back indoors. Once home, she shut the door, but couldn’t settle. After only a little while she went to peer out to sea. The rain was falling regularly now, the wind blowing mercilessly, and she again felt a twinge of guilt that her husband should be out there, risking his life in the attempt to win a living for her.
There was nothing she could do for him. She shut the door and sat on her stool in the dark by the fire, swaddled in a blanket, but only a little while later her door suddenly opened. She spun round, hoping that it was Robert, but her husband entered. He stared at her a moment, then gazed about the room.
‘I thought you were out at sea!’ was all she could think of saying. In her heart, she was sad that she was not to be widowed. That would have been better for both of them. It would save him the lifelong shame … and her the grief.
‘Is that all you can say?’ Isok demanded. ‘You look anxious, wife. Have you brought a man here to cuckold me, then? Or were you just hoping I’d never return?’
Her expression must have given him his answer. ‘I shall leave you to him, then. I shouldn’t want to come between you both,’ he said and gave a harsh laugh, a sound halfway between a growl and a sob, before walking out again.
The master was knowledgeable about the sea and his boat, Baldwin saw, and he was more than capable of defending it when evenly matched, but this was different. These Bretons were too numerous. If there was a good arrow and a decent bowstring aboard ship, perhaps they would have had a chance, although Baldwin doubted that even Paul, Sir Charles’s man-at-arms, could prick a man accurately even if they were able to find a dry bowstring, the deck was now rolling so sickeningly.
All they could do was wait. The Bretons were smiling now, sure that the prize was in their grasp. All they must do was win the fight before the storm hit them all.
They couldn’t, though. The rain began gently, and then it was as though a heavenly sluice had opened. Water fell in a torrent, turning the sea to a grey, bubbling mass of craters; the deck of the ship grew slick and slippery, and Baldwin and Sir Charles both slid and fell as the ship suddenly turned in response to some command of the master.
Gervase was using all his skills to prevent the attack, but it was only delaying the inevitable; Baldwin saw a man at the prow of the pirate ship heave his hand back and hurl a grappling hook high overhead. It caught in a rope some way over Baldwin’s head, and instantly a sailor at Gervase’s side swung himself up, hand over hand, towards it. He had a knife in his belt, and as he pulled this out to saw at the rope attached to the hook, a man in the other boat raised a crossbow. It fired, and the sailor gave a scream. He fell slowly, one hand on the rope, which Baldwin saw growing darker as the man dropped to the deck. The tough cord had stripped all the flesh from his hand and thighs, and become soaked in his blood.
The weather was abating a little. In place of the initial heavy downpour, there was now only a faint drizzle, but the deck was as treacherous as ice.
There was another cry, and Baldwin heard the dull thudding of poles striking the ship’s side. They were long boat hooks. Baldwin went to the first and hacked at it with his sword, but the thing was more than an inch thick. He could cut only partway through it, and as he did so he was aware of a raucous bellow of exultation from the Bretons. Glancing down, he saw that
more grapnels had been hurled, and now men were swarming up the ropes. He couldn’t see the leader of the pirates.
Leaping back, Baldwin retreated a short distance to give himself space. On either side, he saw that Simon and Sir Charles were ready. A sixth sense made him throw a look over his shoulder, and there, to his horror, he saw two men clambering over the sheer. With a roar of defiance, he ran at them, knocking the first bodily against the timbers at the edge and hearing a satisfying grunt of pain. Then he was on the second, whom he recognised as the leader. Somehow these two must have clung onto the ship’s outer skin and climbed around until they could attack the defenders from the rear. Baldwin had no idea how they could have managed such a feat, but perhaps it was while the crew rushed to remove the grappling iron and the sailor was shot. Few eyes would have been on the front of the attacking ship during those moments. Like Baldwin, all the men on board were watching the man falling from the yard.
No matter. There was no time to waste; for now his concern was to prevent an attempt to board the Anne.
Baldwin was no dull-witted hacker. He had been trained in combat from his youth, and his skills had been honed by his years as a Knight Templar. It was natural in the Order for men to practise daily at their weapons, and now he stood warily while the Breton leader circled him, an axe in one hand, a long-bladed knife in the other. Baldwin was sure that he was trying to get to the other side of the ship, so that he could return to his comrades. He would also be hoping that the man whom Baldwin had knocked down would recover and stab Baldwin in the back while he fought the leader.
Casually, while the Breton leader moved crab-like across the deck, Baldwin took a step backwards and stabbed downwards, twice. There was a hissed curse, then a bubbling sob, and a rattling of bare heels as the man’s soul fled his body. Baldwin’s attention was on the leader, and now he could see the doubt in the man’s eyes. He hadn’t expected Baldwin to be as ruthless in his defence as the Bretons would be in their attack.
The Outlaws of Ennor: (Knights Templar 16) Page 4
