Luke was a better-looking priest than the average, she reckoned. He was well-made, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His eyes were a startling blue, his hair fair, and he had that way of looking at a person, as though there was no one else in the whole island who mattered. Her frustration was grown so great Tedia would consider anything – any man. She reckoned that if she wanted, she could have taken Mabilla’s place as another priest’s mare. Perhaps she still could. Trouble was, if she were to do that, it would almost certainly mean the end of Luke’s time here. Mabilla’s man, Peter Visconte, had been called back to Exeter as soon as stories of their behaviour reached the Bishop. The talk about that affair hadn’t stopped yet, although it had happened a good seven or eight years ago.
Strange that such a witty, intelligent man should have been sent here. The islanders were used to a strange mixture of malcontents and incompetents. To have someone who was apparently learned was curious. Especially since Luke was so good at the way he put his ideas across. All the women thought he was wonderful. Brosia was always preening herself when she went to church. The reeve’s wife said Luke always stared at her breasts. Tedia thought Brosia was fooling herself. The man had more interest in people like Tedia – someone with intelligence. That much was obvious.
But he was still a priest, and Tedia drew the line at seducing a man of God. The thought that she might do that was scary. She preferred to pick on men more of her standing. And Robert, the gather-reeve of Ennor, their neighbouring island, was the best she had seen.
He was a good-looking fellow, once he stopped strutting about. Most of the time he walked around like a constipated duck. She’d told him that, and he had looked hurt, but then he had to laugh with her.
It had been a long, wonderful summer’s day, only a matter of two weeks ago. Isok and the men were out in the boats, and Robert had come past. Tedia was thirsty after a backbreaking morning digging in her field, and Robert had been carrying a wine-skin.
‘That looks good enough to kill for!’ she had said, half-jokingly, almost before she realised what she was saying. This man was the gather-reeve for the Lord of the Manor, Ranulph Blancminster, after all! If Robert were to denounce her for her lack of respect, she could have been taken and whipped. She’d put nothing past Blancminster.
The latter instilled fear in all the peasants. Ruthless and indifferent, he ruled the islands under his authority like a monarch. There was no one on Ennor to restrain him, and although Tedia lived on St Nicholas, and was serf to the Prior, owned by the Manor and ultimately answerable to the Abbot of Tavistock, the Lord of Ennor would be a very bad enemy for a mere peasant.
‘You think I’d be worth killing just for a mouthful of wine?’ Robert had asked, with mock offence. ‘Perhaps I am too violent to give up my wine without a fight.’
‘You’d wrestle with a poor woman like me, sir?’ she’d responded, and then flushed to the roots of her hair.
Tedia knew that it wasn’t so often that a woman would flirt so suggestively with any man – especially the gather-reeve. She hadn’t meant to – but when he grinned at her he was quite handsome, and she felt a familiar stirring at the sight. It reignited memories which she had tried so hard to suppress. Memories of rolling naked with a boy in fields of flowers while the sun warmed their backs; memories of swimming naked with boys; memories of golden afternoons with nothing to do but lie in the grass and listen to the waves while a boy’s hands investigated her body with a cautious, delicious reverence.
‘I think there should always be wine for a lady,’ he had said, and within the hour, they were sitting side by side on the beach at the westernmost porth of the island, beyond the line of hills that hid them from the view of the vill and the monks of St Nicholas. Here they spoke for hours, until the sun was moving too far from its zenith. As it began to sink westward, they had stopped speaking, and merely watched. The wine was all gone, and Tedia felt a warmth flowing through her body from the unaccustomed drink. She wanted to stay there for ever. If she had died then, she would have died happy.
Her happiness almost turned to ecstasy when she touched him and felt him shake. And then she kissed him, softly, sweetly, and with real affection. An affection which grew to desire when she saw how his body had responded. She stared at him for what felt like an age.
It was curious. No, it was more than that: it was wonderful, exciting, thrilling! For the last few years she had felt like an old woman: undesired and unlovable. No matter what Isok said to her, she always believed that it was her fault. It was her sin, perhaps, in loving too many boys when she was a girl before she married; or maybe it was something Isok had done. She had no idea. All she knew was, that suddenly she had here, within reach, proof that she was not undesirable, that she could still make a man’s heart run with liquid fire. She could make his manhood rise as firmly and proudly as a mare could her stallion or a bitch her dog. She was still a woman.
That discovery was wonderful. It was as though her life had suddenly begun again. The desperation and despair of the last years were wiped out as though by magic, and in their place was a new confidence. This was the proof: the problem was not hers, it was her man who was at fault. And yet she could do nothing about it. She was tied to him with indissoluble chains, witnessed by God.
Attempting to balance her feelings and desires in this way, Tedia had driven herself almost into a brain fever. For two days she felt as though she was floating on a cloud of happiness high over all her troubles, and even tried to invigorate her husband again, but then she sank into the pit of despair once more. It was while she was deep in a depression on the fourth day that she had sought out Luke, the chaplain. She needed spiritual help.
At once he had seen her misery and asked what the matter was. After a lot of snivelling and sadness, she confessed that she had no idea what to do, explaining her predicament.
‘My child, the solution is easy,’ he said with that gentle smile of his. ‘You must divorce him.’
If Isok was unable to service her, he was failing in his duty to God and to her. She must find a new husband so that she wouldn’t fail in her duty. That meant she must divorce her Isok.
She listened with her mouth agape. The idea was shameful! Terrible! But there was a certain elegant logic to it. Divorce was less bad than continuing life without sex or children. That was unbearable. It was an insult to God, Who had commanded that men and women should multiply.
When Luke explained it to her, it seemed so clear and logical, she was overwhelmed with gratitude. He told her that she must find another man. That it would only be doing God’s will, were she to find a lover; she should find a man who could satisfy her, and whom she could also satisfy, while also producing the children which God desired above all else.
Of course, she thought. That is natural. And then Luke reached forward, and kissed her so kindly, she had felt her heart leap in response. She had risen, thanked him and explained that she must return to her husband or he would wonder where she was. There was a slightly petulant expression on his face when she said that, but she hadn’t thought much of it at the time.
So she had made her choice. Her lover was to be Robert. Last night she had hoped to consummate her love for him, and then, when the divorce was granted, she would go to Robert and be his wife. They would live at the castle behind La Val and would have many children as God wished.
Except Robert had not arrived the night before. It was no surprise. He was a man of authority. His face was known across all the islands, and he could have been called away to deal with a problem somewhere else. Or maybe he was simply intimidated by the weather. He could well have rationalised that her husband might have turned back from the sea as soon as he saw the storm approach, just as Isok actually had. In which case, Robert might be coming to see her today to apologise.
With this thought in mind, she left her home and walked down to the beach.
It was smothered in driftwood and weeds. The sands which had been so clean and white the day b
efore, were now cluttered with pebbles and dirt. Sections of the grassed banks at the top of the beach were rent asunder, the rich soil spilling out and staining the sand. When she continued along the seashore, she saw huts and houses with their thatch blown apart, and in one case a house had lost its entire roof. The peasant who lived there was standing on an unstable ladder trying to make the best of it he could. Tedia thought that she should offer to let him stay with her in her house, but then a certain rectitude told her that it might be a bad idea while her husband was away in his boat, as he had said he would be.
Isok had been acting oddly ever since she had said that she wanted a divorce. It appeared not to surprise him, but had sent him into a sulky mood that hadn’t gone away. She wanted to comfort him, but it wasn’t possible. He resented her, as though she was disloyal in desiring a divorce. She could understand that. Still, she didn’t dislike him. Perhaps her love had dwindled over the long barren years, but she was still fond of him. If they had managed to have children, she was sure that he would have made a good father. He was kind and generous, more so than many other husbands. There was only his one failing: but that was a vital and unforgivable one.
She sighed. The sooner she could proceed with the divorce, the better. She had already spoken with Prior Cryspyn and asked that he petition on her behalf. At first, the Prior had refused, saying that an oath spoken before God could not be undone even by the Bishop’s court, but then he had relented enough to agree to write to the Bishop and set out the facts on her behalf. He had said that he would hope for an answer soon, or at least some indication of how to proceed, even if a simple annulment was not possible.
Putting the thoughts away from her with a skill which she had learned from her despair, Tedia considered the view, glancing over towards the main island, Ennor. In the water she saw many pieces of wood, and she wondered whether a ship had been driven onto one of the many groups of rocks which were scattered so liberally about here.
The sea brought up many strange objects, but last night’s storm must have been more violent than any she had witnessed before, she reckoned, because there was a vast amount of flotsam and jetsam. Pieces of timber, ropes, small barrels, and bundles of rags. That must mean a large ship had gone down. With a sudden certainty, she turned and stared out towards Ennor. There, near the westernmost tip of Agnas, she saw what looked like a dismasted ship rolling on the low tide, and the sight tore at her heart. Born an islander, she knew what a wreck meant: dead men.
As though her mind suddenly appreciated the sight, she gasped, turned and bolted towards the rags. They were yellowish green, lying up near the top of the tide-mark, and as she approached, she was sure that she was too late. The cold of the sea must have killed him; if not that, then surely he had taken in too much water to live. He couldn’t have survived.
But when she came closer, she could hear the stertorous breath snoring in his throat and nose, and she ran to him to see whether she might save him, little knowing how this meeting would change her future for ever.
Chapter Five
Ranulph de Blancminster was already out investigating the damage done to his properties when William arrived at the small castle, and William couldn’t help but feel that it was fortunate. He and the Lord of the Manor had never seen eye to eye, and William dreaded to think of the expression on Ranulph’s face when he heard that there was easy plunder from a wrecked ship.
Ennor Castle itself with its new crenellations appeared unaffected by the storms. It was a simple rectangular keep, sitting on a craggy outcrop of rock with a rocky outer wall enclosing the main court with its stables, cookhouse and stores. It was not designed to protect the occupants from invasion, and a good thing too, in William’s view. Still, it was built of good local stone which could keep out discontented islanders, and that was all Ranulph wanted.
Outside the walls were more stables and stores, together with some living quarters for the men who served the castle and Ranulph’s manor all about. These were in turmoil as William walked through, and he offered his sympathy to women who forlornly picked through the wreckage of huts blown over in the gales, all their meagre belongings crushed beneath. One mother sat sniffing sightlessly, a dead child cradled in her arms. The father was nearby, picking up timbers and throwing them aside, calling increasingly desperately to his other daughter. William felt a clutch at his heart at the sight. This was the reality of God’s power. Simple folk could be destroyed in the twinkling of an eye. At least this woman would soon conceive and bear more children. They would have to be her consolation in the future, for these two would soon be only a sad memory.
He had known both children since their births; he’d christened them both. He came here to St Mary’s in Ennor when Peter Visconte was ordered away by the Prior after his whoring with Mabilla de Marghasiou, the ‘priest’s mare’ whom he had brought with him when he first arrived in the islands. At the time William was living a quieter life up in the chapel of St Elidius in the north of the islands, but he had been commanded by the Bishop to come here and take over Peter Visconte’s responsibilities, and his own little chapel had sunk into disuse until Brother Luke arrived. Clearly Luke had been badly behaved, because the Bishop had given him the hermit’s chapel. William, by contrast, had been told to stay here at Ennor instead.
William looked about him with a blank expression. He must comfort the people here, he knew, and yet he would have been happier to have been left up on St Elidius. He craved the peace of his little chapel. Not like Luke, who appeared to loathe it.
Luke was a weird one. He was certainly bright enough. His sermons seemed to catch the folk all about with their vivid depictions of suffering, as though he himself had experienced loss and pain; he fixed on the sins of the flesh a little too much for William’s taste. William himself felt happier preaching against the sins of gluttony, pride and sloth – especially when he observed Ranulph de Blancminster in his audience.
There was something in Luke’s expression that spoke of sadness. No, it was more than that. Perhaps it was soul-deep. William had a theory that there were two types of person. Some wore their sadness on view for all to see. The woman who had lost her children was one example: she would mourn loudly when the terrible torpor which now had her in its grip finally left. Then would begin the longer period of quiet grief.
Others couldn’t afford to succumb to their misery. Her husband was an example. He would work now, seeking to save whatever he could from their little property, and when that was done, he would spend his time in trying to comfort his woman. He would hide his sadness, but it would still be there, deep within him, burning away at him like a canker.
Of the two, William was sure that the man needed the more support. The woman had her man to give her his strength, but there was no one apart from the chaplain to give her husband comfort. His pain lay far below, not up on the surface. It was there that William must concentrate his efforts.
Luke had that same sort of quiet, concealed pain. It was a manly pain, a hidden grief that was enough to tear at his soul, but which he could not mention to others. Perhaps he had raised it with his confessor at St Nicholas’s Priory. Because Luke had come here from a convent, so William had heard (gossip among the brothers and other religious was more common than among the most garrulous women on the islands), he was confessed by the Prior himself, so William had heard. That in itself was a bit curious. Not many lowly chaplains had such a prestigious confessor.
Yes. It was possible that the fellow had a deep hurt which had led to his being brought here to recover himself.
However, William was unconvinced. He had seen the way Luke’s eyes invariably sought out the prettiest women in his congregation and stayed there. To William’s mind, Luke was the sort of man who depended upon women to keep him content, and that was a poor qualification for a celibate. It was more likely that Luke was here for a failing. Perhaps it was that common failing among priests: the same as that which led to Peter Visconte being removed from St Mary’s i
n the first place.
As the sun climbed higher in the sky, Walerand made his way from the castle towards the marshy lands in the middle of Ennor, and thence up towards Penn Trathen.
He was relatively new to Ranulph’s service, but he was confident that he’d be promoted before too long. For now, he was merely a servant, but he hoped to follow men like Robert, the gather-reeve, and become a known strong man. Perhaps he could take over Robert’s job, winning money for their master. It was easy enough. The man only had to sneer a bit, act tough, and these pathetic bastards gave him their money. Walerand could do all that. More, in fact, because he wouldn’t stop at a scowl. He’d be happy to beat the living shit from most of the cretins on the islands.
He wasn’t born here. Originally he came from Falmouth, but an unfortunate mistake had led to his leaving in a hurry. The mistake was, he had thought that the priest in the church up on the hill just outside the town, was asleep. Sadly, he wasn’t, and when Walerand tried to pinch the plate, the chaplain had come in breathing hellfire and damnation. Walerand had been forced to pull out his knife to defend himself as the priest drew his sword and denounced him as a trailbaston and thief. Luckily, the priest was old and unused to fighting, whereas Walerand had grown up as an orphan in the rougher streets of Falmouth, and was more than capable of defending himself. He ducked under the priest’s blade, then stabbed upwards, feeling his own blade snag on something. Unpleasantly convinced that the ‘something’ was the priest’s heart (it was in fact merely a jerkin of sheepskin which the priest wore under his tunic during the miserable winter months, and he was unscathed), Walerand fled the place with no money and the conviction that he had consigned his eternal soul to hell.
The Outlaws of Ennor: (Knights Templar 16) Page 7
