‘Do you have any idea when he might have been killed?’ Simon asked.
‘He was alive at the time of the meal here on the day of the storm. I rather think that he went out after eating, and as it grew dark, he was caught, attacked, and then left to die.’
‘And this sword was beside him?’ Simon said after a moment.
Thomas nodded to the man standing at the table. ‘Walerand? Where was it exactly?’
‘About five or six yards from the body. I found it on my way back.’
‘The killer must have attacked Robert, then hurled this away,’ Thomas said.
‘Why? The sword isn’t going to point anyone in the direction of the murderer since no one here knows it,’ Simon observed. ‘He could as well have kept it. If he wanted to conceal it, surely he’d have thrown it in the sea.’
‘Maybe he did. A waterspout is very powerful,’ Thomas said. ‘I have seen one gather up a boat from the sea and hurl it many yards. The men in it were killed, of course. The storm of that night could have plucked the sword from the sea and thrown it back to show us who killed Robert. God works in odd ways.’
‘That’s true,’ Simon agreed, thinking how violent the sea could be. ‘But if the murderer left it there, why should he do that?’
‘Perhaps he was appalled at having killed a man,’ Thomas said solemnly.
There was a moment’s silence. Simon and Walerand both knew that this was a forlorn hope. It was Walerand who finally said, ‘What – a gather-reeve?’
Thomas frowned, but had to accept the validity of the comment. ‘Yes – not many would feel guilt at executing one such as him.’
‘How are the islanders?’ Simon asked. ‘Most peasants and farmers are docile enough even though they dislike paying taxes.’
‘These are different, Bailiff,’ Thomas said heavily; in truth, he believed what he said. ‘The folks of these islands are self-supporting and self-reliant. They don’t realise that they depend upon us to maintain them, they think that they can go their own way. It is ridiculous, of course. They need the castle here at La Val to protect them. Where would they be without the men whom Ranulph supports here? Dead, that is where. They do not realise how dangerous the world can be. If it wasn’t for us, they’d be raided by pirates from the wild north, or Bretons from the mad south. The people feel safe here, so they don’t accept the need to support us. Ridiculous, but there it is.’
‘They are no better than pirates themselves,’ Walerand grunted. ‘Cut-throats and draw-latches, the lot of them. Pox on them, I say. Make them pay more and sooner, so they realise their place!’
So these two thought the same as Hamadus, Simon noted – except these appeared to be talking about Ennor; Hamadus talked of pirates on St Nicholas. He saw Thomas wince.
‘Yes, yes, Walerand, I know your views, but don’t forget that you’re not the only one who has an opinion. So does our Lord, and he says it’s better to maintain them without antagonising them too much. Bear that in mind.’
‘The peasants here are rebellious?’ Simon said.
‘Not exactly,’ Thomas sighed, ‘but certainly they won’t take a bridle with a short rein. They need to have their own head – otherwise you find that they are trying to ride you, rather than the other way about! The islands earn their living from the sea.’
‘I would have expected the men to make their livings from the sea,’ Simon said jokingly.
‘Yes, one expects seamen to make money from farming the fish, and sometimes to earn a little from salvaged goods or wrecks, no matter how legal it may be,’ Thomas said, and he was now fiddling with a reed. He paused and met Simon’s eyes. ‘The trouble is, sometimes they will decide to make wrecks for themselves. There are men here who would not hesitate to lead a ship onto the rocks so that they could steal her cargo; or they might attack and destroy a ship, taking all they can before sinking her – or take their ships to a rival town or port, and steal and burn and rape. This is the sort of man who lives here. They were moderate enough in their needs, I believe, but the famine changed that. Now they are more … unstable.’
Simon knew what he meant. The great famine of 1315 and 1316 had caused untold horrors, and few men were free of the fear of a recurrence. ‘What did you mean, they might decide to make wrecks?’ he questioned.
‘A wreck is only a wreck if all on board are dead,’ Thomas said, and he watched as the words sank in. ‘Not all men are honourable.’
Simon nodded. ‘Even in Dartmoor there are people who have been driven to murder,’ he said quietly. Pirates were no different from felons who preyed on travellers on a road. Both stole and killed. In Devon Simon had met enough killers to know that even his pleasant county had its own madmen and outlaws.
‘That is why we have to treat them with caution, Bailiff. Some of these folks are a little wild. There is a vill on St Nicholas which … Well, I shall merely say that I should not wish for a friend of mine to be left there.’
‘I understand. So you think that one of those men could have been responsible for the murder of the tax-man?’
‘It is likely. Those idiots think that all we do here is live in luxury on the money we prise from them. As if the amount we collect in customs from them for using our port or market could pay for a castle like this and all the staff we need! It is ridiculous. But it goes to show what sort of people we are dealing with here.’
‘Quite.’ Simon glanced at Walerand, who hawked and spat noisily before casting a contemptuous look in Simon’s direction. There was so much hostility in that look that it put Simon on his guard. When he returned his attention to Thomas, his expression remained bland, but his mind was whirling.
‘That, Bailiff, is why I would be grateful if you could investigate this matter on our behalf,’ Thomas said.
‘Why do I feel you had decided to ask me to help before I entered this room and offered?’
‘You heard Ranulph. He wishes to learn who killed his gather-reeve. You are independent; you are unknown. You will create fewer problems than if I were to ask another man to do this task.’
Simon was somehow certain that the man who would otherwise be asked to perform this duty was also in the room with him; he felt just as certain that Walerand was perfectly capable of igniting a full-scale war if diplomacy were required. He had the sort of brutish face that spoke of ignorance and bigotry. ‘I would be pleased to help,’ Simon said, ‘but I would first have to ensure that my friends were released from their gaol.’
‘That is difficult,’ Thomas countered. ‘They drew weapons against my master.’
‘In a confused situation,’ Simon said firmly. ‘They had recently all but succumbed to a pirates’ attack, and then a storm, and when your Lord appeared, they had no idea who he was.’
Thomas nodded slowly. Then he took a deep breath. ‘Very well. But I shall have to confirm my decision with my Lord. I shall ask him at the very first opportunity.’
Simon had seen such prevarication before in his dealings with clerks. ‘When would that likely be?’
‘Very soon,’ Thomas said smoothly.
‘Excellent.’ Simon rose. ‘Let me know, and as soon as my friends are released, I shall begin my investigation.’
‘I would prefer you to begin now, Bailiff,’ Thomas said politely.
‘And so I shall … as soon as my companions are free,’ Simon said with equal civility.
Thomas eyed him bleakly. ‘You are a hard man to bargain with. Very well. You may count on it that they will be released immediately. Now please go and investigate this crime. Walerand here will go with you and ensure the compliance of the population with your inquest.’
Simon grunted and stood. ‘It is a bargain. I shall also need a sword. I left my own on the ship. Perhaps your men have already found it?’
Thomas smiled at the sarcasm in his voice. ‘Walerand will lead you to the armoury. Choose what you wish.’
‘There is no need. This sword will be fine.’
‘You cannot have that.
It may be the murder weapon.’
‘What, to kill the gather-reeve?’
‘Of course.’
‘It couldn’t. The stab wound in Robert’s back was too shallow.’
‘There is blood on the blade.’
‘Where?’
Thomas pointed to a large dark stain near the quillons.
‘To have blood there the sword must have run through the man,’ Simon said reasonably. ‘Robert was killed by a dagger, not a sword.’
‘You seem very certain,’ Thomas observed.
‘I am. And I need a sword.’
Chapter Thirteen
Thomas had stood as the two men left his chamber. Now he sat back and chuckled to himself. The Bailiff was so entirely predictable and easily led.
Ringing the bell that sat at his right hand, he bent his head over the Anne’s documents once more. The ship had been carrying plenty of wine, thank God. Some of it was good Cretan, too, which was that bit stronger and sweeter than the Guyennois varieties. That was good; Ranulph liked his Cretan wine.
A servant tapped at the door. ‘Ah, Oliver – go to the gaol and tell the men to bring that knight and his squire up to the chamber off the main hall and leave them there. They are to be locked inside in case they try to escape.’
The man went to do his bidding, and Thomas settled back in his seat. The poor Bailiff would be unhappy when he heard, but if he wanted men accused of treating the Lord of the islands in a cavalier manner to be released from custody completely, he would have to do more than bargain over an investigation. He would have to find a culprit.
In the meantime, it was good that the dullard had not spotted the weakness of his own position. He might now have a bright blue sword to wear, but he was one man against the castle’s garrison. Hopefully he would soon conclude that the men of the vill had been responsible for Robert’s death.
Yes, thought Thomas. All in all it had been a good morning’s work.
Where was that damn ship, he wondered yet again with a slight frown. The Faucon Dieu should have docked by now. It was one thing to deflect the Bailiff with tales of murderers so that Simon didn’t enquire too deeply about Thomas himself, but the real problem in Thomas’s mind was the missing ship.
There was a knock, and he harshly commanded the man to enter. It was the Bailiff.
‘Thomas, there is one last thing,’ Simon said mildly. ‘What were you doing out on the night Robert was murdered?’
‘Me? Who says I—’
‘Someone saw you. All I wanted to know was, what were you doing and did you see Robert?’
Thomas felt his chest tightening. ‘I was out to see others. That is all you need to know.’
‘Can I see your dagger?’
Thomas silently stared at him. Slowly he pulled his dagger from its sheath and passed it to Simon.
‘Ah. As I thought: no blood,’ Simon said, passing it back.
‘So I am to be considered innocent?’ Thomas asked sarcastically.
‘No,’ Simon said. ‘You’re bright enough to wash a weapon after committing murder.’
He left without speaking further, and now Thomas felt less comfortable about selecting Simon as his investigator. As he sat tapping his teeth once more, the two worries nagged at him: the investigation into Robert’s death and his ship.
Where was she?
Simon was tiring already and demanded the use of a staff. When Walerand had found him a decent five-foot-long stave, he followed the other man out along the trail from the main gates, and down a winding path that gradually turned across the western face of the crag on which the castle stood. Here Walerand turned right across a field.
Ahead of him Simon could see the whole of the flat-looking island. Directly before them was a low hill with gently sloping sides, but Walerand was leading him to the north of this, taking him through the marshes.
‘Sorry if you find it a bit wet here,’ Walerand said after a while.
Simon glanced down. ‘This? On Dartmoor, this would be considered quite dry,’ he said without thinking.
Walerand said nothing. The man was just ignorant, that was all. Pig ignorant, the blown-up piece of pus. He didn’t know anything about the islands or the people who lived here – that much was obvious. At least Thomas had given Walerand the job of watching him while he was here on the islands. That was something. Maybe it meant he was considering Walerand for another task. This could be Thomas’s way of telling him that he was well thought of. That would be good.
In any event, it was a good thing that this Bailiff had someone with a brain to look after him. He was blundering about like a bug-eyed pilgrim right now, staring about him like a man who’d never seen a small island before. Now that Walerand had lived here for such a long while, he felt quite an expert. This Bailiff was an embarrassment.
‘What?’ he snarled when he heard the Bailiff speak.
Simon pointed up ahead of them. ‘I want to climb that hill.’
‘Why? It’s just a—’
‘It’s this way, I think,’ Simon said, setting off.
‘That’s not the bloody way!’ Walerand called after him. The cretinous, louse-infested piece of horse dung was wandering up over Oderic’s land. ‘Oh, let him learn,’ he muttered, and waited.
Simon strode up the hill without minding the sudden quiet. Halfway up, he saw a low, thatched cottage, a place that seemed to blend into the landscape as though to allow the wind to flow over and around it rather than battling and trying to contest the right of the elements to pass by. Carrying on, he soon reached the summit.
It was only a small hill, but it was enough to give him a better view of the islands. They seemed oddly peaceful here. West lay St Nicholas, he knew, with the hilly spine on the left that reached all the way down to the twin humps that he had been told were called St Sampson. Right was another great mass, which he guessed was that place called Bechiek, while between that and St Nicholas, there were some smaller islands. Some had buildings on them, but only very few. Northwards, he could follow the line of the coast up to the plain which formed the larger part of Ennor. That was the direction in which they were heading. Behind him, he could see the castle, about a half mile or so eastwards, and beyond he could see the sea, sparkling and glinting merrily, as though it could never have risen in fury.
A lump returned to his throat as he recalled seeing Baldwin taken by that massive wave and washed away, like a piece of jetsam on the tide. One moment there: the next gone, as though he had never existed.
He wiped his eye and began to make his way towards the trail a little farther up than where Walerand waited. There was no path, and he must walk through the fields. With his upbringing, and appreciating the value of crops, he didn’t walk through the middle as Walerand had done, but stayed at the edge by a wall topped with thin, straggling bushes, so that he would do as little damage as possible.
There was a snarl, and he looked over his shoulder to see a pair of black dogs racing towards him. These were mere farm dogs, not vicious hounds like that monster of Hamadus’s, and Simon felt little fear of them. At the first sound, he almost reached for his sword, but when he saw the dogs approaching, he thought better of it, and instead readied himself, holding his staff towards them. As they came closer, one received a sharp tap on the muzzle, while the other was prodded twice in the breast. Both chose to reconsider their attack, and retired out of reach, making a deal of noise but not trying to close with him.
‘What are you doing here? Leave me dogs alone!’
‘My friend, I am merely a stranger in this land,’ Simon called. ‘I didn’t realise I was going to cause you any trouble by coming here, and I apologise. Please call your dogs off. I don’t want to harm them, but if they attack I’ll have to draw my sword.’
There was a short but piercing whistle, and one dog gave Simon a withering look before springing up and over the wall, disappearing from sight. The other was already gone.
Soon thereafter, a man appeared. He was skinny and
bent, with thinning grey hair that was blown by the wind until it stood in all different directions. His mouth was sunken, and Simon could see that he had already lost most of his teeth. Not an uncommon sight since the famine, he knew, but it was an interesting comparison with the men at the castle. None of them had suffered scurvy, so far as he had seen.
‘Who are you?’ the man asked suspiciously. He was about ten years older than Simon, the Bailiff reckoned, maybe five and forty summers. The face was browned by the wind and sun, with wrinkles that would have looked good on a walnut, but his eyes were a clear, watery blue, and showed intelligence.
‘I am called Simon Puttock. I am the Bailiff of Lydford in Dartmoor, and was shipwrecked here in the storm.’
‘What are you doing on my hill?’
Simon looked about him at the view one last time. ‘I didn’t realise it was anyone’s hill. I was here with a man from …’
‘La Val. I should have guessed.’ The older man peered down the road. ‘Oh, it was that little turd, was it? I know him well enough.’
‘He is named Walerand.’
‘Wally would be about right. He thinks he owns the islands. Thieving shit!’
‘What is your name?’
‘Oderic.’
‘Thank you, Oderic. Tell me: how do you find the men at the castle? Are they looked upon as fair masters?’
‘You asking me? Why?’
‘You’re the only man up here I can speak to. All the rest of the time I’m going to be in the company of men like him,’ Simon said reasonably, pointing with his chin towards Walerand.
‘Why should I trust you? You’ll probably take anything I say and report it straight back to Ranulph Blancminster.’
Simon turned to the south. It was just possible to see William’s church and the carts loading bales of cloth. ‘See that? That was my ship, and all my goods on it have been impounded. My friends, those who were living, were taken and thrown into a cell. Do you think I can trust Ranulph, or that he can trust me?’
The Outlaws of Ennor: (Knights Templar 16) Page 17
