The Outlaws of Ennor: (Knights Templar 16) (13 page)

‘I have seen how he stares at the women about here. Do you think he wants a priest’s mare for himself?’

‘How should I know? It wouldn’t be a surprise, would it? Look at Tedia. She’s attractive enough, isn’t she?’

David hissed, ‘That’s no excuse! Luke is a priest; he shouldn’t be tempting a woman from her husband!’

She threw him a look of annoyance. ‘You know how Isok and she have tried. They have done all in their power to try to consummate their marriage, but he can’t. That’s all there is to it. Tedia can’t wait for ever. She needs a man to fill her loins.’

David nodded abstractedly. His concerns did not lie with Tedia alone. He was worried about his own wife, Brosia. Although he dared
not accuse her, because her tongue could be vicious, he was sure she was wagging her arse in the priest’s direction. ‘So she wants to leave him?’

‘Why – are you thinking of taking Tedia?’ Mariota said, and then laughed aloud at his expression. ‘Have no fear! I won’t gossip like some. No, she has her eyes elsewhere, David. Fear not that she’ll find someone.’

‘Like whom?’ he asked, his mind still fixed upon his own wife with a desperate unhappiness.

‘Why, surely that man in her home is as good as any!’ Mariota said, and with another bellow of laughter, she waddled away.

David essayed a weak smile, and then glanced back at the house. Brosia was a soft-looking, calm woman, but when angry, she was a vixen. She would bite his head off if he were to accuse her of trying to persuade Luke into her bed, but David was sure that she was already trying out the priest. Without the proof of his own eyes, she could reject his accusations, and make his life hell in the bargain, and the sad truth was, he daren’t risk such harmony as existed in their home by accusing her without proof. Most men were masters in their own homes; David was ruler of the men of St Nicholas and the ships that were born in St Nicholas, but a slave in his own home.

His eyes were anxious at first, but then they hardened, and when he finally made his way along the roadway towards the priory, his mind was made up. Whether Luke or another man, it mattered not a whit. No man would shame David’s community by taking someone else’s wife. Even if he was a priest.

In the priory, David’s master, Cryspyn of Morwelham, rubbed his eyes with the weariness of a man who had been awake all night.

It was not good enough that the storm should have hit the island so early in the evening, disrupting the sleep of monks who would have to rise in the middle of the night to pray and begin the devotions of the day, but as soon as their prayers were done, all the exhausted brothers had been forced to rush down to their oxen, their sheepfolds, and the poor gardens which contained all that they depended on for food. And then the roof had blown off the storehouse near the
brewery, threatening all their barley. If they had not got to it immediately and carried the well-sewn and wrapped sacks away, their supplies would have been terribly diminished, and that could have spelled disaster for the convent. They needed the ale that the barley represented. Without it, they might be forced to leave St Nicholas Island until they could replenish the stores to a sufficient level. The Abbot, Robert Champeaux, would have been displeased with an evacuation, but the place was run on a tightly bound purse as it was, and there were simply not enough men to keep it going. The corollary to that was, that if there were more monks, there would be too many mouths to feed.

Cryspyn sighed. This was his constant worry. The place was perfect for them. Windswept, barren, it had been a wasteland when his brethren had arrived here two hundred years or more ago, during the Abbacy of Osbert. A monk called Turold had been sent here then with some brothers to see to the support of the churches.

In his own time, Cryspyn had seen why it was necessary to have men on the ground here. Raiders had come and stolen what they could, the weather had ruined many of the chapels on St Elidius, Bechiek, St Sampson and, of course, on St Nicholas itself, and all in all, coming here to the islands was not looked upon as a gift or honour, but more as a penance for some form of misdemeanour.

Cryspyn wouldn’t mind, except no one ever bothered to tell him why people were sent here. Obviously he knew why
he
was here, but he felt he would rather like to know if the priests and brothers were known to be rampant sodomites or womanisers. Either could have spelled at best embarrassment on islands like these. Damn it, if the good Abbot was going to send blasted fornicators here, the least he could do was warn his representative. Cryspyn had a good mind to write him a stiff letter. Except, as he acknowledged with a sigh, the Abbot was more capable than him at dictating terse and cutting letters. Not that he could exactly threaten much to Cryspyn. Once he’d arrived here, he had realised that this was about as bad as things could get. As he deserved.

He stood and went to the window, musing sadly.

It
was many years ago now that he had committed that evil murder. He had not intended to kill. He had been waiting for
her
, but she brought the man into the chamber with her.

Their passion was so intense, it had scarred him for life. He had stepped from his hiding place as they flung away their clothing, and they were all but naked when he put his hand to his sword. Not that they noticed or cared. She was bending before the man, while he was looking down at her, a smile on his face … that
smile
! At the time Cryspyn thought it was the smile of a satyr, a foul, demonic thief of his woman’s heart, and it made his blood steam. In a furious passion, he lifted his sword and ran at them, the blade whirling and hissing, and when the man glanced up, his look of passion and adoration changing in an instant to one of terror, he lifted his forearm to protect himself. It served no purpose. As poor Sara shrieked in horror, pushed out of the way by her lover, the sword sank through the arm like an axe through lard, and carried on to sweep off the man’s head and half his shoulder. Then the body walked forward jerkily for three paces, until it collapsed against Cryspyn. He had toppled, appalled, gripping the corpse as the gore and blood fountained over him, filling his nose and mouth and eyes, marking him forever as a man who had killed unnecessarily. He had murdered a woman’s lover through jealousy.

Which was why he was here. In his nostrils he could still smell that foulness, the blood of an innocent victim.

Looking out, he could almost forget his past crime. The weather had improved miraculously over the morning, and the sun sparkled on a clear blue sea that looked as though it was incapable of rising in waves ten foot tall and overwhelming the whole of the northern side of his island. That was a thought which sent a shiver through his delicate frame.

Cryspyn was almost forty-five now and had lived here on this obscure rock in the middle of the sea for more than fifteen years. It had taken its toll on his frame. When he had met Sara, he had been a chunky young man, with a cheery smile for all who met him. That happy-go-lucky, healthy fellow had grown to be an embittered monk with a pronounced stoop, a frowning squint because of his poor
eyesight, and hunched shoulders as though he permanently felt the cold.

Someone had once told him that the islands were so fruitful because of the weather. Well, clement it might be in a decent bloody year, but this last had shown the emptiness of the comment. The winds had scoured the place through the last winter, the rains had fallen throughout the summer two years ago, devastating the crops and making all the islanders have to depend on any fish they could catch or starve, and now this storm. It was almost more than he could take. He had a mind to beg of the Abbot that he be taken back to serve as an ordinary brother at Tavistock again. Tavistock! The mere name brought to mind a quiet chuckling river, the steady thump of the water-wheel groaning its way through the latest batch of grain, the odour of fresh bread each morning, the divine scent of ale brewing, the smell of a fresh wine, the flavour of the heady Guyennois exploding on the tongue. He could all but taste it if he closed his eyes.

At least there he would be warm. The fires in the calefactory! There, even the stones radiated heat. A man had to be dead already not to be warmed by them! Here, the monks relied on dried kelp for their heat. It did throw out some warmth, it was true, but in all these years living on the island, Cryspyn had not grown accustomed to the damned stuff. It stank. Even now he could smell it drying in the pits farther down the island. You couldn’t escape the ruddy smell.

The only reason any man would be sent here was for committing a sin of remarkable evil. That was the thing. Cryspyn knew what
he
had done: it would be good to know what crime that sad figure Luke had committed. Cryspyn had some shrewd suspicions. He had seen Luke giving a sermon, and could not help but notice that the fellow appeared to have eyes only for the women. None of the men merited a speech, apparently. That probably pointed to
his
past offence. Not that it affected the way that the Prior treated him. As far as Cryspyn was concerned, any man who was sent here to live deserved his sympathy, and that was why as soon as day broke, he had sent one of the lay brothers to check on the man and make sure that he was all right. The tide was flowing early today, so the man should be able to cross
on foot to St Elidius and Bechiek. Another was sent the other way to see that the chaplain at St Sampson was safe.

The chaplain was fine, as was the priest at Bechiek, but the matter that was causing Cryspyn’s irritation and dissatisfaction with his lot, was the report that Brother Luke had been snoring, drunk again. The servant had been unable to wake him. Instead he left Luke lying on his palliasse, the vomit pooling by his head. It was not enough that the fellow should have arrived here unwanted and without explanation; now he was rapidly turning into an alcoholic who had no respect for his chapel or those who visited it. St Elidius was the focus for a small but loyal group of pilgrims each year. The priory could ill afford to lose them just because of a wine-sotten fool. Cryspyn would speak to Luke. If he didn’t mend his ways, Luke would be removed again. Cryspyn would see to it.

His unhappy thoughts were interrupted by a loud knocking at his door. With a bellow he ordered his visitor to enter and stop trying to ruin a perfectly good piece of wood with his banging.

‘You look surprised to see me, Prior.’

‘I am. It’s a long enough while since you came here, David,’ Cryspyn said coolly. His manner, he hoped, indicated a lack of welcome, but he knew he couldn’t conceal his interest. This fellow was, after all, the leading man on the island after Cryspyn himself. David was the source of many of the disputes, the cause of much of the hostility between St Nicholas’s Priory and La Val.

The reeve was well-known to him, of course. David was responsible to the priory for most issues because the vill was a part of the community of St Nicholas, which meant that legally the people who lived within it were all owned by the priory; David no less than any other man. Yet Cryspyn was not keen on too much involvement with the folk of the vill. There was always the risk of temptation. Where there were women, there were dangers for a man sworn to celibacy, and Cryspyn had some youngsters like Luke who were potentially at risk of being tempted beyond their meagre wills’ power to refuse. Then again, there were other reasons why a man like Cryspyn disliked David. No, he didn’t dislike the man, that was too soft and generous a term. It was more that he
despised
the man. David stood
for many things that the Prior loathed. Although Cryspyn had no proof, he was certain David led the men in occasional piratical raids.

‘I know you don’t want too much to do with me,’ David said with a flash of his yellowing teeth. ‘I might pollute you and your little chamber here. But I thought you’d like to know that we found a man on the beach today.’

‘Christ Jesus, give me strength!’ Cryspyn muttered, and let his head fall into his hands. He went to his chair and stood by it, his back to David. When he eventually turned and sat, he fixed his most contemptuous glare at the reeve. ‘So tell me how he died, then. Not that you’d have been there to see, I don’t suppose!’

‘What do you mean?’ David asked in a hurt tone of voice.

‘Don’t whine at me, you pathetic piece of bird dropping! You murdered this fellow, didn’t you? Why? Did he possess a cargo you craved? Let me guess: it was a tun or more of wine, yes? And you met him on the open seas and killed him.’ His modulated speech hardened. ‘Don’t come here to lie to me, Reeve. I know about you and your piratical companions! You murdered him and now you want me to bury him for you, is that it?’

‘I am offended that you should say such things, or think them, Prior,’ David said.

‘Maybe you are. In your intolerable pride you thought you had hidden your crimes from everyone, did you?’

‘Prior, he is alive. He is recovering in the cottage of Isok,’ David said with quiet dignity. ‘You will find him there. It was my duty as reeve to tell you, and I have done so.’

Cryspyn was so astonished, he could say nothing as David left, walking from the room with a pained expression.

It looked to Cryspyn as though the man had a severe toothache. He sincerely hoped he did.

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.