The Outlaws of Ennor: (Knights Templar 16) (28 page)

In the natural harbour between the rocks, Jean de Conket felt he had every reason to be proud of his men and his own efforts.

True, he could do little about lifting heavy baulks of timber or splicing the ropes which had snapped when the mast fell into the sea, but at least his mental capacity had not been affected so badly as his arm. It was growing fatter now, and it was hard to bend the elbow, as well as gut-wrenchingly painful. He had a suspicion that he might be forced to have it cut off, but he was not going to rush into a decision on that score. It could wait until they reached home again. It shouldn’t take too long to make that journey. It would be good to be home again, and he was sure that his woman would be delighted to see him back.

She was a good woman. Tall, slender as a birch, with an almond-shaped face and slanted green eyes that laughed at him all the time; he was content with her. She rarely whined at him like some men’s women. If she did, he’d have whipped her, but there was no need.
She seemed happy with him. The thought of her man dead would probably scare her, and his delay in returning would have left her anxious. She’d be glad to have him home, with or without his arm. At least he still had the other. He could wield a sword happily enough with one good arm.

The boys were good fellows, too, apart from Raoulet, the oldest; he had already been enough of a disrespectful shit to have been punched out twice by Jean. If he wasn’t careful, the bastard would try to take his place at the head of the family. He would be delighted to command his brothers and mother. There was no doubt in Jean’s mind that little Raoulet would even consider removing his father, were his father to have the bad manners to return alive.

It was good to think of them, all sitting at the table to celebrate his return, even if Raoulet’s thankfulness would more than likely be feigned.

That homecoming was bound to be a little while coming, though. First Jean had to get this vessel back to his port. That would require careful sailing, and taking no risks. Before they could even think of stepping the mast, they would have to wait until dark. There was no one on the island who could see them, so that was one less risk, but there was still the problem of the journey about the island. The ship could be badly trimmed with the shorter mast, and Jean did not want to risk being seen as he left port. Other ships might be able to overhaul him. Better that they should wait until dark, and then make their way around the islands. Jean would have a pair of men in front in the little boat to check the soundings and ensure that the ship couldn’t run across a spine of rock that might hole her hull.

Yes. They would wait until night, and then make their slow progress out to sea before finding their way home.

A shame, though. They had come all this way without a sight of their original target. Sometimes the sea was like that. She would throw a choice vessel at you one week, and give you a fleeting glimpse of a still more tempting morsel the next, without letting you near either, and then let you at a small boat.

It would be sad to return home without a decent prize, especially since Raoulet would make fun of him. His son could well see this
failure to take the ship as proof that Jean was too old to lead the men any more. That would mean a fight with Raoulet. Hardly an even-balanced fight, if Jean was about to lose his arm, but Jean could shrug mildly enough. It was the natural order of things.

After all, it was how Jean himself had managed to win his first command, by killing his own father in full view of the whole crew and throwing his body over the side for the gulls.

After seeing William, Simon knew he must go and visit the body. The inquest had been too brief for any discovery. The thought repelled him.

It was Baldwin who was always keenest to seek out corpses and study them. Simon was happy to leave him to it, while he himself hung around nearby, listening to the descriptions of the wounds and drawing his own inferences from them, but generally trying to avoid going near enough to smell the sour odours of urine and faeces, the sweet stink of blood. He loathed seeing the wounds generally, too. The sight of the cuts made him feel the full dread of his own mortality.

Robert’s body had been housed in William’s church, and Simon walked there trailing behind Walerand, his head down as he went.

He needed Baldwin. Trying to learn how a man might have died was beyond him. There was no point in his trying to do so, and it was ridiculous to expect him to find out much. It would be better if Ranulph and Thomas were to instruct one of their own men to speak to the reeves on the islands, and ask all of them who might have caused Robert’s death. They would certainly be a damned sight more help than Simon with his meagre knowledge and understanding of the islands.

Yet he had sworn to do his best, in return for the release of Sir Charles and Paul, and right now Simon felt the need of a companion. If he could have remained with William, that cheery fellow might have proved enough to keep Simon’s equilibrium, but William had to leave to seek his fishes. That left Simon once more with the morose Walerand as company; the latter had a limited stock of stories and conversation, but the commonest theme was one of contempt for the
world and disgust for the people of the islands, while attempting to persuade Simon of his own intelligence and shrewdness.

When Simon had heard his opinion of the farmers and fishermen of the islands, and how all their women were desperate for ‘it’ and how Walerand would go about all the houses now that Robert was gone, ‘seeing to’ the wives, Simon tried to stop his ears and think of something else, and yet the dirge-like voice droned on, spewing out expletives and incoherent bigotries.

The idea of being stuck with Walerand was so appalling, Simon glanced at the sea several times – with a view to pushing Walerand off a cliff, rather than jumping himself.

When they reached the church in which the body was kept, Walerand walked straight in and stood over the corpse, staring down at it. ‘Pathetic little sod, wasn’t he? Weak bastard. If it’d been me, I’d have got them myself. You won’t catch
me
napping. I’m on my guard, me. Some bastard tries to stab me, they’ll find themselves swallowing the end of my sword. Tossers. That’s the trouble with the people here. They don’t know how to respect their betters.’

Simon commanded him to silence.

Robert was lying on a large door before the altar, propped on trestles and covered with a linen cloth. Someone had at least had the goodness to wipe away much of the sand, excrement and blood, but there were still dark whorls and circles where the blood had congealed and dried hardest. His clothes were gone, probably kept by the First Finder, Simon guessed, glancing sideways at Walerand. There was no cut in the breast of his jacket, corresponding to the cut on Robert’s chest, but Simon was sure that Walerand would not have allowed anyone else to take what he would have viewed as his perk for discovering the body.

Robert was a well-formed lad, Simon thought, surveying the naked body. His arms and legs were quite well-muscled, his belly flat, and the face looked ruggedly attractive. He would have been tall, and his square chin must have made him appealing to women, he thought.

The wound was obvious enough. It was a broad slit in his flesh, just under his left nipple, maybe an inch across. About the wound were other marks, and Simon contemplated them for some while,
trying desperately to ignore the odour of decomposition. It was only when he got very close that he could see that the marks looked like scratches, and he rocked back on his heels, thinking about them. After a few minutes, Simon had Walerand help him roll the corpse over. As he thought, the blade had not penetrated the back. Only a short dagger could have inflicted this wound – unless it was a blade which had been inserted only a short distance, but the scratches at the entry point seemed to indicate something different. Simon reckoned that they were made by the quillons of a knife. As the killer stabbed, he rocked the knife a little in the wound, and that led to the scratches in the flesh. It seemed to make sense. So this man had been stabbed by someone armed with a short-bladed knife. Surely this was a case of a planned ambush.

When he took a careful look at the man’s hands, Simon saw that they were clear of defensive wounds. Often, as he knew, a man who was attacked would grab at the sword or knife to try to deflect it, cutting the palms or fingers of both hands. The attack must have come as a complete surprise, he deduced – perhaps from a friend, or someone who was not viewed as a threat.

‘I think I’ve seen enough,’ he said at last, letting the cloth drop back over the corpse. ‘We should be getting back to the castle, I suppose.’

‘Yes,’ Walerand said.

There was something in his tone which made Simon prick up his ears, but then another matter struck him and he glanced back at the huddled form beneath the winding sheet. ‘That man – did he have a sword on him when he was killed?’

‘Oh, I expect so.’

‘Does that mean he did, and therefore you have it now? Or that you think he did and can’t quite remember finding it there?’

‘There was one on him. It’s back at the castle.’

‘In the armoury?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘I want to see it. You will fetch it to me,’ Simon said. He was certain that Walerand had stolen it for himself. He led the way out of the church.

The
sun was almost over the hill behind them, lighting the castle with a pink glow as they set off towards it. Simon walked with little attention for the views or the landscape about him, but before long some instinct made him glance around at Walerand; the man was gripping his sword, his knuckles white with tension.

‘What is the matter with you, man? Are you fearful of ghosts?’

‘Not ghosts, no. But these islands are filled with pirates and murderers. If they dare kill a tax-gatherer, who wouldn’t they dare to murder?’

Simon shrugged. ‘The folk here seem pleasant enough when treated like humans.’

‘You don’t know the mad people on the off-islands.’

‘What of them?’ Simon asked, but then he saw the real anxiety in Walerand’s face.

As they walked back, the sun sinking lower in the sky and the twilight gloom taking over from the bright daylight, Simon found that the islands appeared cloaked in a more menacing aspect, and he too kept his hand close to his sword hilt.

Isok
was finished, and with the tiredness of a man who had worked hard all afternoon, he rowed back to his island as the sun slipped down to the horizon.

He had taken a good haul of fish. All were gutted on the beach, the offal left behind for the gulls to eat, and now he had a much heavier boat with the weight of fish.

There was no comfort for a troubled mind like hard work, he reckoned, and he knew his task so well that he was able to squat and clean the fish with an empty mind. It was the first peace he had known for many days, and as he threw the last of the fish into the boat, he felt a fleeting regret that there was nothing more here to save him from his thoughts.

The boat needed a good shove to push it out to sea, and then he was wielding the oars, settling them between the pegs and beginning to row. He must travel around the islands and into the pass between Bechiek and the eastern islands, then on to the bay at St Nicholas, a journey which would take an age in a smaller vessel, but today he could count on the wind. His mast was stepped, and he pulled on the halyard to raise the little yard up the mast, then released the heavy linen. Pulling the sheets as the boat began to surge forward, he settled himself on the thwart at the upper part of the boat, from where he could see the way ahead.

There was a certain calm that came from hard work, and now, as he felt the wind on his cheeks and adapted his position to the gentle roll and sudden slap as the boat made its way around the first of the isles, he could sense a peace settling on him. There was no one here to laugh at him, give him difficulties or make snide comments behind his back.

Currents swirled about these islands, and many sailors would
avoid the hazards of Great Guenhely and Inisvoul, but Isok was no novice. He had lived here all his life; there was probably no better seaman than him in all the islands. It was his skill as a master which regularly brought in the largest prizes. He knew the islands as only a native could. They had been his playground when he was a child, and now he was an adult, these were the waters he knew best of all. Since he was a youth he had been taking ships and boats about these islands in all weathers.

Years before, he had learned his craft from the old man they called Hamadus. He had taught Isok with a cynical eye and acerbic tongue. Hamadus had taken him on and for two months, Isok had been shouted at, cursed, and twice beaten with a rope’s end, but after those two months, Hamadus had called him into his little house and broached a barrel of wine illegally purloined from a wreck, and held out a filled mazer to Isok with a wry grin. ‘Ye’ll do, lad.’ After that, Hamadus had treated Isok as an equal. Although they had not spoken in many weeks now, Isok knew that Hamadus would have a sympathetic ear for him.

He was rounding the farthest eastern rocks of Bechiek, preparing to sail forth into the channel between it and Little Guenhely, when this thought came to him, and he was tempted to go and speak to Hamadus.

Hamadus was on Ennor, of course, down there on the main island. If Isok was to go there, he might as well dodge about the back of the Guenhellies, between them and the mass of Great Arthur, and make his way down the southern coast of Ennor. He looked at the sail, checked the wind, and made up his mind. There was time to put about. Without further ado, he released one sheet, pulled on the other, and ducked under the heavy material of the sail itself. Soon, with the great steering oar gripped under one armpit, he could feel her starting her turn, and then the hull heeled over at a slightly more acute angle, and standing with his thighs straddling the edge of his haul, he felt her taking his new course.