The Outlaws of Ennor: (Knights Templar 16) (51 page)

Isok watched them as they went but his hands were already pulling on the ropes and pushing at the tiller. Before many minutes were passed, he was returning at speed the way he had come.

Baldwin was unimpressed by the new gather-reeve. ‘Walerand, I should like to ask you a couple of things, if your master does not object?’

Seeing Ranulph nod his assent, Baldwin continued, ‘On the night of Robert’s death, where were you?’

‘At the castle. There were many there who can swear to it.’

‘All the afternoon?’

‘Almost.’

‘You found Robert. Why was he there, do you think?’

‘Waiting for his slut. She was going to meet him, I suppose.’

‘Without
his boots?’ Simon said. He remembered the inquest’s conclusion that Robert had removed his own boots before he was killed.

‘To get into the boat?’ Walerand guessed, and shrugged. ‘What else would he do?’

‘Perhaps walk? There are ways, hidden beneath the sea.’

William started and gave Baldwin an accusing stare.

Baldwin ignored him. William wanted to keep the pathway a secret, and so far as Baldwin was concerned, it was. He had not hinted at the actual direction, and it would take a man without a guide a long time to learn the location of it. Not that Baldwin cared – he wanted to learn the truth about the murder of Robert, and that overrode all other considerations. ‘Well?’

Walerand’s expression of horror and revulsion were too genuine for Baldwin to doubt him. ‘What?
Walking
through the sea? No one would do that! You’d have to be mad. And at night? Ugh! You’re off your head, you are!’

‘I did it myself last evening.’

Walerand shivered at the thought. The strands of icy weeds clutching at bare feet like the fingers of corpses, the nibbles from creatures he couldn’t imagine, and then, perhaps, the suck of a giant monster – the inevitable pull to a watery death. The mere concept was stomach-churning.

‘It’s only the damn sea, man!’ Ranulph grated. ‘What is the matter with you?’

It was at this point that Simon, who happened to be facing the sea, saw Isok’s boat. It was heading towards the men on the beach, and Simon thought he was coming a little too close. The vessel was under what looked like full sail.

‘Oh my God. Is he …?’

Isok’s boat slammed into the sands. The sail shook like a tablecloth being beaten as the mast almost snapped, and the boat rocked about her keel, gradually tottering over on her side.

Before she had settled, Isok was bounding up the beach. David turned to see him running, and his hand went to his dagger, thinking that the poor fellow was deranged after the decision of the Prior; he
thought Isok might be trying to kill Cryspyn, and he half-drew his knife.

‘Prior! I have seen them! Pirates, and they’ve gone to the priory to sack the place!’

‘Oh, my Christ in Heaven,’ Simon moaned. ‘I sent Hamo up there for his safety! What if he’s—’

‘How many were there, Isok?’ rasped Baldwin.

‘About twenty-five, I think.’

‘Their leader – was he a thick-set, black-bearded man?’

‘Yes, there was one like that. He looked as though he was in pain. Had an arm in a sling.’

‘I am thankful at least for that,’ Baldwin said, remembering how his sword had slipped into the man. ‘Ranulph, David, we must arrange our men – quickly, before the pirates can escape.’

‘Come on!’ Simon said. He was already drawing away.

‘Do whatever you can to protect my priory,’ Cryspyn said. He was pulling at his bottom lip as the pain in his belly grew once more. It was typical of these damned islands! All in one day he had had to listen to a divorce case, seen his neighbour attempt an invasion, and now his seat was attacked by sea-raiders. Could he never find a moment’s peace in this land?

‘We will! Wait, Simon,’ Baldwin said. ‘We need to ensure the best disposition of our men. Ranulph, please take your men back to your ship and get them on board. Isok, where exactly is the pirates’ ship?’

‘On the sands between St Sampson and the priory.’

Baldwin looked enquiringly at Ranulph, who slapped his thigh where his empty scabbard dangled. ‘Yes, we can get there in a little time.’

‘How long?’ Baldwin asked.

Ranulph glanced at the sun. ‘In as much time as it would take for a gallon of water to boil.’

‘Then go, with all your men.’

He nodded, then glanced at Simon. ‘My sword, Bailiff?’

Simon was reluctant. He had won this in a fair fight. ‘Are there swords on the ship?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then
you must take one of those. I shall need a weapon, and there is nowhere for me to borrow one.’

Ranulph nodded towards Thomas. ‘Do you trust him?’

‘No.’

‘Then take
his
sword. I know my weapon: it suits my hand and shoulder. You take another man’s, since you have none of your own.’

There was a fair comment in his words. A man grew accustomed to his own blade. Simon brought his lips together firmly, then nodded and passed the hilts to Ranulph. ‘Thomas, give me your sword and belt.’

With a very poor grace, the Sergeant pulled apart the laces and ungraciously dropped them on the sands before stalking away.

‘I fear you have upset him, Simon,’ Baldwin said drily before speaking to David: ‘How many men can you command?’

‘Perhaps fourteen men,’ he answered, gazing over at the ranks of men who were unharmed from the morning’s battle.

‘Collect them, then. We shall have to aid the priory before it is overrun.’

If Jean could have heard Baldwin, he would have laughed aloud. The place was already in his hands, and all he had to do was load the valuables onto his ship.

It had been ridiculously easy. He and his men hurried up to the gates and found them gaping wide in the most welcoming manner. A gatekeeper was there, some sort of layabout lay brother, from the look of his tonsure and garb, but a sword in the belly stopped his attempts to delay them. Jean thrust without thinking, although while the man shrieked on the ground gripping the entrails falling in coils from his belly, Jean was so put out by the noise, on top of the pain in his arm, that he swung his sword again, cleaving through the man’s head almost to the jaw. That shut him up, but it took a while for Jean to wrench his sword free from the man’s skull. In the end he planted a bare foot on the fellow’s breast and yanked as hard as he could. That made his bad arm jerk in its sling, and he thought he would pass out from the agony.

Then he and his men were running across the courtyard towards
the priory church. That, they knew, was where the decent items would be stored – the crosses, the pewter, the goblets of gold or silver. Jean also sent three men to the Prior’s chamber. He’d probably have several things in there which would be ideal, too. With any luck, they would find a good stash. This was only a tiny island, but even the smallest could win good incomes from pilgrims and visitors. With luck, this would be one of them.

As soon as the doors were opened, there was a great shrieking as monks and novices pelted from their cells and places of work to stop this violation, but most held back when they saw the weapons arrayed against them. One man stood barring their way to the church, so he was cut down. All satisfactory, Jean thought. None of them had so much as a dagger with which to protect the place. There was a scruffy youth near a door, and Jean saw a man knock him down with a club. The boy fell, eyes wide open still, his blood staining the soil.

The church was at first a great disappointment. The altar itself looked like a lump of rock rough-hewn from a block lying on the island, and the drapery was ancient, with little merit. It didn’t even have any golden thread. As for the goblets and candle-holders Jean had expected to find, there was remarkably little. It was only when they caught a young servant and began to trace patterns on his naked torso with a couple of razor-sharp daggers that they learned about the big chest in the chapter-room, and after despatching the youth, they made their way there. Here, at last, they found what they were looking for: an oaken chest filled with all manner of plates and goblets. Jean commanded two men to grab it, and soon they were on their way to the ship again. Passing the door to the Prior’s chambers, they heard laughter, and Jean guessed the worst.

When he went inside, he could smell it. Fresh wine from the Prior’s own stores, discovered in the Prior’s buttery and opened by the men in there. They had caught a young monk and while two held him down, another raped him.

Jean was tempted to kill them there and then, but the feverish mood which kept swamping him was too exhausting. He eyed them with disgust, but said nothing. Ordering them to kill the man, and not to forget to bring a barrel or two to the ship, for the Prior had
several small casks in his storeroom, Jean led the way down the stairs to the courtyard again. There he breathed a little more easily as the men began to manhandle their trophies past the now still body of the gatekeeper, then were out in the open again. In front of them they could see their ship ready and waiting, and that filled them with a new high-spiritedness, the men all but running with their loads.

They were only a matter of yards from the ship when Jean heard the roar, and he realised the danger as soon as he heard it. There was nothing so formidable as a peasant who saw others despoiling the church which he viewed as his own. Now, glancing over his shoulder, he saw that there were ten or more men running towards him, and he swore under his breath even as he looked to his own men and how they might be deployed. Making a quick decision, he ordered the church plate and casks to be taken to the ship, and all those who carried nothing to support him. Turning, he watched the oncoming men with a sense of resignation rather than excitement.

It was his arm – he was sure of it. The swelling was so bad, he scarcely dared look at it, and the smell which was coming from the stained bandages was particularly foul. Nothing felt, really, as though it mattered. It would be good to return home with a handsome prize, but if he died on the way, he wouldn’t mind. The main thing was, making the profit. There should be something for his woman. His boys could fend for themselves.

This damned arm … he could feel the blood being poisoned in his veins, all because of that evil bastard who had stabbed him on board that blasted ship. If he saw the man again, he would kill him.

And then, blessed miracle, he saw the fellow. There, in front of the men racing towards them, was the man with the ridiculous beard that followed the line of his jaw, the peacock-blue sword glittering furiously in the sun as though it actually had a life of its own and was seeking fresh blood to taste. The sight made Jean shiver with loathing; or perhaps it was the returning fever. He suddenly felt frozen to the marrow, but he wasn’t sure what it was that made him feel like that. There was a suspicion at the back of his mind that he was about to die. It was a premonition which he had never had before, and he felt terrified for a moment, as though he could see the
long centuries ahead in which he would not exist. It lasted a moment only. Then he roared his defiance and waved his sword about his head twice, before marching forward to join battle.

Baldwin
saw him at the same time, and as soon as the black-haired man stepped forward, Baldwin ran to meet him.

Both knew that this was a personal challenge; whichever of the two was to fall, the other would be victor. If the pirate captain were to die, the pirates would lose; Baldwin preferred not to think of the consequences of his own death.

Not that he would have much to fear, he thought. The pirate was clearly badly wounded, and he panted as he lifted his sword to strike at Baldwin. It was easy to block it with a sharp flick of his wrist, and then Baldwin stepped back, waiting for the next blow. But it was terribly slow. Baldwin parried it easily, waiting for the hidden attack under the obvious, but there was nothing, and then he saw the edge of the flesh at the pirate’s neck. It was red, with veins showing darkly, as though the man had fallen into a fire and his flesh scorched.

Suddenly Baldwin felt sick. This man had been wounded by him days ago, and he had fought valiantly, trying to preserve his life, and now Baldwin had the duty of ending a life which must have been appallingly painful, from the way that the man favoured his arm in its sling. It was cruel to destroy someone who was all but incapable of defending himself, but Baldwin had responsibilities. If this fellow lived, he would return and he would try to rob and plunder again. It was in his nature. Baldwin could see it in his eyes, red-rimmed though they were: this man had no comprehension of the suffering of others, only of his own inordinate greed.

There was a slow, slashing sweep of the man’s sword, and Baldwin put out his sword to block it, but the blade had already moved with a flick of the pirate’s hand, and now Baldwin felt the snagging at his tunic.

He
leaped back, seeing the cruel delight in his enemy’s face. The front of his tunic was soaked with blood. The blade had nearly eviscerated him, and if he had tried a thrust himself, which he would have done, had he not been distracted by the pitiable condition of the pirate, he would have been spitted like a hog over a fire.

The sting of the wound woke him to the realities of fighting. He held his sword out to stop another thrust, then blocked a sweeping blow to his head. When the pirate tried to kick, Baldwin was already out of reach, but he managed to swing a blow to the man’s thigh, and he felt the sword catch on the bone as he withdrew it.