Michael Jecks - The Outlaws of Ennor

He felt the familiar gloom assailing him. It was so unreasonable. And now, here he was, on this miserable little island of Elidius in the middle of the sea. No women to speak of, and few ships. The ones that did stop at Ennor were no good for him. He couldn’t just walk out of here and ask for a ride. The shipmaster would laugh at him, and Luke had had enough of ridicule. He wouldn’t try that.

This was why he had taken to drinking strong wine at midday and snoozing through the afternoon. He had been told to mend his ways by the Prior, but what was the point? He was here to die, so why behave like a martyr? He was depressed, and he saw no reason to hide the fact. His last chance had been last night, but that had come to nothing. All he had wanted was a ship to take him away from this place. He could have gone to the mainland, maybe even to Guyenne, but no! He would get no help from Thomas, the bastard!

Luke, after the last two years, was no stranger to self-pity.

Originally, after being uncovered in Belstone, when he and the suffragan Bishop Bertrand had both been sent away to Ireland, Luke had thought that this was the worst possible fate a man could suffer. He had been convinced of it all the more during the hideous voyage. The Bishop had sent him away to pay for his offence. And there Luke had found … well, she had been willing enough, God’s blood. It wasn’t all Luke’s fault.

No, it wasn’t his fault that he’d found the little strumpet there. She’d seen him when he first arrived at Ferns, a lovely green city with a beautiful little cathedral. Not far from the cathedral had been the old holy well, and he had met her there one day, a beautiful, green-eyed, red-haired woman with a body that would have tempted St Peter! Her long neck was like a swan’s, her legs perfection, her oval face smiling and welcoming, her breasts like … Ah, but she was beauty itself!

He was not to know that she was related to a lord. It was not his fault: after all, she had been as keen as he, and she had made her desire for him quite plain. They had repaired to the field above the spring, and yes, he had sort of forgotten to mention that he was a priest, and when she asked him in that lovely, soft voice of hers whether he’d want to marry her, he might have given her a hint that he’d be a mad jackass not to be willing to jump from the cathedral’s battlements for the chance of a single kiss from her juicy lips, but that was mere poetical language. It was the sort of crap that women wanted to hear.

The row when he’d been found out had astonished him. He’d not thought that a quick tumble with a willing maid could cause so much noise, but by Christ’s balls, he’d soon learned his mistake! He was out of Ferns and on a ship homewards in moments, lucky to get away with both ballocks attached, from what he understood of the furious father’s words.

Back home to England, he’d thought. That was good news. Now he’d be able to persuade the good Bishop Walter that he was a changed man, that this second failing had taught him his lesson, that his experience of exile had made him a better man, more capable of heeding his vows. He was convinced that the Bishop would listen and then sympathetically nod and agree to send him on to the Bishop’s college at Oxford, or somewhere else where his talents could be honed and put to good use. In God’s name, Luke was not the first priest to have rattled a well-bosomed strumpet!

As it turned out, the Bishop wouldn’t so much as give him an audience . He actually had Luke held in chains in his gaol. In his own gaol with all the vagrants, misfits and outlaws! It was humiliating! And outrageous, because what possible reason could there be to hold a man of God like Luke in those conditions without reason? Taking a willing mate for an hour’s fun was hardly the crime of the century.

It was probably jealousy. That was it! Luke reckoned that Bishop Walter was just a spiteful old lecher who couldn’t see further than the end of his nose without his spectacles, and that was why he’d sent Luke here, to this bleak, wasted midden of an island. The Bishop no doubt told other people that Luke was an habitual womaniser, but it wasn’t true. He’d never raped a maid. All his companions were perfectly willing and eager. It wasn’t his fault that he was attractive to pretty women. It was, he supposed, a curse.

Well, a curse on Bishop Walter for sending him here! Luke prayed fervently that the Bishop’s piles might grow ever more painful.

A year and a half he had been here. A year and a half, and now he knew the meaning of purgatory. The worst had been last night, though. That storm had been appalling. Really alarming. He’d thought he wouldn’t get home at first, and when he did, it felt like his whole cottage was going to lift from its moorings and fly off the islands, and he’d cowered in his bed, the heavy blanket pulled up to his forehead, shivering from the cold and his fear, convinced that he was about to die. In the end, he’d risen and fetched himself wine, drinking steadily until either the storm ceased or he collapsed in a stupor. He wasn’t sure which. Either way, at least he slept, although now his mouth felt and tasted as though an incontinent cat had defecated in it overnight.

Only when he had reached for the jug to rinse his mouth did he remember that sight. The man’s body arched like a bow as the dagger was thrust in his breast.

He felt sick. The roiling in his belly was foul, and he had to swallow hard to keep the liquid down. He had seen men die before, of course. Who hadn’t? The usual scene wasn’t that alarming — if anything it was oddly amusing, with the vendors calling out their wares while the men stood stoically, or shivered and pissed themselves, or declared their contempt for the executioner, the public and all others, while a priest muttered prayers beside them until the executioner slapped the rump of the bullocks and the cart slowly moved off, leaving the men dangling. Yes, there was some fun in going to see them dancing their last.

Not the slaughter of a man like Robert of Falmouth, the gather-reeve of Ennor, though. That wasn’t funny. That was petrifying. To see that knife slip in so easily while the hand gripped Robert’s throat, holding him there — that was hideous. Really hideous. Robert had stood there, his body curved away so that his flesh was as far from the killer’s knife as he could keep it, and then the blade was planted slowly inside him. The curvature of his back eased, and he had relaxed, falling gradually towards his assassin like a woman sinking slowly against her lover. Then the knife was withdrawn, and Robert simply collapsed. And his killer stabbed the sand again and again to clean his blade before making off. He hadn’t seen Luke, though. Luke was sure.

He stood, a little unsteadily, and the breeze from the door lifted his fair hair and blew it back. Living here, he had little access to a barber, and had neither interest nor inclination to ask the Prior if he might be allowed to use the Priory’s, a man who came over once a two-month from Ennor.

Picking up his jug again, Luke peered inside. The last of his wine. He drained it and belched. It was depressing. Only wine had kept him moderately sane here, and now that he had witnessed a murder, he felt the loss still more. He set the jug down on his little table, then petulantly hurled it at the wall. ‘I don’t want to be here!’ he cried out, and sank to his knees weeping.

It was no good. The room was stifling him in the afternoon’s heat, and the smell of his unwashed body, filthy clothes and vomit all made him crave the open air. He stood, wiping the tears of self-pity from his eyes and lurched towards the door. Perhaps, he thought, he could use this murder as a means of escape for himself? If nothing else, it would show that he was in danger, if he could point the finger at the murderer. And then the Bishop would have to rescue him from this hell. If he was to do that, he must go to the priory first, to tell Cryspyn what he knew, the old devil, and then go to La Val for the Coroner’s inquest. They were sure to have found the poor bugger’s body by now, and his evidence could be vital.