Michael Jecks - The Outlaws of Ennor

Satisfied with his logic, he stumbled as he hauled the wooden door open. It was a hard job because the leather hinges had rotted and the door scraped along the floor, but soon he was out, blinking in the open air. He walked past his chapel, out through the gate, and then he stopped.

‘Brother, I wanted to speak to you,’ the man said.

Luke hesitated at the sight of him. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He couldn’t say anything. It was impossible.

Luke shook his head. ‘It wasn’t me!’

‘What wasn’t?’ the murderer asked evenly, a small smile on his lips.

Even as Luke took a deep breath and tried to command his legs to turn and let him flee, he knew it was too late. He saw the lunge. To his surprise, he scarcely felt the blow at all. It was merely a thump, as though someone had struck him with a clenched fist but, looking down, he saw the dagger’s hilt in the man’s hand. Then there was a very curious sensation. As the blade was withdrawn, he was aware of a subtle snagging, dragging sensation, an awareness that became more perceptible as the metal caught on a bone and grated. He saw how his flesh clung to the blade as though reluctant to give it up, as though his body knew that the metal was removing his own life’s essence, and wanted to hold it there inside him.

Luke opened his mouth to scream, but suddenly there was a hot, liquid effusion in his throat; it went up into his mouth like vomit, and he felt its warmth in his nostrils. No sound came. He fell back, twisting, his hands clutching, heels spasmodically jerking and kicking, trying to cough up the blood that was drowning him, suddenly desperate to cling to the life which he had grown to detest.

Once the heels stopped their frantic dance, the man peered down at him indifferently. He stabbed the blade clean in the sandy soil and sheathed it once more. Then he chewed his lip a while thoughtfully before finally hoisting the body over his back, and carrying it down to the sea.

It was evening when Simon awoke, the scent of soup burning at his nostrils. When he opened his eyes, he saw William at a little pot, stirring furiously and periodically feeling a lump of unleavened bread which was cooking at the side of the fire on a large flat stone.

Suddenly Simon felt a pang. The scene was reminiscent of his home: the smell of bread cooking, the figure bending over the pot — and yet the figure was not his Meg. All at once, Simon longed to be at home in Lydford, watching his wife at their fire, waiting for her to serve him. Instead he was here on this miserable island of Ennor, waiting to be fed by this strange, thick-set priest. His raw feelings were exacerbated by the loss of Baldwin. The sight of his comrade being swept from the deck of the ship by that massive wave would never leave him: it was a picture which must haunt him until the end of his days. And the knowledge that he was already so near to his wife made him restless. It was ridiculous, but he was already within the King’s realm, and yet there was another expanse of sea between him and his home. It made him miss his Margaret with a more poignant longing than he had ever known before. He was alone, and he wanted to be home again. Oh, Christ’s bones, how he wanted his home again!

‘Still alive, then? That’s good,’ William said pleasantly.

Simon grunted as he rose to an elbow. ‘Where’s the old man? He was here, telling me all about the place. I couldn’t understand what he was going on about, much of the time. He was explaining about the laws here.’

‘That was Hamadus, my sexton. He’s always rabbiting on about the customs here. Personally I find that they can be safely ignored. Just behave like a decent man and no one will give you trouble,’ William advised. He frowned at the food. ‘I hope you like pottage.’

‘I do.’

‘In that case, let’s hope this strikes you as similar to pottage, then.’

As William set about finding a bowl, peering into it with a suspicious glare and wiping it clean with his fingers, Simon asked about the youth he had rescued from the sea.

‘He’s at the castle. Hamadus has seen him and made him comfortable. The poor fellow was not well. I think he tried to drink half the ocean on his own. No doubt he was jealous that you were there to take the other half,’ William said drily. Seeing the expression on Simon’s face, he apologised. ‘When you live in a place like this, you forget how to behave towards other people. He is well enough, but I thought he could do with a little care. I can make some foods,’ he added, gesturing towards the pot, ‘but he needs some real nursing, and Hamadus is better than most healers I’ve known.’

‘He is a physician, then?’

‘Of a sort, yes. He will cure warts, treat cows with swollen udders, or help a dog with a bad sprain. Whatever needs curing, he can do it.’ Glancing at Simon, he added defensively, ‘I don’t know how he does it, but he is very successful.’

‘I wasn’t judging,’ Simon said. He gratefully took his bowl, a thick hunk of bread floating in the greenish soup. He tasted it and beamed. ‘This is wonderful!’

William smiled with satisfaction. The pottage was made by a woman in La Val who came to cook and clean for him each morning, but he saw no need to explain that to this marooned stranger. While Simon drank from the rim of the bowl, William poured himself a little more and ate it fastidiously with a spoon.

‘I suppose I shall have to take you to the castle to speak to the Lord of the Manor,’ he said. ‘But it is already getting late. That can wait until tomorrow.’

Simon had finished his bowl. His belly felt as stuffed as it did after a great feast and he realised that he had not kept any food down since leaving port four days ago. When William made to offer him more, Simon shook his head. In a moment, he told himself; once this meal had gone down a little. ‘This lord — Ranulph, I think Hamadus said?’

‘Yes,’ William said, and his face hardened. ‘Ranulph de Blancminster.’

Simon frowned. ‘I know my Abbot owns lands here. Does Ranulph owe Abbot Robert allegiance?’

‘I don’t think Ranulph agrees to owe honour to any man other than himself,’ William said. ‘He is the employer of thieves, wastrels, outlaws and murderers. No man is so evil that Blancminster won’t take him in. I know, because I have had to hear the confessions of a few when they have been at death’s door. Ranulph is scared of no man. He even takes the King’s fish. Fourteen odd years ago, he imprisoned the King’s Coroner and fined him a hundred shillings because the man did his duty and impounded a whale washed up on the beach. Ranulph wanted it himself, so he had the Coroner flung into his gaol.’

Simon felt the first twinge of anxiety. ‘But would he dare harm an Abbot’s man?’

William gave him a level look. ‘There is nothing he wouldn’t dare.’

‘Perhaps I should make my way straight to the priory then,’ Simon said, and explained about his position in the Abbey’s staff.

‘Well now, Bailiff. Since you are an official yourself, perhaps you can dare to feel a little safer.’ William sat musing for a moment, staring at the fire’s flames. ‘For now, sleep. You’re safe enough here with me, and not many are likely to wander abroad when darkness falls. But just in case, I shall send a message to Prior Cryspyn at St Nicholas so that your presence is noted. It can’t hurt to have the Prior on your side.’

Sir Charles woke with a feeling of dog-weariness. His neck was cricked, his shoulder hurt from lying on the hard wooden deck, and he had a sore hip for the same reason.

Still, he was alive, and that, right now, was a cause of gratitude. It was a miracle that the Anne hadn’t foundered. More miraculous still was the fact that she remained afloat even now. After the terrible storm, they had drifted for a day, wondering what might happen to them, and all had fallen asleep where they were.