Michael Jecks - The Outlaws of Ennor

When the boats arrived, Ranulph de Blancminster was the first man up the side of the Anne . He stood, hands on hips, while he took in the ruined deck. It was much as he had expected, as soon as he heard of this broken vessel lying off the southern coast of Annet.

The mast was shattered, with a hedgehog of splinters erupting. Ropes lay all about, where they had fallen when the remnants of the sail had been cut away. Two barrels had rolled around, one crushing a man at the side of the ship, and then both had broken asunder, their hoops lying amid a bundle of broken spars. Pieces of woollen sail lay snagged on any splinters, a great bundle hunched under the forecastle where the devoted sailors had tried to preserve whatever they could find.

Ranulph de Blancminster was a powerful, black-haired man with a large belly and double chin to show his wealth and status, but any impression of softness was belied by his eyes. They were grey, like the sea on a stormy winter’s day, and sat deep in his square face. Wearing his usual working clothes of a faded green tunic over particoloured woollen hosen, he hardly dressed like a lord, but here he had power of life and death over all the inhabitants of Ennor. Ranulph wore an aged sword that had been his father’s, and two daggers in his belt, set horizontally for easy accessibility.

He had lived here for many years, and his experience of wrecks was second to none. At the first moment of seeing the Anne , he knew she was badly hogged. She drooped fore and aft, showing that her back, if not already broken, would never withstand the seas between here and the mainland. This ship was not going to make another journey. It was not possible to save her, but it would certainly be possible to rescue any of the cargo that wasn’t already completely ruined. He glanced at the hatches and gave them an experimental kick. Blasted thing must have leaked terribly. She was as much use as a pot made of linen. All the tuns below decks must have been washed in saltwater. The sooner the lot could be rescued, the better.

‘Hello, Master. You didn’t see fit to ask permission to come aboard?’

Ranulph cast a look at the tall man dressed in a tatty tunic. ‘I did not expect to find any men still aboard,’ he said coolly.

‘Not all can swim, so we remained,’ Sir Charles told him. ‘There was little point in jumping into the water, when we might survive by staying here.’

‘I congratulate you on saving her.’

‘It wasn’t easy.’

‘But now she is salvage, so she is forfeit.’

Sir Charles’s smile broadened. ‘She feels stable enough under my feet.’

‘She wouldn’t make it to shore without my ships hauling her,’ Ranulph stated flatly. ‘That means she is salvage, and it also means she’s my responsibility now. Under the law, half of the cargo and half the vessel is mine as Lord of this Manor.’ He nodded sternly to the knight.

‘So, you are going to take her?’

Ranulph eyed him. ‘There’s no mast, no sailors … do you mean to paddle her all the way to shore? I can save the cargo, and all I’ll do is take half. If I leave you here, wreckers may come and take it all. They could kill you and lead the ship to rocks to founder, and claim that you wrecked far off out to sea. Which do you prefer?’

Without waiting for an answer, Blancminster turned his back and went to the side. ‘Send up a cable,’ he bellowed. ‘We’ll need to tow her to port. I’ll come down and-’

Suddenly he was aware of a pricking at his back and heard a voice saying pleasantly: ‘Now, Master, before you begin to order this vessel into dock, perhaps we should discuss what I’ll require for me and my companions aboard. We wouldn’t want any of us falling into the sea and drowning, would we?’

Blancminster turned slowly and faced the smiling man. He was an unprepossessing fellow, with a ragged day or two’s growth of beard, and a vaguely mad look in his blue eyes. It was the eyes which held Blancminster’s attention: they were the eyes of a man who had killed, who would kill again, and who felt no qualms about it. Blancminster recognised that look. It was the sort of look which his own men often wore.

‘Who are you?’ he asked softly.

‘Sir Charles of Lancaster.’

Ranulph sneered. Everyone knew about Earl Thomas of Lancaster and the destruction of his army. This man looked like one of his loyal adherents, now down on his luck and destitute.

‘And your name?’ Sir Charles enquired politely.

‘I am Lord of this Manor. They call me Ranulph de Blancminster.’

Sir Charles opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly there was a slamming blow at the back of his head which made his teeth rattle together. His legs lost all their strength, and he felt himself tumbling into a great blackness even before he struck the deck.

Baldwin came to with a sweet sense of comfort. There had been a delightful dream of Jeanne gently soothing his forehead, kissing his lips, easing his troubles and massaging away his bruises. It was so seductive that he fought waking for a long while, and even when his mind was fully alive once more, he resolutely kept his eyes closed, as if by doing so he could retain his dream. A ridiculous notion, he scolded himself. If he wanted to continue his dream, he need only open his eyes and look upon Jeanne his wife.

But then, while he lay back on the uncomfortable palliasse, he realised that it was not his bed. The smells were not those of his home, nor were the sounds. Where was the whistling from Edgar? The chickens in the yard, the neighing from the stable? With a frisson of anxiety — no more than that yet — he opened his eyes and peered about him.

He saw a gloomy little room. In a corner was a single small table and stool. A fire smoked in the middle of the floor, giving off a rank odour. In another corner he noticed a small pile of dung — probably left behind by a sheep or goat — and an all-pervading but unfamiliar scent. Only later would he learn that it was the smell of drying kelp. Baldwin was quite tall, and lying full length, he was almost as long as the room was broad, so it must be some twelve feet long and maybe eight broad. He became aware of voices outside and pricked up his ears, listening intently.

To his alarm he realised he could understand nothing. The language here sounded much like that of the Bretons, and with that thought, he suddenly recalled the attack of the pirate ship, the death of so many good men: the helmsman, the sailors. It made him shudder, and as soon as he did so, his shoulder hurt like the devil, and so did his face. When he tentatively lifted a hand to it, he found that his cheek was swollen and sore. For the life of him, he couldn’t think where that had come from.

With the failure of his memory, panic seized him. He could remember the fight, but everything from then on was a blank; he was convinced he had been captured by the Bretons and taken back to their lair. It could be anywhere, perhaps in Brittany, perhaps in a quiet inlet elsewhere. There were tales of raiders who had found landfalls in Ireland and other places. They would run their ships up the estuaries late at night, come upon the inhabitants in their sleep or at first light, and slaughter them all before taking their ease among the corpses and seeing what could be stolen and carried away. Baldwin felt his spirit chill at the thought. However, if this was an English territory, at least he might be able to escape and find his way to safety.

The voices appeared to be raised, and Baldwin saw shadows appear at the doorway. After a sharp altercation, a large man walked in, a big fellow with hunted eyes and a twitch at the corner of his mouth, like one who had been given a long sight of Hell and would never be able to forget it. When he saw Baldwin, his expression hardened like moorstone, and Baldwin feared that the stranger would launch himself upon him. He was quite unable to defend himself.