Michael Jecks - The Outlaws of Ennor

Where was she?

Simon was tiring already and demanded the use of a staff. When Walerand had found him a decent five-foot-long stave, he followed the other man out along the trail from the main gates, and down a winding path that gradually turned across the western face of the crag on which the castle stood. Here Walerand turned right across a field.

Ahead of him Simon could see the whole of the flat-looking island. Directly before them was a low hill with gently sloping sides, but Walerand was leading him to the north of this, taking him through the marshes.

‘Sorry if you find it a bit wet here,’ Walerand said after a while.

Simon glanced down. ‘This? On Dartmoor, this would be considered quite dry,’ he said without thinking.

Walerand said nothing. The man was just ignorant, that was all. Pig ignorant, the blown-up piece of pus. He didn’t know anything about the islands or the people who lived here — that much was obvious. At least Thomas had given Walerand the job of watching him while he was here on the islands. That was something. Maybe it meant he was considering Walerand for another task. This could be Thomas’s way of telling him that he was well thought of. That would be good.

In any event, it was a good thing that this Bailiff had someone with a brain to look after him. He was blundering about like a bug-eyed pilgrim right now, staring about him like a man who’d never seen a small island before. Now that Walerand had lived here for such a long while, he felt quite an expert. This Bailiff was an embarrassment.

‘What?’ he snarled when he heard the Bailiff speak.

Simon pointed up ahead of them. ‘I want to climb that hill.’

‘Why? It’s just a-’

‘It’s this way, I think,’ Simon said, setting off.

‘That’s not the bloody way!’ Walerand called after him. The cretinous, louse-infested piece of horse dung was wandering up over Oderic’s land. ‘Oh, let him learn,’ he muttered, and waited.

Simon strode up the hill without minding the sudden quiet. Halfway up, he saw a low, thatched cottage, a place that seemed to blend into the landscape as though to allow the wind to flow over and around it rather than battling and trying to contest the right of the elements to pass by. Carrying on, he soon reached the summit.

It was only a small hill, but it was enough to give him a better view of the islands. They seemed oddly peaceful here. West lay St Nicholas, he knew, with the hilly spine on the left that reached all the way down to the twin humps that he had been told were called St Sampson. Right was another great mass, which he guessed was that place called Bechiek, while between that and St Nicholas, there were some smaller islands. Some had buildings on them, but only very few. Northwards, he could follow the line of the coast up to the plain which formed the larger part of Ennor. That was the direction in which they were heading. Behind him, he could see the castle, about a half mile or so eastwards, and beyond he could see the sea, sparkling and glinting merrily, as though it could never have risen in fury.

A lump returned to his throat as he recalled seeing Baldwin taken by that massive wave and washed away, like a piece of jetsam on the tide. One moment there: the next gone, as though he had never existed.

He wiped his eye and began to make his way towards the trail a little farther up than where Walerand waited. There was no path, and he must walk through the fields. With his upbringing, and appreciating the value of crops, he didn’t walk through the middle as Walerand had done, but stayed at the edge by a wall topped with thin, straggling bushes, so that he would do as little damage as possible.

There was a snarl, and he looked over his shoulder to see a pair of black dogs racing towards him. These were mere farm dogs, not vicious hounds like that monster of Hamadus’s, and Simon felt little fear of them. At the first sound, he almost reached for his sword, but when he saw the dogs approaching, he thought better of it, and instead readied himself, holding his staff towards them. As they came closer, one received a sharp tap on the muzzle, while the other was prodded twice in the breast. Both chose to reconsider their attack, and retired out of reach, making a deal of noise but not trying to close with him.

‘What are you doing here? Leave me dogs alone!’

‘My friend, I am merely a stranger in this land,’ Simon called. ‘I didn’t realise I was going to cause you any trouble by coming here, and I apologise. Please call your dogs off. I don’t want to harm them, but if they attack I’ll have to draw my sword.’

There was a short but piercing whistle, and one dog gave Simon a withering look before springing up and over the wall, disappearing from sight. The other was already gone.

Soon thereafter, a man appeared. He was skinny and bent, with thinning grey hair that was blown by the wind until it stood in all different directions. His mouth was sunken, and Simon could see that he had already lost most of his teeth. Not an uncommon sight since the famine, he knew, but it was an interesting comparison with the men at the castle. None of them had suffered scurvy, so far as he had seen.

‘Who are you?’ the man asked suspiciously. He was about ten years older than Simon, the Bailiff reckoned, maybe five and forty summers. The face was browned by the wind and sun, with wrinkles that would have looked good on a walnut, but his eyes were a clear, watery blue, and showed intelligence.

‘I am called Simon Puttock. I am the Bailiff of Lydford in Dartmoor, and was shipwrecked here in the storm.’

‘What are you doing on my hill?’

Simon looked about him at the view one last time. ‘I didn’t realise it was anyone’s hill. I was here with a man from …’

‘La Val. I should have guessed.’ The older man peered down the road. ‘Oh, it was that little turd, was it? I know him well enough.’

‘He is named Walerand.’

‘Wally would be about right. He thinks he owns the islands. Thieving shit!’

‘What is your name?’

‘Oderic.’

‘Thank you, Oderic. Tell me: how do you find the men at the castle? Are they looked upon as fair masters?’

‘You asking me? Why?’

‘You’re the only man up here I can speak to. All the rest of the time I’m going to be in the company of men like him,’ Simon said reasonably, pointing with his chin towards Walerand.

‘Why should I trust you? You’ll probably take anything I say and report it straight back to Ranulph Blancminster.’

Simon turned to the south. It was just possible to see William’s church and the carts loading bales of cloth. ‘See that? That was my ship, and all my goods on it have been impounded. My friends, those who were living, were taken and thrown into a cell. Do you think I can trust Ranulph, or that he can trust me ?’

The man studied Simon for a moment in silence, then stared out towards the ship. ‘If there was a chance, the men here would rise up and throw Blancminster into the sea. He’s a thief. Everything we make or farm, he takes. He leaves us little enough. Look at me! Even during the famine, I grew enough to feed my family. Blancminster took all my produce, and my family starved. My children died, my wife killed herself in grief … Who wouldn’t want to rid the islands of him? He sucks our blood! The two worst men were Thomas and his gather-reeve, that devil Robert. They don’t care for us any more than they care about ants. That’s all we are to them — creatures to be used and then destroyed when the whim takes them.’

Simon sighed. ‘I see. What can you tell me about the men who live on St Nicholas?’

‘A small group. They are hardy men there, and dispute Blancminster’s right to command them, yet he still tries to tax them. Anything they want to buy from Ennor, they pay him customs; anything they import which passes through Ennor, they pay for. He daren’t impose all the taxes he forces on us, because he would get a bloody nose, so he is cautious. He looks to have bits and pieces from them, while he milks us, who cannot defend ourselves.’