Michael Jecks - The Outlaws of Ennor

It was a terrible thought, that Tedia might be taken from him. He had grown accustomed to her presence. She was a cheery bedmate — or had been. Always warm and craving a cuddle when he returned from the sea, welcoming him with a kiss and hug even when he was wet through and frozen. She was all that he had hoped for in a wife.

All that would remain, when she left him, was shame. Everyone in the vill would know why she had gone. They would know that he was only half a man.

He sniffed. The sadness and despair he had known ever since he first realised that she was serious about finding another husband had abated a little, and he was growing accustomed to the prospect of losing her. She had sworn to be his own wife, and if she now decided she needed another man, he could forgive her — but he wasn’t sure he could forgive whoever took her from him.

There were rumours. Always rumours. Some he discounted immediately, but others were more insidious. Some men would do anything to bed her, his Tedia, and there was nothing they wouldn’t try.

This was torture, he told himself with a shake. The air was cooler, and when he looked up, he saw that the sun was well past its high point. He had only a few hours left. Picking up the oars, he set them ready, then started hauling up the anchor stone. Soon it was moving steadily upwards, and he carefully stowed the cable in a neat bundle so that it wouldn’t twist or snag. Then he sat and began to row back to the island and home.

There was still that nagging feeling that someone was watching him, but he put it down to his own grim knowledge that everyone was watching him. Everybody knew his problems.

Soon they would become more clear as the church broadcast the results of his awful test, he thought to himself.

In the natural harbour between the rocks, Jean de Conket felt he had every reason to be proud of his men and his own efforts.

True, he could do little about lifting heavy baulks of timber or splicing the ropes which had snapped when the mast fell into the sea, but at least his mental capacity had not been affected so badly as his arm. It was growing fatter now, and it was hard to bend the elbow, as well as gut-wrenchingly painful. He had a suspicion that he might be forced to have it cut off, but he was not going to rush into a decision on that score. It could wait until they reached home again. It shouldn’t take too long to make that journey. It would be good to be home again, and he was sure that his woman would be delighted to see him back.

She was a good woman. Tall, slender as a birch, with an almond-shaped face and slanted green eyes that laughed at him all the time; he was content with her. She rarely whined at him like some men’s women. If she did, he’d have whipped her, but there was no need. She seemed happy with him. The thought of her man dead would probably scare her, and his delay in returning would have left her anxious. She’d be glad to have him home, with or without his arm. At least he still had the other. He could wield a sword happily enough with one good arm.

The boys were good fellows, too, apart from Raoulet, the oldest; he had already been enough of a disrespectful shit to have been punched out twice by Jean. If he wasn’t careful, the bastard would try to take his place at the head of the family. He would be delighted to command his brothers and mother. There was no doubt in Jean’s mind that little Raoulet would even consider removing his father, were his father to have the bad manners to return alive.

It was good to think of them, all sitting at the table to celebrate his return, even if Raoulet’s thankfulness would more than likely be feigned.

That homecoming was bound to be a little while coming, though. First Jean had to get this vessel back to his port. That would require careful sailing, and taking no risks. Before they could even think of stepping the mast, they would have to wait until dark. There was no one on the island who could see them, so that was one less risk, but there was still the problem of the journey about the island. The ship could be badly trimmed with the shorter mast, and Jean did not want to risk being seen as he left port. Other ships might be able to overhaul him. Better that they should wait until dark, and then make their way around the islands. Jean would have a pair of men in front in the little boat to check the soundings and ensure that the ship couldn’t run across a spine of rock that might hole her hull.

Yes. They would wait until night, and then make their slow progress out to sea before finding their way home.

A shame, though. They had come all this way without a sight of their original target. Sometimes the sea was like that. She would throw a choice vessel at you one week, and give you a fleeting glimpse of a still more tempting morsel the next, without letting you near either, and then let you at a small boat.

It would be sad to return home without a decent prize, especially since Raoulet would make fun of him. His son could well see this failure to take the ship as proof that Jean was too old to lead the men any more. That would mean a fight with Raoulet. Hardly an even-balanced fight, if Jean was about to lose his arm, but Jean could shrug mildly enough. It was the natural order of things.

After all, it was how Jean himself had managed to win his first command, by killing his own father in full view of the whole crew and throwing his body over the side for the gulls.

After seeing William, Simon knew he must go and visit the body. The inquest had been too brief for any discovery. The thought repelled him.

It was Baldwin who was always keenest to seek out corpses and study them. Simon was happy to leave him to it, while he himself hung around nearby, listening to the descriptions of the wounds and drawing his own inferences from them, but generally trying to avoid going near enough to smell the sour odours of urine and faeces, the sweet stink of blood. He loathed seeing the wounds generally, too. The sight of the cuts made him feel the full dread of his own mortality.

Robert’s body had been housed in William’s church, and Simon walked there trailing behind Walerand, his head down as he went.

He needed Baldwin. Trying to learn how a man might have died was beyond him. There was no point in his trying to do so, and it was ridiculous to expect him to find out much. It would be better if Ranulph and Thomas were to instruct one of their own men to speak to the reeves on the islands, and ask all of them who might have caused Robert’s death. They would certainly be a damned sight more help than Simon with his meagre knowledge and understanding of the islands.

Yet he had sworn to do his best, in return for the release of Sir Charles and Paul, and right now Simon felt the need of a companion. If he could have remained with William, that cheery fellow might have proved enough to keep Simon’s equilibrium, but William had to leave to seek his fishes. That left Simon once more with the morose Walerand as company; the latter had a limited stock of stories and conversation, but the commonest theme was one of contempt for the world and disgust for the people of the islands, while attempting to persuade Simon of his own intelligence and shrewdness.

When Simon had heard his opinion of the farmers and fishermen of the islands, and how all their women were desperate for ‘it’ and how Walerand would go about all the houses now that Robert was gone, ‘seeing to’ the wives, Simon tried to stop his ears and think of something else, and yet the dirge-like voice droned on, spewing out expletives and incoherent bigotries.

The idea of being stuck with Walerand was so appalling, Simon glanced at the sea several times — with a view to pushing Walerand off a cliff, rather than jumping himself.

When they reached the church in which the body was kept, Walerand walked straight in and stood over the corpse, staring down at it. ‘Pathetic little sod, wasn’t he? Weak bastard. If it’d been me, I’d have got them myself. You won’t catch me napping. I’m on my guard, me. Some bastard tries to stab me, they’ll find themselves swallowing the end of my sword. Tossers. That’s the trouble with the people here. They don’t know how to respect their betters.’