Michael Jecks - The Outlaws of Ennor

Simon commanded him to silence.

Robert was lying on a large door before the altar, propped on trestles and covered with a linen cloth. Someone had at least had the goodness to wipe away much of the sand, excrement and blood, but there were still dark whorls and circles where the blood had congealed and dried hardest. His clothes were gone, probably kept by the First Finder, Simon guessed, glancing sideways at Walerand. There was no cut in the breast of his jacket, corresponding to the cut on Robert’s chest, but Simon was sure that Walerand would not have allowed anyone else to take what he would have viewed as his perk for discovering the body.

Robert was a well-formed lad, Simon thought, surveying the naked body. His arms and legs were quite well-muscled, his belly flat, and the face looked ruggedly attractive. He would have been tall, and his square chin must have made him appealing to women, he thought.

The wound was obvious enough. It was a broad slit in his flesh, just under his left nipple, maybe an inch across. About the wound were other marks, and Simon contemplated them for some while, trying desperately to ignore the odour of decomposition. It was only when he got very close that he could see that the marks looked like scratches, and he rocked back on his heels, thinking about them. After a few minutes, Simon had Walerand help him roll the corpse over. As he thought, the blade had not penetrated the back. Only a short dagger could have inflicted this wound — unless it was a blade which had been inserted only a short distance, but the scratches at the entry point seemed to indicate something different. Simon reckoned that they were made by the quillons of a knife. As the killer stabbed, he rocked the knife a little in the wound, and that led to the scratches in the flesh. It seemed to make sense. So this man had been stabbed by someone armed with a short-bladed knife. Surely this was a case of a planned ambush.

When he took a careful look at the man’s hands, Simon saw that they were clear of defensive wounds. Often, as he knew, a man who was attacked would grab at the sword or knife to try to deflect it, cutting the palms or fingers of both hands. The attack must have come as a complete surprise, he deduced — perhaps from a friend, or someone who was not viewed as a threat.

‘I think I’ve seen enough,’ he said at last, letting the cloth drop back over the corpse. ‘We should be getting back to the castle, I suppose.’

‘Yes,’ Walerand said.

There was something in his tone which made Simon prick up his ears, but then another matter struck him and he glanced back at the huddled form beneath the winding sheet. ‘That man — did he have a sword on him when he was killed?’

‘Oh, I expect so.’

‘Does that mean he did, and therefore you have it now? Or that you think he did and can’t quite remember finding it there?’

‘There was one on him. It’s back at the castle.’

‘In the armoury?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘I want to see it. You will fetch it to me,’ Simon said. He was certain that Walerand had stolen it for himself. He led the way out of the church.

The sun was almost over the hill behind them, lighting the castle with a pink glow as they set off towards it. Simon walked with little attention for the views or the landscape about him, but before long some instinct made him glance around at Walerand; the man was gripping his sword, his knuckles white with tension.

‘What is the matter with you, man? Are you fearful of ghosts?’

‘Not ghosts, no. But these islands are filled with pirates and murderers. If they dare kill a tax-gatherer, who wouldn’t they dare to murder?’

Simon shrugged. ‘The folk here seem pleasant enough when treated like humans.’

‘You don’t know the mad people on the off-islands.’

‘What of them?’ Simon asked, but then he saw the real anxiety in Walerand’s face.

As they walked back, the sun sinking lower in the sky and the twilight gloom taking over from the bright daylight, Simon found that the islands appeared cloaked in a more menacing aspect, and he too kept his hand close to his sword hilt.

Isok was finished, and with the tiredness of a man who had worked hard all afternoon, he rowed back to his island as the sun slipped down to the horizon.

He had taken a good haul of fish. All were gutted on the beach, the offal left behind for the gulls to eat, and now he had a much heavier boat with the weight of fish.

There was no comfort for a troubled mind like hard work, he reckoned, and he knew his task so well that he was able to squat and clean the fish with an empty mind. It was the first peace he had known for many days, and as he threw the last of the fish into the boat, he felt a fleeting regret that there was nothing more here to save him from his thoughts.

The boat needed a good shove to push it out to sea, and then he was wielding the oars, settling them between the pegs and beginning to row. He must travel around the islands and into the pass between Bechiek and the eastern islands, then on to the bay at St Nicholas, a journey which would take an age in a smaller vessel, but today he could count on the wind. His mast was stepped, and he pulled on the halyard to raise the little yard up the mast, then released the heavy linen. Pulling the sheets as the boat began to surge forward, he settled himself on the thwart at the upper part of the boat, from where he could see the way ahead.

There was a certain calm that came from hard work, and now, as he felt the wind on his cheeks and adapted his position to the gentle roll and sudden slap as the boat made its way around the first of the isles, he could sense a peace settling on him. There was no one here to laugh at him, give him difficulties or make snide comments behind his back.

Currents swirled about these islands, and many sailors would avoid the hazards of Great Guenhely and Inisvoul, but Isok was no novice. He had lived here all his life; there was probably no better seaman than him in all the islands. It was his skill as a master which regularly brought in the largest prizes. He knew the islands as only a native could. They had been his playground when he was a child, and now he was an adult, these were the waters he knew best of all. Since he was a youth he had been taking ships and boats about these islands in all weathers.

Years before, he had learned his craft from the old man they called Hamadus. He had taught Isok with a cynical eye and acerbic tongue. Hamadus had taken him on and for two months, Isok had been shouted at, cursed, and twice beaten with a rope’s end, but after those two months, Hamadus had called him into his little house and broached a barrel of wine illegally purloined from a wreck, and held out a filled mazer to Isok with a wry grin. ‘Ye’ll do, lad.’ After that, Hamadus had treated Isok as an equal. Although they had not spoken in many weeks now, Isok knew that Hamadus would have a sympathetic ear for him.

He was rounding the farthest eastern rocks of Bechiek, preparing to sail forth into the channel between it and Little Guenhely, when this thought came to him, and he was tempted to go and speak to Hamadus.

Hamadus was on Ennor, of course, down there on the main island. If Isok was to go there, he might as well dodge about the back of the Guenhellies, between them and the mass of Great Arthur, and make his way down the southern coast of Ennor. He looked at the sail, checked the wind, and made up his mind. There was time to put about. Without further ado, he released one sheet, pulled on the other, and ducked under the heavy material of the sail itself. Soon, with the great steering oar gripped under one armpit, he could feel her starting her turn, and then the hull heeled over at a slightly more acute angle, and standing with his thighs straddling the edge of his haul, he felt her taking his new course.