Michael Jecks - The Outlaws of Ennor

It was a wonderful sensation, this. He felt like a king when he was able to harness the power of wind and waves and set them to do his bidding. Not that it was quite so entirely in his command. In truth, he knew that Hamadus had been right many years before, when he had told Isok that the real skill of a mariner lay not in trying to force the vessel or the seas to do his bidding, but in seeing how the sea and his ship wanted to behave, and persuading each to permit him to go as he wished.

There was no feeling better than this, though. He felt her rise and screw around at the bow, and watched the horizon ahead as it moved up and down and across his vision, in the narrow gap between the ship’s side and the sail. Perfect, clear sea, then a snatched glimpse of an island. That was Little Arthur. The ship was soon level with the island, and then it moved on past, and he could see the long sweep of sand that made up the enormous beach.

Hearing a faint odd noise, he looked about again. The shore was far enough away with the tide this high, that he need not fear rocks in this part, and yet he heard some curious knockings, and when he glanced down at the sea, he could see some bits and pieces of broken wood. Not large timbers from a large wreck, like the one which had brought that knight to his home, but small sections of flotsam, such as a small rowing boat might be built from. There were pieces with the caulking still attached, and spread over a wide area, he saw, as though a small vessel had come to grief on one of the jutting rocks that lay so thickly about here, and then the parts had been dispersed over a wide space by the tides.

Over the years the people who lived in the islands grew accustomed to seeing wreckage, and often they would offer thanks to God for destroying another ship near to their shores. To a poor man or woman, living a harsh existence with the danger of starvation ever-present, a sudden windfall of free timbers, wine, and food or clothing was a near miracle.

Every so often a ship would founder on the rocks to the west of the islands. Usually it was a vessel which struck at Agnas or Anete, or the rocks far west, and the currents and winds would bring them into the beaches, white, bloated bodies lying in among the mess. At such times the seamen would all share in the revolting task of preparing the bodies for burial. All saw the holes in the flesh where the small fishes and crabs had nibbled or cut away with sharp pincers; all saw the empty eye-sockets. And afterwards, Isok would forego his crabs or lobsters for weeks. The thought of the meat lying in their bellies made him feel sick.

This was not the same, though. The bigger ships foundered on the rocks after being blown far from their courses, but this was a small vessel, which meant it must be from one of the islands.

Isok remained gripping his steering oar, but he crouched low now, peering ahead with the eyes of a man used to searching for small signs on the water, a feeling of sickness rising in his belly. This, he was sure, was a place where a man must have died. Too often when a man’s body was taken by the sea, it would sink and disappear for some little while, until then reappear, swollen and repellent, the veins turned blue and obscene, the flesh pale like a ghost’s, sometimes coming away from the body like a spare item of clothing. Today, he felt sure, another had been taken by the sea. It could be anywhere.

Then he saw it. A lump of huddled grey lying on the beach, a moving mass of white over and around it: squabbling seabirds fighting over morsels. He altered his course, aiming for the sand, but knew as he did so that it was too late. There was no chance that a man could have lived after striking rocks with sufficient force to destroy his boat so completely.

He allowed his boat to beach, the sail already furled, and leaped into the water. As he pulled the vessel up the beach a short way, his muscular thighs creating a great wave before him, the birds rose into the sky, screeching like devils. He made his way up to the body, every footstep crunching on broken pieces of timber and shreds of material, until he was near enough to crouch and roll the man over onto his back.

‘My Christ! Brother Luke?’

Simon returned to the castle deep in thought. There was no obvious focus to his investigation. The only things he knew from his enquiries were that Oderic had seen Thomas and David out that evening before the storm. Other than that, he had learned that the dead man was unpopular, which was hardly earth-shattering news.

He had little desire to visit Thomas and report his findings, so he went into the buttery, demanding a quart of strong ale. It was a full-flavoured brew, thick and malty, and while Simon supped at it, he wondered how to confront and question Thomas. Finishing his ale he was no nearer a conclusion, so he went to ask the gaoler where his friends were now.

‘Thomas ordered them to a cell at the hall,’ the turnkey said.

Simon felt his face pale with rage. ‘The Sergeant told me he would have them freed,’ he said at last.

The man shrugged. ‘Nothing to do with me.’

It wasn’t, of course, but now as Simon left the gaol and stood in the yard, he was struck with the reflection that accusing Thomas of involvement in the murder could be dangerous, especially while Sir Charles and Paul were still held in his power. Thomas was not a man who could be trusted. He’d given his word to have Sir Charles taken from the cell, and he had done so … but only in order to move him to a new one.

Taking a deep breath, Simon walked to Thomas’s room and rapped on it before entering.

‘Ah, Bailiff. I hope you have had a rewarding time?’ Thomas asked.

‘Where are my friends?’

‘They are safe enough.’

‘You promised to release my companions.’

‘I have had them taken to more pleasant accommodation. Bearing in mind your friend threatened my lord with a sword, I have to say I think he’s being treated leniently! Now, what of your enquiries?’

Simon bit back the words that sprang to his lips. Coldly furious, he told Thomas all he had heard that morning, except that when he mentioned Oderic, he realised that a certain care would have to be exercised; he couldn’t trust Thomas. Instead, he mentioned no name, and only said that he had heard that a man called David had not been at his vill on the night of the murder. He did not mention that he knew Thomas himself had been abroad that night.

‘Reeve David was not at the vill?’ Thomas repeated.

‘No.’

Thomas appeared to listen to little more of what Simon had to say, and when the Bailiff had completed his report, telling him about his thoughts on the wounds and that he didn’t think his new peacock-blue sword could have been responsible, Thomas merely fluttered a hand in irritable dismissal.

Outside the room, Simon felt baffled at the man’s response. As soon as Simon had mentioned David, Thomas had become distracted. Perhaps he had seen David, and realised that if someone had seen him, they might also have seen Thomas himself? Perhaps he feared being uncovered as the murderer?

Baldwin and Tedia crossed the island and made their way to the eastern edge of St Nicholas, where they could see St Elidius.

‘That’s where he lives, almost like a hermit.’

Baldwin nodded absently. ‘How do we get to the island?’

‘The usual way is a boat to cross anywhere along here,’ she said, pointing. ‘If you want to get to St Elidius, you must cross this narrow sea between St Nicholas and Arwothel, then cross Arwothel to St Elidius.’

‘I had thought we might simply step over to it,’ Baldwin said with a frown. ‘When I have heard talk about this place, I have always had the impression that there was one, maybe two islands at most. I had no idea there were so many. Where can we find a boat?’