Michael Jecks - The Outlaws of Ennor

‘Oh, my love! I am sorry — I didn’t think to ask whether you lost a companion on her.’

As he saw a pair of women appear around the corner of the beach, he felt her arm go about his neck, and then the cool, moist touch of her lips on his, and he revelled in the kiss while feeling revulsion for his behaviour. So this, then, he thought, this is dishonour.

He had to admit that it felt extremely pleasant.

Jean de Conket had lost it. Yes, he could confess to his rage. When the fool of a helmsman had misjudged the ship’s motion, so that the two vessels collided, and most of the men preparing to sling their grapnels and shin up the cog’s sides to take her had been knocked from their feet, Jean’s anger had all but choked him. He went to the helmsman, his sword already in his hand, and hacked at the man until his body was in pieces on the deck. Only then did he look at his crewmen. They were staring at him, some with sympathy, others with horror. ‘Get on with it, cretins!’ he shouted, waving his gore-besmottered weapon, and the men returned to their stations while Jean himself took the tiller.

The men on the deck above were watching with fear in their eyes. They all knew what a pirate ship could do. As soon as Jean came nearer, the first missile was hurled, a pig of lead, which fell into the water before the pirates could reach her side. Jean gritted his teeth and pushed the tiller. At once there was a ripping pain in his underarm and breast, a pain that made his heart stop and the blood shrill in his veins. He wanted to scream, but daren’t give so obvious a proof to his men that he had lost his energy and strength. ‘Go on!’ he roared, urging the tiller about with sheer, brute willpower.

They had caught sight of the cog sailing lazily towards them almost as soon as the lightness rimmed the eastern horizon. It was a large ship, with a massive, billowing sail like a flag set out just to attract a pirate ship. To Jean it was a beautiful sight. She must be crammed with good produce. Surely God had taken pity on him, he reflected as he bawled commands at his crew.

They sprang to their posts, and soon they were bucketing through the water, the deck rolling and lurching and making Jean wince as his wound gave him more pain. The cog had seen them almost at the same time, and put on more sail in the hope that they might ram their raiders, or at least scare them away and race on past, putting them far beyond Jean’s craft. Anticipating this, he had his ship turn. If he could have bet, he would have said that the cog was heading straight back the way he had come, to Ennor. If that was so, he would win them long before they could reach the islands.

It was the regular thumping of his arm against the mast which had first caused his mood to grow ugly. He couldn’t help it. Every buffet from a wave as they turned, agonisingly slowly, made his arm clump against the side of the ship; each blow was like razors running from armpit to hand. Now, when he recalled his concern yesterday that he might be forced to have the limb amputated, he could smile wryly. Having it cut off had become an attractive option.

The helmsman had tried to run the pirate ship up to the side of the cog just as the cog began to tack. Instantly their ship was overwhelmed by the cog taking their wind. Their sail sagged, they began to lose way, the ship grew as sluggish as a hogged hulk, and then there was the collision. Jean was thrown to the deck, and he screamed as his arm took the full force. That was when he cut his helmsman down in a rage.

A large feather of spray was thrown into the air as the two ships came together again. Jean gripped the tiller with his good arm, but it was no good. Every thrust of the sea against the tiller caused his body to lurch, and that meant his bad arm shook and his whole body shuddered with agony. He had to give up the tiller to another man; they had lost her now, he could see that. Without the steady hand of a good helmsman, they had no chance. This lad was a mere boy: he had less feel for the ship than an ape.

Three times they had come close enough to try to board her, but each time, something had gone wrong. The ships struck and bounced apart twice, the second time a hapless sailor from Jean’s crew had fallen between the two and disappeared for ever. After the third collision, there was an audible crunch, followed by a hideous wrenching sound. As soon as he heard it, Jean knew that they had lost the battle. He called to the helmsman, and the ship took a new course, more with the wind, while another man raced to the spot where the noise had originated. The strakes were loosened, and water was coming in. It wasn’t desperate, yet, but they couldn’t make it back to Brittany. Jean reluctantly accepted that they would have to find a safe harbour to sit and repair her.

The cog was clearly heading towards the port at Ennor, and they followed behind her, their course slanting across hers. It was clear that the others were racing to the port as fast as they could, and Jean gave orders to take their own vessel around the eastern edge of the isles, and thence to the little harbour where they had rested the previous few days.

This whole fucking voyage was turning out to be a disaster, he told himself as he kicked a lump of the helmsman’s flesh from his foot.

Simon woke with the feeling that all was not well. It was after dawn, he could see from the light shafting in through the window at the side of the hall. Sitting up and blearily rubbing his eyes, he realised that his hosts had mostly departed. Many others were already up and about. He was one of a few sleeping men.

Getting up and making his way to the trestle tables at the far side of the room, he sat with a hunk of bread and a good jug of ale. Soon he found that the world was taking on a more pleasant aspect; he speared a slab of cooked meat and ate it with gusto.

‘Bailiff?’

The quiet voice startled him at first, but then he recognised Hamo. ‘Lad! How did you sleep? Have they been treating you well enough up here?’

Hamo was certainly looking a great deal improved. He had lost his pallor; his features had regained the ruddy complexion which had impressed Simon when he first met the lad. ‘Sir, I have to speak to you,’ he muttered agitatedly.

‘Why? What about?’ Simon asked, and then realised that his voice was not as quiet as he might have liked. The last bit of meat had caught in his teeth and he was concentrating on excavating it, rather than being as hushed as Hamo would have preferred. Fortunately, no one appeared to be taking any interest in their conversation.

‘Sir, it’s Sir Charles and his companion. I heard someone talking,’ Hamo whispered. ‘They intend to make an example of Sir Charles by putting him on a rock and leaving him there to drown.’

‘No!’ Simon declared with a burp. ‘They wouldn’t dare treat a man like him in that way.’

‘I heard two of the guards discussing it,’ Hamo hissed.

‘You must have misheard them,’ Simon said, but he was worried. It was possible, of course, that guards might give out such a story in the hearing of a gullible lad like Hamo, but what if someone had let the truth out by mistake? ‘Why should they do that to Sir Charles?’

Hamo gave him a longsuffering look.

‘Sir Charles did nothing, apart from try to protect his ship from invaders,’ Simon said reasonably.

‘That’s not what they say here. They reckon he pulled a sword on Ranulph, and that’s enough to deserve a slow death,’ Hamo said. ‘They say they’ll drag him out to sea as soon as they have someone to keep him company.’

‘Who do you think they meant?’

‘This man who killed the gather-reeve. If they can, they’ll catch him and set him out on a rock, too.’

‘They have little idea who that murderer can be,’ Simon said easily.