Michael Jecks - The Outlaws of Ennor

Then he and his men were running across the courtyard towards the priory church. That, they knew, was where the decent items would be stored — the crosses, the pewter, the goblets of gold or silver. Jean also sent three men to the Prior’s chamber. He’d probably have several things in there which would be ideal, too. With any luck, they would find a good stash. This was only a tiny island, but even the smallest could win good incomes from pilgrims and visitors. With luck, this would be one of them.

As soon as the doors were opened, there was a great shrieking as monks and novices pelted from their cells and places of work to stop this violation, but most held back when they saw the weapons arrayed against them. One man stood barring their way to the church, so he was cut down. All satisfactory, Jean thought. None of them had so much as a dagger with which to protect the place. There was a scruffy youth near a door, and Jean saw a man knock him down with a club. The boy fell, eyes wide open still, his blood staining the soil.

The church was at first a great disappointment. The altar itself looked like a lump of rock rough-hewn from a block lying on the island, and the drapery was ancient, with little merit. It didn’t even have any golden thread. As for the goblets and candle-holders Jean had expected to find, there was remarkably little. It was only when they caught a young servant and began to trace patterns on his naked torso with a couple of razor-sharp daggers that they learned about the big chest in the chapter-room, and after despatching the youth, they made their way there. Here, at last, they found what they were looking for: an oaken chest filled with all manner of plates and goblets. Jean commanded two men to grab it, and soon they were on their way to the ship again. Passing the door to the Prior’s chambers, they heard laughter, and Jean guessed the worst.

When he went inside, he could smell it. Fresh wine from the Prior’s own stores, discovered in the Prior’s buttery and opened by the men in there. They had caught a young monk and while two held him down, another raped him.

Jean was tempted to kill them there and then, but the feverish mood which kept swamping him was too exhausting. He eyed them with disgust, but said nothing. Ordering them to kill the man, and not to forget to bring a barrel or two to the ship, for the Prior had several small casks in his storeroom, Jean led the way down the stairs to the courtyard again. There he breathed a little more easily as the men began to manhandle their trophies past the now still body of the gatekeeper, then were out in the open again. In front of them they could see their ship ready and waiting, and that filled them with a new high-spiritedness, the men all but running with their loads.

They were only a matter of yards from the ship when Jean heard the roar, and he realised the danger as soon as he heard it. There was nothing so formidable as a peasant who saw others despoiling the church which he viewed as his own. Now, glancing over his shoulder, he saw that there were ten or more men running towards him, and he swore under his breath even as he looked to his own men and how they might be deployed. Making a quick decision, he ordered the church plate and casks to be taken to the ship, and all those who carried nothing to support him. Turning, he watched the oncoming men with a sense of resignation rather than excitement.

It was his arm — he was sure of it. The swelling was so bad, he scarcely dared look at it, and the smell which was coming from the stained bandages was particularly foul. Nothing felt, really, as though it mattered. It would be good to return home with a handsome prize, but if he died on the way, he wouldn’t mind. The main thing was, making the profit. There should be something for his woman. His boys could fend for themselves.

This damned arm … he could feel the blood being poisoned in his veins, all because of that evil bastard who had stabbed him on board that blasted ship. If he saw the man again, he would kill him.

And then, blessed miracle, he saw the fellow. There, in front of the men racing towards them, was the man with the ridiculous beard that followed the line of his jaw, the peacock-blue sword glittering furiously in the sun as though it actually had a life of its own and was seeking fresh blood to taste. The sight made Jean shiver with loathing; or perhaps it was the returning fever. He suddenly felt frozen to the marrow, but he wasn’t sure what it was that made him feel like that. There was a suspicion at the back of his mind that he was about to die. It was a premonition which he had never had before, and he felt terrified for a moment, as though he could see the long centuries ahead in which he would not exist. It lasted a moment only. Then he roared his defiance and waved his sword about his head twice, before marching forward to join battle.

Baldwin saw him at the same time, and as soon as the black-haired man stepped forward, Baldwin ran to meet him.

Both knew that this was a personal challenge; whichever of the two was to fall, the other would be victor. If the pirate captain were to die, the pirates would lose; Baldwin preferred not to think of the consequences of his own death.

Not that he would have much to fear, he thought. The pirate was clearly badly wounded, and he panted as he lifted his sword to strike at Baldwin. It was easy to block it with a sharp flick of his wrist, and then Baldwin stepped back, waiting for the next blow. But it was terribly slow. Baldwin parried it easily, waiting for the hidden attack under the obvious, but there was nothing, and then he saw the edge of the flesh at the pirate’s neck. It was red, with veins showing darkly, as though the man had fallen into a fire and his flesh scorched.

Suddenly Baldwin felt sick. This man had been wounded by him days ago, and he had fought valiantly, trying to preserve his life, and now Baldwin had the duty of ending a life which must have been appallingly painful, from the way that the man favoured his arm in its sling. It was cruel to destroy someone who was all but incapable of defending himself, but Baldwin had responsibilities. If this fellow lived, he would return and he would try to rob and plunder again. It was in his nature. Baldwin could see it in his eyes, red-rimmed though they were: this man had no comprehension of the suffering of others, only of his own inordinate greed.

There was a slow, slashing sweep of the man’s sword, and Baldwin put out his sword to block it, but the blade had already moved with a flick of the pirate’s hand, and now Baldwin felt the snagging at his tunic.

He leaped back, seeing the cruel delight in his enemy’s face. The front of his tunic was soaked with blood. The blade had nearly eviscerated him, and if he had tried a thrust himself, which he would have done, had he not been distracted by the pitiable condition of the pirate, he would have been spitted like a hog over a fire.

The sting of the wound woke him to the realities of fighting. He held his sword out to stop another thrust, then blocked a sweeping blow to his head. When the pirate tried to kick, Baldwin was already out of reach, but he managed to swing a blow to the man’s thigh, and he felt the sword catch on the bone as he withdrew it.

That was enough to enrage the pirate. Without taking account of the agony in his arm, Jean jumped forward, dancing lightly on his feet, trying to ignore the dull throbbing in his thigh. It was nothing. No, he had to attack, press this shit-eating moron back, and wait for the chance to run him through, and then make his way to the ship.

He pushed forward, his arm stabbing with an extensive pain that seemed to swallow his entire soul. The knight fell back, and the pirate took a moment to glance back at his ship to see whether he could bolt for it if he needed. What he saw made him gape.