The Outlaws of Ennor: (Knights Templar 16) (14 page)

This was the usual process of his waking. He would curse the place first, for he loathed and detested it. Then he would dream idly of Tedia and one or two other women, before he set himself a task or two during the day. Two was the most, because so much of his day was spent sitting at the highest point of St Elidius, staring eastwards towards the mainland and home.

It wasn’t his fault he was here. Any man would have succumbed to the luscious nuns in that convent. He couldn’t help the fact that he still had warm blood beating in his veins, and yet the Bishop had made his feelings very clear on the matter. Luke had been sent here in exile. He could repent his crimes in solitude, over a long period, for it would be a very long period, Bishop Walter said frostily, before he could be brought back to civilisation. All Luke had done was
make one nun pregnant. And then there was Ireland too, but Luke didn’t want to think about that right now.

At first he hadn’t believed that any man could be so cruel. Sure, as the priest at the Belstone nunnery, he shouldn’t have got the nun with child. But it seemed impossible that he had been sent here to die. He was only young, and he’d had so much life in him. All he had wanted was feminine company. There was nothing wrong in that for most men, and he knew perfectly well that other priests were allowed their concubines. They were not ejected, forced into exile. Why should
he
not be allowed back? Yes, fine, she was a nun, but that wasn’t his fault. He would argue that the Church had sent him to Belstone to perform an impossible task, expecting him to be immune to her attractions. Any priest would have desired her; most would have tupped her. It wasn’t
his
fault!

He felt the familiar gloom assailing him. It was so unreasonable. And now, here he was, on this miserable little island of Elidius in the middle of the sea. No women to speak of, and few ships. The ones that did stop at Ennor were no good for him. He couldn’t just walk out of here and ask for a ride. The shipmaster would laugh at him, and Luke had had enough of ridicule. He wouldn’t try that.

This was why he had taken to drinking strong wine at midday and snoozing through the afternoon. He had been told to mend his ways by the Prior, but what was the point? He was here to die, so why behave like a martyr? He was depressed, and he saw no reason to hide the fact. His last chance had been last night, but that had come to nothing. All he had wanted was a ship to take him away from this place. He could have gone to the mainland, maybe even to Guyenne, but no! He would get no help from Thomas, the bastard!

Luke, after the last two years, was no stranger to self-pity.

Originally, after being uncovered in Belstone, when he and the suffragan Bishop Bertrand had both been sent away to Ireland, Luke had thought that this was the worst possible fate a man could suffer. He had been convinced of it all the more during the hideous voyage. The Bishop had sent him away to pay for his offence. And there Luke had found … well,
she
had been willing enough, God’s blood. It wasn’t
all
Luke’s fault.

No, it
wasn’t his fault that he’d found the little strumpet there. She’d seen him when he first arrived at Ferns, a lovely green city with a beautiful little cathedral. Not far from the cathedral had been the old holy well, and he had met her there one day, a beautiful, green-eyed, red-haired woman with a body that would have tempted St Peter! Her long neck was like a swan’s, her legs perfection, her oval face smiling and welcoming, her breasts like … Ah, but she was beauty itself!

He was not to know that she was related to a lord. It was not his fault: after all, she had been as keen as he, and she had made her desire for him quite plain. They had repaired to the field above the spring, and yes, he had sort of forgotten to mention that he was a priest, and when she asked him in that lovely, soft voice of hers whether he’d want to marry her, he might have given her a hint that he’d be a mad jackass not to be willing to jump from the cathedral’s battlements for the chance of a single kiss from her juicy lips, but that was mere poetical language. It was the sort of crap that women wanted to hear.

The row when he’d been found out had astonished him. He’d not thought that a quick tumble with a willing maid could cause so much noise, but by Christ’s balls, he’d soon learned his mistake! He was out of Ferns and on a ship homewards in moments, lucky to get away with both ballocks attached, from what he understood of the furious father’s words.

Back home to England, he’d thought. That was good news. Now he’d be able to persuade the good Bishop Walter that he was a changed man, that this second failing had taught him his lesson, that his experience of exile had made him a better man, more capable of heeding his vows. He was convinced that the Bishop would listen and then sympathetically nod and agree to send him on to the Bishop’s college at Oxford, or somewhere else where his talents could be honed and put to good use. In God’s name, Luke was not the first priest to have rattled a well-bosomed strumpet!

As it turned out, the Bishop wouldn’t so much as give him an
audience
. He actually had Luke held in chains in his gaol. In his own
gaol
with all the vagrants, misfits and outlaws! It was humiliating! And outrageous, because what possible reason could there be to
hold a man of God like Luke in those conditions without reason? Taking a willing mate for an hour’s fun was hardly the crime of the century.

It was probably jealousy. That was it! Luke reckoned that Bishop Walter was just a spiteful old lecher who couldn’t see further than the end of his nose without his spectacles, and that was why he’d sent Luke here, to this bleak, wasted midden of an island. The Bishop no doubt told other people that Luke was an habitual womaniser, but it wasn’t true. He’d never raped a maid. All his companions were perfectly willing and eager. It wasn’t his fault that he was attractive to pretty women. It was, he supposed, a curse.

Well, a curse on Bishop Walter for sending him here! Luke prayed fervently that the Bishop’s piles might grow ever more painful.

A year and a half he had been here. A year and a half, and now he knew the meaning of purgatory. The worst had been last night, though. That storm had been appalling. Really alarming. He’d thought he wouldn’t get home at first, and when he did, it felt like his whole cottage was going to lift from its moorings and fly off the islands, and he’d cowered in his bed, the heavy blanket pulled up to his forehead, shivering from the cold and his fear, convinced that he was about to die. In the end, he’d risen and fetched himself wine, drinking steadily until either the storm ceased or he collapsed in a stupor. He wasn’t sure which. Either way, at least he slept, although now his mouth felt and tasted as though an incontinent cat had defecated in it overnight.

Only when he had reached for the jug to rinse his mouth did he remember that sight. The man’s body arched like a bow as the dagger was thrust in his breast.

He felt sick. The roiling in his belly was foul, and he had to swallow hard to keep the liquid down. He had seen men die before, of course. Who hadn’t? The usual scene wasn’t that alarming – if anything it was oddly amusing, with the vendors calling out their wares while the men stood stoically, or shivered and pissed themselves, or declared their contempt for the executioner, the public and all others, while a priest muttered prayers beside them until the executioner slapped the rump of the bullocks and the cart slowly moved
off, leaving the men dangling. Yes, there was some fun in going to see them dancing their last.

Not the slaughter of a man like Robert of Falmouth, the gather-reeve of Ennor, though. That wasn’t funny. That was petrifying. To see that knife slip in so easily while the hand gripped Robert’s throat, holding him there – that was hideous. Really hideous. Robert had stood there, his body curved away so that his flesh was as far from the killer’s knife as he could keep it, and then the blade was planted slowly inside him. The curvature of his back eased, and he had relaxed, falling gradually towards his assassin like a woman sinking slowly against her lover. Then the knife was withdrawn, and Robert simply collapsed. And his killer stabbed the sand again and again to clean his blade before making off. He hadn’t seen Luke, though. Luke was sure.

He stood, a little unsteadily, and the breeze from the door lifted his fair hair and blew it back. Living here, he had little access to a barber, and had neither interest nor inclination to ask the Prior if he might be allowed to use the Priory’s, a man who came over once a two-month from Ennor.

Picking up his jug again, Luke peered inside. The last of his wine. He drained it and belched. It was depressing. Only wine had kept him moderately sane here, and now that he had witnessed a murder, he felt the loss still more. He set the jug down on his little table, then petulantly hurled it at the wall. ‘I don’t want to be here!’ he cried out, and sank to his knees weeping.

It was no good. The room was stifling him in the afternoon’s heat, and the smell of his unwashed body, filthy clothes and vomit all made him crave the open air. He stood, wiping the tears of self-pity from his eyes and lurched towards the door. Perhaps, he thought, he could use this murder as a means of escape for himself? If nothing else, it would show that he was in danger, if he could point the finger at the murderer. And then the Bishop would have to rescue him from this hell. If he was to do that, he must go to the priory first, to tell Cryspyn what he knew, the old devil, and then go to La Val for the Coroner’s inquest. They were sure to have found the poor bugger’s body by now, and his evidence could be vital.

Satisfied
with his logic, he stumbled as he hauled the wooden door open. It was a hard job because the leather hinges had rotted and the door scraped along the floor, but soon he was out, blinking in the open air. He walked past his chapel, out through the gate, and then he stopped.

‘Brother, I wanted to speak to you,’ the man said.

Luke hesitated at the sight of him. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He couldn’t say anything. It was impossible.

Luke shook his head. ‘It wasn’t me!’

‘What wasn’t?’ the murderer asked evenly, a small smile on his lips.

Even as Luke took a deep breath and tried to command his legs to turn and let him flee, he knew it was too late. He saw the lunge. To his surprise, he scarcely felt the blow at all. It was merely a thump, as though someone had struck him with a clenched fist but, looking down, he saw the dagger’s hilt in the man’s hand. Then there was a very curious sensation. As the blade was withdrawn, he was aware of a subtle snagging, dragging sensation, an awareness that became more perceptible as the metal caught on a bone and grated. He saw how his flesh clung to the blade as though reluctant to give it up, as though his body knew that the metal was removing his own life’s essence, and wanted to hold it there inside him.

Luke opened his mouth to scream, but suddenly there was a hot, liquid effusion in his throat; it went up into his mouth like vomit, and he felt its warmth in his nostrils. No sound came. He fell back, twisting, his hands clutching, heels spasmodically jerking and kicking, trying to cough up the blood that was drowning him, suddenly desperate to cling to the life which he had grown to detest.

Once the heels stopped their frantic dance, the man peered down at him indifferently. He stabbed the blade clean in the sandy soil and sheathed it once more. Then he chewed his lip a while thoughtfully before finally hoisting the body over his back, and carrying it down to the sea.

It was evening when Simon awoke, the scent of soup burning at his nostrils. When he opened his eyes, he saw William at a little pot,
stirring furiously and periodically feeling a lump of unleavened bread which was cooking at the side of the fire on a large flat stone.

Suddenly Simon felt a pang. The scene was reminiscent of his home: the smell of bread cooking, the figure bending over the pot – and yet the figure was not his Meg. All at once, Simon longed to be at home in Lydford, watching his wife at
their
fire, waiting for her to serve him. Instead he was here on this miserable island of Ennor, waiting to be fed by this strange, thick-set priest. His raw feelings were exacerbated by the loss of Baldwin. The sight of his comrade being swept from the deck of the ship by that massive wave would never leave him: it was a picture which must haunt him until the end of his days. And the knowledge that he was already so near to his wife made him restless. It was ridiculous, but he was already within the King’s realm, and yet there was another expanse of sea between him and his home. It made him miss his Margaret with a more poignant longing than he had ever known before. He was alone, and he wanted to be home again. Oh, Christ’s bones, how he wanted his home again!

‘Still alive, then? That’s good,’ William said pleasantly.

Simon grunted as he rose to an elbow. ‘Where’s the old man? He was here, telling me all about the place. I couldn’t understand what he was going on about, much of the time. He was explaining about the laws here.’

‘That was Hamadus, my sexton. He’s always rabbiting on about the customs here. Personally I find that they can be safely ignored. Just behave like a decent man and no one will give you trouble,’ William advised. He frowned at the food. ‘I hope you like pottage.’

‘I do.’

‘In that case, let’s hope this strikes you as similar to pottage, then.’

As William set about finding a bowl, peering into it with a suspicious glare and wiping it clean with his fingers, Simon asked about the youth he had rescued from the sea.

‘He’s at the castle. Hamadus has seen him and made him comfortable. The poor fellow was not well. I think he tried to drink half the ocean on his own. No doubt he was jealous that you were there to take the other half,’ William said drily. Seeing the expression on Simon’s face, he apologised. ‘When you live in a place like this, you
forget how to behave towards other people. He is well enough, but I thought he could do with a little care. I can make some foods,’ he added, gesturing towards the pot, ‘but he needs some real nursing, and Hamadus is better than most healers I’ve known.’