It was Hamo, the cabin-boy. When Simon saw him kneeling and praying, he had been tempted to jump and forget the lad, just as he must leave behind the other sailors, but then he caught sight of the tear-streaked face and there was something about it, something oddly like his own son. His boy was miles away, was only a fraction of Hamo’s age, and yet Simon liked to think that had Peter been left on a ship like this, another man might have tried to save him.
The thoughts sped through his mind, and then he was racing over the leaning deck. He grabbed Hamo under the armpits, roared, ‘Hold hard, lad!’ and set off for the lower rail. As he sprang over and down into the water, he heard a short scream of complete horror, but then they hit the water.
Simon was no great swimmer, but Hamo, like so many sailors, had never learned. Sailors often preferred a quick death by drowning, rather than to suffer the prolonged death of swimming until exhaustion took them over or a sea monster found them and made play with them like a cat with a mouse.
There was something to be said for that view, Simon told himself as he struggled his way towards a massive timber, dragging Hamo behind him. By this stage, the cabin-boy was nothing more than a dead weight, and swimming here, with the waves slamming down onto them after every few strokes, was almost impossible. There was rubbish all about, ropes and spars intermingled, but Simon dared not grab at them in order to bind Hamo to the beam, because he was certain that the loose ropes would entangle them, and probably seal their doom. Instead Simon made his way to the timber with a set determination, while the saltwater threatened to flood his lungs at every stroke, the wind blew spray into his eyes, and his arms began to ache with the unaccustomed exercise. At one point he let go of Hamo when a large spar cracked over his back, but fortunately he caught hold of the lad again, and set off once more. The world was a roaring blackness, a place filled with pain, noise and fury; Simon must reach the beam to have even a remote possibility of survival.
And as if by a miracle, suddenly his nails scraped the slimy surface, and he could haul Hamo to his side, loop his arms over it, and then allow his own exhausted frame to cling to the other side, not knowing where they might end up, nor whether there was a hope of their survival, while the black storm raged.
Thus had Simon spent himself, his strength supporting both of them until the breaking dawn, when suddenly the wind’s rage died and the foul weather passed by. As it did so, Simon looked up and saw that they were drifting slowly towards a group of islands. Kicking with renewed energy he helped them on their journey until they came to the shore.
But now Simon gazed helplessly at the boy, and suddenly his eyes filled with tears. He was all alone here. The only companion he had was this cabin-boy, and if he should die, Simon had no one. It was a selfish wish, but he wanted the lad to live just so that he had some company. Especially since Baldwin …
A wracking sob burst from him, as though a giant had taken his chest in his hand and squeezed. It was entirely unexpected, but Simon could not prevent himself from falling to his knees, a hand going over his face as he began to give himself up to his loss. Baldwin, his friend, the man with whom he had gone on pilgrimage, was dead.
‘Christ! Brother Jan!’
Simon felt a hand on his back, but he remained as he was, his face covered, while the sobs choked his throat, ashamed of the tears that flowed. Gentle hands prised his head up until he found himself surveyed by a friendly face, through the haze of exhaustion, tears and his salt-filled eyes.
‘Christ’s wounds, master — you need warmth. What of your friend?’
Vaguely Simon was aware of the man grabbing Hamo, turning him over and muttering a swift prayer.
‘Save your tears, master. He’ll live.’
There was a damp scratching at his cheek when Baldwin moved. The world was filled with noise, when all he wanted was peace.
An idea was floating near his consciousness, but he couldn’t quite get hold of it. He didn’t mind. The most important thing was Jeanne. She was lovely; she had given him Richalda. They were all to him. There was nothing without them. His life depended upon them both, and it was somehow important that he concentrated on them.
There had been a fight, he recalled. On a ship. They had repelled the pirates, but then the storm struck them again, the rain beating down from all sides. The wind was vicious, sending them tearing along at a terrifying speed, the cog rolling fearsomely, bucketing down over the crests and diving into the next wave. It was terrible, a scene from hell.
He could remember a crack. A rippling series of explosions like detonating gunpowder that seemed to go off directly over his head, and then the sail was nothing more than a series of shreds. He vaguely recalled one sailor falling to his knees and weeping inconsolably; another climbed up to try to do something to the wreckage of the sail, but he was almost immediately flung from the yard. The helmsman’s body was there one moment, gone the next. Throughout it all the master remained sitting on his arse, trying to hold his belly together, his face grey with pain as his narrowed eyes darted hither and thither. Simon and Sir Charles were clinging to a rope near the stern, both silent and fearful, while Hamo cowered on the deck between them. Sir Charles’s man, Paul, sat impassively near the rail. He was resigned to whatever fate God had in store.
A cold wash flowed past Baldwin’s face, up into his mouth, and he choked on the chilly salt. It made him retch, and he felt warm water shoot out from his nostrils.
It was too difficult. Better to remember his wife and daughter. Easier, too. They were something to hold on to, to recall with pleasure and pride. Better that than worrying about the present. There was no point. He was probably asleep. This was all a dream.
The noise washed over him like water, constant but ever-changing. It was like a series of pebbles being rolled around a breastplate of armour, different all the time, but always there.
As was the water, he realised. It was odd. A part of his brain reminded him that this was all a peculiar dream, and he was instantly reassured. He could have imagined that the sensation at his brow and over his ear was water, but what if it was?
He felt safe and warm, with this gentle massage of water all about him. Yes. He would sleep at last.
Chapter Four
When he had recovered sufficiently to clear his eyes, Simon found himself meeting the gaze of a powerful-looking man. From his garb, he must be a priest, and although his eyes were serious, there was a kindness in his voice as he told Simon: ‘You did well, my friend. You saved his life.’
He had rolled the lad onto his belly, his head nearest the sea so his legs were uppermost, and then pushed repeatedly on the fellow’s back. Even as he spoke to Simon he was still pumping. ‘Yes, this boy will live. You were on a ship together?’
‘Where are we?’
‘On the isle of Ennor. Some miles from Cornwall. You’re Cornish?’
‘Devon,’ Simon responded shortly.
‘Hmm. You drew the short straw in life, I see. How many were there on your ship?’
Simon tried to calculate. ‘Myself and three other passengers, six I think in the crew, and this lad.’
‘So many!’ The priest stopped his pumping for a moment. ‘Aye, and I expect there will be more, foundered on other shores. The sea is a hard mistress.’
Simon nodded. ‘My friend … he was washed from the deck …’ His voice broke as he recalled the events of the previous night.
‘He may have lived. You can never tell with the sea,’ the other man said reassuringly: a lie of this sort was kinder than the truth. ‘Come with me. I am called William. At my home we can fill you with warm drink and good bread.’
‘What about the others? The ship is still out there,’ Simon said, pointing a shaking finger vaguely out towards the empty sea.