‘Don’t worry, boy! Where you’re going, you’ll be safe enough,’ Thomas had chuckled.
So he had saved Robert. For some reason, Robert’s reputation soon spread over the island of Ennor. He was considered a berserker, and no one would dare to insult him. Even when he was given the post of gather-reeve, no man in Ennor was rude to him. They were all scared. And while he strutted, he felt sure that no one could see through him. He was no murderer, no bloodthirsty killer, he was just a man protecting his woman. Although he’d not been able to taste the sweet fruits of his prize, because he had bolted with Thomas.
Women would be the death of him, he thought with a quick grin, little knowing how soon that thought would be proved true.
On St Nicholas, the large island north of Ennor, David the reeve rose to his feet as the first gusts blew through the hut, and went to the door.
Outside, the low scrubby bushes were being thrown from side to side by the wind. Out over the sea he could see the dark line on the horizon, and when he sniffed the air, he could smell the metallic edge. This storm was going to be a mad, curling one, he thought.
There were many different types of storm, and having lived here all his life, David knew all of them. Most peculiar were the water-spouts, which appeared suddenly like tall cones of terror, moving with fearsome speed across the water, the dread of any craft which got in their path. Then there were the sudden squalls, the ferocious gales. It was as though the flat seas that surrounded the islands allowed the very worst of all weathers to take the place by surprise.
This did not look to be one of the worst, but nonetheless an unpleasant little tempest in its own right. He wouldn’t want to be out at sea in it. A curling storm was one in which the wind seemed confused. It whipped about from one side to another, ripping at sails until they sheared, unless they were reefed carefully.
At least it wasn’t racing to the islands like some bad blows. There was time for the islanders to protect their own vessels, and as he glanced down towards the vill, he could see the last of the boats being brought into safer waters, the two sailors rowing hard. Around the islet, David knew that the other boats would all be up on dry land or sheltered by the encircling arms of the porth. They should be safe enough. That was more than could be said for ships blown by the storm from their allotted courses. All too often they would be hurled against the rocks of the islands and broken to pieces. If that happened, all the men aboard would die.
The people of the islands had learned to enjoy the benefits when ships were wrecked, for despite their sorrow for the dead, all shared in the sea’s generosity when cargoes washed up on the shores. The thought was enough to cheer David. If there were a gift for the islanders in the midst of the storm, so much the better — so long as the ship foundered here on St Nicholas and not on Ennor. That was the main thing. It would save him and the men of the island from turning to piracy once more to find food for their families.
David looked towards Ennor, and as he did so, his thoughts inevitably turned to the scandal that was affecting the vill. It was a disgrace that the two of them, Tedia and Isok, should have failed in their marriage, but far worse was the shame that Tedia’s adultery would bring upon them all.
A distance away, on the cliffs of Ennor, he could see a slender figure bent against the wind. It looked rather like Robert, the gather-reeve, the third man in the triangle. The man who was determined to cuckold Isok.
Baldwin felt the ship’s progress alter slightly. There was a sharper sound to the sheets, as though the great sail was trying to tear the ropes apart. The wind was coming from over Baldwin’s shoulder, and he felt it whipping across his face whenever he turned to glance behind them.
They were still coming.
The pirates were in a small boat, maybe a quarter as long as the cog, with an enormous, square sail billowing. Above it was a long, thin, red and white flag, something like a lance’s pennon, which snapped in the wind like a serpent’s tongue. Baldwin could see the men on board, their pale faces showing as flashes of light in the Anne’s own shadow.
‘What are they after?’ he wondered aloud.
The master was not far away, and he grunted. ‘They’re after our cargo, the murdering sons of pox-ridden stoats! They know we’ll likely be carrying wine and iron, let alone all the other goods. We’ve got a hundred and fifty tuns of wine below decks — that’s what they’re hoping for, beshitted knaves! I swear, when I return home this time, I’ll turn privateer and catch me some of these devils!’
‘Are they a constant problem now?’
‘As constant as the waves.’
‘Then we must show them that attacking an English ship is foolhardy,’ Baldwin said. He drew his sword and studied it a moment. On one side of the bright, peacock blue blade was an inscription: BOAC — BeatiOmnipotensque Angeli Christi, ‘Blessed and Omnipotent are the Angels of Christ’. Even as he gazed down at it, he felt his soul stirring. Turning the blade over, he gazed at the other side. Here was a neatly carved Templar Cross to remind him of his time in the Order before its destruction by an avaricious French King and his henchman the Pope. All of Baldwin’s former comrades had been humiliated, many murdered, and all so that the King and Pope could profit from the Templars’ wealth.
It was a period Baldwin was not prepared to forget, nor would he relinquish memories of his Order and his youth spent there. Baldwin had laid out a small fortune, having an expert cut this symbol and the letters with a burin, hammering fine gold wires into the lines, but he felt that the money was well spent. The little sword with its blade of less than two feet was comfortable to carry and comfortable in his hand. While he held it, he usually felt all but invincible.
Today, though, gripping his sword he felt a sudden sadness sweep over him. Perhaps this time the sword would be inadequate to protect him, for this was not his element. He had no love of the sea even if he did not fear it as much as many men did. For him to fight at his ease, he needed to be seated upon a destrier, ideally with a lance in his hand and a roar of defiance in his throat, not here, on a wobbling wooden platform far from safety. Perhaps he had seen the last of his beloved Jeanne and his darling daughter Richalda.
‘They’re going to come on as night falls,’ the master predicted gruffly.
Baldwin’s spirits plummeted. The first rule taught by any master of defence was that the feet should be firmly positioned before attempting a blow of any sort, and here he was, about as secure as a man standing on the back of a bucking stallion. No, it was worse. There were ropes of all different thicknesses lying about, and an assortment of boxes of merchandise, all ready to trip the unwary. Fighting here would be very difficult.
The pirates’ boat was a low, sleek vessel, some sort of keeled ship. Cogs were large, ungainly brutes, to Baldwin’s eye, all huge arse and swelling sides, designed for carrying large amounts of merchandise; keel ships were more suited to raiding parties and pirates. Their low lines were strong, but importantly they gave the master the ability to use oars to propel the vessel those last, crucial few yards. Galley-like, the boat was similar to the ones Baldwin had seen in the Mediterranean: it also resembled the ships used by the arch-enemies of the world, the detested Vikings, whose raids had been made possible by the use of fast, seaworthy ships like this one.
All at once, he saw the oars breaking out on each side. To the beat of a thunderous drum, he saw them slash into the water. Seeing the young cabin-boy Hamo passing him, Baldwin caught him by the arm. ‘Go below and ask my three friends to come up here — kick them up the stairs, if you have to. I will not leave them to die there. Better that we should all die together up here.’