The lad sniffed and wiped a grimy sleeve across his face before giving Baldwin a duck of his head and darting off.
The pirates were approaching more quickly now. Their leader stood in the prow, gripping an axe with which he beat the air in time with the oarsmen’s drum. He was a short, burly man with very white teeth all but concealed by a thick growth of beard. Baldwin at that point would have given much for a cross-bow and a well-made bolt. From here he could have pricked that devil without too much effort, he estimated, as the deck beneath him rolled and plunged.
He heard a stumbling step immediately knew who it was.
‘This is terrible,’ Simon said thickly.
Baldwin gave him the once-over. His friend the bailiff did indeed look awful. His hair was matted and smeared with vomit, his intelligent grey eyes were dulled and bloodshot showing up unnaturally in his waxen face. There was the yellowish cast of a corpse about him, and Baldwin was quickly anxious. ‘Old friend, you are not-’
‘Dead — which is a great source of regret to me,’ Simon said shortly. The sight of the horizon rising and falling had a disastrous effect on his belly, and closing his eyes didn’t seem to help. His stomach ached from spewing, he knew he smelled foul, and his mouth tasted like a midden: Christ Jesus, he detested sailing! He detested ships, and right now he detested himself. A liquid sensation in his bowels made him wince and clench his buttocks. ‘That gormless youth told us you wanted us. Why? What’s so hellfire important that you forced us- Christ’s pains!’ Leaning over the rail, he caught sight of their pursuers.
‘Yes, pirates,’ Baldwin answered as another passenger joined them.
‘What is all this? I can’t understand a word that blasted boy says.’
This was Sir Charles, a tall, fair Englishman who had met Simon and Baldwin in Compostela. His blue eyes were haughty, as though the whole world was an amusement designed to please him, but Baldwin was unpleasantly aware that he was a mercenary, a ruthless and dispassionate killer. The man was a knight whose lord had died, leaving him with no means of support. There were many such knights wandering Christendom now. Some of them ended up in the most peculiar places. Baldwin had even heard of one who was captured while fighting Crusaders on the side of a Moorish Sultan!
With Sir Charles was his companion Paul — a shorter, Celtic-looking fellow in a faded green jack. Of the three, Paul had the clearest eyes and the fastest mind. ‘They going to board us?’ he asked Baldwin.
‘They mean to.’
Simon grimaced and felt for his sword. ‘They’ll pay if they try.’
Sir Charles stumbled as the ship dropped sickeningly from the top of one wave down into the trough beyond; he grabbed hold of a rope. When he spoke, his voice was a little breathless. ‘How many are there on this ship?’
‘Too few,’ Baldwin said. ‘There are four and thirty in that keel.’
‘And we have only six sailors and us. Not a good wager.’
‘Be damned to a wager!’ Simon declared. ‘We can thrash a boatload of French pimps! Pox on you all! Sons of turds! You …’ He drew his sword and waved it defiantly, before hastily leaning over the side again.
Baldwin shot a look at Paul. ‘What of your longbow? Could you hit that man?’
Paul did not bother to gauge the distance. ‘The string has been soaked. I looked at it last night, and the thing’s useless. I couldn’t even hit our sail.’
‘Then we shall need to repel them,’ Baldwin said heavily. ‘So be it.’
The distance was closing all the time. Master Gervase used every trick of seamanship to escape the smaller craft, but the oars made a great difference, propelling the Frenchmen towards them at a surprising pace. The four stood watching, all holding tightly to the rail as the ship rode up massive waves, hesitated as though wavering at the crest, and then pointed the prow down into the trough. Time and again, Baldwin saw Gervase cross himself, saw other sailors reach for the nearest rope and close their eyes as though they felt that this dive would be the ship’s last, and they would all be carried through the trough and down into the depths.
The Frenchman had bided his time, but now Baldwin was sure that there was a greater urgency in his voice as he roared at his men. It was the light, Baldwin realised. The sun was going down behind leaden clouds in the west, and even as he looked ahead hopefully, he felt the first flecks of rain strike at his cheeks. There was a brief flash of orange light as the sun peeped through the clouds, and Baldwin felt a sudden awe at the sight of the bright orange finger stabbing towards him across the water. It made him feel as though God was showing him that he was safe. Then the light was swept out as though by a massive grey hand, and Baldwin glanced back over the stern.
He stared in astonishment. A column of blackness seemed to be racing towards them, overtaking them and the pirates.
‘Thanks be to St Nicholas,’ the master breathed. Baldwin glanced at him and saw that he was crossing himself again.
‘Master, what is that?’
‘Foul weather. If we survive it, we’ll be safe. Even Breton pirates wouldn’t try to attack in that,’ the master said, and sneered at their pursuers, bellowing, ‘HEAR THAT? KISS MY BUTTOCKS GOODBYE, YOU DUNG-EATERS!’
Glancing at him, seeing his joy, Baldwin gave a heartfelt prayer of thanks to God for saving them from attack. Surely this was the miracle they had hoped for.
Chapter Two
At the Priory of St Nicholas, on the island of the same name, Cryspyn set the brothers to work as soon as the shepherd had rushed in to warn them. It took only a moment’s glance south-east from the roof of their little priory church, to see what he meant, and Cryspyn had instantly ordered the lay-brothers and monks to their various tasks.
God had no mercy sometimes, the Prior reflected, glancing heavenwards. ‘Why now?’ he muttered aloud, staring out at the approaching storm, watching to see where it might strike first.
There was never enough time these days to sit and consider things in peace. Since the famine, this priory had been teetering on the brink of collapse. At least they had sheep and the support of the mother-house, Tavistock Abbey, which meant that there was rarely a shortage of ale and grain, but that was not everything. Cryspyn had the unpleasant feeling that the priory was beginning to fall apart.
It had all begun with the disastrous appointment of Peter Visconte, the chaplain of St Mary’s Church on Ennor until his concubine was discovered. The fellow had been hauled up to Bishop Walter’s court in Exeter so quickly he hardly had time to pack. It was essential that a new man be appointed as chaplain, so Cryspyn had immediately sought out William of Carkill, who lived, hermit-like, on the small island of St Elidius, and sent him to run the church on Ennor until a replacement could be found. The Prior had his doubts about William, but the man appeared to have done a fair job, persuading some of the more disreputable characters to attend his church. His replacement at the little chapel of St Elidius was a strange young man. Luke needed watching, Cryspyn felt. The Prior was still unhappy about Luke’s motives for talking to Isok’s wife about her problems and giving her advice.
As though his thoughts guided his eyes, he turned towards the little hump of rock north of his priory where, at this time of day, the tide would be on its way out. He glanced at the waters between St Nicholas and Ennor to gauge the depth against the trathen, the sand bar that reached between the two. Even as he did so, he felt sure he could see Luke. The man was down on the beach, striding towards the seas.