De Wolfe grinned at this stupid remark. ‘That’s the general idea of fighting, Richard – kill or be killed!’
They all stood looking in frustration at the distant beach, where some of the defenders were now capering about and waving their weapons derisively at the two ships. John noticed that two sailing vessels, about the same size as the knarrs, were beached on the pebbles. Beyond them lay two longer, slimmer boats with a row of thole pins along each side for oars. ‘Those are their pirate galleys, by the looks of it – so you can get ships safely on to that beach. If it wasn’t for that damned trebuchet, we could make a run for the shore and jump off into the shallow water.’
The shipmaster grunted. ‘As it is, we’d be sitting targets, giving them plenty of time to get the exact range. And we couldn’t get off until the tide came in again.’
De Wolfe looked thoughtfully across to the other knarr, a hundred paces away, where he could see Richard de Grenville talking to Abbot Cosimo. An idea germinated in his mind and he shared it with the sheriff, de Ver and Ralph Morin.
‘If we could only talk to de Marisco, maybe we could get some idea of his terms for letting us have perhaps even part occupancy of the island,’ said the senior Templar hopefully.
John shook his head. ‘I don’t think anyone wearing the broad red cross has any chance of getting ashore. But if we could use Cosimo as a godly shield, maybe they would let me ashore as well to talk about piracy, as long as I don’t accuse him outright.’
The two boats came together again and further discussion went on across the rails. Eventually, the Italian priest agreed to take part, confident that his papal immunity from every contingency would keep him safe, even from wild island buccaneers.
Another curragh was dropped into the sea and this time Gwyn offered to be the oarsman. With the abbot in the bow and de Wolfe in the stern, they set off again for the beach. ‘None of us is wearing chain-mail, so at least we’ve got a chance of swimming for it,’ observed the coroner cheerfully, as his officer’s brawny arms sent them skimming across the water.
The trebuchet remained silent this time, and as they reached the half-way point, de Wolfe saw that the men on the beach were quietening, perhaps puzzled at this second futile attempt to storm the island with three men. Then Cosimo raised himself somewhat precariously on to his knees on the triangle of wood that braced the bows of the boat-frame and held up the large wooden crucifix that normally dangled from a thong about his neck.
As they got into the shallows and the boat bounced on the breaking waves, the men on the shore moved forward to meet them, some with raised weapons and a few with large pebbles ready to cast at the boat.
‘I am Abbot Cosimo, an emissary from Rome,’ screeched the priest, waving his cross as the sheriff had wagged his white flag.
Gwyn shipped his oars and hopped over the side, rocking the curragh dangerously and almost pitching Cosimo into the surf. He grabbed the bow and dragged it until the keel grated on the stones, then bodily lifted the abbot and set him on his feet on the beach.
A dozen men crowded around him suspiciously, but clearly the small black-robed priest was no threat to anyone. De Wolfe joined Gwyn alongside Cosimo and gazed at the men edging forward on the pebbles. Many were rough-looking peasants, carrying a spear or even a sickle, but about half appeared to be soldiers of a sort, with a varied mixture of mail or leather jerkins, some with helmets and most with a sword or mace.
‘We wish to speak to your lord William at once,’ he shouted, over the babble of voices. ‘Who amongst you is leader on this beach?’
‘Who’s asking?’ grated a tall, thin man with a wispy black beard around his chin. He wore a metal-plated leather tabard and a helmet with a nasal guard.
‘The king’s coroner for this county, Sir John de Wolfe, that’s who.’
‘Then you’re not welcome. We only let this priest land because it’s a mortal sin to drown abbots.’
There was a coarse cackle of amusement at their leader’s wit, but de Wolfe walked up to the man and jabbed a finger into his chest. ‘I said I’m the king’s coroner. Are you telling me that you don’t acknowledge Richard the Lionheart as your rightful sovereign? Maybe you’re one of those Prince John traitors, eh?’
There were a few sniggers from the men standing nearby but the man’s face coloured. ‘I’m no Prince’s man – I fought with Richard in Aquitaine in ’eighty-seven!’
The coroner whacked him on the shoulder. ‘I was there too – and my man Gwyn here. A good year for fighting, that was.’ Suddenly the mood lightened, as old warriors shared common cause.
‘You want to see Sir William? It’s a bloody long climb, begging your pardon, Abbot.’
Leaving most of the men on the beach to discourage any more landings, the black-bearded man, who said his name was Robert of Woolacombe, led them up the beach to the track, which was part earth, part rock and had stretches of crude steps at the steeper sections. It wound up interminably and Cosimo was panting and wheezing long before he reached the top. They passed the trebuchet, and de Wolfe noticed piles of large, rounded missiles and heaps of small stones, ready to devastate anything that came within range.
Four hundred feet above the sea, the path flattened out on top of a grassy plateau. At the southern tip of the island, Marisco’s castle was built on the edge of the cliff, and in the other direction, several farmhouses dotted the bleak fields, the narrow island cut across at intervals by dry-stone walls. The view was tremendous, and the two knarrs looked like toys far below.
The group was led by Robert and three other armed men towards the entrance to a thick stone wall running around the landward side of the castle, creating an outer ward, inside which they could see the upper part of a two-storeyed keep. The outer wall had heavy gates set in an arch, but they never saw the inside, as three men marched out at their approach. From his confident bearing, the one in the lead was William de Marisco, lord of Lundy. He was a burly, red-necked man of about forty, with pale, protuberant eyes and a full beard and moustache. His wispy brown hair looked as if all the winds of the island had blown through it for most of his life. His cloak and tunic were frayed and slightly soiled, as if personal comfort was of little consequence on this remote island.
De Marisco strode up to the newcomers with a scowl on his face. ‘Who the hell are you? Why did you let them land, Robert?’
‘This one’s a priest. I could hardly beat his brains out.’
‘We’ve already got a priest, drunken sot though he may be. And who is this other one?’
De Wolfe returned his scowl, head thrust out. ‘Sir John de Wolfe, the king’s coroner for this county. I’m here to investigate a wreck and a murder.’
De Marisco stared at the coroner, hands on hips displaying a heavy sword hanging from his belt. ‘I’ve heard of you. You were with the king in Outremer,’ he declared, his truculence fading slightly. ‘But what do you want with me? And what are those bloody Templars doing down there?’ He turned to Cosimo. ‘What are you doing here, Father? We already have all the religion we need on this island.’
The Abbot of Modena gave one of his strange smiles. ‘Look on me only as a sightseer, my son. I was required to help these men get ashore, to prevent your servants slaying them.’
De Wolfe felt obliged to distance himself from the Templars, if he was to gain anything from this visit. ‘I have nothing to do with the claim of their Order to Lundy. If you wish to discuss that with them, they are out there.’ He waved a hand towards the sea.
‘To Hell with them! I’ll not waste my breath. But did they seriously think that a handful of men-at-arms could drive me from my rightful honour, granted to my kinsmen back in ’fifty four?’