Michael Jecks
The Outlaws of Ennor
Prologue
He couldn’t stay below decks, it was too stomach-churning with the ceiling apparently remaining still while his head and belly told him it was swaying violently to and fro, whirling wildly through the roiling waters. Instead, while his companions groaned and bemoaned their fate between bursts of retching, the tall knight with the soiled white tunic made his way up to the deck.
Sir Baldwin Furnshill sniffed the air and felt his temper improving as the wind flung salt spray at his face. It was refreshing, invigorating. He walked carefully to the mast, grabbing at stanchions and ropes on the way, and, when he reached it, took hold of a convenient cord and leaned back so that he could stare up at the sail.
Some twenty or more yards above him, Baldwin could see a man sitting with his buttocks resting on a short plank of wood. Like all the sailors, this fellow seemed unworried by the ship’s movement. He held on with an arm hooked about a rope, his thighs wrapped about the mast in front of him as he surveyed the horizon with a careless ease. Baldwin had noticed so many other sailors up there, all demonstrating the same indifference to height. The knight, who treated even short ladders with a degree of trepidation, felt quite faint to think of being so high. One slip, he told himself …
It was better to avert his gaze. The sail itself was enormously impressive; that the thick woollen material could harness the power of the wind and propel this ship, the Anne, in almost any direction, wherever the master chose, bellowing his instructions to the helmsman, seemed almost God-like, and entirely thrilling.
While the daylight lasted, all was well, he knew. If it was dark, he might have cause for concern because here, in the sea between Galicia and England, there were often alarming waves and sudden squalls, but at least with the compass held in full view of the helmsman, and with the lack of land in sight and several hours before dark, they should be safe, especially now, in the late summer of 1323. Such foul weather was rare at this time of year. It was only dangerous at night, when the compass couldn’t be seen (since this elderly ship had no binnacle with an enclosed candle to show the way) and rocks and other hazards might be hidden out there in the murk. Too many sailors died each year for Baldwin to be sanguine about their chances of survival in such conditions. How men could become inured to a life on the sea was beyond his comprehension. For him, sailing was a necessary but often unpleasant experience; he would never be able to actually enjoy it.
The only joy he felt in his own heart was at the thought that he would soon be home again. He had a bone-deep craving to be there. He missed his wife Jeanne, his young daughter Richalda, his comrade Edgar … and his dogs. It felt as though he had been away from Furnshill for years, rather than a few months. For Simon, his old friend, it must be even worse. The fellow had never spent an extended period away from his country, let alone from his wife and daughter. He’d only ever left his home for a night or two at a time. Even when he was called away by his lord, he tended to bring his wife with him. Now Simon was returning to a new job and new responsibilities. That would make the homecoming more exciting: more of a challenge.
A sudden lurch made Baldwin smile. Simon was a lousy sailor, and right now, Baldwin knew he’d be heaving and retching on an empty stomach. He’d be good for nothing for days after all this.
Baldwin looked up at the mast again, listening to the crackle of the sail, the whining of the wind in the shrouds. The top of the mast inscribed a lazy circle against the sky, and Baldwin was again glad that he had not accepted the lunch offered to him by the cabin-boy, Hamo.
At the time it had been the sight of the runny-nosed brat which had put him off, rather than the ship’s movement. Hamo was a short, rickets-ridden, underfed boy with a moon-like, pale face, whose eyes were hollow with exhaustion. He was filthy. And scrawny too; he looked swamped by the linen shirt made for a grown man, and his bare feet were already as horny as those of the older sailors, but at least he was quick-witted and bright. Baldwin felt sorry for the lad, was often amused by his chatter, but was repelled by the thought that Hamo could prepare Baldwin’s food or touch his bread. Not that there was much — already that which they had brought with them was all but used up, and they couldn’t venture inland to buy more, not in this weather. Better to stay away from land until the wind died a little.
The master stood near the helmsman. He was a powerful-looking man, this Gervase from Truro, and Baldwin instinctively liked him. He stood only as high as Baldwin’s breast, but he had the thick thighs and biceps of a fighting man, and the face of an elderly peasant, wrinkled and brown as a baulk of ancient oak. When his expression changed, Baldwin could almost hear the muscles squeaking, as though they were composed of wooden fibres as tough as those of the ship herself. Not that Gervase’s expression altered very often. Usually, as now, his face was set in a grim scowl, eyes narrowed against sun and salt, his brow creased into a thousand furrows. Even when he joked, he remained po-faced, a fact that always confused Simon. The plain-speaking Bailiff was easier with men who smiled occasionally. With Gervase, a man could not be sure when he was serious or making fun.
Now Gervase was crossing the deck beneath the huge rectangular sail, his manner thoughtful. He turned his face upwards, then back to the horizon with a glower, as though he was challenging the sea to try to sink him.
‘Are you well?’ he roared when he caught Baldwin’s eye. He had a pleasing cadence to his voice, like so many of his countrymen.
Against the squeaking of timbers, the howling of the wind in among the sheets and shrouds, the thump and hiss of water at the hull, both men had to bellow to be heard.
‘As well as may be expected, I think,’ Baldwin cried back, grabbing hold of a rope as the ship bucked beneath him. A fine mist of spray was hurled up over the deck as the ship crashed into a high wave.
‘This is nothing. You should see her in a bad squall!’ the master shouted without humour, his knees flexing to accommodate the deck’s movement. Then he gave a slow smile.
It was the sort of smile an esquire might wear while speaking to a boy who had just been unhorsed and winded by the quintain during weapons training. Many an esquire would take pleasure in describing how much more painful the shock of falling would be while wearing armour, or when prodded from one’s seat by a lance in the lists. Professionals, as Baldwin knew, always took pleasure in the anguish of those unused to their environment, no matter whether it was a seaman or a man-at-arms. There was a curious delight in the sight of others suffering an experience to which they themselves were grown immune.
‘Aye, and you should join me for a ride in the lists some day,’ Baldwin growled, but not loudly enough to reach the master, who was already striding back towards the helmsman.
Baldwin was glad to be alone again. He was a tall man, with features bronzed by the summer’s travelling. Thick in the neck and shoulder from many years of practising with weapons, he was strong and healthy for a man who was about fifty years old, but he was always conscious of the size of his belly, and at present he was keen to return to normality.
He was content with thoughts of his wife and the warm homecoming he could expect — but other, less attractive thoughts, occupied him, too. His dark eyes stared unseeing at the horizon, brow furrowed. With the deep tracks at either side of his mouth, lines graven by years of doubt and sorrow, the intensity of his expression made him look stern, an impression which was enhanced by the thin black beard that followed the line of his jaw. It was neat and trimmed, but oddly out of place on the face of a modern knight, and it gave Baldwin a curiously intimidating look.