The Awful Secret (31 page)

One of the crew took the short oars, set in thole pins on the boat’s flimsy frames, and began rowing. Even with the added weight of two passengers wearing chain-link hauberks, the curragh was so light on the water that it sped across the few hundred yards to the shore. Another rock plunged into the sea many yards away, though the ripples from it made the boat dance about on the low swell.

‘They’ve little chance of hitting a moving target so small,’ said Godfrey Capra.

‘Then let’s hope they stick to single missiles,’ grunted de Wolfe. ‘If they fire a bucketful of pebbles, it needs only one to punch a hole through the bottom of that cockleshell.’

‘If those men on the beach pissed in it, it would probably sink,’ added Gwyn.

They watched as the little craft neared the shore, when the line of men began to congregate at the point where it would land. They could faintly hear a series of yells and could see swords and spears being waved threateningly. In the curragh, the sheriff was sitting rigidly on his thwart, waving the white flag with increasing desperation.

‘Now they’re throwing stones from the beach!’ yelled Gwyn, who had the best eyesight amongst the anxious watchers.

Suddenly, they saw de Ver grab the flag of truce from de Revelle and bend forward, almost vanishing from view, with only his backside sticking up above the rim of the curragh.

‘Surely he’s not cowering down!’ roared de Falaise in disgust, fearing that his leader was breaking the Templar tradition of reckless bravery in battle. The seaman could now be seen pulling the cockleshell around and rowing back towards the ship as if the devil was after him. Small splashes around the boat showed where a final fusillade of pebbles was landing, but in a minute or two, the craft was out of range and speeding for the ship. Roland de Ver was still hiding below the gunwales and de Wolfe wondered whether he had been hit by a stone or even a spear.

Gwyn’s sharp eye was the first to detect the truth. ‘They’re sinking!’ he yelled, pointing at the curragh, which was now noticeably lower in the water.

The sailor pulled at his oars like a man demented and came alongside the knarr with the little boat half full of water. Willing hands were thrust over the bulwarks to pull aboard de Revelle and the seaman. De Ver, with his face almost under water, stayed bent double until they had clambered out, then hurriedly followed them, still clutching the balled tunic, which he had been jamming into a hole punched through the tarred-leather bottom by a sharp stone. The damaged curragh swirled away and sank, as the damp heroes gained the safety of the deck.

‘Bastards! We could have been killed!’ snarled the sheriff.

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?’

‘The soldiers are not there to aid the Templar’s claim, de Marisco,’ replied John. ‘The sheriff is down there also and we are seeking pirates who have taken ships along this coast and murdered the crew of one recently. Your name has been mentioned more than once in such activities.’

The lord of Lundy burst out laughing. ‘Pirates! The damned sea is swarming with them. Every third vessel in these waters pillages and kills when they think the pickings are good enough.’ He swept an arm expansively around the horizon. ‘From here I have seen two different pirates competing for the same victim, they are so thick in the water – Turks, Moors, Irish, Welsh and Bretons, to say nothing of our local villains!’

‘Which includes you, I take it?’ suggested de Wolfe, with reluctant admiration for Marisco’s openness.

The island chief leered at him. ‘I’ll say nothing that one day might be used against me, Crowner. But tell me of this particular crime you are investigating. Why come to me as a suspect?’

De Wolfe related the tale of the capture and wrecking of the
Saint Isan
, and the inquest on the corpse found on board. ‘The survivor says a galley with six oars a side was responsible, similar to those two drawn up on your beach down there.’

‘God’s teeth, de Wolfe, there are hundreds of boats like that, especially amongst folk with a fondness for piracy. They can be rowed against the wind to catch a sluggish merchantman. But we’ve not used those in many weeks – in fact, one is holed, having run against Mouse Rock, which stove in a few planks.’

‘You may say that, but how do I know it’s true?’ snapped de Wolfe. ‘You have two galleys on your beach, the whole of Devon alleges Lundy is a nest of pirates and you have not denied it.’

De Marisco coloured with rising anger. ‘I don’t give a damn what you think, Crowner! Are you going to cart me off to Bideford in chains to await trial, eh? Have a care! You are here only on sufferance because of this priest.’

De Wolfe stepped forward a pace and the two men each side of de Marisco put their hands on their sword hilts in a warning gesture. ‘If we are bandying questions, are you threatening the life of King Richard’s coroner in this county? I have already pointed out to your man Robert that Lundy is no sovereign state. It is part of England and you hold your bleak island from the Crown. Deny that or threaten the king’s representatives and you make yourself a traitor, de Marisco.’

The two big men eyed each other aggressively but de Marisco was not one to back down. ‘Hold my island, you say! Yes, until old King Henry granted my estate to those self-righteous men who carry the red cross on their breasts. What have they to do with an English island? Let them stay in Palestine where they belong. They’ll not throw me from my birthright, just to add to their possessions – I’ll die first!’ he added.

De Wolfe, who secretly had sympathy with his views, shrugged. ‘That’s none of my business, but the time will come when London or Winchester will send an army against you that can’t be repulsed by one trebuchet and a handful of ragged soldiers. In the meantime, are you denying that one of your galleys took the
Saint Isan
and slew most of its crew?’

De Marisco looked at his thin henchman, Robert, who shook his head emphatically. ‘We made no such attack then, I swear to it.’

De Wolfe noted the word ‘then’, but the man sounded sincere about not having taken that particular ship.

‘You have your answer, Crowner. That’s all I have to say to you, so look elsewhere for your culprits. Any port from Tunis to Dublin may harbour them, so I wish you joy of it!’

With that de Marisco turned and marched back to his rocky stronghold on the cliff. There was nothing else to be gained, so John, Gwyn and the silent Cosimo, who seemed slightly amused by the whole episode, followed their guards back down to the beach. The ragged army of de Marisco watched them with curiosity as they refloated the curragh and Gwyn rowed them back to the knarr, still anchored outside the range of the trebuchet.