Read Online The Outlaws of Ennor: (Knights Templar 16) by Michael Jecks - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Jecks
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legs were sodden, as were her skirts. Tedia thought she looked like a woman who had been through a downpour.
Atlast Simon felt the sand scraping at his knees, then a rock snagged his shin, and he could set his feet on the sloping beach. In the thin morning light, he stumbled on through the shallows, the slash in his shoulder hurting abominably; his teeth were set into a snarl of determination as he forced himself on, dragging his burden.
The moorstone grey of the sky had faded gradually while Simon had clung to his timber, and now above him was a gleaming blue vision that was as clear, distinct and perfect as the inside of a polished bowl, except this had no flaws or scratches, only occasional soft clouds like finest lamb’s wool. Of the previous night’s storm there was no hint. Simon guessed that there would be a thin line of blackness at the far horizon to give a hint of the filthy weather heading onwards, but in his present state he didn’t care. All he knew was that it had gone, and that he had somehow survived.
He pulled the body with him up the beach with what little strength remained in him, and dropped it when they were far enough from the water, sinking to his knees. There was no sound, and Simon eyed the boy for a moment with a sense of alarm.
When the mast had gone and the ship had grounded, the graunching noises grew. Only when he realised that the sound came from the ship’s main timbers as they began to break up, did Simon understand that the ship was doomed. Then a man went below and reported that there was a huge hole in the ship’s bows. She must sink. Gervase said tiredly that it was every man for himself, but insisted on being left behind. He would die with his
Anne
, he said. Simon had been about to leap into the depths when he heard the keening.
It was Hamo, the cabin-boy. When Simon saw him kneeling and praying, he had been tempted to jump and forget the lad, just as he must leave behind the other sailors, but then he caught sight of the tear-streaked face and there was something about it, something oddly like his own son. His boy was miles away, was only a fraction of Hamo’s age, and yet Simon liked to think that had Peter been left on a ship like this, another man might have tried to save him.
The thoughts sped through his mind, and then he was racing over the leaning deck. He grabbed Hamo under the armpits, roared, ‘Holdhard, lad!’ and set off for the lower rail. As he sprang over and down into the water, he heard a short scream of complete horror, but then they hit the water.
Simon was no great swimmer, but Hamo, like so many sailors, had never learned. Sailors often preferred a quick death by drowning, rather than to suffer the prolonged death of swimming until exhaustion took them over or a sea monster found them and made play with them like a cat with a mouse.
There was something to be said for that view, Simon told himself as he struggled his way towards a massive timber, dragging Hamo behind him. By this stage, the cabin-boy was nothing more than a dead weight, and swimming here, with the waves slamming down onto them after every few strokes, was almost impossible. There was rubbish all about, ropes and spars intermingled, but Simon dared not grab at them in order to bind Hamo to the beam, because he was certain that the loose ropes would entangle them, and probably seal their doom. Instead Simon made his way to the timber with a set determination, while the saltwater threatened to flood his lungs at every stroke, the wind blew spray into his eyes, and his arms began to ache with the unaccustomed exercise. At one point he let go of Hamo when a large spar cracked over his back, but fortunately he caught hold of the lad again, and set off once more. The world was a roaring blackness, a place filled with pain, noise and fury; Simon must reach the beam to have even a remote possibility of survival.
And as if by a miracle, suddenly his nails scraped the slimy surface, and he could
Atlast Simon felt the sand scraping at his knees, then a rock snagged his shin, and he could set his feet on the sloping beach. In the thin morning light, he stumbled on through the shallows, the slash in his shoulder hurting abominably; his teeth were set into a snarl of determination as he forced himself on, dragging his burden.
The moorstone grey of the sky had faded gradually while Simon had clung to his timber, and now above him was a gleaming blue vision that was as clear, distinct and perfect as the inside of a polished bowl, except this had no flaws or scratches, only occasional soft clouds like finest lamb’s wool. Of the previous night’s storm there was no hint. Simon guessed that there would be a thin line of blackness at the far horizon to give a hint of the filthy weather heading onwards, but in his present state he didn’t care. All he knew was that it had gone, and that he had somehow survived.
He pulled the body with him up the beach with what little strength remained in him, and dropped it when they were far enough from the water, sinking to his knees. There was no sound, and Simon eyed the boy for a moment with a sense of alarm.
When the mast had gone and the ship had grounded, the graunching noises grew. Only when he realised that the sound came from the ship’s main timbers as they began to break up, did Simon understand that the ship was doomed. Then a man went below and reported that there was a huge hole in the ship’s bows. She must sink. Gervase said tiredly that it was every man for himself, but insisted on being left behind. He would die with his
Anne
, he said. Simon had been about to leap into the depths when he heard the keening.
It was Hamo, the cabin-boy. When Simon saw him kneeling and praying, he had been tempted to jump and forget the lad, just as he must leave behind the other sailors, but then he caught sight of the tear-streaked face and there was something about it, something oddly like his own son. His boy was miles away, was only a fraction of Hamo’s age, and yet Simon liked to think that had Peter been left on a ship like this, another man might have tried to save him.
The thoughts sped through his mind, and then he was racing over the leaning deck. He grabbed Hamo under the armpits, roared, ‘Holdhard, lad!’ and set off for the lower rail. As he sprang over and down into the water, he heard a short scream of complete horror, but then they hit the water.
Simon was no great swimmer, but Hamo, like so many sailors, had never learned. Sailors often preferred a quick death by drowning, rather than to suffer the prolonged death of swimming until exhaustion took them over or a sea monster found them and made play with them like a cat with a mouse.
There was something to be said for that view, Simon told himself as he struggled his way towards a massive timber, dragging Hamo behind him. By this stage, the cabin-boy was nothing more than a dead weight, and swimming here, with the waves slamming down onto them after every few strokes, was almost impossible. There was rubbish all about, ropes and spars intermingled, but Simon dared not grab at them in order to bind Hamo to the beam, because he was certain that the loose ropes would entangle them, and probably seal their doom. Instead Simon made his way to the timber with a set determination, while the saltwater threatened to flood his lungs at every stroke, the wind blew spray into his eyes, and his arms began to ache with the unaccustomed exercise. At one point he let go of Hamo when a large spar cracked over his back, but fortunately he caught hold of the lad again, and set off once more. The world was a roaring blackness, a place filled with pain, noise and fury; Simon must reach the beam to have even a remote possibility of survival.
And as if by a miracle, suddenly his nails scraped the slimy surface, and he could
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