The Tournament of Blood aktm-11

by Michael Jecks

  At his castle in Gidleigh, Sir Richard Prouse took the note and gave it to his priest, listening with a set face to the cleric’s slow reading. When he had finished, the priest gave him a sympathetic glance over the top of the sheet, but Sir Richard ignored him, turning his back while he considered. He had no desire to take the man into his confidence. He didn’t trust the feeble, weak-minded fool enough to enlighten him about his own innermost feelings. Dismissing the messenger and curtly telling his priest to seek out food and ale for the fellow, Sir Richard limped slowly to his upstairs chamber.

  A tournament; another damned tournament, and he was invited to witness the ‘festivities’.

  It was because of tournaments that the castle was built upon debts and mortgages. That was his father’s legacy: a place without the finance to support it. All he could have used was bound up under other people’s control, like that whore’s cub Benjamin, the money-lender who had fleeced his estates after his father died. If it wasn’t for him, Sir Richard could have come into his estates with some dignity, but no! Benjamin had been determined to take all he could. He had an English name, but in terms of his business dealings he was as much a thief as a Venetian!

  That was the trouble with jousting. If a man became hooked on the thrill he could gamble away his entire inheritance. Many a man depended upon his wife’s financial acumen to protect lands and property. A knight was no use if his sword and charger were in pawn to a usurer. And Sir Richard’s father had been completely hooked on the sports.

  Whereas Sir Richard perpetually wore a strained, anxious expression and with his deepset eyes under his dark hair looked older than his almost thirty years, his father had appeared much younger than his thirty-four years merited when he died; he was a cheery, pleasant, open-faced man who accepted the blows fate dealt him with a calm resignation or charming self-effacement but, like any gambler, believed that the next joust would recoup his losses. In part it was his very assurance and easy manner that had attracted so many women to him. Sir Richard knew all too well how other men’s wives would look to Sir Godwin and invite him to their beds. Especially at tournaments when they could be bowled over by the handsome knight’s easy flattery. Courtesy, Sir Richard sneered to himself. That was what they called it, those self-righteous arses in the nobility; if not they called it chivalry, as if that excused a man who persuaded a woman to ignore her marriage vows and lie with him. Sir Richard himself could exercise all the courtesy in the world and never win a woman’s heart. Not with his disabilities.

  If his father hadn’t died, maybe he could have grown to respect him. He often wondered about that – whether if he had come to know Sir Godwin a little better he could have learned even to love him. Instead all he could see was the gross foolishness of his rumbustious lifestyle, the drinking and whoring, the madness of a man who lost so much money he couldn’t afford the best arms to protect himself, and who died for the lack.

  Sir Richard had witnessed his father’s death at Exeter. It was an unfortunate mace blow – misaimed, it didn’t strike Sir Godwin a ringing buffet on the centre of his helmet as intended, but glanced down the side until it caught his shoulder. It was the kind of blow that all knights were used to, one which would bruise but shouldn’t incapacitate a man with full armour, yet all could see at once that Sir Godwin was badly wounded. He fell back as if stunned, then stumbled. The spectators saw him put down his sword as if he wished to surrender, then let his blade fall to the ground, grabbing for his helm. He tripped, still desperately clawing at the steel of the helmet, and then there was a shout from the crowds as someone saw the blood seeping from beneath his helm.

  Soon everyone could see that the fallen knight was dying. Squires and heralds ran to him from all over the field while Sir Godwin’s opponent let his mace fall and lifted off his own helmet, gazing at the dying man with bemusement, wiping his hair from his brow. Then someone managed to remove Sir Godwin’s helmet and all could see the bright blood pumping.

  Afterwards they pieced together what had happened. The spiked mace had caught the junction of helmet and mail tippet, and a rivet had sheared inside the helmet. It was bad luck, everyone said, nothing more: the rivet had shot away and the flap of steel it held in place had been exposed, slicing through Sir Godwin’s neck like a dagger and opening his jugular.

  He could still see his father’s body lying in a lake of blood, limbs moving lazily, mouth opening and closing, the blood dribbling now, while his mother gripped his shoulder with fingers of steel. All about them men clamoured noisily, some sombrely making the sign of the cross, others baying for the blood of the victor. It was clear that his opponent, the other knight, was in danger, and a small group of squires surrounded him and hastened him from the field when the crowd turned nasty, folks pressing forward to the barriers. Sir Godwin was popular, known to all the watchers in the stands, and his killer was not.

  Sir Richard had been a youthful squire of only some fourteen summers then, back in 1306, and in the years that followed, he had been forced to attend several other tournaments in order to win his spurs as a knight, but that had all ended in 1316 at the tournament in Crukerne when he was twenty-four. Since then he hadn’t been able to participate, of course, and he tended to try to avoid them. He saw them as the frivolous pursuits of the foolish and indolent. His time was too taken up with building up the profits of his estates.

  It was fortunate that Sir Richard’s mother, of blessed memory, had been a talented woman and skilled with finance. She had scrimped and saved, juggling the profits of the estates in an attempt to keep the place afloat. His mother was no fool, thank God, and she was, like so many women, a good manager of money, but even so the place soaked up his treasure like a sponge. Matters were beginning to improve and Sir Richard had managed to qualify for knighthood when he was nineteen, but then came the disastrous famine of 1316, and he had been forced to borrow money again. Another visit to Benjamin; another crippling debt. And if 1317 was little better, 1318 was a disaster, and not only personally. There simply were not enough villeins to support the place and all their efforts were needed to keep Sir Richard solvent.

  Gidleigh was only a tiny castle, little more than a tower with a wooden fortification encircling it for protection from wild animals, but he wouldn’t see it taken from him. It was all his father had left him. Sir Richard had no need of a great household. Only those who aped great lords needed the hangers-on, and Sir Richard was happy to live the life of a quiet rural knight. He had enough money now, just, to support himself if he lived frugally, and that was why he objected to attending tournaments. If he was to attend, surely he would have to display those qualities expected of knights, and that would mean he must pawn his belongings again, perhaps even his best pewter.

  There was little enough left now, since Benjamin the Usurer had taken all he could. Sir Richard spat a curse at the ‘foul offspring of a leprous whore’ but it didn’t ease his loathing for the banker.

  At least the poxed bastard couldn’t do the same to anyone else now. Not that Benjamin alone deserved Sir Richard’s detestation. Others had helped destroy him. Others deserved his revenge. Especially Hal Sachevyll and his foul lover Wymond Carpenter. And Sir John, of course. Sir John of Crukerne, who had killed Sir Richard’s father with that mace-blow and then helped destroy Sir Richard himself when he was crippled.

  He bunched a fist and brought it down on a table, trying in vain to vent his rage – but it was no good. It never was. His frustration was caused by his body’s limitations and all he knew now was a sense of impotence at the injustice of it all. Sir John, Wymond and Hal had done this to him. And now he must go to another hastilude to witness their so-called skills. He glanced with hatred at the paper in his hand. Much though he’d like to ignore it, he couldn’t. He would have to go all the way to Oakhampton. Well, it could have been worse. Lord de Courtenay could have asked everyone to visit him in one of his castles farther north. At least Oakhampton wasn’t too far.

  Although with his r
uined body it would take him long enough to travel even that distance in his coach.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Who is it from, Baldwin?’ asked his wife Jeanne when she entered the room a few minutes later. Edgar had taken the soggy Odo from the hall to the kitchen to eat his fill, and she found Baldwin still contemplating the paper with a dubious expression.

  ‘Simon,’ he said. Jeanne crossed the room and sat near the window so that the light shone clearly upon her needlework. Baldwin smiled at her, but then his face hardened as he read the note. ‘He’s organising a tournament.’

  Jeanne caught his tone of voice and sighed, pinning her needle into the cloth and leaving it there. ‘And?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘I said, “And?”. You have a face that would curdle cream, Baldwin. What is it he is suggesting? Oh, I understand! He invites you to go along and help! That means travelling miles to some wind-swept and chilly field.’

  ‘Yes, he has asked me to join him,’ her husband admitted, ‘and to help with the tournament. Thank God I don’t need to participate at my age.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you secretly like to?’

  ‘A hastilude is dangerous enough when you are young and fit.’ He patted his growing belly. ‘It would be lunacy for me to tempt God by pitting myself against men half my age.’ More seriously he added, ‘And I want to see our child growing.’

  She touched the silver crucifix at her neck. ‘Let’s just pray it is born safe and healthy,’ she said. ‘When is the jousting to be?’

  ‘Not for a while. Late June.’

  ‘You should see to your armour, then. There will be events or feasts where you will be expected to wear it.’

  ‘Jeanne, I’m sure I won’t need to worry about that! Lord Hugh would hardly expect a man of my age to take up arms and tilt before him.’

  ‘It would be better to be safe than be forced into a course and find that your armour doesn’t fit you any more,’ she said firmly and rose to her feet. Usually an elegant, slender woman with the pale complexion and red-gold hair of the north, she had to puff and blow as she levered herself upwards. As was his wont recently, Baldwin went to her side and helped her with a hand under her armpit.

  ‘Thank you,’ she gasped. ‘It is hard work to get up now. Oh! And it aches so much! I shall tell Edgar to see to your arms and armour. I would worry else that you could be in danger.’

  He watched her rubbing at her groin with a worried frown. This was his first child, and the tournament held little terror for him compared to the thought of what his wife must soon endure. It was hideous, all the more so since one of his villeins had recently died in childbirth. Jeanne was his first wife and he had only been married a year; the thought that he might lose her was appalling. ‘You’ll be all right,’ he said gruffly.

  Hearing the note of alarm in his voice, his dog walked over to him and thrust his nose into Baldwin’s hand. ‘Good boy, Aylmer,’ he said absent-mindedly, watching his wife go to the door which led to the privyhouse. She had lost her cheerful smile and now all he ever saw in her features was a stolid fortitude, as if all she could concentrate on was giving birth and ridding her body of this extra weight.

  She disappeared and he patted the dog’s head. ‘What do you think, Aylmer? She’ll be all right, won’t she?’

  It was hard for him to come to terms with his impending change in status. Other men he knew accepted fatherhood as easily as buying a new horse or dog, but Baldwin had mixed feelings. Although he was desperately keen to have his own children, when he had been a Knight Templar he had taken the threefold oaths of obedience, poverty and chastity. His wife’s present shape was all too obvious proof of his failure and Baldwin still found that his vow haunted him, reminding him whenever he thought of it that he had broken an oath sworn before God. It was futile to try to exorcise the demon. He knew that he would die with the weight of his failure dragging at his soul, no matter how much he hoped and prayed he might find peace before death.

  There was another facet to the destruction of his Order, and that was that he had a deep and abiding loathing for any form of injustice. His Order had been destroyed as a matter of politics and greed, the King and Pope taking all they could from the Templar treasuries while burning any Templars who could not be forced to confess to sins which any reasonable man would have known to be false. It was this which had fired his determination to prevent injustices and led to his position as Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton. Wherever possible he tried to save men from conviction and punishment for crimes of which they were innocent; it was a novel approach in an age when most Coroners and Sheriffs were happy to imprison those people whom the local jury accused, but Baldwin preferred to investigate methodically. When possible he tried to free the innocent and only convict the guilty – a trait which had led him and his friend Simon to some surprising discoveries in the last six years; occasionally to horrific ones.

  He was learning to relax somewhat at home now he was married. Since first meeting Jeanne, he had become aware of a sense of ease, a general relaxation of spirit. He was less driven, he told himself with more than a hint of smugness; less bitter, more tranquil generally.

  ‘What are you smirking about?’

  He started at his wife’s voice but laughed when he saw how her head was tilted, her eyebrow lifted in sardonic enquiry. ‘Considering fate and marriage, my Lady.’

  ‘I suppose I should be glad, then, to see you wearing that hound-like expression of devotion,’ she said, returning to her chair.

  ‘And I should be glad too, to see how such a magnificent lady could bear to tolerate such a mean and disreputable fellow as me,’ he responded with a bow.

  ‘That’s all very well,’ she said, sitting slowly with a hand on her belly. ‘Ooh! That’s better.’

  ‘About this tournament. I hardly think it is necessary for me to attend,’ Baldwin said. ‘And I have no desire to go and display myself in shining robes at ridiculous expense just to prove my vanity.’

  ‘I am delighted to hear it – I wouldn’t wish to see you wasting good money in a frivolous manner. You must have taken part in many hastiludes, my love, but from what you said, you are glad to be able to avoid this one?’

  ‘I certainly have a dislike for being beaten about the head and body by ape-like drunks who occasionally lose their tempers and flail about them with an mace or axe. I should have thought that you would be nervous about seeing me enter the fray.’

  ‘As for that, I expect you would be a match for competitors half your age.’

  ‘Perhaps, except this would not involve only one or two single combats,’ Baldwin said, slapping the message with the back of his hand. ‘Simon says that the events will take place over three days: the first for the opening and some early jousts, the second with more individual challenges, and then a finish with a grand mêlée in which two opposing teams will try their fortune.’ He winced. ‘Think of it: two teams of knights at it hammer and tongs. Entering the ring on horseback until they are brought to the ground, then stumbling about, many of them blinded by dust and dirt and stunned by the blows raining down on them from all sides. Those who are captured will lose their horse, armour, weapons – and have to pay a ransom besides for their freedom. My God! It’s such a waste! And you want me to enter this?’

  ‘It always looks so spectacular,’ she told him honestly. Like many women, she enjoyed watching knights practising.

  ‘You want to be a widow so soon?’ he growled but then he remembered and could have kicked himself. ‘My darling, I am sorry. I wasn’t thinking.’

  Jeanne was not upset. ‘I lost my first husband when he died young, Baldwin, but you know I do not regret it. I cannot lie: I hated him. It was a relief when he became ill and succumbed. You mustn’t treat everything so seriously. And I wasn’t pulling a face because I was hurt by your words; I had a twinge, that’s all.’

  Baldwin felt as if the world had suddenly jolted beneath him. ‘A “twinge”? What do you mean, a “twinge”? W
hat sort of a “twinge”?’ he gabbled.

  She eyed him with amusement. ‘Baldwin, you have seen plenty of hounds give birth to their whelps, and mares deliver themselves of foals. You know what sort of twinge.’

  Baldwin threw a glance over his shoulder at the door. ‘I… ’

  ‘Shall sit and amuse me. You don’t expect me to explode in a moment, do you? How long does a birth usually take? Sit here, hold my hand, and keep talking.’

  ‘You’re sure you won’t, um… ’

  ‘It’s the beginning, but that may mean I have another thirty hours. It doesn’t feel very urgent yet,’ she assured him. ‘Sit!’

  Reluctantly he obeyed her, still gripping the message. His dog, hearing the sharp command, simultaneously squatted behind him.

  ‘Stop staring at my belly like that! Now, tell me what Simon plans. Why is he organising this tournament, anyway? What has it got to do with the tin miners, with the Stannaries?’

  ‘It is not his responsibility to arrange such events,’ Baldwin admitted, ‘but Lord de Courtenay has asked him to help. He wrote to Abbot Champeaux to enquire whether Simon could be released from his duties for a while. You may recall that Simon’s father used to be a steward in the pay of Lord de Courtenay’s father until old Lord Hugh’s death in 1292. Apparently Simon’s father was most adept at setting out the grounds and siting the ber frois, the stands. So our Lord Hugh asked that the former steward’s son should be allowed to help with his latest tournament. It is a matter of tradition – and an honour for Simon.’

  ‘But surely the Pope has only recently removed his ban upon all tournaments?’

  ‘And the King has imposed his own,’ Baldwin agreed.

  ‘May the Sheriff prevent it?’

  Baldwin laughed aloud. ‘The good Sheriff is one of Lord Hugh’s men. If I know him at all, he’ll be chafing at the bit to be there himself! No, there is no likelihood that the King would stop it.’