The Tournament of Blood aktm-11

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘If the good Lord Hugh de Courtenay considers that he can arrange to hold a spectacle, I see no reason to think he is wrong,’ Baldwin said. ‘Perhaps he has a dispensation from the King. In any case, Lord Hugh has requested and the good Abbot has enthusiastically agreed. Even now Simon is travelling to Oakhampton, I expect.’

  ‘Why is the Lord de Courtenay so keen to hold a tournament, I wonder?’

  ‘It’s probably something to do with that primping coxcomb Sir Peregrine of Barnstaple, Lord Hugh’s banneret. He is always scheming and playing political games. It is just the sort of vain, pointless affair he would think diverting.’

  ‘You still do not like Sir Peregrine?’ Jeanne said lightly, her hand moving back to her belly. It felt as if her pelvis was preparing to explode.

  Baldwin had not noticed her wince. ‘I do not. Give me a plain enemy with a sword in his hand any day in preference to a subtle, devious courtier like Sir Peregrine.’

  ‘He was always polite and courteous to me.’

  ‘He would be,’ Baldwin grunted.

  She continued musingly, ‘And I felt very sorry for him over that woman of his.’

  ‘Yes, he was plainly upset when she died,’ Baldwin said, and then his attention flew back to his wife as he recalled that Sir Peregrine’s woman had died in childbirth. ‘I am sorry,’ he added wretchedly. ‘I didn’t mean to remind you that–’

  ‘Stop blathering, Baldwin,’ she snorted. ‘I am not going to die. I’m going to have a perfectly normal delivery – unless, of course, you unbalance my humours by interrupting me every few minutes with apologies for what you may or may not have done!’

  He saw that she had gone pale, and now both her hands were at her belly. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘It’s like cramps, but it’s not coming fast enough yet,’ she murmured half to herself. ‘Still… Oh, wipe that look off your face, Baldwin, and pour me some more wine!’

  Later that same day Sir Peregrine of Barnstaple was seated in the small hall over the gatehouse warming his hands about a pot of spiced wine.

  ‘Did it take long to get here from Sir Baldwin’s house, Odo?’

  ‘No, Sir Peregrine. Only the afternoon. It’s downhill from Furnshill to Tiverton,’ the herald replied, sipping at his wine.

  ‘How was the good knight? Did he seem reluctant?’

  Odo laughed. ‘Sir Peregrine, he’s much more concerned about his wife’s pregnancy. It’s his first child.’

  Sir Peregrine grunted. Over the last year his woman and their child had died in childbirth. ‘What of the others?’

  While Odo spoke about the people he had visited, Sir Peregrine’s mind wandered. It was hard to concentrate on so many different matters at once. The main thing, he knew, was that the tournament must go to plan, without embarrassment and without alarming the King. For the King would have his spies there to see that there was no risk of treason among his subjects.

  Sir Peregrine knew he was fortunate to have professional heralds. Lord de Courtenay’s own man, his ‘King Herald’ Mark Tyler, was incompetent and lazy. It was fortunate that they had found Odo, a man who had served in other large households. He had experience of continental jousting, and was a much better musician than Tyler.

  ‘What do you think of Mark Tyler?’ he asked abruptly.

  Odo hesitated. ‘You want me to slander him?’

  ‘Your answer already does!’

  ‘His playing can be good, but he does have a problem.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Why do you value me?’

  Sir Peregrine was ready to snap that he had his reasons, but then he caught sight of Odo’s expression. Odo was no fool, and Sir Peregrine did value his opinion. ‘Because you have travelled. You can tell us of the honourable customs which exist in foreign lands and relate highly prized deeds of valour.’

  ‘That’s right. I have seen the world and I have officiated at tournaments from Bordeaux to Paris. It’s the first duty of a herald to find new tales of courage – but Tyler has no idea. He has once, I hear, been to Guyenne with his lord and that was many years ago.’

  ‘If he is so provincial and dull, why are you here?’ Sir Peregrine asked sharply.

  ‘He is so provincial and dull that I should soon be able to take his position,’ Odo said frankly.

  Peregrine had to grin and shake his head. Ambition was no sin. ‘Well, if this tournament goes smoothly, I might help you,’ he said at last. He didn’t need to explain why. Tyler was one of the least popular members of the household, universally disliked for his rudeness and overbearing manner.

  ‘I thank you. I shall not let you down.’

  ‘Do not,’ said Sir Peregrine, but then his attention flew outside: he could hear horses’ hooves. It was so late the gates would shortly be locked for the night, and the arrival of a traveller at this time of day was so unusual that he cocked his head to listen. Sure enough there was the sound of running feet and a sharp call of enquiry as a man-at-arms demanded the stranger’s business.

  Sir Peregrine motioned to Odo to remain where he was – the poor fellow had ridden twenty miles or more that day – and pulled on a thick cloak. No matter how often you tried to drum these things into the heads of the dim-witted bastards at the gates, they would still treat all visitors as enemies. That was the problem with hired guards, they had no idea of courtesy or hospitality.

  As he left the hall and stood at the stairs leading down to the yard, he reflected that it probably wasn’t surprising, since many of the mercenaries who were employed in the castle had in fact been disinherited or deprived of their livings by men such as this visitor. Many of the fighters who protected the place had once been squires or men-at-arms, but had lost their masters in battle and were now forced to eke out a living by offering their services to others. They were not tied to Lord Hugh de Courtenay by feudal loyalty, only by necessity.

  Lord Hugh had little need of additional vassals: they were an expensive resource, after all. Men whom he accepted into his ranks cost him their food and lodging, their spending money, their arms, their mounts, their clothing – everything. Whereas a mercenary was cheap; he expected a wage, supplemented with bread and ale, but would clothe and arm himself.

  This visitor looked just the sort of man who could have caused mayhem to many. That he was a knight was obvious from his golden spurs and enamelled belt. Long in the body, with square, heavy shoulders, he had the build of an athlete. He sat on his horse like a man born to the saddle, moving easily with the animal as it skipped and pranced, blowing loudly through its nostrils. The man wore a brimmed felt hat against the chill, a heavy red riding-cloak and a warm-looking tunic of green wool over a greying linen shirt while his boots looked like best Cordova leather.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ Sir Peregrine called.

  At once the horse whirled so the visitor could face him. Sir Peregrine found himself being studied intently, the traveller’s eyes flitting over his worn and slightly faded tunic before fixing upon his face.

  The stranger had thick brown hair worn shorter than was fashionable, and intense grey eyes that were curiously disturbing because not only did he not blink, the irises were small, making him look as if he was holding them wide in challenge. His face was square and large, the jaw jutting a little. His nose was broken, and there was a scar beneath his left eye from a raking stab wound. Sir Peregrine decided that he did not like the look of him one little bit.

  ‘Godspeed,’ the stranger called. ‘Are you the Keeper of this castle?’

  ‘I am,’ Sir Peregrine answered. ‘Your name, sir?’

  ‘You may call me Sir Edmund of Gloucester. I have heard that there is to be a tournament in your lord’s demesne. Is that correct?’

  ‘We’re holding a festival in our castle at Oakhampton,’ Sir Peregrine confirmed.

  ‘I should like to participate.’

  ‘You would be very welcome, Sir Edmund.’ Sir Peregrine bowed, but truth be t
old, he was reluctant to accept strangers to the tournament. Men who were unknown could prove dangerous. They might lose their tempers and kill combatants, or by dropping a sly word into the ear of a bitter loser, cause a feud which could lead to bloodshed.

  The knight smiled as if he could read Sir Peregrine’s mind. ‘May I ask leave to stay here the night? There is an inn, but a traveller can often be waylaid in a new town.’

  ‘Of course, Sir Edmund. The stables will look to your horse, and if you have servants, they would be welcome to join you in the hall.’

  ‘I have only a squire and an archer,’ the knight said. He shouted through the gateway and soon a man with a nut-brown face and rough dark hair appeared on a heavy pony. He wore green like a forester, and had a long knife hanging from his belt while a rein held in his hand led a second horse, which was laden with sacks and provisions, as well as what looked like a pair of longbows well-wrapped in waxed cloth. A thick bundle of arrows was securely strapped alongside. Behind him came a blue-clad man, who trotted quickly under the castle’s entrance leading his own sumpter horse. It was heavily laden, rattling and clanking, apparently with armour, and lances projected forwards and backwards.

  Although he didn’t look above medium height, the squire gave Sir Peregrine the impression of wary power restrained only with conscious effort, just like his knight. His eyes moved over the whole yard, taking in the hogs in the corner, chickens scrabbling among the dirt and twigs, the lounging guards. Sir Peregrine thought a smile of disdain twisted his face at the sight, as if he was amused by the quaintness of the place.

  If anything, he felt that the squire deserved more careful watching than the knight. The squire was older; he looked a formidable fellow and Sir Peregrine’s attention remained upon him as he rode to a stable and sprang down as agile as a cat, and gave the reins to a young boy.

  As the three visitors were welcomed into the castle, Sir Peregrine experienced a feeling of unease. This fighting trio looked like a good team – possibly one of the best, and he wasn’t used to feeling outclassed.

  Chapter Five

  A week had passed since Jeanne’s false labour, which had subsided as suddenly as it began. A good night’s sleep, and the pains had been put down to a bad bout of wind. Now, however, there could be no mistake and Baldwin watched his wife with rising anxiety. Jeanne knelt on a cushion on the floor and gripped her maid Petronilla’s arm, eyes squeezed tight shut as the contractions ground into her belly.

  He knew perfectly well that women were built for this, that their bodies had been given to them by God to produce children. He also knew that Jeanne was being supported by a woman who had experience herself of childbirth – and yet the knowledge was no help. Watching his wife, he knew only panic that she might not endure.

  Poor Jeanne looked so tired as she waited for the next clenching; her eyes scarcely noticed him or the room, but instead were turned in upon herself. Baldwin wished he could comprehend what she was going through – but he couldn’t.

  He had appealed to Simon Puttock many months ago now, asking how the Bailiff coped with his wife’s childbirth, and Simon had merely laughed, saying, ‘It’s a woman’s thing. You don’t go and help your shepherds in lambing, do you? No – so why on earth sit in with your wife? You can’t help because you don’t know how – all you can do is unsettle her. Women know what to expect and all that, so I leave them to it and find someone to share a glass of wine or ale with me. So will you, if you have any sense!’

  ‘Let them get on with it,’ Baldwin repeated to himself, watching as Jeanne’s maid gently wiped her brow with a cloth dipped in rose-water. It was definitely a tempting thought, running outside to escape, but he felt his departure would be pure cowardice in the face of his wife’s suffering.

  ‘Could you fetch some wine?’ Jeanne gasped after a moment.

  Petronilla nodded and rose, walking quickly from the room.

  ‘Water, too!’ Jeanne called after her.

  ‘How are you?’ Baldwin enquired tentatively.

  She looked up at him. The dampness on her forehead made her look pale and ill in the candlelight, as though she was perspiring from a fever. ‘I’m not in pain, Baldwin, it’s not like that, it’s just that it’s so relentless! I know it won’t end until the baby is ready, but I wish it would hurry!’ She stopped suddenly, closing her eyes, her head falling forwards, a hand resting on her belly. ‘Here it is again – come here. Quick!’

  He went and crouched at her side as she stiffened, her arm gripping his, eyes tight shut, a sighing gasp breaking from her as the ripples cramped through her womb. It lasted but a few moments, but to Baldwin it was an age. ‘That’s it. It’s finished for now,’ she sighed.

  Baldwin was relieved to see Petronilla return and watched the maid mix wine with warmed water, holding the cup to Jeanne’s mouth. She sipped and swallowed, then leaned back. For once Baldwin poured himself a cup of wine and drank it neat. He glanced at the water, but then tipped more wine into his bowl, drinking deeply. Turning, he was in time to see his wife moan and reach for the bucket at her side. Before he could speak, she was sick, vomiting and spitting. Shivering, she sat back.

  ‘More wine?’ Petronilla asked.

  ‘No.’ Jeanne shook her head, eyes closed. ‘It’ll only make me sick again.’

  Petronilla nodded and wiped her brow.

  ‘It’s very cold in here,’ Jeanne said accusingly. ‘Baldwin, can’t you make the fire hotter?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said enthusiastically, glad to be able to help in even so minor a way. He threw logs onto the hearth and turned to find that Petronilla had left the room to fetch more rose-water. ‘Are you well?’ he asked with the return of his nervousness.

  ‘It’s… coming again. Come here!’

  He hurried to her and she grabbed at his arm, her fingers digging in while he stared down at her. It was an appalling sensation this, knowing that there was nothing he could do to ease her anguish, but he was reassured by her apparent resilience and fortitude.

  ‘It just keeps on, again and again,’ she whispered.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’ll soon be over,’ he said heartily.

  Her eyes flashed at him. ‘Don’t you bloody dare say that again! And why’s it so fucking hot in here?’

  The next morning, in his castle at Penhallam, Sir Walter Basset slapped his thigh when the message was delivered and read out to him. ‘A tournament? With all Lord de Courtenay’s knights? Wonderful! I can feel a treasury of money coming my way! Darling? My Lady?’

  His wife Helen left their steward to decide on his own which barrels should be taken up to the castle’s buttery, and walked to her man’s side. ‘What is it?’

  Sir Walter told her of the summons. ‘It’s excellent! Just think of the men who’ll be there – old fools, many of them. There’re bound to be loads of easy targets. Think of it! Ransoms, horses, armour – and even a handout of cash as a reward for my prowess from Lord Hugh!’

  Helen listened, and in truth she could smile with him. His joy was ever-infectious. He was large, strong, and entirely masculine, his whole body covered with a light curling down of black hair. His odour was to her the finest perfume; his leathery skin was rough against her own, which she found intensely erotic. His scars were proof of his chivalry; his hands large and powerful. He was not tall, but huge. Barrel-chested, his frame rested on short but solid legs. His constant practice with sword and lance had given him the massive shoulders of a wrestler, while his neck was almost non-existent.

  But he wasn’t ugly. He moved heavily, as befitted someone with so substantial a frame, but above it all, he had calm eyes of a deep blue, which were commonly crinkled at the edges with pleasure. His mouth was a little too wide, above the pointed chin, but his features were regular and pleasing, especially when he smiled. When he grinned, Helen would swear that he could tempt an angel. Now his sheer delight and conviction meant that the news of the tournament was in every way as pleasing to her.

  ‘So long
as you don’t fall and damage your new armour,’ she teased.

  ‘For you I would tilt without armour,’ he said gruffly. ‘For my Lady’s honour, my hide would be enough.’

  ‘I prefer jousting with you when you’re naked,’ she giggled.

  ‘Come to the chamber now. Prove it.’

  ‘I don’t have time,’ she protested.

  ‘I order it,’ he said simply.

  ‘My Lord,’ she said, surrendering happily.

  Their solar was at the other side of the hall, and they walked through it to their private chambers. There a man was sweeping away old rushes.

  ‘Out!’ Sir Walter snapped and the man fled while the knight untied his hose and pulled off his shirt.

  Helen watched him while she slowly removed her skirts and tunic. In every way he was a good husband to her, kindly and generous, and a master in the tournament. They had been married three years now, and she had never yet seen him bested.

  ‘Hurry, woman! I’ll burn with lust else!’ he grumbled. He was already on their bed, the blankets pulled back, and now he took hold of her and pulled her towards him.

  It was a wonderful body, he thought, holding her at arm’s length a moment while he felt his ardour mount. Long in the leg, slim in the waist, she had a flowing mane of red-gold hair framing a finely sculpted face with small nose, high cheekbones and slanted green eyes.

  Sensing his impatience, she quickly climbed atop of him, kissing and stroking to ensure his pleasure. It was her duty. She knew that he would suspect her of adultery if she ever rejected his demands, and his response would be swift and uncompromising. She made love with a silent passion until he spent, and then worked a little longer, more slowly, until she gasped and fell onto his chest, her breathing gradually calming.

  His chest was damp with their sweat. She kissed it, then rested her cheek on his shoulder, twining her fingers in the thick hair of his breast. ‘You’re confident of winning?’