The Tournament of Blood aktm-11

by Michael Jecks

  As he spoke, Sachevyll himself appeared around the side of the stand and stared at them. He looked gaunt and pinched, and Baldwin felt a pang of sympathy for him: he had lost his lover, perhaps his only friend and also his companion in business. What future could he expect now?

  Sachevyll screeched at the workman, ‘What are you doing? Don’t you want to keep your job?’ Facing Baldwin, he pleaded: ‘Leave them alone, can’t you? Holy Mother, send me patience! With Wymond dead, I have enough to do without worrying that you’ll stop the men from their work.’

  ‘You should be grateful: he has confirmed your story. You say you had been in business with Wymond for some years?’ Baldwin asked as the man hurried away.

  ‘Yes,’ Hal Sachevyll sighed. ‘God! What of it?’

  Baldwin was tempted to ask whether they had embezzled money from Lord Hugh, but Sachevyll would guess that the worker would have tipped him off. It appeared unlikely, but if Sachevyll had killed Wymond, he would make short work of the builder. Baldwin held his peace; instead he asked, ‘What interests did you have in common?’

  ‘We enjoyed making tournaments, that’s all,’ Hal Sachevyll snapped.

  ‘Can’t you tell me anything that could help me find his killer?’

  ‘I don’t know anything!’ The man was wringing his hands.

  ‘Did you see anyone with him yesterday? Someone you didn’t recognise?’

  ‘No! When I saw him it was only to talk about the timbers. Why the men used them to erect the stands baffles me. A complete waste of time. They will all have to come down. Wymond was supposed to be keeping an eye on all that. The wood is useless. As it is, I have been forced to go and buy more, and you’ll never guess how much I–’

  ‘I have no wish to know,’ Baldwin interrupted smoothly, ‘but I am glad to hear that you can guarantee the safety of the stands.’

  He left Sachevyll and wandered pensively back to the river near the architect’s tent, looking down into the water again, contemplating the tranquil scene. A little further on the river curved back towards the hill on which the castle stood. Baldwin strolled along the bank. There was a thick muddy patch where cattle came to drink at the far bank, and a corresponding mess on his side. It was a pleasant, shaded spot, with the sun dappling the waters, and the river gave a pleasant, gurgling chuckle as it rippled past. Baldwin stood and rested a hip against a low branch, turning back to face the field.

  Baldwin considered Wymond perfectly capable of viciousness; he could well have committed some foul act in the past which was deserving of retribution. His appearance went against him, but so did his quick temper. Baldwin, a man who had seen men-at-arms who raped, slaughtered and tortured, saw in Wymond someone who could have been guilty of the same kind of behaviour. Not, he sighed to himself, that that was in any way an excuse for what had happened to Wymond.

  How did the murderer actually commit the crime? Where was Wymond caught, where was he bound, where was he hammered to unconsciousness and murdered?

  Before him, in between himself and the wooden stands of the ber frois was the tent where Wymond had been found. The stands blocked the view to the fairground scene beyond. Right was the sweep of the river, curving around the whole area. Baldwin was sure that someone who wanted to kill a man would have taken the victim to a quiet area so he couldn’t be interrupted. His eyes were drawn back to the hill on his left, behind the castle. Up there the trees might smother a little of the noise, a man’s screams or shouts – but a killer would surely want somewhere safer, where he couldn’t be seen or heard. The hill was too close to the market and stands for that.

  A murderer would want a more private place. Perhaps he found it by crossing the river.

  The man they were seeking was not some reckless, random killer. And this was no spur-of-the-moment deed. A man with a grudge was the most likely candidate – but who?

  He turned and stared out over the river. The water looked deep, but then he noticed that a causeway lay just beneath the surface. Ah, well! he thought resignedly, and stepped boldly into it, trying to ignore the water which lapped over the tops of his boots.

  Sir Edmund of Gloucester rode his horse at a fast gallop into the tented area, guiding his mount with an automatic tweak of the reins and subtle shift of his weight. The great charger turned, avoiding a small child by inches, and Sir Edmund laughed to see the brat caught up by an outraged mother.

  It was forbidden to ride fast in this area, but he didn’t care. Not now. There was nothing anyone could do to him that could affect him. After his last English tournament he had been ruined, a knight without horse, without armour, a wandering, lordless knight, a nothing, and he would never forget the horror of that time. He had been forced to leave his home and seek fame abroad. Tournaments in France and Germany had helped hone his skills and had given him a focus, and after his successes, he had returned, laden now with plate and gold.

  While abroad he had met Andrew. The older man was experienced, a dutiful servant and reliable squire in the hastilude. Together the two had slowly built up their fortunes, assisted by the patronage of a powerful banneret at Bordeaux who was a vassal of Thomas of Lancaster, and it was Earl Thomas who had rescued Sir Edmund from his wanderings and gave him back his pride.

  He leaped from his mount at the entrance to his tent and stood patting the great horse’s neck while he glanced about him superciliously. The people repelled him: dull, stupid folk who had no idea what life was really about. They none of them had a clue about the meaning of chivalry.

  Pulling his horse behind him, he walked to the river and let his beast drink. It was the most important rule for any fighting man: the horse always came first. A knight depended upon his mount before any servant, woman or companion.

  He passed his horse to a groom and wandered back to his tent, a brightly coloured pavilion with his shield prominently displayed outside. The thick canvas was painted and stained in strips to match the colours of his shield: red and white vertical bars. He had discarded the marks of his Lord.

  The thought was bitter. He was constantly aware of it. His master was dead, murdered by the Butcher of Boroughbridge: King Edward II.

  Neither he nor any of the other men in Earl Thomas’s host had believed that the man who so completely failed at Bannockburn and during the Despenser war last year would actually fight Earl Thomas. It had seemed ludicrous to think that so pathetic a King, who preferred swimming and play-acting with peasants to hunting or taking part in honourable pursuits, would dare confront a proven warrior like Earl Thomas. Edward had even banned tournaments; and only a man who was fearful of his own warriors would stop Englishmen from their practice.

  When the King rode north with his host, Earl Thomas knew he must protect himself and moved south to block his advance and force a negotiation, but all went wrong. The King avoided direct contact, and instead looped around behind the Earl’s forces, threatening to cut him off and forcing the Earl to retreat.

  That was the reason for the disaster. During the long march northwards, trying to outmanoeuvre the King’s forces, several of Earl Thomas’s allies proved their dishonour. They simply faded away as the line of march extended; not only peasants fearing for their lives, either, but magnates like Sir Robert Holland, who rode off with all his retainers, the foresworn coward!

  The final disaster came at the river. Sir Andrew Harclay stood on the bridge with only a small force, but they were resolute, a band of veterans from the Scottish wars. Earl Thomas rode to a ford to take Harclay in flank, while his friends held Harclay at the bridge, but the attacks failed. Harclay had mingled archers with dismounted men-at-arms, and the Earl could make no impression on them. At night the fight was halted, and it was then that Earl Thomas told his companions to ride away if they would save themselves.

  Sir Edmund refused to desert his master, but Earl Thomas took his sword and cut the trailing tail from his banner. ‘There, Sir Edmund. Now you are a knight banneret.’

  ‘My Lord, I don’t have the income
to justify… ’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Earl Thomas said, beckoning a clerk. He took a heavy purse and pressed it into the younger man’s hand. ‘Take this and save yourself. I will grant you a manor near Exeter. Make yourself known to Hugh de Courtenay and he may accept you into his household. If the King is merciful, you may be permitted to remain there.’

  ‘What of you?’

  ‘There is nothing I can do. I am advising all my friends to save themselves,’ he said heavily.

  ‘I should remain at your side, my Lord.’

  ‘You should obey my commands, Sir Edmund!’ Earl Thomas had snapped, and that was that. A matter of days later, he was executed on the orders of the King, in the most demeaning manner possible for someone who was himself of royal blood.

  Sir Edmund had obeyed his last wish, and now he owned a pleasant manor east of Exeter near Honiton, high on a hill from which he could see for miles. It gave him a sense of security knowing that he could see an enemy’s approach, for he was convinced that the King himself would want to persecute him for his support of Thomas; if the King did not, then the Despensers would see to his destruction, for in their greed they sought always to ruin their enemies and steal any lands they might for their own enrichment.

  That was why Sir Edmund was here, at the tournament. To be safe he needed a new lord, a master who could protect him against the most powerful men in the realm after the King. The alternative was to go into exile again. Lord Hugh was not the wealthiest baron, but he was no threat to the King or Despensers either. If Sir Edmund could join his host, he might be safe. The Despensers had bigger fish to catch.

  A tournament offered a unique opportunity to shine before a lord. Other knights had won patronage from new lords after demonstrating their valour and prowess in the tourney, and there was no reason why Sir Edmund shouldn’t as well.

  His squire, Andrew, was not in the tent. His Welsh archer, Dewi, sat on a stool stropping his long-bladed knife.

  ‘Where’s Andrew?’ Edmund demanded.

  ‘There’s been a dead man found. He’s gone to watch.’

  ‘Morbid bugger! Tell him I’ve gone to the tilt-yard. Men will be practising and it’ll be useful to assess their skill.’

  He left his archer and made for the tilt-yard, but before he passed through the main field, he suddenly saw a face he recognised.

  ‘Sir John!’ he breathed.

  Sir John of Crukerne heard his name and glanced about. Seeing Sir Edmund, he stared hard a moment, but then slowly his face broke into a grin. ‘Ah! Edmund of Gloucester. I am pleased to see you, Sir Knight. I shall look for your shield, I promise; after all, you will need an opportunity to regain the wealth you lost six years ago!’

  With a sudden roar of laughter he slapped his thigh with delight and walked away, leaving Sir Edmund frozen, his face set into a mask of rage and disgust.

  Sir John was the man who had ruined him in 1316; the man who had caused Sir Edmund’s flight.

  The knight was gripped with a loathing that tightened his chest until he found it hard to breathe. He watched, his features twisted, as the tall figure of Sir John marched away, and then his expression changed into one of longing and sadness as he caught sight of Lady Helen Basset.

  The woman who had promised herself to him. Before she married Sir Walter.

  It was peaceful at the other side of the river. A small stand of trees blocked this part of the stream from the noise and bustle of the stalls nearer the castle, and no one had advanced over the water to this meadow – possibly because they didn’t want to get their feet soaked, Baldwin considered as he pulled his boots off and upended them. The squelching had become all too noticeable as he walked in the meadowland.

  There were cattle standing in a wary huddle and Baldwin avoided them, walking instead along the bank near the fast-flowing water. The sunlight filtered through the branches to spot the ground and the river was a constant chuckling companion. Even bearing in mind the serious nature of his investigation, he felt his mood lighten.

  However, the good weather had one negative aspect: it had been so dry that the soil was dusty and, although he looked for signs that Wymond could have come this way, the ground was too hard to show footprints.

  If Wymond had come here with another man, was it, as the workman suggested, for sexual favours, Baldwin wondered. What other reason could the killer have given for bringing Wymond to this deserted place? There was no proof that the carpenter had, in fact, come here.

  He strolled further along the bank, until he arrived at the far corner of the meadow. The cattle had remained in the middle, regarding him suspiciously. Usually he found them astonishingly inquisitive: only worried animals huddled together. And the scent of blood unsettled them.

  There was no obvious sign of a scuffle or murder at the riverside. Baldwin surveyed the view back to the castle. Through the trees he could see the vibrant colours of the pavilions, the darker russets and ochres of the market’s tents, but the rowdy noise of Oakhampton’s population enjoying themselves was stilled by distance and the trees.

  Trees! Baldwin gave an involuntary start. The one thing that Hal and Wymond wanted was wood. Could someone have brought him here to show him trees or branches which he could buy or thieve?

  The idea caught his fancy. He looked all about him, trying to see where a man might go. It would be better for the killer’s security not to kill Wymond too close to the river, for there he would run the risk of lovers wandering at the waterside hearing him. No, if Baldwin were to commit such a crime, he would do so up nearer the treeline above the meadow.

  Setting off away from the river, he crossed the field and was soon climbing a reasonably steep incline until he came to the trees.

  They rose from what looked like an ancient hedge which had been left to its own devices. Where the straggling branches should have been cut back and new branches threaded in among the others to form a solid barrier against wolves, sheep and cattle, the limbs had been left in place to grow. This place was so badly looked after that many of the bushes had over time grown into trees and now the old line of the hedge could be seen as a row of boughs straggling slightly along the edge of the pasture. Between the trees there was a thick line of smaller bushes and brambles, impenetrable for Baldwin since he was wearing one of his better tunics and he knew what his wife would say were he to attempt to force his way through. Instead he moved slowly along the line until he came to a gap.

  Kneeling, he studied the place with a frown. The brambles and young twigs had been pulled aside, dragged into the field as if a cow had pushed her way through – but there were no hoof-prints.

  Baldwin had investigated enough crimes to know that there were always little signs, if you knew how to spot them, which would tell you how a man had been killed and by whom; and he never lost this special frisson of excitement as his investigation suddenly took off. He felt much like a harrier which had detected the scent of a fox or rabbit and was circling to find out which direction the quarry had taken before howling to attract the attention of the rest of the pack.

  The gap was mucky where the branches had been trodden underfoot, and there must be a spring hereabouts since the soil was extremely damp, but although Baldwin searched for footprints there was nothing to be seen even after a careful study. Where the twigs and stems had been pressed into the mud, they had sprung back, destroying any tracks. Even if there had been a print, the mud was so liquid that it would have been erased, so Baldwin turned his attention to the sides of the opening.

  Immediately he could see that the gap was not caused by a large animal. Some of the brambles had lost all their thorns and had the bark stripped away as though hauled from the hedge, not slashed by a sharp billhook or knife. If a man had used a hammerhead to scrape the stems away it would leave a mark a bit like this, he thought, before clambering through the gap into the woods.

  A blackbird flew away along the line of the hedge uttering its raucous, chattering call, and there was a rustling fr
om among the leaves not far from him. He stood stock-still and stared until the colours and shades resolved themselves into the figure of a large feral cat which stared unblinkingly back at him before padding off on silent feet.

  It was the cat that drew Baldwin’s attention to the line in the leaves a few feet to his side. There was a sweep in the litter at the foot of the trees, as if a gigantic snake had made a casual path through the detritus. His breath quickening, Baldwin followed the track, which led a short way among the trees, and he stooped to pick up a heavy hammer. Weighing it in his hand, he glanced back towards the castle. The top of the keep showed above the treetops, but the thick foliage of plants lower on the hill concealed all signs of the pavilions, tents and stalls in the meadow at the castle’s feet; the noise of the building of the stands, of the chattering, shouting and laughing people, was all a dim, distant murmur from here.

  A hammer was as important to a carpenter as a great sword to a knight. Wymond would have taken this tool with him everywhere. It defined him. Yet it had fallen here.

  ‘So this is where you died, Wymond,’ Baldwin murmured, gazing about him. ‘And no one heard you, not this far from the camp. But who did this thing – and why?’

  Chapter Twelve

  Simon left the body after he had seen to the official reporting of the wounds before the local jury. It took some time and might well prove pointless, since the Coroner would want to conduct his own inquest in order to record the facts, but at least Simon was content to have confirmed the main details before witnesses. No one could accuse him of not being thorough.

  Although Hugh de Courtenay was not due to arrive until later, much of his household was already in the castle. His harbingers had arrived the day before: one yeoman of the chamber, one clerk of the kitchen, a groom of the chamber, a cook, a sumpterman with the clothsack for the bed, servants to look after all the clothing, as well as an usher for the hall.