The Tournament of Blood aktm-11

by Michael Jecks

  As he spoke, he glanced idly about the room, and suddenly Baldwin saw him clench his jaw and glare with real rage. He almost stood as though to go and fight.

  Lady Helen put a hand on his arm. ‘My husband, please. The fellow is only a boy. He means nothing.’

  Baldwin turned to see Squire William with his friends, but although the other lads were enjoying their freedom and Lord Hugh’s ale, Squire William appeared to be staring directly at her.

  Sir Walter turned and leaned towards Sir Baldwin. ‘I didn’t kill that pathetic carpenter, nor that thieving arse of a banker, but I’ll tell you this: if that little shit ever touches my wife, you can come straight to me when you find his corpse. All right?’

  Much later, Hal left the tavern, stumbling along the road in the clear night air.

  The atmosphere in there was just awful. Horrid! Smoke-filled from the badly drawing fire, cold from the multiple draughts that sought entry through the shuttered but unglazed windows, loud with the roars of the men-at-arms and their squires as they drank, belched, ate, sang, and quarrelled. One man was stabbed, although his attacker apologised profusely once he had calmed himself. And all this accompanied by the wailing and thumping from the musicians in the little gallery.

  Hal swayed gently at the foot of the castle and sniffed back another sob. There was no point in weeping and wailing. Wymond wouldn’t have wanted him to be upset; Wymond was too strong and hearty for that, but Hal was desolate without his friend and lover.

  They had met many years ago now, building a tournament together, and they had hit it off immediately. Then they met Benjamin, who was not interested in them in the same way, for which Hal was grateful. He couldn’t fancy the banker. He had always been attracted to very masculine men like Wymond, and Benjamin’s podgy figure was revolting. Not that he’d thought Wymond could possibly want him. No, Wymond was the source of some delightful fantasies, but Hal never thought it could go further – until one night he got the carpenter terribly drunk and the two of them fell together as soon as they returned to their rooms. Rough, coarse, occasionally cruel – all described Wymond; and yet he was also curiously vulnerable. The harshness was a show put on to protect him from hurt.

  Hal sighed and closed his eyes, feeling the tears approaching once more as the memories flooded back. The tears weren’t only for Wymond, but for himself. He didn’t know how he could live without his lover.

  If he could, he would have admitted his other job, too, but he daren’t. All he could achieve was enemies. Nothing more. Lord Hugh’s men would be furious if they learned that he, Wymond and the banker had spied for Hugh Despenser.

  Hal suddenly wondered whether Wymond’s death was the result of his spying.

  It was so inexplicable! Hal had gone to bed thinking that his lover would soon follow him. They tended not to share beds while working, because it was too tiring, but both slept in the same room. Hal had thought Wymond was going to return – in fact, he had a feeling he had half woken when Wymond had returned – and now he knew that it was the murderer who had woken him.

  And the next morning Hal had let him stay in his bed. How did he not realise that something was wrong? How could he have missed the glaring, terrible fact that his lover was dead? True, they never rose together normally, they didn’t care to be too obvious about their relationship, but Hal, when he woke and hurried from the tent, should have realised that Wymond was dead.

  Hal walked the few paces to the bridge over the tiny stream and sat at its edge. Disconsolate, he had no energy. The prospect of all the years to come, long decades alone, seemed intolerable. That was the curse of his kind: no companionship. If another man with the same simple urges was ever found, he was to be held on to with a fierce grip, for it was so hard to seek out another. At least a man who lost his wife could count upon being able to find a new woman; most would have a son or daughter to remind them of the happiness they had once known, but not Hal. His life was ended as effectively as if he had hanged himself. Whoever had killed his lover had destroyed him too.

  He closed his eyes and wept silently. The tears had been with him all day, but only now that he was alone could he indulge in his misery. And he would be alone for the rest of his life.

  ‘Are you all right, master?’

  Hal looked up into sympathetic eyes. ‘No. I am devastated,’ he wept.

  ‘There is a cure for that.’

  ‘Ale, wine, both give oblivion, but I need a stronger cure for my bereavement.’

  ‘I was thinking that the best cure is to talk about it, master. Would you like to tell me your troubles?’

  ‘No. But if you aren’t busy, I will buy you a pot of wine and we can talk and you can take my mind from them.’

  ‘Very well, sir,’ said Wymond’s killer, and he smiled as he helped Hal to his feet.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Just as the skies had promised, the morning of the first day of the tournament was clear and fine when Simon walked from the castle towards the tilting ground, resolutely putting all thought of Wymond and Benjamin from his mind.

  He was up before dawn and drank his morning whet of a pint of thin ale at the castle’s bar before setting off. As he gathered up watchmen and inspected the field to make sure that all was ready, walking about the ber frois and reassuring himself that everything was prepared, he couldn’t help but be glad that Coroner Roger was responsible for investigating sudden death. Simon had enough to occupy him already.

  He checked that Lord Hugh’s seat was safe and hadn’t been stolen (stranger things had happened) before peering beneath the stand and making sure all looked sound. It would be dreadful to have Lord Hugh’s own stand collapse, not that it was only the fear of poor construction that made him nervous. He was concerned. The sight of Wymond’s mutilated body had shocked him and the more he considered it, the more he was sure that a killer who could strike once in so devastating a manner could do so again. That was why Simon had wanted to come and check the area once more. To make sure that there were no more unpleasant surprises lurking for Lord Hugh.

  Lord Hugh had listened with frowning disbelief when Simon and Roger spoke to him of Wymond’s death, but his first thoughts were for his tournament.

  ‘Whoever it was must be mad,’ he concluded after consideration. ‘But you must find him, Coroner, Bailiff. If someone could be a danger to other people here, you must stop him.’

  ‘Fine,’ Simon muttered to himself. ‘Show me who he is and I’ll catch the bastard!’

  With no clear idea who could have killed Wymond or why, Simon found himself scouting about the stands, glancing beneath all those which did not have solid wooden walls, poking in the bushes lining the field with a stick and generally reassuring himself that no one was lying there dead like Wymond the previous day. He had to keep occupied, keep moving – the alternative was to sit and fester, wondering who and why, and whether another attack would take place.

  He had completed a half-circuit of the ground, and was standing at the riverside, morosely contemplating his tunic, hose and boots, all of which were sodden and wrinkled with the dew from the long vegetation, when one of the watchmen gave a muttered curse and called to him.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Some drunk. He’s puked all over himself,’ the watchman called back, kicking at a figure lying supine near the river some yards away.

  Simon wrinkled his nose. Even from where he stood he could smell the rancid stench. He ordered another watchman to help and stood back while the drunk was hauled upright and half helped, half dragged away. Simon continued on his rounds reflecting with satisfaction that even drunks hadn’t caused too much trouble with this event. Evicting one snoring reveller who had over-indulged the previous night didn’t compare with other festivities, when men and women could be found drowned in their own vomit, or in a well, or having tripped and fallen into a stream or river.

  There were legions of dead associated with events. Sometimes it was children who, having enjoyed ale or wine w
ith their parents, would fall asleep out of doors and freeze to death. Simon had himself, some years before, seen a boy running about a campsite after too much wine, and fall into a fire. Such deaths were natural, if unpleasant.

  There was a loud splash. Simon saw that the two watchmen had hurled their burden into the river. One of the watchmen was walking back, chuckling to himself.

  ‘Is he all right?’ Simon asked, jerking his head towards the noise.

  ‘He’s smelling a lot better already. He sobered up soon as the water closed over him.’

  Simon opened his mouth but the watchman reassured him. ‘Don’t worry, he’s not going to drown. It’s only a couple of feet deep there.’

  At the bank Simon could see the second watchman standing and laughing. Simon assumed that the drunk was still in the water, hidden by the trees, and nodded to himself. ‘Fine. Let’s get on, then.’

  As they continued their slow progress around the staged area, Simon found it hard to maintain his solemn visage. All was well; very well. The ground was a little damp and muddy, but this was Dartmoor, and the ground was always a bit damp and muddy. Flags had been raised and hung heavily, waiting for the first breezes to clear the dew from them, while every wooden surface Simon touched was slick with the damp, but all was as well-prepared as he could hope. Feeling his spirits rising by the moment, he led the way into the tilt-area itself. The sight of the lists was daunting and he was pleased not to have to worry about fighting here, with the local population and strangers from miles around watching to see if he might dishonour himself by incompetence or cowardice.

  The space was flanked by the ber frois, each of which had strong boards facing the fighting area, all painted with the heraldic symbols of many of the knights who would be fighting here. Lord Hugh’s own shield was painted before his seat, at the point where the competing men-at-arms should meet in their headlong clash, for there was no point patronising tournaments if you couldn’t enjoy the best view. On the last day all would change, for this would be the day that the two ends would be blocked off, and all knights would compete inside the enclosed ground to fight with whatever came to hand, while diseurs and heralds noted who had achieved signal feats. The mêlée was always the most popular of the events staged.

  However, today’s show should be a good sweetener, a taste of the displays to come, for today selected squires would show their skill. Riding to prove their courage in front of their lord would lead to some being knighted – although Simon knew perfectly well that all the men to be knighted had already been chosen. It would be foolhardy to leave such things to the last minute. Especially since many of them were to be rewarded for their fathers’ service or for some praiseworthy deed supporting the Lord’s interest.

  As the thought came to him, he realised that others were already arriving. Sauntering over the grass were knights and squires. Some heralds were already standing in a small knot and gazing about them as they agreed where each would stand in order to have a clear view of the tilting.

  ‘Where is Hal?’ he grumbled to himself, glancing over to the tent where Wymond and he had slept during the building of the tournament. There was no sign of the man, nothing at the tent, nothing in the ber frois, but neither was there any sign of the watchman sent to guard him, so Simon told himself resignedly that the silly little sod must have gone to fetch wine or bread.

  Philip Tyrel watched them as the stench of vomit gradually faded. It was a relief that the Bailiff had not recognised whom he had caught; a wonderful relief! Especially with the body lying so close.

  When the Bailiff and watchmen appeared from the market, he had realised that he only had the one means of escape. He had pulled the tunic from the body, stiff and chill from cooled puke, and hauled it over his head, then emptied the remaining wine in his skin over his head. He reeked, but he should be safe if he was careful. Quickly he drew ferns and weeds over the corpse and crawled until he was in full view on the grass at the foot of a stand. He was not concealed. Why should he be? He was guilty of nothing so far as anyone knew. No, he was only a drunk who had spent the night snoring in the open air. He was safe enough.

  The two watchmen had dragged him to the river and thrown him in, but he was grateful to have been taken away before the Bailiff could see his face. Far better that he should be remembered as a vagrant without features. There were so many others here in a similar condition, it was no surprise that he should have been found there. It was practically a daily occurrence. He sat on his arse in the water and belched, scooping water over his head to make his hair dangle over his features and hide them. That way nobody could swear to him. Wearing this tunic, no one would associate him with his usual finery and in any case no jury would be happy to convict him. Before long the second watchman lost interest in him and gave a yawn before strolling away to rejoin his friend and the Bailiff.

  As soon as the guard was gone, Philip stopped making a fool of himself and climbed from the water on the farther bank, shivering. The water came straight from the moors, and was as cold as ice. Walking in the shade of the trees into the field where he had killed the carpenter, he cast about constantly for other people who could be watching him, but everyone was busy breaking their fast: bakers were stoking their little fires, poulterers preparing fowls and songbirds, pastrycooks kneading dough ready for the first spiced pies. All had plenty to do without watching a man dressed in soaking wet garments walking away.

  The field curved about the line of the hill and soon he was out of view. Walking up the hillside, he went to a natural gash in the ground, and here he sat down for a moment. He took off the dead man’s tunic. There was no need for it now. Screwing it into a ball, he tossed it away from him. Here, among the long grasses, it could lie hidden until winter. Removing all his own clothes, he set them out to dry on the grass, then lay down patiently to wait.

  There was a tingling in his whole body as the sun crept over the trees and its warmth touched him with the softness of a kiss. He felt almost as though he had been rebaptised by his immersion in the river. Gazing up at the clouds floating past so slowly, he could almost believe that God was up there even now, watching him with a smile on His face while He considered Philip’s acts.

  Three had died. Three! All by his hand, and he felt no remorse. How could he? What, regret the loss of Benjamin the usurer, Wymond the carpenter, and now Hal? Who could regret the passing of such men! They deserved the punishment meted out to them. The guilty had paid for their crimes.

  Except one.

  He shivered. There was a leaden sensation in his bowels. Why should all the others have been punished, but this last one escape justice?

  Closing his eyes, he tried to ignore his qualms. He was at ease here, as the sun warmed him lying among the long grasses; it was hard to bring to his mind the anger and determination necessary to kill. What was the point? Did he truly have justification? He had murdered three, and surely that was enough? This last was not even involved. The sole reason for executing him was to make another realise his evil. Make him confront his crime.

  Here in the sunlight that scene of carnage seemed so remote, so impossibly distant in time, that his long-planned vengeance appeared almost as foul as the original act. It was as if he had suddenly acquired a sense of proportion which had thrown all his plotting into confusion. It was a terrible possibility – but what if his slaughter made him no better than his enemy?

  He felt tears running down both cheeks. With them he could feel his remaining determination seep away like water dripping from a leaking wineskin. His plan had been to kill the murderous bastard’s son as a fitting revenge for the loss of his family. That thought, together with the deaths of Hal and Wymond and Benjamin, had driven him. Yet now it seemed absurdly cruel to execute the youth. If anyone, he should kill the father, not the whelp.

  Undecided, he lay trying to clear his mind but the thoughts would give him no peace. They chased about his heart: the boy should die, an eye for an eye; the father was guilty, not the boy. He
couldn’t make a decision. It was impossible.

  Sitting up, he felt his clothes. They were dry enough, but his shirt and hose were dreadfully scruffy. He would have to get changed into clean finery for the béhourd, but there should be plenty of time. Rising, he walked up the hill in among the trees, then followed the line of the woods eastwards until he was past the castle and on the way to Oakhampton. Here a tree had fallen over the river, and he waited a moment, clawing his hair back from his face and tidying himself, before clambering on to the tree and stepping assuredly along the trunk until he reached the other bank. Once there he turned back towards the castle, a late-night reveller wandering homewards. None of the other travellers on the road took any notice of him.

  Philip entered the tented area and was about to go to his own small pavilion when he saw the last man. And he felt the rage, freezing as winter frost, ice its way along his spine, felt the muscles of his back and belly suddenly clench as if he was preparing to strike the mortal blow.

  He turned away and entered the pavilion, quickly doffing his clothes and washing his face and hands before selecting a fresh shirt and pulling on his tunic. Soon he was back in the tilt-yard.

  His determination had returned. He would kill one more time.

  ‘You have achieved much, Bailiff. Is there any news of the dead man?’

  ‘I thank you, Sir Richard. No, there is nothing yet on Wymond, but the Coroner has hopes.’

  There was no need for an introduction to Sir Richard Prouse; everyone knew who he was. His scarred features, with the appalling line of twisted and raw-looking flesh that ran from his temple, close to the milky white and ruined eyeball, down through his ravaged cheekbone to his broken jaw, was instantly recognisable. Seeing him so close, Simon felt his belly lurch. He looked away hurriedly.