The Tournament of Blood aktm-11

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Isn’t that always the way?’ Baldwin asked with some surprise.

  ‘I suppose it is sometimes, but it’s hardly right, is it? One of the only decent fighters was Sir Walter Basset. Now there was a man who could fight! Stormed from one combat to another, winning horses and armour on all sides. Wonderful work! He pushed Sir Richard Prouse through a wall.’

  He smiled at the memory. The sight of the clumsy fool tottering sideways through the wooden stand had been hilarious.

  ‘And this arrogant young puppy Sir Edmund stormed in to attack Sir Walter. Christ! Oh, forgive me, my apologies, my Lady, but what can you say about a fool like that? What did he think he was doing? Sir Walter is trained and experienced, as well as having a very short temper. It was predictable. Sir Edmund tried to fight, but kept being pressed back, his horse suffering as many buffets as Sir Edmund himself, until he had to break and ride off. Sir Walter had the choice of chasing him or returning to his already fallen prey and like a cat he went back to Sir Richard, except now his blood was well and truly up, which is how he came to half kill poor old Prouse.

  ‘I was drinking ale and saw all this. As it happened, my horse was saddled, and I was armoured. I thought, Well, here’s an opportunity for some money! I climbed up into the saddle, took a lance, and hurtled off after Sir Edmund. I caught him completely unawares, the damned fool, and in a moment he was out of the saddle and sprawling in the dirt. So, I captured him and took him back to the diseur who confirmed I had won him legally.’

  ‘Did no one try to stop you?’ Margaret asked.

  ‘No, the other folks had seen how badly hurt Sir Richard was, so they were all busy fetching leeches and suchlike. No, no one tried to stop me. They were making sure that Sir Walter escaped the mob. So many of the folks grow angry to see a man win his bout; they try to catch the man who stopped their own favourite win. I recall Benjamin was happy to see me – he had a large bet on Sir Edmund losing his armour and I helped him win the gamble.’

  ‘What happened to Sir Richard?’ Margaret enquired. ‘He didn’t die, did he?’

  ‘He lives yet,’ Sir John said thoughtfully. The thought of living like that, unable to walk or run, without the use of an arm or the sight in one eye, and with those scars! Terrible! Every fighter’s nightmare. ‘Better perhaps that he had died,’ he said heavily, with the faintest touch of compassion. ‘He was badly crushed when the ber frois collapsed on him. And not only him. Several people were killed when he fell, especially since his horse was flailing about with its hooves and killed some folks before it, too, died. It’s unfair, of course, but some bystanders blamed Sir Walter at the time.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because when Sir Richard fell through the barriers many people were crushed. Most were villeins, though. No one significant.’

  Baldwin was frowning. ‘Do you know who was responsible for the ber frois that collapsed?’

  ‘Of course I do. It was at my manor – I’d arranged it,’ Sir John said impatiently. ‘The stands were designed by Hal Sachevyll, and constructed by Carpenter Wymond. Who else builds tournaments in Devonshire?’

  ‘Didn’t their failure cost you dearly?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’

  ‘I am surprised that after that, Hal and Wymond were used again,’ Margaret said.

  ‘Hal has a good eye for spectacle. He’s always in demand.’

  ‘Not recently, surely,’ Baldwin murmured. ‘While the King has his ban.’

  ‘Hal was with the King himself until recently,’ Sir John said. ‘I know he was at court until the end of last year. And then I believe he helped Earl Thomas. Before the Earl was executed, of course,’ he added with a chuckle.

  ‘They could travel from one side to another so easily?’ Baldwin asked.

  Sir John grinned. ‘Everyone likes to see a tournament. And the King would have liked to know what was happening in his uncle’s camp.’

  ‘You think they were spying?’ Baldwin shot out.

  ‘At Crukerne, Hal was very friendly with Despenser’s allies. What would you think?’ Sir John laughed and left them.

  As soon as he had gone out of earshot, Odo apologetically cleared his throat from behind them. ‘Sir Baldwin? Might I have a word?’

  ‘Of course, my friend. What is it?’

  Odo shot a look at Margaret, and she smiled graciously and left them, walking a few feet away.

  ‘It’s confidential, Sir Baldwin, but I thought you should know. I am taking messages between Squire Geoffrey and Lady Alice. They are married.’

  ‘I had heard that,’ Baldwin said loftily. He disliked gossip and had no wish to see their affair becoming common knowledge until they were ready.

  ‘But were you aware that Sir John is heavily in debt and seeks to have Alice marry his son so that he can use her estates to support his own? If he learns she is married to Geoffrey, he could become dangerous.’

  ‘I see,’ Baldwin said. He mused a while. ‘What of Sir Edmund? What do you know of him?’

  ‘He’s a very a good man. Honourable, a renowned fighter on the continent. Why do you ask?’

  ‘He is one of the men who was in Exeter at the time Benjamin Dudenay was murdered. I merely wondered about him.’

  ‘You need have no concerns about him,’ Odo said.

  ‘You sound very convinced.’

  ‘Sir Baldwin, I know many knights and squires. I may be less than a competent squire in Mark Tyler’s eyes, but I know my job. Sir Edmund is an honourable man.’

  ‘Yes. It is sad, isn’t it?’ Baldwin said quietly. ‘All the squires and knights here should be decent, honourable, chivalrous folk – yet someone is a murderer.’

  Seeing Sir Peregrine, Simon bent his steps towards the banneret. Although Baldwin professed an intense dislike for the man, Simon was ambivalent. Sir Peregrine was no more fearsome than many other men he had known. ‘Morning, Sir Peregrine.’

  ‘Ah, Bailiff Puttock! I am glad to see you again. How are you this fine morning?’

  ‘It is very clear, isn’t it, thanks to God!’ Simon agreed fervently. ‘I feared normal Dartmoor weather.’

  ‘Aye. Mizzle, drizzle, rain or howling gale. It’s rare enough you see sun for more than a few days,’ the knight said, his teeth showing briefly. He could never entirely trust the Bailiff, for Simon and Baldwin had once suspected him of murder, but Sir Peregrine was a fair man and he could see that his behaviour had been suspicious, so he tried not to hold a grudge. ‘Any news of the murdered man?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Nothing, I fear. There is no clue as to who the killer could be. Perhaps he was a mindless fool who has since run away.’

  ‘Stranger tales have come to my attention before now,’ Sir Peregrine nodded. ‘But if I were you, I should tell the watchmen to keep a wary eye open. I suppose you have heard that people are joking about Hal and his lover… you knew that Wymond and Hal were bed-fellows?’

  ‘Was anyone not aware?’

  Sir Peregrine grunted in assent. ‘It wasn’t exactly a secret, was it? But who cares? The King himself… ’ Caution made him silent a moment. ‘The point is, the spectators may become unsettled. When that happens, they are likely to seek a new target for their anger. An English rabble roused is unpleasant. Ah well! Let’s just hope.’

  They walked on in silence, Simon shooting small glances at the banneret, wondering whether he had his own suspicions – but it wasn’t something he could ask Sir Peregrine. Instead he chose an uncontentious topic. ‘Are any of your men to join in today?’

  ‘Not mine personally, not in the jousting,’ Sir Peregrine said, thinking of the whip-like Squire Andrew. He had been present at the feast last night, serving his master with the calm and unhurried elegance that showed both his breeding and his education. Yet all the while his precision spoke of his deadly skills. Sir Peregrine still had no doubt that the man was a killer, from his toes to his scalp. It was a relief when Andrew left the room. ‘There is one I should like to see fi
ghting, though.’

  Simon caught his tone but Sir Peregrine declined to comment further. In truth Simon had enough to consider himself. His daughter had been an unholy pest the whole of the previous evening, snapping at Margaret, being sarcastic to him. God’s teeth! He could sometimes wish he had never had any children; it was almost an attractive thought. Poor Baldwin had watched her during one of her tantrums with a faraway look in his eye, like a man who was realising that this might be served up to him soon, now he had his own daughter.

  For the most part Edith was a well-behaved, responsible child, but just recently she had taken to outbursts whenever she was refused permission to do anything, although Simon had tried to point out to her that it was her very argumentativeness which tended to make him turn her down. Last night it had been a ridiculous demand that she should be allowed to go out to a tavern. Ludicrous in a town like this, with strangers on all sides, cut-purses, horse dealers, fakers and thieves of all measures, but Edith wouldn’t listen to reason. Margaret had just asked her where her scarf was, and Edith didn’t even seem to hear her, instead asking about going into town. Mad, absolutely mad!

  ‘I can take Hugh to guard me,’ she’d stated. ‘There’s little enough danger.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s not safe.’

  ‘What will you do, fence me in an enclosure where no one can ever come to me?’ she’d demanded.

  ‘I will not have my daughter wandering the streets like a slut!’

  ‘You think me no better than a whore?’

  Simon had drawn a breath to hold his temper. ‘Don’t twist my words.’

  ‘That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t trust me. You never have! You think I’d fall into the arms of the nearest smelly groom as soon as I was out of your sight.’

  ‘Edith, please,’ Margaret had pleaded. ‘Your father is only trying to protect you.’

  ‘Protect me?’ she’d sneered. ‘He’s just making sure I’m not violated, that’s all. He wants me to remain unsullied by nasty groping servants. Well, I want to see Squire William. Hugh can chaperone me.’

  ‘Squire William? What, the son of Sir John?’ Simon gasped, recalling the lewd group at the fence.

  ‘Yes, why? What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘You are not to see him. Or talk to him,’ Simon stated flatly.

  Immediately tears of frustration had sprung into her eyes. ‘But why? He’s–’

  ‘That’s enough. I have given you my decision. Don’t go near him,’ said Simon. His daughter’s face twisted a knife in his gut. He hated hurting her, and this news had made her face crumple like screwed-up parchment.

  ‘Father, please!’

  He couldn’t tell her why. If he did, she would likely choose to disbelieve him, and if not she would be dreadfully hurt by the proof of her own foolishness in trusting William. Better that she should think it was an arbitrary decision from an autocratic father. ‘Edith, shut up or I’ll send you back with Hugh tomorrow at dawn.’

  ‘But… ’

  ‘I am not joking. One more word, and you’ll be gone.’

  It took away any residual pleasure in the tournament. Now he would be glad to be leaving at the end of it all.

  But not yet. Margaret had been looking forward to it for weeks, Simon knew. He sighed. If he could, he would leave now. But he couldn’t. Margaret had found a wetnurse to look after Peterkin, and she would want to remain and see the whole show.

  Soon they heard the chapel bell tolling and Simon and Sir Peregrine parted. Simon wanted to attend the morning Mass to pray for a tournament free of fatal injuries.

  Later, that innocent prayer would strike him as ironic.

  Chapter Nineteen

  In her little room curtained off from Sir John’s in the knight’s pavilion, Alice finished brushing her hair and nodded to her maid to help pin the long tresses into position.

  Today, if all went well, should mark the end of her long-confined life. No more listening to Sir John, for as soon as Geoffrey had earned his spurs, he could claim her. Their vows had been exchanged legally, and there was nothing her guardian could do to alter that.

  And yet…

  The dream had repeated itself to her. That vision of blood and gore tore at her like the claws of a wildcat, springing into her mind even during the daytime, striking her dumb with fear. She couldn’t bear to think of losing her Geoffrey, for he was the stone foundation upon which her life was built, but the mornings found her progressively more gloomy. Somehow she had the feeling that her dream was a premonition, that she was being given a warning.

  Alice winced as the comb pulled, and looked sharply at her maid, but the girl rolled her eyes in apology and Alice couldn’t be cross, not today. She sighed and bent her head so that the maid could work more easily.

  When could she declaim her love for Geoffrey? Perhaps he would ride to her and demand one of her favours. That was what knights did in the romances – but she and Geoffrey had agreed on silence, so perhaps he wouldn’t. Not until he had his spurs. Then he could wear her tokens publicly without fear of Sir John or his horrible son William.

  Praying that he would be safe in the lists, Alice closed her eyes fervently.

  She was considering how pleasant it would be to tell William that she was already married, when her maid leaned forward. ‘Have you heard of the dreadful murder?’

  Alice threw her an intrigued look and the maid carried on breathlessly. ‘They say that some ordinary churl was found dead near the castle, out on the hill behind, that his head was all broken… you know, all smashed.’

  ‘Ugh!’ Alice pulled a face squeamishly, but looked back at her maid with interest.

  ‘Someone told me it was an evil witch who wanted his blood or something, but another man said that was rubbish and he was attacked by an outlaw for his purse.’

  Alice considered. There was more romantic merit in the ghoulish tale, she felt, and gave a luxurious shudder at the idea of blood-drinking vampires. ‘An old witch, hiding up in the woods, probably,’ she said.

  ‘Probably, yes, and waiting to steal the heart and lungs of any youth who wanders too close to her haunts, so that she can eat them and make herself look young again… Yuk!’

  Alice ignored her servant. Her mind was back on her husband and she gazed into the distance in a pleasant daydream. Some time soon she would be able to proclaim her marriage. It was a wonderful thought.

  ‘We must hurry, Dame!’

  Alice tutted, but knew she must go through with the pageant. She had been chosen to be ‘Dame Courtesy’ – the virgin who would open the tournament, the woman who epitomised the virtues of the tournament and chivalry generally. She must lead the procession to Lord Hugh. It made her want to cringe. Especially since she was no virgin and was married!

  Oh God, she longed so much for the moment when she might confess her marriage.

  Andrew sipped from a pot of wine and eyed the contestants. None struck him as overly fearsome. He had charged against better men in his time. Before long he must return to his master. Sir Edmund would be wanting to prepare himself and watch the early tilts. Looking up, Andrew gauged the position of the sun, then looked down at the shadows. It was growing late.

  He drained his cup and left it on the wine-seller’s table, then set off to his master’s tent. He took the path which meandered through the middle of the camp, because it was the most direct route, but a squealing pig which had been intended for butchery, objected to its early demise and escaped, setting off across the way. It destroyed two tents, snapping the guy ropes, bit a man in the calf, knocked over a table of cloths, and then escaped into the river.

  Any diversion was always welcome, especially in the fair-time atmosphere of the tournament. Suddenly Andrew was surrounded by shouting, laughing people who set off in pursuit and although he tried to duck away he was swept along for some distance and missed his master’s tent, instead finding himself nearer the castle than he had intended.


  A pavilion was open, a servant polishing carefully at a blue riding sword, and Andrew smiled at him. ‘Do you mind if I stand here until the tumult has died down?’

  ‘Not at all. You are a squire?’

  ‘Yes. To Sir Edmund of Gloucester.’

  ‘I’m Edgar, servant to Sir Baldwin of Furnshill,’ Edgar said. He glanced out at the thick crush of people. ‘Would you like some wine?’

  Andrew nodded with gratitude, and while Edgar rose to fetch a cup, he looked at the bright blue riding sword, admiring the quality of the script on the blade. Perhaps not as well executed as some he had seen, but still very good. He picked it up. It balanced perfectly in his hand, and he eyed it enviously.

  ‘You like my master’s sword?’ Edgar asked.

  ‘I’ve used many, but this feels better than any,’ Andrew said feelingly. He set it back down, and then he noticed the other symbol.

  The sign of the detested, illegal and heretical group called the Knights Templar.

  Clouds appeared overhead while Simon stood before the small altar, and his attention wandered while he observed the sky darkening through the lovely glass windows, feeling relief when the service ended and he could hurry outside. There he was happy to find that although the sky was presently grey and heavily overcast, the clouds showed no promise of rain. True enough, as he snuffed the air, he could smell no hint of damp.

  There were many bystanders here to watch the official opening of the tournament. Philip Tyrel stood with his arms folded, standing still as a man-at-arms should and watching while the people milled about. Simon never so much as glanced in his direction. From interest, Philip eyed the Bailiff. Simon Puttock looked a pleasant enough man, someone with whom he would have liked to broach a barrel of ale, to discuss the realm’s difficulties now that the Despensers were the arbiters of power. It was a shame that he would never be able to do so.