The Tournament of Blood aktm-11

by Michael Jecks

  He was distracted by the trumpets and noise of the knights and squires. A glittering pageant appeared at the castle’s gate, led by one startlingly beautiful girl dressed all in virginal white and leading a white mare. Behind her were other girls, all similarly robed in white.

  Despite himself, a trace of his sadness passed over the killer’s face. The last tournament he had seen in Devon had started in much the same way, except then he had been a part of the parade with his woman. And his children had been there too, proud to see their father. It was at just such a tournament as this that they had died, the unwitting victims of other men’s greed. They had died for money. He could cry to recall it.

  That day had started bright and clear, just like this. Far from the town’s fires, the air was pure, blowing straight from the moors beyond the river. That day had been as gay and lively as this, with flags fluttering in the breeze and women dressed in their best and finest clothes, watching the men lined up, smiling at them flirtatiously or flaunting themselves. Older women contemplated the men with a more speculative gaze, offering bets on which would win his jousts.

  Tyrel’s reverie was destroyed when he saw Sir John a short way away, the grizzled old bastard standing proudly with his arms folded, his pup at his side. The two looked bored, as if they had seen so many events like this that one more was of little interest to them.

  It made Philip set his jaw to see them so arrogant, but he forced himself to relax and not show his tension, for then his revenge against Sir John might somehow be deflected. No, the final blow of his vengeance must be struck as soon as possible – although he had no specific plan as yet. However, it would come.

  The first target for punishment, Benjamin, had been waylaid, it was true, but the other two had been carefully enticed from their work: Wymond by the promise of fresh green timbers for a pittance while he worked at making new lances, and Hal by the invitation to drink. The fool knocked back all he could, sobbing about his friend Wymond and condemning the Bailiff for his incompetence. He couldn’t handle the strong wine and was grateful for the offer of an arm to steady him back to his tent as it grew dark.

  Carrying Wymond down the hill had been backbreaking, but necessary. Otherwise it might have been ages before anyone found his body, and Philip wanted Hal to know that something was happening – and by God, it had worked. Hal had plainly been putting off the evil moment when he had to return to his bed alone. Without Wymond, he was lonely and wanted company.

  In fact, Philip had a feeling that Hal knew who he was. When they were in the area before Lord Hugh’s ber frois, Hal had walked on ahead determinedly, like a man going to the block, careful never to glance behind him at his executioner, as if he knew he would die and wanted to get it over with.

  It was as well. Hal had met his eyes a couple of times in the inn earlier, and there was a sort of gratitude in them. At the time, Philip simply put it down to Sachevyll being thankful that he had someone to talk to… but now he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps Hal had seen something about him, something in his eyes, or something about his face, that revealed the truth. And maybe a man who was fearful of killing himself even when he was certain that there was nothing left for him to live for, would be glad that someone else would do the job for him. Hal was actually thankful for his deliverance.

  Tyrel shivered. Surely no man could hate life so much that he would welcome death. Something had made him feel sorry for the fellow and Philip struck swiftly. Hal collapsed and lay with his eyes closed while his breath snorted, and then he was sick, the vomit spewing over his tunic and dripping on to his hose. Philip struck once more and the breathing stopped. He picked up the corpse and made his way to Hal’s tent – and only when he was near did he realise that there was a guard near Hal’s pavilion. Patiently he settled to wait, while the puke dried on Hal’s cooling body. The blasted man was still there next morning when the light came, and then he saw the Bailiff and others approaching. That was when he grabbed Hal’s tunic and pulled it on.

  The train of thought had distracted him. He watched dully as the procession wound around the castle yard, then Alice approached Lord Hugh with gifts.

  If the men were truly in the hands of God, was he justified in exacting his own revenge? He glanced again at Sir John and his son. He saw Squire William smile courteously at Alice, saw him bow honourably, just like a preux chevalier and suddenly he was racked with shame. If the lad was decent, he couldn’t deserve death!

  Simon watched Alice advance towards Lord Hugh. The girl was beautiful, he thought, pale, serene and elegant, and it looked as though the Baron felt the same. He stood with his wife on his arm, smiling graciously at the girl as she passed him the gifts to welcome him to his castle and thank him for the tournament.

  When she was done, Lord Hugh’s Almoner appeared, ceremoniously holding a large leather money bag and, while the Baron and his lady looked on, money was given to the poor of Oakhampton who had been waiting at the castle’s gate. Once they had all been given some money they were directed to the kitchen door where bread and all the leavings from the previous day’s meals were set out.

  Only when the poor had left the area did Lord Hugh and his wife proceed down the long corridor and out beneath the bailey. Turning right they led the way to the field of combat, with their guests processing along in their train.

  Simon took his place behind Lord Hugh and followed him to the field, but he could not help peering about to find Hal. ‘Where is he?’

  Hal was nowhere to be seen. Simon had a shrewd guess that the architect would not willingly miss being around to welcome Lord Hugh to his seat, so his absence came as a surprise.

  Lord Hugh apparently felt the same. He looked about him with evident dissatisfaction. It was a matter of courtesy that the builder should appear. Seeing him, Simon could appreciate how much of an honour Hal would have been granted by being here. It seemed strange that a man so committed to show and flamboyance should have missed his moment of glory.

  That thought set a worm of unease squirming in Simon’s belly but he forced himself to ignore it. There couldn’t be anything wrong. He had checked the field himself with two watchmen, and Hal had been guarded all night.

  Even so, not until Simon stood at Lord Hugh’s side and watched the other stands fill did he feel the concern slip away, together with the weight of the last week’s work. He had done his best, and now he could relax. If there were any problems it would be the fault and responsibility of someone else, he thought thankfully. Probably Hal’s – and since the fool wasn’t here to defend himself, if anything were to happen, he would be bound to be forced to shoulder the full blame.

  There was to be less ceremony to this tournament. Often in the past, participants would first compete to earn respect from the overblown praise of their lord. Thank God, Simon thought, there would be none of that nonsense here. Lord Hugh had one aim with this tournament, which was to see to it that all his men had a chance to exercise their skills. On this first day, the competitors would be the squires – especially those who wished to be knighted.

  The heralds appeared, riding in on their great mounts, batons of office held by all three of them, the King Herald, Mark Tyler, who was Lord Hugh’s own man, and the two others. Simon knew Odo, of course. Like Mark Tyler, Odo seemed to have a high opinion of himself, but then heralds often did. They were little better than actors, to Simon’s mind. Invariably overpaid, their duties mostly consisted of playing musical instruments and singing. And every so often they would disappear around the world to seek out new songs, new stories of imagined prowess and overblown pride.

  Simon didn’t like heralds.

  However, today he couldn’t help but feel happy to see them. They were proof that the tournament was going off without a hitch, and he couldn’t get himself worked up over them. They had their uses, he supposed.

  The King Herald edged his horse forward a little. ‘My Lord Hugh, my Lady. We are here to begin the tournament held in your names, and I and these heralds ha
ve registered the names and arms of all the knights who wish to display their prowess and courage before you. May I beg leave of your lordship to continue?’

  Lord Hugh waved a hand with imperous dignity. ‘Carry on.’

  The King Herald jerked at his horse’s reins and turned the mount around. His chest expanded until he resembled a barrel set atop his horse. Opening his mouth, he roared in a voice that could surely have been heard in Oakhampton itself:

  ‘Now HEAR ME, HEAR ME! The tournament proper will open tomorrow, with individual knights jousting with their lances, each charging together to see who can survive the clash of arms. There will be three courses run by each pair, and afterwards the knights will fight with sword and axe. The jousting will take three days, but on the last day there shall be a full mêlée so that all knights can demonstrate their skills. I and my two heralds shall be diseurs and our word will be final unless the Lord himself overrides us.

  ‘The laws are as our great King Edward, our King’s father, laid down in his Statuta Armorum,’ the King Herald continued, glancing at a roll of paper in his hand. ‘All men are hereby adjured to hold the King’s peace. Only rebated weapons are to be used à plaisance and no weapons of war are to be allowed in the ring. Knights are only permitted to have three men to support them. Any knight or baron participating in the tournament who has more than this must tell the excess men to leave the field.’ At this point he glowered at the crowds as if daring them to bring in more men.

  ‘Grooms and footmen are not permitted to wear pointed swords, daggers, long knives, clubs or other offensive weapons of any sort. If a knight falls, only his own men may help him up again. Spectators are not at any time to interfere! And at any feasts the Lord decides to host, only a knight’s personal squire may enter the hall in order to serve his lord. All others must remain outside.’

  He went on to dwell at length on the punishments and fines which would inevitably fall on the head of any man who sought to infringe the rules, sternly reading each and staring at particular knights or men-at-arms as he did so. Simon wondered after a while whether each of these men had been guilty at some time of infringing these rules and was being reminded not to repeat the offence. At last the apparently interminable list was done and the King Herald sniffed and cleared his throat.

  ‘But today, to open the celebrations, we have a special béhourd to warm us all up. Certain squires shall show their skills and run against each other.’

  There were many more details, but Simon’s attention had wandered and the words flowed over and past him.

  Opposite, he noticed, his wife sat with Baldwin. Edith was between them. Edith looked quite lovely, he thought with a pang. Much as her mother had when he had first met her in her father’s farmyard, a slim girl with a lazy smile and laughing eyes. He could remember her as she had been still more clearly whenever he looked at his daughter. Their faces were similar, if Edith’s was a little wider, their eyes the same shape, their mouths and chins identical. If he was twenty years younger, he would make the same choice again.

  The thought made him give a cynical grin. God help the man who chose Edith as his wife, though.

  At that moment, the first pair of squires appeared before the stand and the heralds departed to the ends of the lists, apart from the King Herald, who remained before the Lord to witness the meeting of the two.

  At a signal from the King Herald, there was a sudden pounding of hooves, and the two squires, both unrecognisable under mail and their coats-of-arms, charged headlong. Simon felt his heart thunder as if in time to the hoofbeats, which almost, but not quite, drowned out the din of metal clashing against metal. It was like listening to a kitchen in which every pot, pan and plate was being systematically beaten while chains were rattled unceasingly. From here he could see the whole tilt area, and as the two men came together, he almost felt the crash.

  One lad’s helm was hit by the lance of the other. The lance struck the chin-piece and there was a great crack, then the helm was flying through the air. Simon almost expected to see gouts of blood from the lad’s neck where his head had been, but he smiled at his fancy. The helm’s lock had sheared, which was the cause of the loud noise, but the boy was all right, although he twisted his head this way and that, as though his neck had been badly wrenched.

  Both trotted to the far end of their lists and prepared to take their second run. A squire ran to the middle and picked up the heavy helm. Simon could see it was a modern one designed to protect the wearer from lance or sword – a massy, riveted piece of headgear weighing ten pounds or more. The thought of carrying that on his shoulders made him wince.

  Once it was again set upon the lad’s head, the King Herald repeated his signal and the two charged. Again the thundering of hooves, sods of earth flying through the air, mud from a puddle, the clatter of metal against metal and then the loud crash of the collision. One lad, the other, was reeling, his shield wearing a great dint where the lance had struck. Men ran to him, but he waved them off and took up a fresh lance. A last mad race, and both struck the other’s shield before riding back to the centre to receive the judgement of the King Herald.

  ‘One hit for both on the last ride,’ he said while a clerk sitting before Lord Hugh scribbled his record on parchment, ‘one course Squire Humphrey won by knocking his opponent’s helm from his head, but the next was won by Squire David. I declare that both have matched each other’s score.’

  There was applause at that, for both were held to have shown exemplary skill. Simon himself was quite impressed with the proud manners of the two. They sat mounted, both with their helms under their arms, both young, neither yet in his twenties, but on the decision being announced, both bowed first to Lord Hugh, and then to each other, before trotting off together, laughing merrily with relief that they hadn’t made themselves look foolish.

  It was during the fourth joust of the day that Simon noticed the girl who had led the procession. Clearly a little older than his daughter, Alice was watching one of the combatants with an especial attention. Simon followed her gaze and caught a fleeting glimpse of a solemn but well-formed face just as the helm was dropped over his head and left resting there. He took his lance from the squire at his side and trotted regally towards the start point. Simon saw that from his helm trailed a piece of cloth. It looked like a woman’s sleeve, and when he glanced back at the girl, he saw her wave, clench both fists and hold them up to her cheeks, standing in an agony of excitement.

  ‘Nothing new in that,’ Simon said to himself. He knew perfectly well that tournaments often held a strong erotic charge for women. Many would give tokens to their champions, some would promise to marry their favourites after a particularly good bout. With casual amusement, he glanced over to see how his wife was reacting to the excitement.

  Baldwin, he saw, was bored, while Margaret caught his look and smiled, but when he noticed his daughter, he groaned. She was biting at her bottom lip with every appearance of fearful expectation, staring at the other squire.

  Simon shrugged. At least she was setting her sights high enough, he thought, but then the signal was given and the two pelted down the alleyway, aiming at each other. There was a ringing clang! as they met, and then the two were apart once more. Simon watched the one his daughter had picked and credited her with a good choice. The lad had ridden well and survived the first charge.

  It was only after the second charge that Simon noticed the token at the lad’s belt. And as he recognised the scrap of cloth he gazed back at his daughter, realising why she had been so argumentative last night. He was dumbfounded.

  Geoffrey was aghast. The noise, the horrible sense of being trapped in his metal skin, the fear of an accident, all conspired to petrify him.

  He need only survive this third bout to win his spurs, he told himself, trying to boost his courage. As soon as he had completed the three, he could claim his wife before his lord. Then his life would change, for the better – provided that bastard Andrew didn’t denounce him as
a coward.

  To his right as he sat upon his mount, he could see Andrew. The squire stood arms akimbo, then went to the rack and selected a lance. With a mock-respectful bow, he passed it to Geoffrey. The latter knew what Andrew thought of him: Geoffrey was a coward, a weakly man who would run from a real fight. Andrew had seen him run from the battle before Boroughbridge, a traitor, leaving his companions to die.

  The horse moved beneath him as he took up the lance, hefting it in his hand. What if Andrew taunted him – or worse, challenged him to a fresh bout? Geoffrey wasn’t sure he could bear to be forced back into the saddle again soon after fighting with William.

  William was busy selecting a fresh lance himself. Geoffrey watched him shortsightedly. It was bad enough facing William. If he must face Andrew in a challenge to the death, he would surely die. Andrew was a killing squire, a man with experience of fighting in many battles; it would be suicide to face him.

  Then, as the two squires prepared to move off, Geoffrey realised that there was only one way to show that Andrew’s accusation was false. With a sudden resolve he couched his lance, determined to prove that he was no coward. He would ride his mount directly at William’s, not flinching, forcing the other youth to move from his path.

  Chapter Twenty

  William reined in at the end of the field and rammed his vizor upwards to snatch a breath of air.

  It was hot here. Damn hot. The sun was directly above and dust was rising up and clogging his nostrils. When he looked back through the lists, he could see a fine haze as of a thin fog which showed where his horse had taken him. The mount was his father’s destrier, Pomers, and now the great beast pranced beneath him, eager to return.

  In the space he saw men grabbing at the bits and pieces of the shattered lances and hurling them out of the way, so that they mightn’t turn a hoof and break a horse’s leg. William didn’t care. He simply flung away the stub of lance in his hand and gestured impatiently for a fresh one.