The Tournament of Blood aktm-11

by Michael Jecks

  Sir Edmund had changed so much since that fateful afternoon six years ago at Crukerne, when his future was devastated in the tournament. After Sir John had captured him, he was ruined, completely. He couldn’t even afford a jug of wine. Sir John had taken everything – even the horse, which Sir Edmund had borrowed from a friend.

  Helen was thrilled by his history: his escape to foreign lands, his apparent salvation when he found himself vassal to Earl Thomas, and finally his return to the West Country in search of a new master.

  ‘I thought you would wait for me,’ he told her.

  ‘How could I?’ she protested. ‘I had no idea where you had gone, nor for how long.’

  ‘So you wed the man who ruined me?’

  His bitter tone had stung. ‘What would you have had me do? Wait for a man who might have been dead?’

  ‘No, my Lady, of course not.’

  They had walked in silence then, she trying to think of something that would placate without patronising, while he scowled up at the castle.

  ‘I must return,’ she had said nervously at last. ‘My husband… ’

  ‘Oh, the hell with him! What of me?’

  ‘Edmund – I married Walter. I loved you, but that was a long time ago.’

  ‘So you do not love me any more, Helen?’ he had said with despair in his voice.

  There was nothing she could do to ease Sir Edmund’s envy; he must grow accustomed to the fact that he could not possess her – but against her better judgement she had agreed to meet him again later, after tonight’s feast.

  Helen hurried up the tunnel towards the castle’s main entrance and stood a moment to settle her breathing. Fitting a serene, innocent expression to her face, she made her way to the hall’s entrance.

  Sir Walter’s violence could terrify her, but it was thrilling as well. Most of the time he was a courteous, pleasing husband. He lived to satisfy her, with frequent assertions of his love for her, his utter and undying delight in her. His lovemaking was rough, but she found that satisfying, more so than she would some polite, insipid youth who might roll on to her and roll off with a calm murmur of gratitude. She wouldn’t want that. She wanted a man with fire in his belly and loins.

  Sometimes though, it was hard, when his jealously came to the fore. And he detested to be kept waiting.

  ‘My Lady, you are alone?’

  ‘I am going to meet my husband.’

  Squire William was feeling good after the wine. Following on top of the ale, it hit his empty stomach like a flame, filling him with the sense that he was all-powerful and irresistible. Alice would soon change her mind about marrying him once she saw him in his knightly finery, he thought optimistically. As for Edith Puttock, he’d be able to rattle her as soon as he got her alone. Her languishing expression when he was knocked from his horse told him that. She’d also let him bull her just to tweak the nose of her father. The Bailiff would be very angry indeed when he heard. His fury would be overwhelming, William thought contentedly. Edith might need protestations of undying love to get her to lift her skirts for him, but if it was necessary, William could promise marriage. If she made problems later, it would be his word against hers. And who would believe a sulky girl’s claims against the word of a knight?

  As the night grew more chill his friends had moved into the buttery itself; he had left them there while he came out here to empty his bladder against the hall’s wall. It was while he was adjusting his hose that the woman had approached. It was only the second time he’d seen her but, as before, the sight of her fired his blood. She was beautiful, he thought, drunkenly certain that she couldn’t refuse him.

  ‘You must give me a kiss, Lady, before I let you pass.’

  ‘Sir, you are pestering me.’

  ‘I only want a kiss, Lady. No one would ever know.’

  ‘Leave me,’ she snarled. ‘I don’t have time to play with children.’

  ‘Me – a child?’ William gasped. He’d teach the cow a lesson. His arms grabbed her before she could run or cry out. Ignoring the guards who meandered along the battlements, William pulled her towards him and sought her lips.

  ‘Leave me!’ she gasped.

  ‘Child, am I? Have a feel of this!’ he demanded, taking her hand and pulling it towards his hose. ‘I’ve got a better prick than your husband, I’ll wager!’

  His arm was around her waist, his other hand slipping down to her buttocks, then up to her waist and breast. There was nothing she could do to prevent him. He held her too firmly.

  ‘Get off me, you drunken bastard!’ she managed.

  ‘Not until you kiss me,’ William leered.

  Hugh appeared in the doorway and quickly crossed to them. ‘Lady, are you all right?’

  It was enough to break William’s concentration. Helen pulled away, then snapped her knee up to his groin, feeling the softness as her knee connected. His breath left his body in a short gasp and his hands were off her. She walked past him, head high, and gave Hugh a coin. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.

  ‘No, Lady,’ Hugh said, glowering at the wheezing figure of William. ‘Thank you. That sight was payment enough.’

  Glancing back haughtily at the moaning William, she sniffed and entered the hall.

  She didn’t recognise Andrew in the doorway. She just pushed past him.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The feast was intended to celebrate the magnificence of the tournament’s opening and give people a taste for the events to come, but Alice sat there, waiting for it to begin, her appetite nonexistent. The choicest meats would taste of nothing; mere ashes would have been as good. The wine was like vinegar, the smoke stung her eyes, and the raucous enjoyment of the other men in the place was all but intolerable. She felt sick with worry about her man, terrified that he might die, appalled to have seen his near-fatal fall from the horse.

  Odo had ensured that Alice’s maid and two gentlewomen had attended to her after her collapse. All Alice could remember was waking and hoping it had all been a nightmare. She prayed that the vision of Geoffrey being hurled from his horse by the evil lance in William’s hand was but a dream, a hideous scene sent by a Mare to terrify her.

  But as soon as she awoke, Alice found herself staring into the compassionate eyes of a female attendant – and realised that it had been no dream. Her husband was lying at death’s door, and she could do nothing to help. Rising, she learned that Geoffrey had been taken to a chamber near the castle’s hall and she hurried there, ignoring the servants who tried to bar her way and prevent her from entering. ‘He is my husband!’ she declared, with tears in her eyes.

  The physician and priest could give her no positive response. ‘If he is to heal, it is in God’s hands,’ the priest said, trying to soothe her, but in his eyes she could see the terrible truth. Geoffrey wouldn’t live; she was sure of it.

  Now, at the feast, her mind was trying to come to grips with this new terror. Without Geoffrey, she was entirely alone. Her sole support and protection was dying and there was nothing she could do. She had sat at his side, gripping his hand, directing his face to the altar and crucifix and begging him to pray for his safety while she too pleaded with God, but there was no response. The hand remained quiescent in hers, the breathing so shallow and quiet that several times already she thought he had died.

  What could she do? If he died, she was entirely at the mercy of Sir John. Marriage to William. The very thought brought a sob to her throat and a feeling of nausea, and now she was expected to join in a feast!

  It was while she was considering this that she saw William himself swaggering towards her.

  He was drunk – that was obvious. His face was flushed, his manner truculent. Christ, how she detested the haughty youth! He saw her and gave a hawkish grin. ‘Ready to marry at last?’

  ‘I am already married.’

  ‘Ah, but you’ll soon be a widow,’ he said dismissively, and belched. ‘At least I can offer you security. So long as you’re good for breeding, that’
s the main thing.’

  She felt her face blanch. ‘You think I would wed you? I should rather die.’

  ‘You’ll have little choice, my Lady,’ he sneered.

  ‘I am married already. I am the wife of Geoffrey.’

  ‘If you want to remain known as the wife of the Coward of Boroughbridge, fine. You may not like me much, my Lady, but at least I’m no deserter.’

  ‘You dare to slander a man because he’s unwell?’ she spat. ‘That is cowardice of the worst sort. You are contemptible.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he agreed easily. ‘But I’m also alive, vigorous and soon to be wealthy when I have married you.’

  ‘I will never marry you!’ she screamed, standing.

  The room fell silent, and William realised too late that everyone was listening to their conversation. He gave a nervous smile to the watching men and women and tried to walk away before Alice could embarrass him further.

  ‘I will never marry you,’ she repeated, then fell sobbing back on her bench. The men at either side pulled away a little, unwilling to become involved in the woman’s problem. That could only lead to trouble with their own wives, were they to challenge Alice’s tormenter.

  She had no one. No one. Except…

  Except her messenger.

  It was a few moments later that Baldwin entered the hall with his servant. There was a tense atmosphere, he thought, glancing about him, despite all the finery.

  Alice swept from the place as he walked inside; behind her Baldwin saw William, chatting to some of his friends. The din they were making did not please Baldwin, who thought that youths should learn to control their drinking. He deliberately chose a seat at a more peaceful table.

  Simon and his family had not yet arrived, he saw. Nor had Lord Hugh. Baldwin stopped a servant and took a cup of wine, sipping idly while his attention ranged over the guests already gathered for this important meal, hoping to spot a friendly face, but not even Coroner Roger had appeared.

  At last he saw a man he recognised. Andrew, Sir Edmund’s squire, walked towards him with a set expression. ‘Sir Baldwin, may I speak to you a moment?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Outside, perhaps – where it is quiet?’

  Baldwin raised his eyebrows, but assented and followed the man out to the court, accompanied by his own man Edgar.

  ‘Sir, I must first apologise. I have seen your sword. Seen the cross.’

  Baldwin pursed his lips, but said nothing, gazing fixedly at Edgar. Templars were heretics and outlaw; any who didn’t confess and join another Order were to be punished. It hadn’t occurred to Sir Baldwin that he could run too much of a risk of discovery here in Devon, but now someone had seen the evidence of his ‘guilt’. ‘So?’ he grated.

  ‘Sir, that is how I know you can be trusted. I was a Templar myself – a sergeant. I wanted to warn you about Squire William.’ He told Baldwin what had happened out in the yard and how Hugh had prevented the molestation of Lady Helen.

  ‘Thank you for the information, but what do you expect me to do about this?’ Baldwin protested. ‘It is nothing to do with me.’

  ‘It was the Bailiff I wanted to warn, Sir Baldwin. It is said that his daughter is enamoured of Squire William, that she might intend to marry him. Many heard the Bailiff and his daughter arguing about Squire William – yet only just now, Squire William told Lady Alice that she must wed him. He is playing with the Bailiff’s daughter. He will seduce her and toss her aside. That is the measure of the man.’

  ‘You are sure of this?’

  ‘Sir, if you doubt me, ask anyone in this company – or speak to the Bailiff’s man. He saw it all.’

  ‘I am grateful to you,’ Baldwin said, but in fact he was reluctant to become involved in the family of any man, even his best friend. Simon would be sure to resent his interference, quite rightly. ‘Why do you not go straight to the Bailiff yourself?’

  ‘He would be more likely to listen to you, Sir Baldwin.’ Andrew looked earnestly at him. ‘Sir, I know all the squires. They are young – I am older. I could not be made knight, not with my meagre lands, so I remain a squire, but I think I understand chivalry even so. If William is prepared to molest Lady Helen, is prepared to swear that he will marry Lady Alice, then how honourable can his intentions be towards the Bailiff’s daughter? He would ruin that young woman, merely to satisfy his own momentary lust.’

  Baldwin looked at Edgar. The servant nodded and Baldwin grunted. ‘Very well. I suppose I shall have to look into it.’

  ‘You will speak to the Bailiff tonight?’

  ‘No. I shall consider what action to take and when I have decided, I shall see to it that young Edith is safe from whatever the danger. Precipitate action tonight might not be wise. No. I shall have to think carefully.’

  ‘I thank you, Sir Baldwin.’

  Baldwin watched the squire bow and return to the hall. ‘What do you make of that, Edgar?’

  ‘I think that he would prefer to see knights and squires behaving decently.’

  ‘Then he wishes for bloody miracles,’ Baldwin said. ‘Come! I believe there is to be a meal shortly. Let us eat.’

  He walked to the door, and was about to step inside when he caught a glimpse of white. Off near the chapel door he saw Alice, her head bowed, talking to Odo. The herald looked magnificent in his tabard, the gold wires and purple silks catching the torchlight and glittering with each breath of wind, but Baldwin’s keen glance took in Alice’s miserable expression; she had a look of near-despair.

  ‘Yet how should she look while she waits to hear from the physician about her husband?’ he mused.

  There was no comfort he could offer her. He left her with Odo and strode indoors, taking his seat at Simon’s side.

  Odo was saddened to see the look on Alice’s face. She looked like a young girl who has become separated from her parents, bewildered and overwhelmed.

  He followed her out to the yard, and was pleased to see how her face eased ever so slightly to come across a friend and ally.

  ‘How is Geoffrey?’ she asked.

  ‘Last I saw, he was no better, I fear, my Lady,’ he said gently.

  ‘Oh, God! How can You do this? Why take his life when there are so many others who deserve death?’ she demanded, clenching her fists impotently at the stars.

  ‘Lady, it isn’t for us to say who deserves life and who doesn’t.’

  ‘Don’t chide me, Odo. My husband lies dying and his killer wants me to marry him.’

  ‘Refuse him.’

  ‘I am ward to his father.’

  ‘Perhaps he would make a good husband,’ Odo ventured tentatively.

  ‘William? Never!’ she spat. ‘I need Geoffrey. If he dies, I shall have no other husband. God, that this should have happened! Tomorrow, once he was knighted, he was going to declare our marriage. One day more and I would have been safe. Now I can’t even declare my love, for Lord Hugh must listen to Sir John if he denies me. Sir John is a man,’ she added with vitriolic emphasis that quite unnerved Odo.

  Then she realised how her words might have upset him. ‘My friend, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you any concern. You have been a good and loyal accomplice to my husband and I.’

  ‘I am a herald and wish only to serve honourable men and their wives.’

  ‘Thank you. I only wish you could serve us now.’

  Those words rang in his ears now as he watched the knighting of William and five of his friends.

  All had bathed in scented water and eaten liquorice to cleanse their breath, before visiting the chapel to confess their sins ready for this ceremony.

  Now they stood arrayed before Lord Hugh in fine clothes, all of which held deep symbolic importance, for Lord Hugh wanted all to witness that he sought to ensure that knights dubbed by him would recognise their responsibilities. As a herald Odo could note each stage and its importance.

  The selection of clothing came first. The six wore white robes to remined them of the cleanliness of
their bodies; crimson cloaks because they must shed their blood when God commanded it; stockings as brown as the earth in which they would be buried, to remind them to prepare for their own deaths.

  Servants bound pure white belts about their waists to show that they must exercise restraint and chastity. Then there was a short delay and a few moments later a line of squires entered the hall with pillows in their hands. On the pillows were their new spurs, all gleaming gold in the candlelight. They flashed and shone as they were fixed to the boots of the waiting men, each of them looking a little awed as the significance of the moment caught at their imagination.

  More squires moved forward now, with the swords. They went to the respective owners and tied the belts about their waists. As all knew, the sword was the most important symbol of all: the two edges showed that justice and loyalty should always go together, that a knight must always protect a poor or weakly man from a bully, while the cross of the quillons showed that all served Christ.

  It was at this moment that Lord Hugh moved forward. His sword was sheathed at his side and he stood a moment contemplating the six. When the room had fallen absolutely silent, Lord Hugh stepped up to the men and struck each on the shoulder with his clenched fist. Each bowed his head while the blow was given, and when they looked up again, each truly did appear to have been reborn. Pride and the knowledge of the honour done to them shone in their eyes.

  Odo nodded to himself. All were knights. Each had been dubbed. It was a day none of them would ever forget.

  Nor would the others, he decided as he took in the faces around him. Most of the audience was composed of families or friends of the new knights, with one or two women watching, thrilled, as their betrothed men became marriageable. Among the remaining squires he saw boredom, amusement and yes, some envy, but little else until he came to Andrew’s face and saw the naked hatred there as the older squire stared straight at William.

  That was enough to depress Odo. What had begun as a powerful display of chivalry and honour had been spoiled by that expression on Andrew’s face, but just as he thought that, any remaining pleasure was shattered as the physician entered the hall and peered about the place.