The memory still made him feel queasy. After that he had travelled, providing smaller stages for other lords, going wherever his master had commanded. One always obeyed one’s master, Hal reminded himself. Especially when your master was the King himself.
Recollecting that, Hal stood, fastidiously brushing lichen and mud from his hose. His master would want him listening, watching and learning, not sitting back and whining. He drained his cup and returned it to the wine-seller before squaring his shoulders, putting that scene from his mind; he gave a prim sniff and considered his next move. Perhaps he could ask the wine-seller where he might acquire some wood inexpensively.
He was about to do so when he caught sight of Sir John of Crukerne striding through the crowds.
‘Oh my God!’ he squeaked, and involuntarily ducked behind the wine barrel. He didn’t want to be seen by the Butcher of Crukerne. As soon as he could, he scurried away back to Wymond and safety.
Walking past the smugly grinning King Herald, Simon stormed away from the tournament field. He marched quickly, seething with anger at the carpenter and builder. Baldwin walked a little more slowly in his wake, leaving Simon to work off his ire.
It was not until Simon had reached the entrance to the tented field, near the river, that he realised that his friend had lagged behind. He stopped and waited for Baldwin. ‘My apologies, that was an unnecessary outburst.’
Baldwin shrugged. ‘The carpenter deserved worse for his lack of respect to an official. What of it?’
‘I’ll explain more when we find a moment’s peace,’ Simon said, his face hardening.
Following his gaze, Baldwin saw the King Herald approaching, Odo behind him. Odo gave Baldwin a nod of recognition before going to his pavilion, a small tent near the river. He pulled off his garish tabard, marked with the symbols of Lord Hugh’s family and lineage, and Baldwin had to restrain a smile when he saw that beneath it, Odo wore a threadbare linen shirt and a pair of faded hose. Finery could conceal utter poverty, he thought.
The King Herald mockingly bowed to Simon, and although Baldwin saw that his shirt and boots were of the first quality, he was sure that Mark Tyler also used his tabard to hide poverty, although in the King Herald’s case it was the poorness of his character rather than of his clothing.
Simon barely acknowledged the King Herald, but instead led Baldwin to the castle, avoiding anyone who wanted to speak to him. ‘I would have procured a room for you in the castle,’ he told him confidentially, ‘except I recall how badly you got on with Sir Peregrine last time you met him at Tiverton. He’ll be taking the chamber above the gatehouse and will live there while the Lord Hugh is in residence.’
‘That dreary, mendacious lob!’ Baldwin said without rancour. ‘No, I am happier with the cheery company of the field.’
‘Like friend Hal, I suppose?’
Baldwin then said, in earnest now: ‘Aren’t you worried that the stands may not be strong enough? What if one collapses?’
‘If they do, it’ll be Hal’s fault,’ Simon said. ‘He’s creamed off a load of Lord Hugh’s money for his own pocket and he’s trying to keep it. He can afford the best. Lord Hugh is generous, especially when he’s trying to impress his own knights. No, don’t worry, old friend. Hal isn’t stupid enough to let anyone get hurt at this tournament.’
At Oakhampton Castle, the two men had to walk around the barbican to enter its north-facing doorway and then Simon took Baldwin up the long cobbled corridor that ended at the gatehouse itself.
Looking up at the walkways inside the battlements, Baldwin voiced his earlier thoughts. ‘Only a brave man or a fool would attempt this to enter the castle.’
It was easy to envisage a group storming this narrow, deadly killing ground and being crushed by missiles raining down from above. The two crossed the bridge and entered the court beyond. The spur on which the castle was built was shaped roughly like a shield, and here at the entrance Baldwin saw they were at the narrow point at the base. Before them a broad yard fanned out with high walls enclosing a number of buildings, while in the background ahead was the looming grey shape of the keep on its high motte. Baldwin had little time to study the place because Simon strode off to their right, to a long, high hall. Soon they were sitting at a table with jugs of ale.
Simon wiped a hand over his face. ‘God’s bones! I begin to wish I had never agreed to help with this. If I hear one more complaint from that cretin of a carpenter or his girlfriend Hal, I swear I’ll reach for my knife and gut them!’
‘It is mayhem down there, isn’t it?’ Baldwin said, comfortable in the knowledge that his servants would have seen to his belongings and that he need do nothing but idle away the day.
Simon grunted nastily, ‘I hope you realise you’ll be trying to sleep in the midst of that row.’
He had a point. Since the tournament was viewed by townspeople as a cross between a fair and a market, with the money-making potential of a saint’s day feast, there was plenty of raucous entertainment. Outside in the fields they could hear stall-keepers and men-at-arms singing lustily, drinking noisily and behaving as badly as young men would. Even here in the castle’s hall there was horseplay. Two lads were involved in a drinking bout that involved one placing a funnel in his mouth while his companion filled it with ale. Apparently the drinker intended swallowing faster than his friend could pour. Baldwin was confident that neither would be able to wake him later with singing or gaming. Their only means of disrupting his sleep would be by their snoring . . . or vomiting.
‘What is the plan for the event?’ Baldwin asked.
Simon drained his cup and refilled it. ‘Tomorrow Lord Hugh will arrive with the last of his household. He’s planning a quiet night with a vigil in the chapel to pray for God’s blessing, and the day after tomorrow will begin with a procession to the church in Oakhampton, after which the games will start. There’s to be a béhourd for squires and knights in training, and Lord Hugh will want to reward the best of the lads; some will be given their spurs. Then we’ll have two days of individual jousting to keep the men busy and the young girls in a state of feverish excitement before no doubt some of them hie to the woods and offer each other insincere vows of eternal fidelity in exchange for a crafty grope.’
‘You sound bitter,’ Baldwin observed.
‘Bitter?’ The other man looked up and gave a feeble grin. ‘Aye, well, wait until your daughter is a little older. Don’t get me on to the subject of Edith.’
‘I see.’
‘Not yet you don’t, but you will! Finally there’ll be a grand mêlée for all the knights to show their magnificence and prowess.’
‘Wonderful!’ Baldwin said drily. ‘So all those who haven’t already been battered to Banbury and back can have their brains mashed on the last day!’
‘Oh, it shouldn’t be too bad. At least it’s to be fought à plaisance, not à outrance.’
‘Thanks to God for that!’ Baldwin said with feeling.
‘You don’t like to face weapons of war?’ Simon asked with a grin. ‘I’ve seen you with weapons in your hands before now.’
‘I’ve fought often enough, and I’ve killed many men as you know,’ Baldwin agreed, ‘but this is supposed to be a demonstration of valour and chivalry. Sharpened lances and swords have no place here. It is one thing to be deafened from two days of having a mace or sword clattering against your helm, but quite another to have to avoid some enraged cretin trying to slice through your guts with an upwards stab underneath your plate. There are too many risks with weapons à outrance. Better that men should fight with blunted swords and joust with a coronal on their lances.’
‘Would you prefer to see everyone wearing toughened leather and fighting with whalebone swords?’
‘Ha! There’s always likely to be one fool who forgets and turns up with a real sword, or someone who loses his temper and grabs a bill. No, for my money I’ll take all the protection I can!’
Simon eyed him. ‘I forgot you’re nearly fifty,’ he
said with a faint hint of surprise in his voice. There was enough grey in Baldwin’s hair and beard, he could see, but somehow he had never before considered how old his friend was. In the six years since they had first met, Baldwin had remained a solid, dependable factor in his life. Now he realised with a slight shock that his companion was an old man.
‘I am not quite ready for a winding-sheet yet,’ Baldwin said sharply, reading his mind. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like I am about to drop dead at your feet!’
Baldwin was not alone in viewing tournaments with concern.
In the small tent erected for her alongside Sir John’s and Squire William’s, Alice Lavandar, Sir John de Crukerne’s ward, slept badly. She tossed and writhed on her hard mattress, but sleep eluded her although she was exhausted after the journey. Then, at last, she felt herself drifting off.
But not to peace. It was the old dream. She was back in the tournament ground of Exeter, and before her were two knights, both sitting high on their horses in their war-saddles with the enveloping cantles and high pommels, both wearing full battle-armour, with helmets. They lowered the points of their massive lances to her in salute, and she watched as the protective coronals were fitted, the metal crowns which blunted the points. But then, as the two turned and rode off, she saw the coronals falling from their points. She wanted to scream at them to stop, but her voice was gone; she couldn’t speak, she could only observe.
The two men cantered to opposite ends of the field, wheeling so that their horses faced each other. There they stood, their mounts breathing out a fine mist from their nostrils, stepping heavily on the grass, eager to hurtle towards each other.
Alice watched with horror, and now, at last, she recognised the heraldic symbols on both kite-shaped shields: one was her long-dead father, the other, her husband Squire Geoffrey.
In the dream, her feet were rooted to the woodwork of the stand; she couldn’t move as she became aware of another man on the staging with her. It was Squire William, Sir John de Crukerne’s son, and he leered at her as he walked in front of her. Leaning over the rails, he gazed contemplatively at first one man then the other before facing Alice.
In her hand was a white cloth. She knew that dropping it would be the signal for the two men to gallop at each other, but she couldn’t, wouldn’t let it fall. She refused to make them die. She clung to the small square of gauze, but William reached forward and took her hand. Although she desperately tried to clench her fist about the cloth, although she tried to withdraw her hand from William’s, she couldn’t. It was as if she was bound with invisible cords that prevented any limb or muscle obeying her panicked, desperate will. She could only watch as William grinned, then held the shred of cloth high over his head.
She wanted to promise him anything – swear that she would marry him, swear that she would for ever give up her love for Geoffrey, anything! – but she couldn’t; she could only watch with horror as he dangled the cloth over the edge of the stand, and let it fall.
Her eyes were taken by the fluttering cloth as it opened into a regular square, falling gradually to the grass, but then her attention was grabbed by the horses.
The riders saw the cloth at the same time and spurred their mounts. Both leaped forward as if on massive springs. The horses cantered, then galloped, and the pounding hoofbeats were deafening. All she knew was terror as she saw the two charging ever nearer. Then the points of the lances dropped inch by inch until the heavy wooden poles shod with bright steel, uncapped by coronals, were pointing at each other.
There was a crash, a shattering explosion, and a thick smoke rose from the ground to save Alice from the hideous sight. Then it cleared, and she saw that the horses had collided even as the two men were spitted on each other’s lance. She could see the four bodies, the horses strangely peaceful, but the two knights thrashing in their agony, and now both had lost their helms and she could see their anguished death throes, as they looked to her for aid.
Sir John appeared and turned her from the hideous sight, and she took his solace gratefully, thinking he was protecting her; but then she was turned to face William once more, and he gripped in either hand the decapitated heads of her father and her lover.
Her own scream woke her. Drenched in sweat, shivering with horror, she leaned over the edge of her mattress and vomited on the grass before collapsing into sobs.
She had to rise. Even as Helewisia, her maid, wiped the sleep from her eyes and gazed uncomprehendingly at her, Alice pulled a shift over her head to cover her nakedness and went to a stool, pouring herself wine with a hand that shook uncontrollably.
‘Mistress? Are you sickening?’
‘No, it was just a mare, that’s all,’ Alice said.
The maid nodded and sat back, her eyes flitting about the darkened tent. The small cresset with its tiny flame lit the place dimly but she knew she would be able to see the goblin if he was still there. Mares were nasty creatures that sat on your chest and sent you evil dreams. Not that anyone believed in such things, of course. It was a story for children, she thought as she suspiciously stared at a fold of cloth that could have concealed a small figure.
Alice ignored her. She sat down on her mattress again and held her head in her hands. The nightmare had shown her an appalling scene. Her father was already dead – killed in the tournament many years before at Exeter. Would Geoffrey die as well?
It was an awful thought. She must let him know how much she thought of him, let him know of her hideous dream, so that he could protect himself from danger. Perhaps that was what the dream was for; maybe God was sending her a vision in order that she might save her Geoffrey. At least at a place like this there were conventions. Heralds were known to be safe messengers for lovers; it was looked upon as part of their duty to aid and abet courtly lovers. She didn’t like the look of that greasy man Tyler, but the older, skinny fellow, Odo, he looked all right. She could speak to him and see whether she could entrust him with her message.
To save Geoffrey, she would offer herself as a sacrifice, giving herself adulterously to Squire William in order to save Geoffrey’s life. The thought made her want to vomit again, but she recalled the picture she had seen in her mind, of Geoffrey with a lance thrust through his belly, his eyes begging for help as he died . . .
If it would save his life she would marry William.
Or kill him.
Chapter Eight
The law can move at a snail’s pace when no one wants to be involved. And no one wanted to report discovering a dead body when the result was that the finder would be attached, held in custody, and amerced – forced to pay a surety to guarantee attendance at the next court when the justices arrived.
Sitting in a tavern early that morning, Philip sipped his wine thoughtfully. The revulsion he had experienced while killing Benjamin was gone, this second time. Perhaps because the victim was loathsome – certainly he had caused Philip’s ruin still more directly even than Benjamin. Or perhaps killing became easier with experience.
It was certainly easy enough when he thought of his wife’s crushed and ruined body or his son’s and daughter’s tiny broken corpses.
In a just world, this victim would have been outlawed as a felon, could have been legally executed by any man. Philip had visited justice upon him. Like Benjamin, he had taken men’s money to ensure that others died. Philip was satisfied that condign punishment had been visited upon a murderer, and that reflection pleased him.
He surveyed the field before him. At this time of day there was a gentleness to the general noise. Smoke drifted from a dozen cooking fires – they weren’t permitted within the stalled area, but cooks were allowed their own fires for preparing food, and pies were already being heated, fowls roasting, wine and ale was being warmed with hot, sweetened and spiced water. Over all came the odour of freshly baked bread, attacking the nostrils with the fragrant guarantee of repletion. Philip promised himself a loaf, drained his po
t and went to seek a hawker.
As he walked, he glanced about him. Someone had surely seen the body by now, he reckoned, but no one had reported it. The camp was peaceful. Men emerged from their tents and scratched in the chilly early morning air, others rose from the ground, shaking the cloaks and blankets which had been their bedding. To his left were horses, and here grooms were already seeing to their masters’ mounts, whistling under their breath or chatting idly. No, the body couldn’t have been reported yet. If it had, these unruly youths would have been all a-twitter with the news, scampering about to tell everyone of the discovery.
He walked over to the cooks and bought a small capon. With his knife he split it down the middle then into quarters before wrapping three parts in a scrap of linen. He chewed on a thigh while he sought a bread vendor. With a good rye loaf in his hand, he returned to his own pavilion, where he sat on a stool, set his booted feet on a chest and leaned back against his tentpole while he drank wine from his skin.
Soon, he reminded himself, soon there would come a shriek from the tilting field. A man would run in from the woods, and Philip knew perfectly well who that would be.
It would have to be Hal Sachevyll, the sodomite and lover of Wymond.
Baldwin had agreed to meet Simon near the tented field and the knight was waiting patiently when Simon left the barbican and made his way towards him.
‘Your face would look well on a stormcloud,’ Baldwin commented happily.
‘I’d be better pleased if I’d stayed outside the castle, like you did last night,’ Simon grunted.
‘It was noisy?’
Simon shot him a darkly meaningful glance. ‘This castle is too small to house a host of ants. There’s no space anywhere. If you want to sleep, you have to share the hall with all the servants and guests – and that odious cretin Hal Sachevyll comes whining and pleading every five minutes for more money or wood or nails or cloth or something similar. Christ’s bones, but I only slept a scant hour. No more. There was a knight from Taunton next to me snoring the night away. And when he was done I’d just got to sleep when some drunken oaf tripped over my feet and woke me.’
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