‘I slept well,’ Baldwin lied cheerfully, recalling the singing and shouting from tents all about him as revellers celebrated the tournament to come. One was singing the praises of his hero, Sir Walter Basset, the wild man of Cornwall, while another told him he was a fool, that Sir John from Crukerne would be sure to win.
‘Wait till you see ’un in the medley, mate. That’s when you can tell their mettle,’ he asserted.
‘Nah! I’ve seen ’em both and my money’s on Sir Walter. He’s got the speed and the strength, as well as bein’ younger by ten year or more. He’ll carve his initials in your man’s helm.’
‘You reckon, Bob Miller? There’s something your ’un ain’t got – and that’s experience. Sir John is skilled, he is. He’s killed plenty o’ men in his time.’
‘Who hasn’t? Sir Walter has too. In the joust, as well.’
‘So’s Sir John. I remember him slaughtering that cocksure fool Godwin of Gidleigh.’
‘Godwin? Oh, I remember him. He was shafting Sir John’s wife, if the stories are true.’
‘Really? You reckon?’
‘That’s what they say.’
‘That’s bollocks, that is!’ The man spat. ‘That were a bad do, that were. Exeter. The whole Tyrel family died, all except the father, Philip. Big man, he was, powerful, bearded, strong, but his family got flattened when the stand fell. Pretty wife, two nippers. Philip himself pulled the boards off them. Poor bugger.’
‘Folks moved?’
‘Yeah, they were furious because their favourite got killed by Sir John. They all moved forward and the stand collapsed. Several got flattened, like this Tyrel family.’
‘That’s because John Crukerne is a murderous bastard.’
‘Don’t you take that attitude wi’ me, Bob Miller, or I’ll push that quart pot down your throat so far you’ll have to drink it out your arse.’
There was a loud crash at this point, which Baldwin suspected, correctly, was due to a man tripping and taking a table with him, but it was closely followed by guffaws of laughter and Baldwin was inclined to the view that the two had settled their differences in the easiest manner, by sharing another pot of ale.
In the end he and his servant Edgar had exchanged a long-suffering look before rising. They had travelled many thousands of miles in each other’s company, both having served together as Knights Templar in God’s service, and each was used to lack of sleep due to noise. They had whiled away the night playing dice while the arguments outside continued at a muted level, not finishing until a little before dawn.
Simon would usually have noticed the knight’s red-rimmed eyes and yawns, but today he was more taken up with his own concerns. ‘Lord Hugh arrives today, and God only knows what that gibbering fool Hal Sachevyll has managed to do. He’ll complain, of course. At least,’ he added, brightening, ‘Meg and Edith will arrive as well.’
‘I had not realised they would attend,’ Baldwin said with genuine pleasure.
‘Try to keep them away! I shall be tied up with Sachevyll and others . . . could you look after them?’
‘I should be glad to. It is months since I saw either of them.’
‘I’m afraid neither of them thought of you when they asked to come here,’ Simon said frankly. ‘All they had on their minds was seeing lunatic deeds of courage – and the cloths on sale too, of course.’
‘You mean that they would not expect to see courage on my part?’
Simon laughed at his mock-offended expression. ‘Let’s just say, Baldwin, that both know exactly what to expect of you.’
‘And I have to remain contented with that, do I?’ Baldwin said. He glanced over his shoulder on hearing hooves approaching.
‘The King Herald, Mark Tyler,’ Simon muttered.
‘I recognised his chins,’ Baldwin agreed affably.
It was true; he recognised Tyler from the day before. As Baldwin watched, the herald rode past Baldwin’s own tent. Edgar was outside, and as the herald passed by, he and Baldwin’s armour were spattered with mud. Baldwin saw Edgar look at the man’s back long and hard, but then he shrugged. Such accidents could happen even when a man took great care. However, that didn’t prevent Edgar feeling resentment at the extra work. He bent and set about cleaning Sir Baldwin’s shield again.
The herald cantered on, his nose in the air as if he was trying to keep it away from the smell of the common folk all about him. He was a proud man, very self-important. Not a youngster, Baldwin noted: the fellow was almost Baldwin’s own age, certainly over forty. Yet for all his apparent haughtiness, his eyes looked anxious, like a man fearful for his future. Interesting, Baldwin thought.
‘Bloody Tyler,’ fumed Simon at his side. ‘He’ll be looking for Hal Sachevyll to pester. He’ll want confirmation that all is ready.’
‘He was there yesterday.’
‘I know, but if he sees more of a mess today he’ll not be impressed. I should go straight there and find out what that ninny-hammer managed to screw up after I left last night.’
‘There is little enough to do here. Let us both go and see.’
They walked slowly, for Simon was unenthusiastic about seeing Sachevyll. He meandered, buying a cup of ale and draining it before continuing. At the gate they saw the herald again. He was staring about him in a peevish manner, as if he had been expecting to be met by someone of rank.
When Simon and Baldwin came nearer he recognised them, snapping rudely, ‘Bailiff Puttock, where have you been? How are things progressing? It is crucial that we have the whole field prepared well in advance. Lord Hugh will not want excuses when he arrives.’
‘I’m sure that the builder will have it all in hand,’ Simon said soothingly. As he looked about him he could see that things were well advanced and suddenly he was conscious of a sense of relief. The show would be a success, a huge success, and he would be well rewarded by Lord Hugh for his efforts.
Mark Tyler met the sights about him with a grimace of discontent. ‘That mincing fool Sachevyll, you mean? I’d be surprised if he has everything ready. Never has before, to my knowledge. The silly arse was almost a day late with the final details at Crukerne six years ago. Christ, but we had to scare the idle bugger to get things done!’
Simon was about to speak when they all heard a scream. Hal Sachevyll burst from the stands, his face white, and tripped, falling in the mud and dung. He wailed, scrabbling as if panicked, trying to lever himself up to escape something.
‘You seriously believe that cretin can have all ready on time?’ the herald asked scathingly. ‘Look at him! I daresay he’s hit his thumbkin with a hammer – if he was stupid enough to try to use a real tool.’
But his sneers were silenced when Hal screamed out in a piercing voice: ‘Help! Help! God help us! Murder!’
Baldwin and Simon were almost at his side when he dropped to his hands and knees and vomited onto the grass.
The carpenter was dead. No one could doubt that as soon as they peered inside Wymond’s tent out near the hill in the tilting field.
It was a small pavilion with two cheap palliasses on the floor at the rear of the tent. All about was mess. Leather gloves and aprons lay where the carpenter had dropped them, while pots and a small barrel leaked wine. The place reeked of it, quite concealing the other odours until Simon drew near the mattress on which Wymond lay.
Wymond lay face uppermost, his body part-wrapped in a dirty blanket. Simon took one look at the filthy red-brown stains on the palliasse and covering and looked away, his belly rebelling.
‘I thought he was asleep. He often overslept if he’d been drinking, and when I woke I could smell all the wine. I just thought I’d leave him to lie in a while. It never occurred to me that he wasn’t all right, not until just now when I came in and shouted at him to get up, pulled the blanket from him . . . My God, and I slept here all night! I slept beside his corpse!’ Hal broke off and shoved his fist in his mouth. ‘Holy Mother Mary, help me!’
Baldwin pushed Hal out of the w
ay and strode in, crouching at the side of the corpse. Gazing about him, he barked, ‘This is your tent as well, Hal?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Hal said. He turned away from the corpse, weeping silently. ‘I slept here last night. My Christ! I was on my palliasse and I thought he was fine. He was fine! God’s bollocks, who could have done this?’
‘Calm down and shut up,’ Simon snapped. ‘How do we know it wasn’t you!’
‘Me?’ Hal sobbed. ‘How could I kill him?’
‘Simon,’ Baldwin called, ‘there is no sign of a weapon, but this man was savagely attacked. His head is broken.’
Simon was silent a moment. ‘His hammer?’
‘Is not here,’ Baldwin said, standing. ‘As far as I can see, there’s no stab wound. He was killed by having his head viciously smashed – but I can’t see clearly in here.’ He pointed to three interested men who were loitering nearby. ‘Bring him out and place him on the grass.’
The men reluctantly approached and dragged the body out on its palliasse.
‘My heavens!’ Mark Tyler declared. ‘The poor devil.’
Baldwin remained inside for some minutes, crouched to study the trampled grass minutely, seeking any clue as to the murderer.
Outside, Simon’s feelings of complacency were gone, replaced by a mixture of anxiety and anger: anxiety because a murder had been committed, and that would be bound to reflect upon him; but he was also angry that someone could murder Wymond when he still had need of the man. God knew the carpenter was a tricky and truculent bastard at the best of times, but that was no excuse for murder.
‘Was it you, Bailiff ? Did you kill him?’ Sachevyll demanded, eyes streaming. He was clinging to a guy-rope near the entrance, but now his eyes fixed upon Simon with a dreadful accusation.
Simon felt his jaw sag in disbelief. ‘Good God – why should I have killed him?’
‘You argued with him. You and he just about came to blows, didn’t you?’ Hal sniffled. ‘I know you were cross with him, but he was only tired and irritable. There was no need to murder him.’
‘I didn’t kill him, you moron! The first I knew of his death was when you appeared just now!’ Taking a deep breath, Simon tried to speak calmly, aware that others were eyeing him now but it was not easy. He was embarrassed to be the centre of attention. ‘You said you slept in there with him? Didn’t you notice he was dead?’
‘I couldn’t hurt my Wymond!’
There was a snigger behind him but Simon ignored it. ‘How could someone else have done this, with you asleep a few feet away?’
‘We finished our work as the sun was going down, and went together to buy wine and pies. When we returned I was very tired. We had been slaving hard all day and after a quart of wine, I was nearly passing out, so I went to my bed. Wymond wasn’t ready to sleep; he said he was going to go and take a piss. That’s all I remember – I must have dozed off. When I woke up today before dawn, I thought he was still resting and left him there. That’s all. A little while ago, when I realised that he still wasn’t up, I got riled and came back to give him a piece of my mind.’ The fellow began to weep softly again.
Baldwin had come out and stood with Simon. He glanced at the tent, then back towards the market and castle. Hal and Wymond’s tent was far from the rest of the camp. There was no one else nearby, for the architect and his carpenter had pitched theirs here to protect their work. From here it was possible that a scream or shout could be missed from the camp – if, say, a man was belted over the head. But it was inconceivable that Hal wouldn’t have heard if Wymond had been attacked here, in the tent. ‘I can find no weapon in there,’ he said.
Hal stuttered. ‘What of his hammer?’
Baldwin shook his head. ‘He has no hammer here.’
Hal couldn’t help but glance again at Wymond’s face. It was all but unrecognisable, the jaw broken, one eye-socket smashed and the eye itself red as though it was filled with blood. Simon followed his gaze, winced, and moved away. He could never come to grips with the evidence of brutality to men. Although he had seen enough corpses in his time, and had killed men himself, he felt a familiar writhing in his guts at the sight of this ruined body. He looked away when Baldwin returned to study the corpse again.
Baldwin noticed Simon’s expression and smiled to himself. This squeamishness of Simon’s was one of his more endearing traits. Baldwin knew no such qualms. He had seen so many deaths in his youth during the Siege of Acre that he had little compunction in pulling bodies about.
‘Well?’ Simon demanded.
‘Beaten to death. Maybe with a rock, or a cudgel, but a hammer would have done it as well.’ He was undressing the body as he spoke, and now he gazed at the man’s torso. ‘He died hours ago. His body is cool to the touch. No stab wounds on chest . . .’ he lifted the arms ‘. . . or flanks . . .’ he hauled the body over, a workman helping him ‘. . . nor on the back. Hello – what’s this?’ he declared and pounced.
‘What?’ asked Simon.
‘Bramble thorns in his head here, and also on his shirt,’ Baldwin explained.
‘So what?’ asked Mark Tyler impatiently. ‘There are brambles all over the place.’
Baldwin barely glanced at him. ‘In the tent, for example?’
‘Eh?’
‘This means Wymond was not killed in the tent. Do you think Hal could have carried this fellow?’
‘Him? Look how feeble he is!’
‘Then Hal is presumably innocent.’
In his relief at this conclusion, Hal Sachevyll was noisily sick again, heaving convulsively. For his own part Simon wanted to do the same; his belly rebelled and he could taste the bile at the back of his throat.
Baldwin turned to Hal. ‘And you say you heard nothing?’
‘Of course I didn’t,’ the man said shakily. ‘If I had, I’d have called for help.’ He closed his eyes and wiped his mouth. ‘Oh Christ. Poor Wymond.’
Mark Tyler looked at Baldwin. ‘So where’s the weapon?’
‘Missing,’ Baldwin admitted. ‘But the murderer could have taken it and hurled it into the woods or the river.’ He was gazing at the ground near the tent’s entrance as he spoke, and now he frowned and darted forward. ‘Ha!’
‘What?’ Simon asked.
‘Blood,’ Baldwin said with suppressed excitement. ‘Look, there’s a large smudge here. It is the imprint of his head, I think. It proves that Wymond was killed outside, not in the tent.’
‘So someone knocked him down out here,’ Mark Tyler said. He had wandered over to Baldwin’s side and was staring down at the mark. ‘Perhaps Hal did it and dragged Wymond in.’
‘No! No, I was asleep.’ Sachevyll looked as if he might vomit again.
Tyler sniggered, unimpressed. ‘Anyone could have killed Wymond and carried him in. Or dragged him.’
Simon interrupted. ‘Could Hal have dragged him in, Baldwin?’
Baldwin pulled a doubtful expression. ‘Sachevyll is not strong enough. And why should he?’
Simon was eyeing the distance from the tent to the market area. ‘Wouldn’t someone have heard a man being struck? It’s only a hundred yards or so. The noise of the blows . . . When a bone breaks it makes a hell of a din.’
‘So Wymond probably wasn’t killed here, but further away,’ Baldwin mused. ‘The killer perhaps set the body down here – while he glanced into the tent to see whether Hal was awake?’
Tyler gave an irritable, ‘Tchah! Hal was in the tent. Who else could have killed him?’
Baldwin nodded. ‘I think we have to arrest him anyway.’
‘Oh no!’ Tyler exclaimed, his amusement fading like morning mist. ‘You’re not arresting him. Anyone, but not Hal. He’s not finished his work yet, and I won’t have Lord Hugh’s show ruined to satisfy your fanciful whims.’
‘If he committed the murder, he’ll—’Simon growled, but Tyler cut across him.
‘I said no, Bailiff. Or you can explain to Lord Hugh why the field isn’t ready.’
‘He w
as the man nearest the body; he was definitely the first finder; he may have had his reasons to kill Wymond,’ Baldwin said contemplatively.
‘But I loved him, I couldn’t have hurt him.’ Hal fell to his knees, one hand going to Wymond’s shattered and bloody face. ‘I loved him,’ he choked, and covered his own face with his other hand as he mourned the loss of his partner.
Chapter Nine
They left him and withdrew a few yards, Baldwin eyeing the crouching man with sympathy, Simon with contempt, and Tyler watching them all warily. He would move heaven and earth if that were necessary to prevent Hal’s arrest until after the tournament.
‘Are you sure it wasn’t him?’ Simon asked.
‘Simon, really. Was that man lying?’
‘Who knows? Damned sodomite. He could have been a wife, squatting there like that. Pathetic!’
Baldwin said nothing. His experiences in Eastern countries had taught him that love between men was not so uncommon. Over here, even the King himself was said to be a sodomite whose lovers had included that madman Gaveston, until his death, and now Hugh Despenser.
‘Whoever did this could do it again,’ the Bailiff said grimly. ‘God forbid, but he could strike again. What can we do?’
‘There’s no point in worrying – we have to find out why Wymond was killed. And why so brutally? Surely a stabbing would have been easier and safer.’
‘A madman?’ Simon enquired.
Baldwin shot him a look. ‘Some madman, to have been able to kill in this way without leaving a clue. No, I believe this was a premeditated murder.’
‘A madman, eh, Bailiff ?’ Mark Tyler gave a short laugh. ‘Is that what you reckon? And only yesterday you almost drew your knife on him yourself.’
Squire William had risen early, making his way to the lists to exercise his horse, and afterwards had remained, drinking with a few other men who hoped to be knighted. It was good to catch up with old friends after such a long time away, and many wanted to ask him about his adventures in battle.
The Tournament of Blood Page 10
