by Maureen Ash
Since the fighting of the melee was frowned upon by the church, King John, when granting the licence to hold it, had made certain stipulations. The tourney was to be kept within a confined area so that neighbouring farms and fields would not have their crops destroyed by the hooves of the war horses, and any knight deliberately wreaking harm on an opponent that was already unseated was to be fined and disqualified.
Bascot’s task, and that of the other Templars, was simple. First they were to oversee the drawing of the lots that would determine on which side the contesting knights would fight. Then, when the two teams were drawn up on each side of the meadow, they were to give the signal for the tourney to begin. Once the battle was underway, they had only to decide which knight, in their opinion, fought with enough valour to be declared champion. Since the team that would be adjudged the winner was the side that had the most combatants remaining at the end of two hours, the champion could be chosen from either side, whether that of the victorious or the defeated.
Bascot went to join the crowd around the large canopied stand that had been erected on the eastern side of the field. In it would sit Nicolaa and her husband, along with some of their guests. The common people would spread themselves along the perimeters of the meadow, fending for themselves as best they could if the mock battle came too near. A festive atmosphere lay over the whole event as well as an air of eager anticipation. Tents had been erected on the surrounding hillside for the use of the combatants and among these strolled minstrels, vendors of food and wine, and hawkers of everything from ribbons to horseflesh. The buzz of conversation, the strains of music from the troubadours’ instruments, the neighing of the horses and the clang of metal was a din that floated heavenward into the balmy summer air. On the surface of the meadow the daisy-starred grass rippled in a slight breeze, its beauty soon to be trampled into oblivion.
As the sun neared its zenith and the time for the commencement of the tourney approached, the crowd became silent. Nearly one hundred combatants paraded before the stand and received a ribbon-either green or yellow-that would be tied to their arms to identify on which side they belonged. Bascot and the other Templars sat on their horses overseeing the affair, all clad in surcoats of white. Most of the contestants were young, with only one or two older knights, battle scarred and grim, among them. Richard Camville rode past, mounted on a magnificent roan, and received from his mother’s hand a ribbon of green. On his shield the Camville silver lion quartered with the Haye twelve-pointed red star glittered as the sun struck it. Conal was close behind him, and given a strip of ribbon that was the same colour. In the stand, beside Nicolaa, sat Hilde, her face alight with joy as she watched her great-nephew, resplendent in chain mail and a surcoat of blue embroidered with a black raven, adjust his helm and take his place next to Richard at the south end of the field.
Beside Hilde was a golden-haired girl with a rosebud mouth, a light veil of gauze shielding her features. Bascot had seen Conal lift the young woman out of an enclosed litter a short time earlier, then carry her and seat her tenderly beside his great-aunt. Bascot supposed the girl must be the goldsmith’s daughter, removed from the aura of secrecy in which her father had kept her and openly declared by Conal as the woman he loved. Hilde had welcomed her warmly, smiling and taking the girl’s hand in her own before looking around defiantly to see if any of her neighbours should dare seem critical of her approval. Conal’s mother, Sybil, and her two brothers, Magnus and Ailwin, were noticeable by their absence.
On the other side of Hilde was Gianni, the elderly lady’s hand resting familiarly on the boy’s shoulder as he clutched her silver-headed cane close in his arms. It pleased Bascot to see his servant thus, but he felt a strange sense of loss. It was as though the boy had deserted him.
Roger de Kyme came next in the parade of entrants. He was riding a black stallion with thick hindquarters. The animal was nervous and snorted at the close proximity of the crowd, ears twitching. Behind Roger rode his cousin, Alan, mounted on a wiry grey with a small head and alert eyes. Ivo de Rollos was there, too, watching with anxious eyes as his mother, Ermingard, handed him a ribbon with an air of puzzlement about what she was doing. All three received ribbons of yellow. It took nearly an hour for the rest to pass by and receive an identifying scrap of material.
During this time Bascot let his gaze roam over the crowd. It was a motley company, merchant alongside tinker, and prostitute standing cheek by jowl with clerk. He spotted Agnes, the alewife, in the crowd, her face white and subdued as she stood with her sister and family. Agnes had been released from gaol only that morning, Isobel’s confessed guilt the alewife’s warrant to freedom.
Nearby, and a small distance apart from the others, were Isaac and his brother Nathan. They were watching the line of combatants with hawk-eyed interest. There was no doubt that many of the entrants had borrowed the price of their fee from the moneylenders. The Jews would keep a sharp tally of who, among those pledged, emerged the victor or had the misfortune to be among the vanquished.
Across the field, Bascot saw the barber-surgeon who had attended Anselm’s wound after he had been attacked. The little man was wearing a gaudy gown of red and blue, his clean-shaven face gleaming and his grey locks carefully coiffed. On his arm was a woman that Bascot supposed must be his wife, a plump matron with a merry face and red cheeks. Near to them was the cobbler from whom Bascot had bought his boots, his horse-faced wife munching on a pasty while her son ogled the young girls in the throng. On the ground, under a tree, sat the mercenary captain, Roget, and the reluctant harlot, Gillie. They were sharing a flagon of wine and laughing. When Roget saw Bascot looking his way, he raised an arm and waved.
It was as the tourney marshal was lining up the two teams of combatants that Bascot heard his name spoken. Looking down, he saw William Scothern standing beside his mount. The clerk’s face was drawn and miserable. Slung on his shoulder was a bundle and he was crumpling a soft-crowned cap between ink-stained fingers.
“Sir Bascot, I come to beg your pardon for my sister.” The young secretarius’ demeanour was dejected, his voice a stammer so low that Bascot had to bend down from the saddle to hear him.
“It is not my pardon you must beg, nor yours to have the doing of it,” Bascot replied.
“I know that, sir,” Scothern replied, “but I feel I must do it anyway. If I had been more vigilant, less preoccupied with my work.. . and other things… perhaps my sister would not have done what she did.”
“That is between your own conscience and God,” Bascot said, not unkindly. “None but He can help her, or you, now.”
Scothern shook his head in misery. “Sir Philip has gone back to his manor. He did not ask me to accompany him and, even if he had, I would not have gone. There was a time that he told me he valued my loyalty. I thought he was speaking of my assistance in bringing his illegitimate son to Lincoln. But it seems he believed I knew that Isobel had warmed his bed, and appreciated my not letting it interfere with my devotion to his service.” The clerk’s face was a picture of misery. “How could he have thought me to be so base?”
The question embarrassed Bascot, and instead of attempting to answer it, he asked Scothern if he had been to see his sister.
Scothern nodded. “She is the same as ever, tight-lipped and contemptuous. I asked her what I was to tell our parents and she only replied that I could make up whatever lie my clerk’s brain deemed suitable.”
“Did you speak to her of what she had done?”
Again, Scothern nodded. “She took relish in telling me all the details. How she had told the alekeeper that Hugo was Lady Sybil’s illegitimate son by a secret lover and that the boy was threatening to expose her, demanding money for his silence. She said that she was acting for Lady Sybil. Wat believed the pair were to be found dead, apparently poisoned, to remove the threat from Isobel’s mistress. Poor fool, he believed her. Even when she made him get the harlot’s gown, he swallowed her tale.”
Scothern’s eyes filled wi
th tears. “She told the alekeeper that it was to disguise the identity of Hugo’s wife, so that no one would know of the couple’s connection to Sybil, but she said to me that she did it as a jest. ‘All women are harlots, ’ she said to me. ‘Only men are free to enjoy their lust where they may. If a woman does it, she is named a bawd.’ She sickened me.”
Bascot felt sorry for the clerk. He had honoured his sister, believed her to be chaste. How hard it was to find that one so near to him in kinship could have such a divergence of spirit. Isobel had been right when she had said that she should have been born a man. Bascot had known many men-at-arms, and knights, that fought not for the exhilaration of battle or the glory of winning, but simply because they had a lust to spill blood. Surprisingly, or perhaps not, they were the most valued warriors, for they fought without honour or conscience and often dealt the stroke that decided the outcome of a fray.
As if echoing his thought, Scothern continued talking about his sister’s odious crimes, as though he could erase the memory by speaking of them aloud. “I asked her why she had stabbed the bodies after death. There had been no need to desecrate them so, I said. She laughed at me, said it had been a necessary practice, that she had needed to know how to deliver a knife-stroke for when she should kill Anselm. Her lover. A priest. Ah, how will God ever forgive her? She will end in hell, and there is none that can prevent it.”
Bascot sought to divert the young man’s anguish. “Where do you go now, William?” he asked.
“I will stay in Lincoln until the charge against my sister is heard,” Scothern replied. “After that, to my parent’s home, I suppose.” He looked up at Bascot with eyes red from weeping. “Do you think they will hang her?”
“You know the law as well as I, William,” Bascot replied, feeling a surge of pity. “She committed not one murder, but six, and all of those with prior intent. The best Isobel can hope for is the loss of a hand or foot and banishment.”
Scothern nodded, his eyes looking in the direction of the helmed and mailed figures of the knights that were massing in lines and hefting their lances at each end of the sward. “If I had done as Isobel had wanted, and taken up the sword instead of the pen, perhaps she would not be where she is today.”
There was no reply that Bascot could find to make. He could not say that the boy was suited to the task he had chosen and that his sister, God forgive her, had been suited to hers. As the marshal signalled for a warning trumpet to sound, the secretarius mumbled a farewell and turned away. The last Bascot saw of him was as he pushed his way through the crowd at the edge of the field, looking neither to one side nor the other, a forlorn and lonely figure.
Three short blasts of a trumpet forced Bascot’s attention back to the tourney. A hush fell over the crowd as they waited for the melee to begin. Blunted lances bristled like the quills of hedgehogs above the heads of the knights, their destriers pulling at the restraint of their bridles as they pawed the earth with impatience. In the brightness of the summer sun, painted shields and polished helms sparkled and flashed. Overhead, and far above, a lone hawk soared and wheeled against the blue sky. Suddenly the long wail of a massed set of trumpets split the air and a second later, a huge shout rose up from the throats of the crowd as the two teams of knights lowered their lances and shot towards each other like quarrels loosed from opposing crossbows. The ground trembled beneath the thrum of the horses’ hooves, then seemed to tilt as the two waves of armoured men met in a crash of shields and splintering lances. Fallen horses screamed and men cursed as slowly those riders who had retained their seats emerged from the tangled mass.
Bascot wheeled his mount up one side of the field, feeling the animal beneath him prancing in the excitement of the moment. On the other side d’Arderon was following the same course, the other pair of Templar knights making their pass in the opposite direction.
Riderless horses bucked and plunged through the confusion and those knights who had fallen yielded up their shields to a team of heralds busily noting names and escutcheons. Those still in the fray raced their horses back to their respective starting positions, then wheeled their mounts in preparation for the next charge. Bascot watched the second clash of muscle and steel with envy in his throat. How well he remembered the thrill of battle, the great surge of exhilaration that coursed through body and mind as one’s lance found its target. Even with the memory of Isobel in his mind, he knew there was no joy that could replace it. Was he, like many another, guilty of lust, the lust to kill? Had God allowed him to justify it by leading him to join the Templars in the war against the infidel? Had he been wrong to turn away from such a life?
On the field, Richard Camville unhorsed his fourth knight. Conal was still in the saddle also, as were Roger de Kyme and Ivo de Rollos. Alan de Kyme had fallen in the first clash. Although swords and lances had been blunted, and the sharp flanges of maces wrapped in coarse linen, there were still many combatants who had suffered cuts and bruises, and one or two with a broken arm or leg. Leeches from the priory were tending the wounded in the shelter of the trees, salving mangled flesh with ointment before wrapping the injuries in strips of cloth. As the first hour wore on, those being cared for by the monks became more numerous, and by the time that the marshal called for a brief recess, out of the one hundred knights that had begun the contest, there were only some forty left. Of these, only fifteen still had ribbons of green fluttering from their arms. It looked as though the yellow side would be the victor.
Bascot and d’Arderon dismounted and drank a cup of wine at the edge of the trees. “Richard Camville looks to be champion,” the preceptor said, “even though it appears he might be the only one remaining of the greens.”
“He has a good arm,” Bascot agreed, “and so does Conal. They are both young yet, and whole of body.”
The preceptor looked sharply at Bascot. “You speak as though you are an old man, too feeble to hold a lance. Let me tell you that there are men here with a score more years than you who could take those youngsters in one pass. Gerard Camville for one, myself for another. Youth is no master to experience. Your fighting days are not over, Bascot, nor is there any need for them to be. And I do not think you want it so.”
D’Arderon had been speaking roughly, almost with anger. Now he paused to draw breath and continued in a gentler tone. “I saw your face when the melee started, Bascot. You would have been out there if you could. And would be as formidable as ever. There’s many a paladin that has lost an eye and found no lessening of his skill. Why do you not come back to the Order, where you belong? Your brothers in Christ would welcome you with hearts full of gladness.”
Bascot smiled at his mentor, aware of the truth in his words. “I know, my friend,” he replied softly. He could not explain to the crusty old campaigner the maelstrom of emotions that beset him. D’Arderon would not, could not, understand. “But I must find my way as God wills it,” he tried to explain, knowing his words were unconvincing. “I am not yet sure what it is that He has called me to do.”
“There is no doubt of His purpose for you in my mind,” d’Arderon answered promptly. “You were called to fight for Christ and kill Saracens. And you can’t do that in Lincoln.”
The trumpets sounded for the continuation of the melee and the two Templars resumed their roles as judges. As the next hour wore on and the sun grew hotter, it was plain that some of the knights were tiring. With the time allotted nearly at a finish, only Richard Camville and Conal were left of those who had worn a green ribbon, with some fifteen left on the yellow side, headed by Roger de Kyme. Ivo de Rollos was still in the saddle, but he carried his shield awkwardly and it was clear that he had injured his shoulder. Still, with grim determination, he kept his seat and rallied for what would be the last and final charge as Richard and Conal wheeled their horses at the far end of the field and, with a great shout, drove their steeds at the bunched mass of opposing knights.
Lances had been discarded some halfway through the battle. Now the knights fought with
sword and mace only. Richard carved his way through with an easy sweep of his blade, finally unseating young de Rollos and delivering another knight such a blow with the edge of his shield that the man tumbled to the ground. Conal was not so fortunate, however. He met with Roger de Kyme, shield to shield, and although the younger man had the advantage of a longer arm, de Kyme had more strength of muscle. Within two or three seconds, the flat of Roger’s sword had dented Conal’s helm and knocked his sword from his grasp. Hilde’s great-nephew had no choice but to yield.
As if by common consent, the remainder of the knights fell away as Richard Camville turned to face the man who had unhorsed his friend. They both set at each other with a will, reach and strength equal. The crowd rose to its feet, sensing that this was the match that would determine who was champion. Blows were rained by each man on the other with devastating effect until slowly, very slowly, it could be seen that de Kyme was beginning to tire. Richard seized his advantage, renewing his onslaught until Roger’s shield was battered and dented, with its owner struggling vainly to protect himself behind it. Finally, Richard spurred his tired mount forward and dealt his opponent such a blow to the head that de Kyme dropped his sword and slumped to the ground. A roar welled from the throats of the crowd as Richard Camville turned alone to face the remnants of the opposing team. Not one of them took up the challenge. In one movement, they all dismounted, signalling their decision to yield by laying up their swords and removing their helms. Richard Camville had won the day for his team and also the prize for champion.
When the tourney was over, the prizes awarded and a merry celebration well on its way, Bascot returned alone to Lincoln Castle. He was weary, not only from a night without sleep and the rigours of his vigil in the chapel, but also from the disquiet that d’Arderon’s words had put into his mind.
