The Tournament of Blood (16 page)

‘Well?’

‘Squire Geoffrey? I am called Odo, the Herald. I have been asked to give you a message.’

‘From whom?’ Geoffrey asked haughtily, but then his relief was profound when the messenger smiled lopsidedly.

‘From a Lady Alice, Squire, if you can spare me a moment.’

When Hal had gone, Baldwin threw Simon a frowning glance.

‘You realise the significant point?’

‘Of course,’ Simon grunted. ‘There’s a curfew. All the hawkers and tradespeople would be gone.’

‘So only knights and their servants could be about . . .’ Baldwin said thoughtfully. ‘We should first seek the killer among
them
.’

Simon was quiet a while, staring back towards the market. This tournament was to have been an enjoyable event for him, a reminder of easier, quieter times. He could remember the
hastiludes
his father had organised, the rushing of destriers, the rattling crash as steel-tipped lances hit shields or armour, the flags flying gaily, the women watching and giving their
tokens, promising their bodies to the knights who upheld their honour and unseated their opponents.

The memories were suffused with the warm, comfortable glow that a happy childhood affords. Simon
had
been a happy lad – and the tournaments in his youth had been wonderful affairs
during the reign of the good King Edward I.

And now his opportunity to relive those wonderful times, to prove to himself that he could equal his father in managing such a grand affair, was to come to nought – all because of a
confounded murderer.

‘You want me to make Lord Hugh’s most valued feudatories understand that I suspect them of murder?’ Simon said.

‘That could make your life short and interesting,’ Baldwin grinned. ‘No. The curfew is never that strong – but it means that strangers may have been noticed. We should
ask whom they saw last night. And the watchmen, of course. If someone was wandering around the place, they should have spotted them.’

‘It’s asking rather a lot to think they’d have seen much in the dark,’ Simon grumbled.

‘Well, the murder happened in the dark. There cannot have been many people about,’ Baldwin said. ‘Come along, Simon. We have solved more confusing riddles before
now.’

‘The Coroner must hold an inquest.’

‘By the time he arrives, maybe we shall have discovered the facts for him.’

Simon nodded doubtfully and called a watchman for help to remove the body of Wymond. ‘Do you believe Hal?’

Baldwin looked at him. ‘Why should I not?’

‘It seems odd. If they were so close, why was Hal content to go to bed and fall asleep while his chamber-mate was out? If Hal thought Wymond was only going for a piss, wouldn’t he
have waited and raised the alarm when his friend didn’t return?’

‘Perhaps, and yet they had been working so late, is it not possible that Hal was so exhausted he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the hay? They weren’t new lovers, were they
– keen to get into bed with each other and . . . well, you know what I mean. They were like an old married couple from that point of view.’

Simon scratched his head. ‘Hmm, I see your point. And I don’t really believe Hal would have murdered Wymond, and there’s no way he could have carried him back here.’

‘I doubt whether he could overcome Wymond in the first place anyway,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘No, I think it is more likely to be one of the tournament-folk – someone who . . .
what? Wanted to rob? Or was looking for revenge. But why? And how to seek one killer among so many knights and squires?’

‘Good God! I don’t know,’ Simon said despairingly. ‘I am supposed to be organising the tournament, not searching for a murderer.’

‘Then you must leave it to me, old friend. I will see what I can discover by talking to the participants.’

The watchmen arrived and soon Simon had organised men to carry the body on a stretcher. Taking his leave of Baldwin, he went with them, leading the way on a path which wound up the hill behind
the castle and back to the road.

As Simon had intended, few saw his procession, but he knew that soon the gossip would spread about the field and when it did, he would have to be present in person to calm the anxious, or those
vengeful fools filled with self-righteous indignation and ale. But first Simon must go to the castle; he wanted a clerk to take down details of the body, the clothing and the purse so that Sir
Roger of Gidleigh, the Coroner, would have a full report when he arrived. It was a great relief to Simon that Sir Baldwin was there to help investigate the murder.

Baldwin walked thoughtfully back to his tent and told Edgar to make sure that all his armour was in good condition, his mail undamaged, his undergarments well padded and
comfortable to wear. A knight must always see that his equipment was gleaming, for the knight reflected his Lord’s importance. Shabbiness was shameful. And one never knew whether Baldwin
would have to put it on at some stage of the tournament. Meanwhile, he would go among the workers at the stands to ask whether any had seen or heard any strange noises during the night; after that,
he would consider which knights and servants should be questioned.

He spoke to many with singularly little result until he found a thin, tired-looking man near the main arena, who shook his head in response to Baldwin’s enquiries but then looked carefully
about him and led the way behind a stand where they could speak without being observed.

‘Look, I don’t know who killed him or why, but I’ll tell you this: that Carpenter fellow was a nasty piece of work, he was. Always handy with his fists when he thought someone
was slacking, but he never did much himself. Him and Sachevyll used Lord Hugh’s money, but kept back as much as they could, always buying cheap odds and sods. I’d bet Wymond was killed
by someone he’d threatened, or beaten up or someone he’d stolen from.’

‘He wasn’t stabbed. Why smash his head in?’

‘One way of making sure the bastard was dead, wasn’t it?’ The man spat.

‘Did he have any friends here?’

‘You must be joking. Only Sachevyll. They’ve been going about together for some years, from what I’ve heard. Bloody queens! Makes you sick, doesn’t it?’

‘I don’t care about that. What of their work?’

‘Sachevyll designed layouts and decoration while Wymond put it all together. All the bigger tournaments, Sachevyll and Wymond were there. To be fair they could be good at their
job.’

‘When did
you
last see the dead man?’

‘Wymond? After we’d knocked off work last night. It was evening time. I saw him talking to someone down near the river behind his tent – a slim fellow, taller than
Wymond.’

‘You didn’t recognise him?’

‘No. It was late and I wasn’t that interested. I’d seen enough of Wymond for one day. The only reason I was out and about was because I ’d left a wineskin and gone back
to fetch it. You know what thieving bastards the watchmen are – I didn’t want one of them drinking it. The pair of ’em were standing under the trees. Couldn’t see the other
one’s face.’

‘But you are sure he was with Wymond?’

‘Yes – I’d swear to it.’

‘What then?’

‘They walked off together.’ He snorted disgustedly. ‘Going for a shag, for all I know, dirty buggers! Then I left for my bed.’

‘What of Hal?’

‘He’d gone. I saw him enter his tent. Waiting for Lover-boy.’

As he spoke, Sachevyll himself appeared around the side of the stand and stared at them. He looked gaunt and pinched, and Baldwin felt a pang of sympathy for him: he had lost his lover, perhaps
his only friend and also his companion in business. What future could he expect now?

Sachevyll screeched at the workman, ‘What are
you
doing? Don’t you want to keep your job?’ Facing Baldwin, he pleaded: ‘Leave them alone, can’t you? Holy
Mother, send me patience! With Wymond dead, I have enough to do without worrying that you’ll stop the men from their work.’

‘You should be grateful: he has confirmed your story. You say you had been in business with Wymond for some years?’ Baldwin asked as the man hurried away.

‘Yes,’ Hal Sachevyll sighed. ‘God! What of it?’

Baldwin was tempted to ask whether they had embezzled money from Lord Hugh, but Sachevyll would guess that the worker would have tipped him off. It appeared unlikely, but if Sachevyll
had
killed Wymond, he would make short work of the builder. Baldwin held his peace; instead he asked, ‘What interests did you have in common?’

‘We enjoyed making tournaments, that’s all,’ Hal Sachevyll snapped.

‘Can’t you tell me anything that could help me find his killer?’

‘I don’t
know
anything!’ The man was wringing his hands.

‘Did you see anyone with him yesterday? Someone you didn’t recognise?’

‘No! When I saw him it was only to talk about the timbers. Why the men used them to erect the stands baffles me. A complete waste of time. They will all have to come down. Wymond was
supposed to be keeping an eye on all that. The wood is useless. As it is, I have been forced to go and buy more, and you’ll never guess how much I—’

‘I have no wish to know,’ Baldwin interrupted smoothly, ‘but I am glad to hear that you can guarantee the safety of the stands.’

He left Sachevyll and wandered pensively back to the river near the architect’s tent, looking down into the water again, contemplating the tranquil scene. A little further on the river
curved back towards the hill on which the castle stood. Baldwin strolled along the bank. There was a thick muddy patch where cattle came to drink at the far bank, and a corresponding mess on his
side. It was a pleasant, shaded spot, with the sun dappling the waters, and the river gave a pleasant, gurgling chuckle as it rippled past. Baldwin stood and rested a hip against a low branch,
turning back to face the field.

Baldwin considered Wymond perfectly capable of viciousness; he could well have committed some foul act in the past which was deserving of retribution. His appearance went against him, but so did
his quick temper. Baldwin, a man who had seen men-at-arms who raped, slaughtered and tortured, saw in Wymond someone who could have been guilty of the same kind of behaviour. Not, he sighed to
himself, that that was in any way an excuse for what had happened to Wymond.

How did the murderer actually commit the crime? Where was Wymond caught, where was he bound, where was he hammered to unconsciousness and murdered?

Before him, in between himself and the wooden stands of the
ber frois
was the tent where Wymond had been found. The stands blocked the view to the fairground scene beyond. Right was the
sweep of the river, curving around the whole area. Baldwin was sure that someone who wanted to kill a man would have taken the victim to a quiet area so he couldn’t be interrupted. His eyes
were drawn back to the hill on his left, behind the castle. Up there the trees might smother a little of the noise, a man’s screams or shouts – but a killer would surely want somewhere
safer, where he couldn’t be seen or heard. The hill was too close to the market and stands for that.

A murderer would want a more private place. Perhaps he found it by crossing the river.

The man they were seeking was not some reckless, random killer. And this was no spur-of-the-moment deed. A man with a grudge was the most likely candidate – but
who
?

He turned and stared out over the river. The water looked deep, but then he noticed that a causeway lay just beneath the surface. Ah, well! he thought resignedly, and stepped boldly into it,
trying to ignore the water which lapped over the tops of his boots.

Sir Edmund of Gloucester rode his horse at a fast gallop into the tented area, guiding his mount with an automatic tweak of the reins and subtle shift of his weight. The great
charger turned, avoiding a small child by inches, and Sir Edmund laughed to see the brat caught up by an outraged mother.

It was forbidden to ride fast in this area, but he didn’t care. Not now. There was nothing anyone could do to him that could affect him. After his last English tournament he had been
ruined, a knight without horse, without armour, a wandering, lordless knight, a
nothing
, and he would never forget the horror of that time. He had been forced to leave his home and seek
fame abroad. Tournaments in France and Germany had helped hone his skills and had given him a focus, and after his successes, he had returned, laden now with plate and gold.

While abroad he had met Andrew. The older man was experienced, a dutiful servant and reliable squire in the
hastilude
. Together the two had slowly built up their fortunes, assisted by
the patronage of a powerful banneret at Bordeaux who was a vassal of Thomas of Lancaster, and it was Earl Thomas who had rescued Sir Edmund from his wanderings and gave him back his pride.

He leaped from his mount at the entrance to his tent and stood patting the great horse’s neck while he glanced about him superciliously. The people repelled him: dull, stupid folk who had
no idea what life was really about. They none of them had a clue about the meaning of chivalry.

Pulling his horse behind him, he walked to the river and let his beast drink. It was the most important rule for any fighting man: the horse always came first. A knight depended upon his mount
before any servant, woman or companion.

He passed his horse to a groom and wandered back to his tent, a brightly coloured pavilion with his shield prominently displayed outside. The thick canvas was painted and stained in strips to
match the colours of his shield: red and white vertical bars. He had discarded the marks of his Lord.

The thought was bitter. He was constantly aware of it. His master was dead, murdered by the Butcher of Boroughbridge: King Edward II.

Neither he nor any of the other men in Earl Thomas’s host had believed that the man who so completely failed at Bannockburn and during the Despenser war last year would actually
fight
Earl Thomas. It had seemed ludicrous to think that so pathetic a King, who preferred swimming and play-acting with peasants to hunting or taking part in honourable pursuits, would
dare confront a proven warrior like Earl Thomas. Edward had even banned tournaments; and only a man who was fearful of his own warriors would stop Englishmen from their practice.