The Tournament of Blood (21 page)

He glanced to either side, his tension growing. The townspeople didn’t look cheerful; they should have been happy to see their lord, yet there was a pall of anxiety or worse hanging over
the place.

As Lord Hugh clattered over the timber bridge to the barbican, Sir Peregrine gazed up at the walls above. A short Welshman with a cruel scar from one ear almost to his nose, one of Sir
Peregrine’s own men, nodded cheerily from the battlements and Sir Peregrine relaxed a little. If he thought all was safe, Sir Peregrine was content.

Men had been sent on with the harbingers to ensure that the place was prepared for Lord Hugh and the others. All told, Lord Hugh and his household were almost sixty men and that many required a
goodly number of barrels of ale and of wine to be prepared, let alone the grain that must be put by for breadmaking. Oats must be stored for the horses, meats bought, the hall cleaned, the yard
cleared, tapestries hung to stop the draughts from behind the shutters once the place was closed up for the night, and the portable altars set out.

Oakhampton might be small compared with other castles, but it offered Sir Peregrine a sense of safety as he entered the tunnel to the bailey, and he smiled to see his men at their posts. The
main gates opened, and he trotted in behind Lord Hugh, their hooves ringing and striking sparks from the moorstone that paved the courtyard.

While the lord and his men ensconced themselves in Oakhampton Castle, Baldwin went with Margaret and Edith to watch some of the pre-tournament displays and to seek Simon.

‘I thought he’d be here when we arrived,’ Margaret said. She sounded a little disappointed.

‘There is much to be organised still,’ Baldwin said. He cast her a quick look. ‘And someone was murdered here last night so he has extra work.’

The shadows were growing and people lounged at rails watching a succession of hopeful squires exercising their masters’ horses through the lists, galloping the great mounts to warm them,
turning and charging back again.

There were other entertainments as well. A juggler was sending an endless succession of balls up into the air, while idlers watched and unemotionally chewed pies or slurped from jugs of ale.
Boys shot arrows at targets while farther on, a pair of men were circling warily, bare-chested, both holding small riding swords, fighting for God knew what reason – perhaps merely for money.
Sometimes fights were staged to resolve arguments, sometimes just for display, but either way these combatants were winning a good reward. Every time the two backed away from each other, spectators
threw coins.

It was an unequal battle, for one of the men was taller and had a longer reach, while the other had short arms. The shorter fellow was already wearing a pattern of bloody slashes across his
chest while the other had only a couple of cuts on the palm of his left hand where he had defended himself. Baldwin, Margaret and Edith watched the two for some little while, having sent Hugh for a
jug of wine, but soon it became obvious who would win and they lost interest. Edith professed a desire to see the weaker man prevail, but it was a forlorn hope; he had no chance, especially a
moment later when the taller man ran him through the shoulder.

It was good for Baldwin to forget the murder, if only for a little while. The affair was an issue for Simon, certainly, and the Coroner, but not Baldwin, Keeper of the King’s Peace from
faraway Crediton. Yet Baldwin was concerned. He couldn’t get the idea out of his mind that Wymond’s body was left specifically to convey a message to Hal.

He tried to put such thoughts from him as he walked with Margaret, but he was keenly sensitive to the mood of the place. Everyone had heard of Wymond’s death by now, and many of the
townspeople were gossiping about the murder, but to Baldwin’s relief there was little fear. The townspeople were not going to let the death of an unpopular carpenter stop them enjoying
themselves.

With Simon busy, Baldwin felt a duty to keep Simon’s wife entertained and he was determined to do so with as light a manner as possible. Although Edith was a young woman now, she could
forget herself occasionally and fall into childish ways. Seeing a man selling sweetmeats, she ran on ahead and Baldwin took the opportunity of asking Margaret how she was.

‘I despair,’ Margaret said when the girl was out of earshot, rocking gently to soothe the child in her arms.

‘Is she that difficult?’ Baldwin asked, smiling inanely as the infant opened his eyes and glowered at the world. Catching sight of Baldwin he frowned and then vomited.

‘More than you could imagine,’ Margaret sighed as she mopped up. ‘She exhausts me. One moment she declares she adores me, the next she shrieks that she loathes me. Naturally I
am a saint if I have just given her a treat and an ogre if I’ve denied her one. At other times she is merely sullen and unhelpful.’

‘I presume preventing her riding with her friends makes her sullen?’ Baldwin guessed.

‘Just so. Last week she wanted to ride to Tavistock – on her own, I ask you! She said she was old enough to be wedded, so she was old enough to ride to see her friends. I soon
corrected her.’

Hugh reappeared, scowling ferociously as he barged his way through the crowd, two jugs gripped carefully in one hand, while he held his staff in his clenched fist.

Baldwin nodded towards him. ‘It is good to see Hugh back.’

‘You think so? The miserable devil!’ she giggled. ‘But yes, I’m happy he’s returned.’

‘It has been about a year, hasn’t it, that he’s been living away? Has he married Constance?’

‘So he says.’

‘It’s hard to imagine a man leaving his wife behind.’

‘Servants grow accustomed to leaving their families for long periods.’

‘I know. Yet since I married Jeanne, I find it hard to imagine leaving her for weeks at a time. Is Hugh happy with his wife?’

‘I think so.’ She gave a slow nod in assent.

Baldwin knew that Margaret disapproved of the woman called Constance because of her background. Constance had once been a novice nun, and the thought that Hugh had slept with her offended
Margaret, who was highly religious. She could not accept that a woman who had given her vows to God could later take up a new life and a secular husband. Tactfully, Baldwin chose to change the
subject. ‘Simon must be highly considered if he is asked to organise events such as these. I think your husband may be destined for advancement.’

‘You think so?’ Margaret responded eagerly. ‘He has certainly done very well for himself. When we first met, he was a mere gentleman with land out at Sandford, and now look at
him! I feel quite nervous, thinking of the nobles who will be here.’

He gave her a long, pensive look. ‘When you have met as many of the breed as I have, you will soon lose any nerves. You will learn to make allowances for them.’

She blinked. ‘What
do
you mean?’

‘Margaret, most of the truly noble knights are mere vain, primping coxcombs. They have less brain in their heads than they were born with – those that have any at all. Look, there
are two there.’

Following his finger, she saw Sir John of Crukerne and his son walking to the combat area where they had seen the two swordsmen. They leaned on the rail, talking. ‘What of them?’

‘They have the knightly attributes, or so they think. Both, from what I have heard, can handle a horse with great skill; both can wield lance, sword or axe; both have great stamina –
but there is more to knighthood than that. They show no courtesy, humility or pity. Many knights like to demonstrate their courtesy by elaborate praise of beautiful women, and many would leave
their attentions there, having made their target feel flattered as a lady should after such recognition, but there are some, like that squire,’ he jerked his head, ‘who would always try
to take more. By force, if necessary.’

‘And the other?’

‘Sir John is no libertine. But a man like him, who has been in many jousts, must have lost much of his sense.’

‘You have been in several yourself, I am sure?’

‘And haven’t you noticed how my brains have been addled?’ he asked lightly. ‘When you are hit about the head by a madman wielding a sword which weighs at least five
pounds, you naturally have to wear a helmet, and for all the padding about your brow and ears, the din is appalling.’

She laughed aloud, but her eyes remained upon the two standing at the bars. The fighters had stopped, the shorter man being helped to a corner, blood streaming from the gash in his shoulder and
other stab wounds. The victor, the taller man, was chatting to Sir John, but even as Margaret watched, Sir John turned and met her gaze. Although she tried to look away as if she had not observed
him, she saw the knight’s sudden wolfish smile and the sight of it made her colour.

Averting her face, she tried to put him from her mind, but she couldn’t. That man’s open stare had made her feel as though he had undressed and mounted her; if not in reality, she
was convinced that he had in his mind. She felt as though she had been raped.

Andrew, Sir Edmund of Gloucester’s squire, walked idly to the racks at the edge of the field. This was the starting-point for riders before charging at an opponent, and
lances were fitted into their slots, ready for the first challenges.

Lifting one from its rest, he held it at its centre and frowningly gauged its heft and balance. It felt a little top-heavy, but that was normal enough. Squinting along its length he saw that
there was a definite curve to it. All the better for the rider who faced it, he thought, for the wood would shatter most spectacularly on impact, making the two riders appear all the more brave for
their harsh collision with shards and splinters of wood flying in all directions. The
coronal
was a goodly lump of iron, with four blunt prongs projecting to disperse the force of the
lance and protect the opponent. Otherwise a sharp point with the full mass of knight, horse and armour all riding on the tip could puncture even strong armour and pin a man inside his steel coat.
Andrew had seen it happen.

He set the lance back in the rest and took up another. This was straight enough, and he gave a grudging nod of approval as he peered along its length, but as he lifted it back to the vertical
and thumped the base against the ground, he thought there was a feeling of weakness in it, as if it had a crack in the wood.

Putting the lance back, he eyed the arena. Imagining himself on horseback, he peered hard, searching for any potholes or tussocks which might conceal a molehill. The last thing he wanted was for
his mount to stumble or swerve. With a heavy charger travelling at speed, that could end in disaster: the opponent’s horse might try to dodge, leading to the lance-point striking at an odd
angle, perhaps slipping beneath the plate armour and hitting a vital spot, or the manoeuvre could lead to the horses colliding, killing both each other
and
their riders.

The ground was clear so far as he could see. Reassured, he thrust his hands in his belt and leaned against the rack, idly watching the other squires and knights as they walked about, until
suddenly his eye lit upon a slim, fair figure.

He stood, his hand reaching automatically for his knife-hilt. Slowly he walked around behind the rack and watched as the figure approached.

‘
Geoffrey!
’ His low, hissing voice made the other squire start and gaze about him. ‘You cowardly whore’s whelp!’

Geoffrey was only a few yards away, and he turned with a baffled expression.

‘
Geoffrey!
You
shit!
’

‘Eh?’ A man was standing near the rack, Geoffrey could see, but at this distance, some twenty feet, he could only make out an imprecise blurred figure. His sight was poor at the best
of times, but here, in bright sunlight, it was hard to see who was standing in the relative shade of the trees at the riverbank.

‘Forgotten me, have you?’ Squire Andrew called. He pulled his knife from its sheath and stalked forward. ‘I’ve wanted to see you again ever since that night. You remember
– the night before we ran into Harclay at the bridge? Only you
wouldn’t
remember, would you? You weren’t there.’

‘I don’t know what you mean. Who are you?’

Andrew smiled thinly. There was a subtle note of fear in the other’s voice. ‘So you
have
forgotten me – that’s sad. I was in your company when you were riding
with your master at Earl Thomas of Lancaster’s side. I remember you perfectly. You were a bold little cock there, weren’t you? Offering your advice to all and sundry. Except you
weren’t quite so brave when you realised that the King was getting near, were you? You went off to seek forage, only you never came back.’

‘Of course I didn’t!’ Geoffrey lied. ‘I got cut off by a raiding party. I fought through them and went ahead to return to the Earl’s side, only the bridge I had to
cross was taken. Harclay and his men were already there. I had no choice.’

‘Liar!’ Andrew spat. ‘You bolted. You rode off as soon as you could; you deserted your master.’

‘I would never have deserted him,’ Geoffrey declared hotly.

‘You’re lucky he died with the others on the bridge. Shot down by a random arrow, then crushed beneath a horse. He died there honourably, Geoffrey. Just as you should have done.
Except you were too cowardly to risk your neck, weren’t you? You had to get away.’

‘I had no choice,’ Geoffrey said weakly. ‘What would you have done?’

‘I’d have fought to get back, so I could die with my master,’ Andrew said. ‘As I did.’

‘Well, all I can say is, you can’t have been cut off in the same way I was,’ Geoffrey said. ‘I had no chance.’

‘Really?’ Andrew asked cynically. ‘Don’t you recognise me yet?’

Geoffrey stared as Andrew approached him. Then his mouth fell open and he held up a hand as if to ward off evil. ‘But you were dead! I saw you fall!’

Andrew smiled mirthlessly. ‘You thought so, did you? Well, if I died, I have been brought back to life to see you suffer for your cowardice, you bastard! And you’ll suffer soon,
believe me. I’ll trample your reputation in the mire for running away from the enemy even when your master needed your support. You left him and your Earl to die, just as you left me and the
others in the party to die. I shall denounce you.’