The Tournament of Blood

Chapter Seven

Sachevyll was close to tears as the Bailiff walked away. He could have screamed with frustration, but that wouldn’t get things sorted, and that was what Hal Sachevyll was going to do: get this event successfully completed in the manner which Lord Hugh would expect.

But he couldn’t achieve anything in this mood. First he must calm down. That was what dear Wymond had told him, that he must calm down. He’d be no use to man nor beast if he didn’t, and there was so much to plan, so much to organise still. Hal had every intention of succeeding – with or without the Bailiff’s assistance. And afterwards he could point out to the Lord just how unhelpful – indeed obstructive – this nasty fellow Puttock had been. That thought was soothing. It needed to be developed. The idea of shaming the Bailiff before Lord Hugh was most attractive, but Hal hankered after more dramatic detail: perhaps the Bailiff would beg him for forgiveness, and Hal would spurn him, averting his head from the pitiful creature even as Lord Hugh demanded an explanation and apology for his rudeness and lack of respect to Hal.

Feeling much better now, Hal set off towards the tented market and bought himself a pint of good quality red wine. About to sit down, he changed his mind as a boisterous tipsy youth joined him on his bench. Instead Hal took his wine and walked to the riverside, where he sat on a fallen trunk.

Coming from a city (he had been born in London) Sachevyll viewed these rustic villeins with contempt and mistrust. Peasants were all the same. The Bailiff was clearly of the same stock: untutored, no doubt, mean and unpleasant. A man of taste and courtesy would have treated Hal with more respect. After all, he was the leading designer of lists and stands in the country, not some peasant begging alms at a lord’s door.

He would have to acquire more wood. The stuff he had bought was not up to the standard, and he’d have to get more. That would cut into his profits, and his master carpenter’s, too. Silly Wymond, making the Bailiff angry like that when there was still a chance he might agree to let them have wood from the castle’s own stocks or something. That had been their plan – to buy cheaper quality in the expectation that Simon would cave in and give them better material. It had worked before. But Wymond had seen how annoyed Hal was growing. Heyho! Now they’d had to buy more themselves with the money they had saved from the job. There were few enough perks to jobs like this one, but taking the money and buying fewer planks or beams than necessary, or getting only cheap stuff which wasn’t worth half the amount paid, was one way of making profit. It was all accepted and understood, a means by which talent could be rewarded, like the dairyman who carefully warmed cream and took off a few clotted lumps for his own breakfast; except now it looked as though Hal was going to have to use the money he had skimmed from the deal.

Still, if he could find a cheap supplier, he could come out of it all right – and meanwhile make sure that Lord Hugh knew exactly how unpleasant that Bailiff had been.

Hal was still nervous that the project might be late. The job had progressed alarmingly sluggishly. It was his duty to see to the layout and design of the field, but also to ensure that everything happened on time. Of course his budget was nowhere near adequate. If only he had been given more money to play with, he could have worked wonders.

Sipping his wine, Sachevyll allowed himself to daydream, recalling the plans he had formed when Lord Hugh first asked him to help. In his mind it would have been a gorgeous display: red silks forming a canopy over the Lord’s own grandstand, with a throne of wood upholstered with crimson velvet and cushions. Sachevyll had thought instantly of the chivalrous stories of Arthur when Lord Hugh suggested that he might like to help. He envisioned his employer dressing as a king, perhaps wearing cloth of gold and an ermine-trimmed robe, while his knights took on the rôles of Arthurian characters, acting out their parts at the Round Table before all joined in a splendid clash of steel.

That Bailiff could be the evil Mordred, he snickered, his eye drawn once more to the stands.

But no. The King had banned all showy tournaments since the alliance formed to destroy his favourite Piers Gaveston in 1312, and it would be tempting fate, let alone the King’s patience, to pretend to be Arthur, to wear a crown and show off his knights as men from the legends. The King would turn a blind eye to a simple tournament with few knights and no other magnates, intended purely to exercise steeds and men together in order to ensure their skill for the better defence of the realm, but it would be very different were Lord Hugh to put himself forward as a king – and not just any king, but England’s greatest. People might consider that Lord Hugh was getting ideas above his station, and if other magnates were invited, King Edward II would be a fool not to wonder whether plots against him were being hatched. It had happened before.

No, the tournament must have the workaday appearance of simple martial practice. It was terrible, of course, for the spectacle was all there, ready, in Hal Sachevyll’s mind, but at least he was working on a tournament again, and that was all that really mattered. He loved them, even after the disaster at Exeter so many years ago.

He hadn’t been entirely responsible, of course. There was little doubt in his mind that the crowds moving forward had brought about the stand’s collapse, and many of the furious people were crushed by the weight of bodies behind them before the wood had given that appalling, groaning crack and shuddered. There was a kind of silence, then. A pause. Hal had stopped and gaped. He had never heard such a sound before. From somewhere a bird called. And then the dust was hurled into the air as the wood gave way and the screams began.

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.