The Tournament of Blood

Chapter Eighteen

Sir John had left his son to go and talk to a couple of armourers. Having settled with them for a new sword and matching dagger, he left the rattle and hammer of their anvils, and strode along their lines to the usurers’ discreet section of tents and tables.

It was hard to keep his features under control. Useless swine, the lot of them! All of them of low birth; not one nobleman in the country would want to be accused of money-lending: it was a source of shame. Worse than entering into mercantile ventures.

The pity of it was that men had to make use of them occasionally. He had himself been forced to go to the usurers: for arms, for Pomers – even for sheep, because he’d never have restocked his flocks else. After the famine, his sheep had died almost to a ewe from a murrain that struck down not only his own flocks but also all the others in the country.

He cheered up a little as he recalled the hatred on Sir Edmund’s face. It was refreshing to see that a man whom he had beaten so many years before still felt the humiliation of his conquest.

Sir John marched along the money-lenders’ tables, his mind on the difficulty of replacing that shit Benjamin. But he had to, somehow. With so much of his property already in pawn, it was going to be much harder to borrow. He could almost believe that Benjamin had warned everyone not to take any debts from him, from the reception he was getting. At least he didn’t need to repay his old debts now Benjamin was gone. Widow Dudenay could whistle for it. She could threaten all she wanted, Sir John would never return the money her husband had lent him. He cast a speculative eye towards the arena. That was the best way to win more money.

Not that he needed cash for long. Surely his flocks would soon recover, now that he had brought in rams and ewes, and then he could look to redeem the plate and gold he had left in pawn.

However, if he were to find another Sir Edmund, life would become a great deal easier.

The thought was an idle one, but it was enough to bring a beaming smile to his face. Then he caught sight of Sir Baldwin. There was a man he’d like to meet in the hastilude. It’d be next to impossible to lose against a pathetic-looking specimen like him. Sir Baldwin was the archetypal farmer-warrior. Just enough money from his manor to justify the retention of his titles and keep him in good clothes, if Sir John’s guess was accurate. Probably as bound up with financial troubles as he was himself. Certainly not Sir John’s ideal companion. A good, sound man-at-arms was more to his taste; someone with whom he could drink his fill of strong ales or wines, then gamble on a horse or a knight in lance-play, not some straight-faced old fast like Sir Baldwin. However, any man was better company than no one. And anyone at all was better than his son William at present. He was going about the place like a bear in the pit.

Seeing an attractive woman at Sir Baldwin’s side, Sir John’s smile grew. At least he had a pleasing decoration. ‘Sir Baldwin, how go things in Furnshill?’

‘Well, I thank you,’ Baldwin answered, fitting a dishonestly welcoming smile to his face.

Margaret hoisted her child higher on her breast as she gave the knight a polite greeting.

‘I was just thinking I will have to enter the tournament,’ Sir John told Baldwin. ‘Take a look at the youngsters here. Any one of them could be thrashed with one hand bound behind me. A man could make a fortune.’

‘Surely you aren’t thinking only of money, Sir John?’ Margaret exclaimed. ‘Not when you could win renown for your courage and deeds in the tournament?’

Sir John smiled patronisingly. ‘Lady, a man might easily win honours for his prowess, but when all is said and done, a purseful of coins speaks loudest. A knight wins no praise if he never wins at a fight, and the natural accompaniment to success is wealth. Besides,’ he added, glancing at the milling squires and servants, ‘look at the fools here. Many of them should be grateful for a good lesson taught at the hands of a practised knight.’

‘They should be grateful for being beaten about the head?’ she enquired, and Baldwin nearly laughed out loud.

‘Lady, the lessons learned here on a field with bated weapons will stand many a fellow in good stead upon a field in which the weapons are all sharp. And anyway, there is nothing wrong with a man winning money from his captives.’

‘Combatants can die even with bated weapons,’ Baldwin observed.

‘Of course. How else do you teach a man chivalry if he won’t risk his own life?’

‘Have you killed many in the lists?’ Margaret asked.

‘Not many. A few.’

Baldwin looked at him. The lists were supposed to be for practice, not to kill. ‘I heard that you fought Sir Richard’s father in the lists.’

‘Godwin? Yes. He was a popular fellow, but not much good as a fighter. A splinter of steel from his helmet cut his throat while he fought me, and he died.’

‘Was that at Exeter?’ Baldwin enquired, recalling Hal’s words. ‘Didn’t a stand give way?’

‘Yes. Rot the bastards! The crowd was furious to see their darling little Godwin fall! They surged forward in the stands and people at the sides of the ber frois moved forward, all howling like wolves. I’ve never seen a mob like it! And then someone fell, or a rope gave way – I don’t know – and a mass of folks tumbled down. Several died.’

‘But you escaped.’

‘Yes, Sir Baldwin. When those people were turned off the stand like so many felons pushed off a cart, others ran to help them. I managed to get to my horse and leave the field.’

Margaret was smiling in a brittle, insincere manner. ‘You must have been terribly upset. To have killed a popular knight and thus cause the death of innocents… ’

‘I was pleased, Lady. Pleased! Godwin had cuckolded me!’ Sir John burst out. He was suddenly silent, staring away into the distance. ‘Godwin was known for it. He was useless as a fighter, but he loved to dally with women. Well, I heard he’d been dallying with mine. She’s long dead now, I fear, but then I wouldn’t have it! If I’d had the chance, I’d have challenged him formally and killed him in legal combat before God, damn him!’

The rush of words was embarrassing. Baldwin met Margaret’s eye. Sir John saw their look and quickly changed the subject.

‘It is rare to kill men now. And one shouldn’t wish to. Not with the rewards of ransom. In Crukerne in 1316 I captured several.’

‘Any we know?’ Margaret asked brightly.

‘You may know some. One was Sir Edmund – I think he hales from Gloucester. I was not actually a combatant at the time of the mêlée, but I was watching from an inn, and disgusted with most of what I saw. Youths who hardly knew how to hold a blade were trying their luck against older, more honourable fellows and beating them through sheer strength of numbers.’

‘Isn’t that always the way?’ Baldwin asked with some surprise.

‘I suppose it is sometimes, but it’s hardly right, is it? One of the only decent fighters was Sir Walter Basset. Now there was a man who could fight! Stormed from one combat to another, winning horses and armour on all sides. Wonderful work! He pushed Sir Richard Prouse through a wall.’

He smiled at the memory. The sight of the clumsy fool tottering sideways through the wooden stand had been hilarious.

‘And this arrogant young puppy Sir Edmund stormed in to attack Sir Walter. Christ! Oh, forgive me, my apologies, my Lady, but what can you say about a fool like that? What did he think he was doing? Sir Walter is trained and experienced, as well as having a very short temper. It was predictable. Sir Edmund tried to fight, but kept being pressed back, his horse suffering as many buffets as Sir Edmund himself, until he had to break and ride off. Sir Walter had the choice of chasing him or returning to his already fallen prey and like a cat he went back to Sir Richard, except now his blood was well and truly up, which is how he came to half kill poor old Prouse.

‘I was drinking ale and saw all this. As it happened, my horse was saddled, and I was armoured. I thought, Well, here’s an opportunity for some money! I climbed up into the saddle, took a lance, and hurtled off after Sir Edmund. I caught him completely unawares, the damned fool, and in a moment he was out of the saddle and sprawling in the dirt. So, I captured him and took him back to the diseur who confirmed I had won him legally.’

‘Did no one try to stop you?’ Margaret asked.

‘No, the other folks had seen how badly hurt Sir Richard was, so they were all busy fetching leeches and suchlike. No, no one tried to stop me. They were making sure that Sir Walter escaped the mob. So many of the folks grow angry to see a man win his bout; they try to catch the man who stopped their own favourite win. I recall Benjamin was happy to see me – he had a large bet on Sir Edmund losing his armour and I helped him win the gamble.’

‘What happened to Sir Richard?’ Margaret enquired. ‘He didn’t die, did he?’

‘He lives yet,’ Sir John said thoughtfully. The thought of living like that, unable to walk or run, without the use of an arm or the sight in one eye, and with those scars! Terrible! Every fighter’s nightmare. ‘Better perhaps that he had died,’ he said heavily, with the faintest touch of compassion. ‘He was badly crushed when the ber frois collapsed on him. And not only him. Several people were killed when he fell, especially since his horse was flailing about with its hooves and killed some folks before it, too, died. It’s unfair, of course, but some bystanders blamed Sir Walter at the time.’

‘Why?’

‘Because when Sir Richard fell through the barriers many people were crushed. Most were villeins, though. No one significant.’

Baldwin was frowning. ‘Do you know who was responsible for the ber frois that collapsed?’

‘Of course I do. It was at my manor – I’d arranged it,’ Sir John said impatiently. ‘The stands were designed by Hal Sachevyll, and constructed by Carpenter Wymond. Who else builds tournaments in Devonshire?’

‘Didn’t their failure cost you dearly?’

‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’

‘I am surprised that after that, Hal and Wymond were used again,’ Margaret said.

‘Hal has a good eye for spectacle. He’s always in demand.’

‘Not recently, surely,’ Baldwin murmured. ‘While the King has his ban.’

‘Hal was with the King himself until recently,’ Sir John said. ‘I know he was at court until the end of last year. And then I believe he helped Earl Thomas. Before the Earl was executed, of course,’ he added with a chuckle.

‘They could travel from one side to another so easily?’ Baldwin asked.

Sir John grinned. ‘Everyone likes to see a tournament. And the King would have liked to know what was happening in his uncle’s camp.’

‘You think they were spying?’ Baldwin shot out.

‘At Crukerne, Hal was very friendly with Despenser’s allies. What would you think?’ Sir John laughed and left them.

As soon as he had gone out of earshot, Odo apologetically cleared his throat from behind them. ‘Sir Baldwin? Might I have a word?’

‘Of course, my friend. What is it?’

Odo shot a look at Margaret, and she smiled graciously and left them, walking a few feet away.

‘It’s confidential, Sir Baldwin, but I thought you should know. I am taking messages between Squire Geoffrey and Lady Alice. They are married.’

‘I had heard that,’ Baldwin said loftily. He disliked gossip and had no wish to see their affair becoming common knowledge until they were ready.

‘But were you aware that Sir John is heavily in debt and seeks to have Alice marry his son so that he can use her estates to support his own? If he learns she is married to Geoffrey, he could become dangerous.’

‘I see,’ Baldwin said. He mused a while. ‘What of Sir Edmund? What do you know of him?’

‘He’s a very a good man. Honourable, a renowned fighter on the continent. Why do you ask?’

‘He is one of the men who was in Exeter at the time Benjamin Dudenay was murdered. I merely wondered about him.’

‘You need have no concerns about him,’ Odo said.

‘You sound very convinced.’

‘Sir Baldwin, I know many knights and squires. I may be less than a competent squire in Mark Tyler’s eyes, but I know my job. Sir Edmund is an honourable man.’

‘Yes. It is sad, isn’t it?’ Baldwin said quietly. ‘All the squires and knights here should be decent, honourable, chivalrous folk – yet someone is a murderer.’

Seeing Sir Peregrine, Simon bent his steps towards the banneret. Although Baldwin professed an intense dislike for the man, Simon was ambivalent. Sir Peregrine was no more fearsome than many other men he had known. ‘Morning, Sir Peregrine.’

‘Ah, Bailiff Puttock! I am glad to see you again. How are you this fine morning?’

‘It is very clear, isn’t it, thanks to God!’ Simon agreed fervently. ‘I feared normal Dartmoor weather.’

‘Aye. Mizzle, drizzle, rain or howling gale. It’s rare enough you see sun for more than a few days,’ the knight said, his teeth showing briefly. He could never entirely trust the Bailiff, for Simon and Baldwin had once suspected him of murder, but Sir Peregrine was a fair man and he could see that his behaviour had been suspicious, so he tried not to hold a grudge. ‘Any news of the murdered man?’ he asked quietly.

‘Nothing, I fear. There is no clue as to who the killer could be. Perhaps he was a mindless fool who has since run away.’

‘Stranger tales have come to my attention before now,’ Sir Peregrine nodded. ‘But if I were you, I should tell the watchmen to keep a wary eye open. I suppose you have heard that people are joking about Hal and his lover… you knew that Wymond and Hal were bed-fellows?’

‘Was anyone not aware?’

Sir Peregrine grunted in assent. ‘It wasn’t exactly a secret, was it? But who cares? The King himself… ’ Caution made him silent a moment. ‘The point is, the spectators may become unsettled. When that happens, they are likely to seek a new target for their anger. An English rabble roused is unpleasant. Ah well! Let’s just hope.’

They walked on in silence, Simon shooting small glances at the banneret, wondering whether he had his own suspicions – but it wasn’t something he could ask Sir Peregrine. Instead he chose an uncontentious topic. ‘Are any of your men to join in today?’

‘Not mine personally, not in the jousting,’ Sir Peregrine said, thinking of the whip-like Squire Andrew. He had been present at the feast last night, serving his master with the calm and unhurried elegance that showed both his breeding and his education. Yet all the while his precision spoke of his deadly skills. Sir Peregrine still had no doubt that the man was a killer, from his toes to his scalp. It was a relief when Andrew left the room. ‘There is one I should like to see fighting, though.’

Simon caught his tone but Sir Peregrine declined to comment further. In truth Simon had enough to consider himself. His daughter had been an unholy pest the whole of the previous evening, snapping at Margaret, being sarcastic to him. God’s teeth! He could sometimes wish he had never had any children; it was almost an attractive thought. Poor Baldwin had watched her during one of her tantrums with a faraway look in his eye, like a man who was realising that this might be served up to him soon, now he had his own daughter.

For the most part Edith was a well-behaved, responsible child, but just recently she had taken to outbursts whenever she was refused permission to do anything, although Simon had tried to point out to her that it was her very argumentativeness which tended to make him turn her down. Last night it had been a ridiculous demand that she should be allowed to go out to a tavern. Ludicrous in a town like this, with strangers on all sides, cut-purses, horse dealers, fakers and thieves of all measures, but Edith wouldn’t listen to reason. Margaret had just asked her where her scarf was, and Edith didn’t even seem to hear her, instead asking about going into town. Mad, absolutely mad!

‘I can take Hugh to guard me,’ she’d stated. ‘There’s little enough danger.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s not safe.’

‘What will you do, fence me in an enclosure where no one can ever come to me?’ she’d demanded.

‘I will not have my daughter wandering the streets like a slut!’

‘You think me no better than a whore?’

Simon had drawn a breath to hold his temper. ‘Don’t twist my words.’

‘That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t trust me. You never have! You think I’d fall into the arms of the nearest smelly groom as soon as I was out of your sight.’

‘Edith, please,’ Margaret had pleaded. ‘Your father is only trying to protect you.’

‘Protect me?’ she’d sneered. ‘He’s just making sure I’m not violated, that’s all. He wants me to remain unsullied by nasty groping servants. Well, I want to see Squire William. Hugh can chaperone me.’

‘Squire William? What, the son of Sir John?’ Simon gasped, recalling the lewd group at the fence.

‘Yes, why? What’s wrong with him?’

‘You are not to see him. Or talk to him,’ Simon stated flatly.

Immediately tears of frustration had sprung into her eyes. ‘But why? He’s–’

‘That’s enough. I have given you my decision. Don’t go near him,’ said Simon. His daughter’s face twisted a knife in his gut. He hated hurting her, and this news had made her face crumple like screwed-up parchment.

‘Father, please!’

He couldn’t tell her why. If he did, she would likely choose to disbelieve him, and if not she would be dreadfully hurt by the proof of her own foolishness in trusting William. Better that she should think it was an arbitrary decision from an autocratic father. ‘Edith, shut up or I’ll send you back with Hugh tomorrow at dawn.’

‘But… ’

‘I am not joking. One more word, and you’ll be gone.’

It took away any residual pleasure in the tournament. Now he would be glad to be leaving at the end of it all.

But not yet. Margaret had been looking forward to it for weeks, Simon knew. He sighed. If he could, he would leave now. But he couldn’t. Margaret had found a wetnurse to look after Peterkin, and she would want to remain and see the whole show.

Soon they heard the chapel bell tolling and Simon and Sir Peregrine parted. Simon wanted to attend the morning Mass to pray for a tournament free of fatal injuries.

Later, that innocent prayer would strike him as ironic.