The Tournament of Blood

Chapter Twenty-One

Simon squatted before the body. After the shock of seeing his daughter with Squire William, it was another shock to see Sachevyll’s ruined body.

Seeing the damage done by the birds’ pecking, he winced uncomfortably. At least the body was fresh, thank Christ, and hadn’t started to reek, but it was still revolting to see how the birds had gone straight for the man’s eyes. Simon pulled a face and sent a watchman to find Sir Baldwin and the Coroner.

Sir Peregrine was first on the scene and he stopped, staring down with an expression more of anger than shock. ‘What the hell is happening here? Good God, is everyone gone mad?’

‘So it seems,’ Simon said.

‘Who would want to do this?’

‘I don’t know. I hardly knew the fellow. In fact, he was an unholy pest, and I daresay there are several other people who’d say the same.’

Baldwin and Roger arrived together, shoving people from their path as they hurried to them.

Coroner Roger peered over Baldwin’s shoulder. ‘Who is it? Oh, in the name of the Virgin! Sachevyll!’

‘Simon’, Sir Peregrine said, ‘was just saying he never had much time for the poor fellow.’

‘I said many people didn’t,’ Simon protested.

‘Be easy, Bailiff,’ Sir Peregrine said, with his hands up in surrender. ‘I didn’t accuse you of anything. Be easy.’

‘I just don’t like dead bodies before my midday meal,’ Simon grunted. He took a couple of paces back while Sir Baldwin approached the body.

‘Just like the other two,’ Baldwin muttered to himself. He surveyed Hal’s corpse before snapping, ‘Who found him?’

‘Me – Sir Edmund of Gloucester.’

Baldwin nodded. Hal had been beaten about the head. Blood had seeped from the thick clots congealing at his temple and across his nose. Baldwin turned to Sir Edmund and found himself looking up into a dark, almost saturnine face. ‘He was lying here as he is now?’

‘My squire is missing. I was looking for him. I saw rooks fighting here and saw him. I haven’t touched him.’

‘Did you know him?’ Sir Roger asked. His voice was harsher now as he assumed his responsibility as Coroner for the King.

‘Only by sight.’

‘Where from? Here?’

‘No, I didn’t see him here in Oakhampton. I last saw him in a small tournament in the north, where he helped make the grounds. That’s what he was known for. He was an expert on the pageantry of tournaments and often got recommended to different lords whenever they were thinking of holding their own events.’

‘Did he have any enemies?’ Baldwin asked Sir Edmund.

The knight shook his head. How should I know? I never spoke to him – he was merely someone who was often about, and I saw his stages several times in the last three years.’

‘We know who wanted him dead, don’t we?’ Mark Tyler said. He had approached the men while they spoke in quiet tones. ‘It was you, Bailiff, wasn’t it? You hated poor old Hal, didn’t you – purely because he accused you of killing Wymond. And maybe he was right! Did you have to silence him because he knew you were truly guilty of his oldest friend’s death?’

Margaret and Edith returned to the stand where they had watched the disaster so that Simon would know where to find them. Edith wanted to go after William, but Margaret pointed out with acid sweetness that running to him now while her father was absent was not the way to endear herself or her lover to him.

Such sarcasm was foreign to Margaret, but she was exhausted from weeks of broken sleep, waking to the mewling of her youngest child, stirring and fitting him to her breast as quietly as she could, so as not to wake Simon at her side. To learn of Edith’s love for this boy Squire William was a great disappointment. Margaret had hoped that she could trust her daughter, but in a few hours Edith had found this fellow and declared her adoration.

Although Edith didn’t want to, Margaret insisted that they should go back to the stand. As she pointed out, Simon would expect to find them there when he finished whatever it was he had been called away to. Baldwin had been asked to join him a short while later. For some reason, Margaret felt a strange anxiety in her heart, a weakly fluttering, as though a butterfly was trapped beneath her ribs.

‘Please, God, don’t let it be another murder,’ she murmured fervently. There had been too many deaths already.

Standing and watching the other competitors was at least a diversion from her fears. Several riders tilted at each other and soon Margaret could set her mind to trying to work out the best way, first, to persuade Edith out of her infatuation, or, second, to ensure that Simon grew to accept her decision should Edith prove to be obdurate.

‘Mistress, I think we should go,’ Hugh muttered, watching a messenger scurrying to speak to Lord Hugh at the stand. He had come from the river bank, from the place to which Simon had been called, and Hugh was worried. Margaret was surprised, but gradually she became aware of a subtle alteration in the noise of the crowds about them. The roar of partisan support for one competitor or another had dwindled to a mutter, and angry faces were turned in their direction; they were watching her. Then she felt the blood chill in her veins when she caught someone saying loudly, ‘There’s been another murder.’

Hearing a nearby voice hissing, ‘That’s his wife, too, that stuck-up bitch over there,’ the skin on her back crawled. The malicious whispering continued. Wherever she cast her glance, all went silent as men caught her eye, but all the time she heard conversations continuing out of earshot, and she could feel a sick tingling in her belly: the beginnings of fear.

Like many others, she had seen crowds turn wild before now. Simon was only too happy to point out that the English are an unruly lot – the worst, he usually added with a perverse pride, being the Devonians. They were ever-disputatious, determined and hardy in a fight. Perhaps it came from having to defend their lands from two sea-coasts, or maybe it was true as the stories said, that the Devonshire men were the last ancestors of the men of Troy. Certainly their behaviour when drunk or roiled was vicious to the point of madness. They would hold their ground against the King’s own host if they were roused.

She caught Hugh’s eye. He nodded, clasping his stout staff more strongly, and then turned and forced his way through the people towards the gate. One man stood in his path, but Hugh shifted his grip on the staff and glowered, saying, ‘She’s got nothing to do with any murder; she’s only a man’s wife, all right?’ and the fellow stood aside.

Margaret had grabbed Edith’s hand, and now she held on to it for dear life. Hugh, she saw, had made it to the gate that led to the steps at the back, and then she was almost there herself. She thrust Edith forward, and was about to follow when she stumbled, a loose plank or board tripping her. Instantly Hugh was with her, his staff held one-handed, but ready.

‘Don’t worry, Hugh,’ she gasped as he shoved a hand through her armpit and quickly pulled her upright. ‘I am fine, honestly. My own clumsiness, that’s all.’

Hugh nodded, but his eyes were on the other men in the stand. One or two were openly curling their lips. He saw one man bite his thumb in contempt, and Hugh felt his jaw clench even as he turned the end of his staff in the fellow’s direction, but then Margaret was gently pushing him back towards the exit and they made their way through the gap in the wall and down the stairs.

It was only when they reached the bottom and could stare about them that Margaret felt the clutching of terrible fear. ‘Hugh! Where did Edith go?’

Baldwin could have laughed at Simon’s face if the matter were not so serious. Simon gaped, staring at Mark Tyler while the latter eyed him back severely. The herald was pompous, certainly, a fool in many ways, but in this case Baldwin wondered whether he was an accurate gauge as to the feelings of the mob.

Sometimes it was hard for Baldwin to appreciate the level of anger and resentment that the public could feel. He had spent so many years abroad, studying the martial arts and living the ascetic existence of a warrior monk in Paris and other centres of learning, that he occasionally found it difficult to understand how his own compatriots thought or felt about matters.

This was a perfect example. He had known Simon for some six years; the most honourable officer he had met, a man of integrity and decency, and yet a fool was accusing him of murder.

‘You did it, didn’t you?’ Mark repeated.

To Baldwin’s astonishment he saw that others nearby had heard the accusation and were running off to spread the rumours; even now men were setting their features into hard masks, as if preparing themselves for a lynching.

‘Wait, Tyler!’ Baldwin declared loudly, raising a hand. ‘There will be no accusations. Not here. And it is insane to suggest that the good Bailiff could have killed Hal Sachevyll. He had no reason to kill the builder.’

‘Hal accused him of murder; I think he battered Hal to shut him up.’

‘There is nothing to suggest that Simon was guilty of killing Hal, just as there was nothing to suggest that Simon hurt Wymond. No one saw him hurting them, no one heard him… ’ Baldwin glanced back at the body wonderingly. ‘Why should he have been thrust among the vegetation?’

Sir Roger said, ‘I wonder none of us saw him here this morning when we searched the grounds.’

‘It was concealed well enough,’ Baldwin said pensively.

‘The Bailiff concealed the body,’ Mark Tyler said.

Simon ignored the man. The first shock of being accused was wearing off and now his mind was racing. ‘It must have been the drunk we found here, Baldwin! He must have been feigning drunkenness to distract us.’

‘What drunk?’ Baldwin demanded.

‘Some fellow… the watchmen and I found him out here. We thought he was in a stupor, but it’s easy to pretend to be hammered. He could have killed Hal, thrown him down here and then… ’

Mark Tyler pulled a face. ‘A nice story, Bailiff. Coroner, this man murdered Hal and Wymond before him. I demand that he be arrested.’

‘When do you suggest he killed Hal, exactly?’ Sir Roger asked mildly. ‘I doubt he has had five minutes to himself since this tournament began. Anyone could have pushed the body here.’

‘I would never have seen it, had there not been those two rooks fighting over it,’ Sir Edmund put in.

‘Yes, we would still be wondering where on earth Hal had got to,’ Baldwin murmured. ‘What of this feckless squire of yours? Has he often gone missing like this?’

‘I am here, Sir Baldwin.’ Baldwin found himself confronted by Andrew.

‘And where the devil have you been?’ Sir Edmund asked crossly.

‘I was talking to an old friend. Odo, the herald.’

Tyler looked like a man who had bitten into a lemon. ‘I suppose you are old friends?’

‘We met at tournaments in France. Yes, I have known Odo for many years.’

‘I suppose men abroad can’t be too fussy about their friends.’

Andrew looked at him with a slight smile at his mouth. ‘Do you mean to insult me, King Herald? Because if you do, I should be delighted to stand against you in a battle.’

Baldwin grinned to himself as he noticed Mark Tyler’s sudden embarrassment. The King Herald stammered, ‘I didn’t intend any insult… ’

Baldwin said, ‘Did you know this man Hal?’

Andrew cast a dismissive look down at the body. ‘Yes. I saw him in the north. I was at Boroughbridge and was taken by Squire William. Hal was in the King’s entourage up there. I assumed he was a spy, for he had been helping Earl Thomas beforehand. Or perhaps he was able to change allegiance very quickly.’

‘What of Dudenay?’

‘Who?’

‘A banker in Exeter.’

Andrew shrugged. ‘I avoid such men. I have no interest in such fellows.’

‘This is a waste of time. It was Puttock killed the man,’ Tyler spat. ‘Have him arrested!’

Baldwin eyed him coldly. ‘It is impossible that Simon could have done this. Bailiff Puttock slept in the castle last night and the gates were locked.’

‘I don’t care what you say!’ Tyler declared hotly. ‘It’s obvious to me that the Bailiff held a grudge against these two, Wymond and Hal Sachevyll, and I accuse him of murder. If no one else will appeal him, I shall.’

‘Oh, this is insane!’ Simon snapped. His temper was wearing thin. ‘How the hell could I have got here and done for the poor bastard? I was in the castle, as Baldwin said. And it’s hardly likely, is it, you cretin, that I’d get rid of the architect? Anyway, I told a man to guard him.’

‘And perhaps paid him to kill poor Hal for you? There’s no end of scum would murder for a suitable fee,’ Tyler said scathingly.

‘We must speak to the watchman,’ Baldwin agreed calmly, although his fingers itched to pick up the contentious herald and dump him in the river.

Tyler turned to the Coroner again. ‘I saw Wymond arguing with him – both were very angry. If Bailiff Puttock had drawn his sword then, I suppose it could have been justified as defence or a hot-blooded killing – but he didn’t! No, he clearly set about to kill both men with malice, planning their deaths in a peculiarly evil manner.’

Sir Roger smiled thinly. ‘I don’t doubt your conviction, but I don’t believe Bailiff Puttock to be guilty. It’s rubbish. Now, Sir Baldwin, why don’t we look over the body and see what we can discern?’

Nothing loath, Baldwin crouched at Hal’s side and studied his ruined skull. From the look of the wounds it seemed that he had been struck many times with a blunt weapon, possibly a staff or a simple cudgel. A sword or metal implement would have left gashes with defined edges, but Hal’s head showed the typical signs of a bludgeoning. Not far away was a large stack of logs and boughs coppiced from the woods behind the castle, and Baldwin was confident that one would have blood and gore staining it.

Roger untied the man’s belt and undressed him while Baldwin peered over his shoulder. There were no stab marks on Hal’s pale chest and thighs, but when Roger tugged him over, Baldwin saw that high on Hal’s back, a little below his neck, was a large lump.

At last he stood, grunting as his knee objected once more. His joints were becoming ever more fractious, he considered. ‘If I had to guess, I would say that this man was lured here, or perhaps followed here, and then struck down from behind. This blow here,’ he pointed to a deep gash, ‘was probably the first. I believe that Hal was knocked unconscious and then beaten to death.’

‘How can you tell that?’ Tyler asked scathingly. ‘He’s a mass of blood and pus. You can’t tell which blow was given first. It’s impossible.’

‘I cannot be certain, it is true,’ Baldwin admitted. ‘But the blow at his back is low, as if the murderer missed Hal’s head because he was trying to attack him in the dark. Consider: a man stalks Hal and delivers the first blow from behind. Hal falls, wondering what hit him. Obviously he would cry out. This would not have disabled him, only hurt a lot. Afterwards come a number of fresh blows, and these are rained down upon him with great violence and indiscrimination… ’

‘How can you tell?’ Sir Peregrine asked.

‘This one hit his ear and took off a flap of skin, the weapon struck with such force. There are so many wounds, it could only have been done by someone who didn’t want to see Hal get up again. The killer must have been driven by rage or hatred, which could explain the large number of wounds.’

It was a point which hadn’t been missed by Tyler. ‘So a coward struck him down from behind and then beat the life out of him as he lay helpless on the ground. The action of a real hero! I hope you are proud, Bailiff.’

‘Why should Simon do that?’ Coroner Roger asked patiently.

‘Simon didn’t,’ Baldwin said shortly. He was about to speak again when he became aware that the crowd about them had visibly grown. They were at the centre of a thickening ring of spectators. Baldwin had not realised that news of Tyler’s suspicions about Simon had spread so quickly.

Sir Roger was under no such illusions. Like Margaret, he had witnessed how peasants could swiftly turn violent, and now he glowered about him as voices muttered angrily. He looked for men-at-arms, but they were back at the stands, protecting Lord Hugh.

When Baldwin saw his ferocious expression he realised Sir Roger’s concern. Lifting his hands over his head, Baldwin called out in a clear voice: ‘The body of Hal Sachevyll has been found here. Does any man know of anyone who had reason to want Hal dead?’

‘The Bailiff! Arrest him if you want the killer,’ came a voice.

‘Rubbish!’ another snapped, and Baldwin heard Sir Roger give a short sigh of relief as Odo the herald appeared, shouldering his way through the press. ‘Complete and utter balls! Only the illegitimate son of a Breton pirate could believe that sort of shite! This Bailiff is known to be fair and incorruptible. If he needs to draw a weapon, he fights face-to-face. No knife in the back from Bailiff Puttock!’

His loud voice had held the audience quiet, but as he reached the group about the body, Baldwin saw that he had not arrived alone. As he turned and faced the crowd, men-at-arms in Sir Peregrine’s livery appeared, all holding long polearms. Under their silent, threatening gaze, the people began to shuffle. It was one thing to intimidate a few men by strength of numbers, but quite another to risk fighting trained men. Muttering, the crowd began to thin.

‘Thank you, Odo,’ Sir Roger said as the people dispersed and Mark Tyler strode away angrily. ‘Could you arrange for a jury to be gathered and for a guard to be placed upon this body until we have fully recorded all injuries?’

‘Of course, Sir Roger,’ and Odo glanced about, reassuring himself that the crowd was dispersing, before returning to his duties. Sir Peregrine went with him.

Simon did not notice him leave. He stood with a feeling of bewilderment. Never before had he been accused of any serious crime. Once or twice men had inferred that he had taken bribes when they disliked his decisions, but never had anyone dared to suggest he could have been guilty of murder! The accusation had struck him like a shot from the King’s artillery. He was utterly stunned now he realised the enormity of the herald’s words; he couldn’t even trust his voice.

It was not anger. In an instant Tyler had hit Simon in a place he had always thought himself secure: in his pride. Simon valued his reputation for honesty, and the fact that a fellow official who was working for Lord Hugh could suggest such a thing had rocked him. When Hal accused him of killing Wymond, that was one thing: the architect had just lost a close friend and was lashing out at the first man he could – Simon hardly looked upon that as personal – but this, from Mark Tyler, was a studied insult. It showed Simon that he was vulnerable to attack, that accusations, unreasonable and unfair could be set against him.

And the accusation had not been withdrawn, he noted. If Tyler chose to continue to declare Simon’s guilt, the Bailiff would be hard-pressed to defend himself. Tyler was powerful enough, since he would likely have the ear of Lord Hugh.

Simon grimly set his shoulders. No matter who made unreasonable accusations against him, he would continue to perform his duty to the best of his ability. And that was all.

It was as he came to this resolution that a young urchin appeared in front of him. ‘Bailiff?’

‘Yes? What is it?’ Simon barked.

‘A message,’ he said, holding out his grubby hand.

Simon pressed a small coin into it. The lad studied it, then nodded to himself. ‘It’s from your wife. She says your daughter has gone missing.’