The Tournament of Blood

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Bailiff’s thoughts were disjointed as he wandered along the castle’s corridor towards the entrance and out into the sunlight. The sun was high now and the air was still, so Simon could feel the heat scorching his bare arms. One moment he was seeing his daughter screaming in horror, the next he saw Sir John’s pale, shocked features as he took in the sight of his murdered son. And now Sir John intended to kill Baldwin in order to prove Simon’s guilt.

Simon felt himself jostled but ignored it. His mind was too set on other matters. He allowed his head to droop, disconsolate.

‘Stand up straight!’ Baldwin muttered at his side. ‘Don’t walk like a felon. Remind them who you are.’

‘I don’t know… I… ’

‘Simon!’ Baldwin turned and eyed him with glittering eyes. ‘You are innocent. If you look like this, everyone will want to convict you out of hand even if I win. Would you like Edith to go through the rest of her life accusing you? Then stand straight and look these bastard sons of whores in the eyes.’

‘I don’t think I can,’ Simon confessed.

Baldwin grabbed his shoulder. ‘Then think of this! If you didn’t kill the lad, the murderer is out there, in that crowd. If you don’t care about being accused, that’s one thing, but you might see the guilty man and meet his eye. When you do, you may just see something there that makes you recognise his guilt. You may recognise the stare of the murderer!’

Simon gaped. He had been so entirely bound up in his own misery that the fact that another man was guilty had slipped from his mind. Now he felt a return of his anger, and with the resentment of being forced to endure the punishment that another man deserved, a flame of rage consumed him. He gritted his teeth. ‘I shall watch all the men.’

‘Good,’ Baldwin said, ‘because I need your support, Simon.’ He looked up at the castle, at the flags hanging limply from the poles. ‘God knows, I need all the help I can get,’ he murmured almost to himself. ‘It is many years since my last joust.’

Simon felt as though a rock had materialised in his belly. ‘When did you last fight like this?’

‘Me?’ Baldwin considered. ‘About 1306 I practised with friends in the lists in Paris.’

‘1306? That’s sixteen years ago!’

‘Your arithmetic does you credit.’

‘Baldwin, Sir John has fought in all the tournaments he could. This is madness – you’ll be killed. Can’t I find another man to challenge him?’

‘I don’t think so. Not now, Simon. This is a judicial fight and I accepted his challenge.’

Simon looked at him despairingly.

‘Do not fear for me. The matter is in God’s hands, old friend. And I shall fight confidently, knowing that the cause is just.’

They had arrived at his own pavilion and in the doorway Edgar stood waiting. ‘Sir, I have all your arms ready.’

‘How did you know?’ Baldwin asked.

‘There is a certain amount of chatter in the crowds, sir.’

Baldwin entered. On the table was all his armour and clothing. He touched the heavy quilted fustian of his aketon and sighed. He had not expected to be forced to ride in a joust and fight to the death once more. It was a daunting prospect after so long a period.

‘Sir?’ Edgar brought him a mazer of wine.

‘Thank you,’ Baldwin said, drinking deeply and gesturing to Simon.

Edgar passed Simon the jug, having refilled the mazer. ‘Sir Baldwin, would you like to be dressed?’

‘Yes. And make sure every buckle and thong is secure. I don’t want to shed armour like an outlaw running from the hue and cry!’

Baldwin stood while Edgar pulled the thick aketon over his head. The padded cloth was designed to soften blows. When Baldwin was happy with it, Edgar lifted the hauberk of fine, linked mail, slipping it over Baldwin’s head. It covered the knight’s arms and reached almost to his knees. Then came the pair of plates, the leather coat with plates of steel riveted to the inside, that was buckled at the back. Baldwin stood while Edgar saw to the fastenings, before buckling the gutter-shaped plates to Baldwin’s arms.

Swinging his arms, Baldwin tried to get used to the restricted movement. Although the armour was very heavy, he could move his arms without difficulty. Over the top of this Edgar draped a long, clean white tunic with Sir Baldwin’s arms marked out on the breast, his coat armour, and finally Baldwin’s recent acquisition, a skull-cap of steel which rose to a sharp point to deflect axe or sword blows, with a loose, padded tippet of mail which hung to his shoulders. Hinged to the front to cover his face was a vizor, which he lifted away while Edgar pulled on bags of mail to protect his hands, then the heavy gauntlet, the main de fer or fist of iron, which would protect his left hand as it gripped the reins.

The dressing took longer than Simon had expected, and he sat on a stool while Edgar carefully checked each strap and thong, lifting an arm to bind the steel plates, tugging cloth into place. Baldwin lowered his head to help Edgar settle the tippet of steel links, stepped into the mailed footgear, pensively swivelled and bent to check the fit.

Simon could do nothing. The dreadful enormity of the occasion lent an especial solemnity to the process. He sat with drawn features, picking at a loose thread on his hose, praying for Baldwin’s safety, wishing there were something he could do.

‘Couldn’t I borrow some armour and fight with you? Or take your place?’

Edgar glanced at him but said nothing. Somehow his expression was a more definite rejection than Baldwin’s quiet, ‘No, Simon. You would die in minutes in the hastilude. Lance-play is too dangerous for people who haven’t practised the art. In any case, Lord Hugh would never permit you to joust. You are not chivalrous.’

Simon could do no more. He sat sunk in gloom. His friend would enter the lists on his behalf, putting his life in God’s hands in order that Simon could clear his name. It gave the Bailiff a terrible feeling of guilt. It should be him being covered in steel and reaching for the long, two-handed axe with the blade notched from use, muttering that it should be sharpened before he could use it in anger.

At last Edgar knelt and bound a heavy war-belt with enamelled pieces about Baldwin’s hips and lifted the front of Sir Baldwin’s tunic up and tucked it into the belt to keep it from tripping him. Then he slid Sir Baldwin’s great warsword into the scabbard and stood back. Baldwin met his gaze and nodded, then glanced down at his encased body.

‘Christ help me! If I manage to move in this lot it’ll be a miracle.’

Odo and the Coroner had not waited, but as soon as Baldwin and Simon left the hall, they hurried down to the place where the body had been discovered with a small force of Sir Peregrine’s men-at-arms.

‘Did you enquire of all the men whether they had heard anything?’ Odo asked the Coroner.

Sir Roger looked up at the sun, assessing the time. ‘Yes, I had all the men from here as a jury, and took down all their names, but none of them admitted to knowing anything.’

Odo grunted. He hopped down onto the shingle beach below where the body had been found and peered about him, hoping that there might be something, anything, which could give a clue as to who was responsible. Standing upright, he stood on tiptoe to look over the bushes towards the pavilions. Suddenly he gasped, ‘Coroner, the man who killed Sir William wouldn’t have carried him all the way here. He’d have made too much noise walking on the shingle, wouldn’t he?’

‘I don’t know. The river makes a hell of a din. It’d cover the noise of a man walking about down here.’

Odo glanced up- and downriver. ‘Then think of this: would you cross the water here, with slime and slippery stones underfoot, if you were carrying a heavy dead body?’

‘Couldn’t he have come along the bank?’

‘But the beach is very short; it runs out up there and below as well, where the water has cut into the banks. If the murderer carried William here, he’d have to have got his feet wet.’

‘True. So you think he was murdered here?’

‘Yes.’ Odo looked at the ground. ‘If that’s true, though, why didn’t anyone notice? It’s very close to the tents.’

‘It’s rare enough that a man dies without making a sound,’ Sir Roger agreed, ‘but here, with the water rushing past and the noise from people singing and dancing, drunks snoring, and others screwing, or dreaming that they were, it’s hardly surprising no one heard anything.’

Odo nodded, but then sprang lightly onto the bank and gazed about him. To left and right the river curved around the field, enclosing the tents. Pavilions and rougher tents lay all about, while to his right, some forty yards away, were the lines where the horses stood. Most were in paddocks and fields at the opposite bank of the river, but some of the more expensive mounts had been installed nearer their owners’ tents. Two bored-looking grooms idled about, brushing and rubbing down the horses which would be used later that day.

His attention returned to the pavilions. ‘Surely someone should have heard something? Shouldn’t we speak to all the people who slept here last night?’

Before Sir Roger could answer, a young messenger came hurrying. ‘Odo? The King Herald asks that you attend to the jousting.’

‘Tell him I’ll be along shortly.’

‘The King Herald was insistent.’

Odo swore softly. ‘I’ll be along as soon as I can.’

The lad looked worried. ‘You should. The Lord Hugh is in a foul mood; he’s furious that Simon the Bailiff must suffer trial by battle.’

Baldwin and Simon stood before the small portable altar in Lord Hugh’s chapel.

Like so many smaller places of worship, it had no glass in the windows, and while the priest intoned his prayers and sang his psalms, noises wafted up to them from the tented field at the foot of the castle’s hill: voices raised in dispute, a shrieking, bawdy laugh from a woman, sudden rattling as a cart rumbled past.

It made Simon feel curiously detached. Here he was, his life at risk, and yet outside all was continuing as normal. People were living their lives naturally, while in this little church, he and his friend were preparing for their deaths.

The priest broke bread and tipped a little wine into their mouths, uttering the soothing Latin words which Simon remembered so distinctly from his youth as a student in the Canonical church at Crediton. Simon had witnessed many deaths in his life, from those who died of disease or hunger during the famine, to seeing those whom he had captured dangling by their necks. Never before had he wondered about the different ways of dying. Would it be very painful, or would it be a sharp crack and instant peace until he found himself – where? Reviewing his life he was aware of several occasions when he had not behaved as God would have liked.

His despondency grew. It was a relief when the service ended and he and Baldwin could walk away, leaving the priest mumbling his way through some final prayers. Baldwin stopped a moment and gazed back at the man, then strode out.

‘What is it?’ Simon asked.

‘The bastard is being as quick as possible so he can come and watch the fight,’ Baldwin said.

He walked out into the sunshine and the two were blinded. It was some little while before they noticed Margaret and Edith. Margaret gave Baldwin a curtsey.

‘Sir Baldwin, my dear, dear friend, my prayers will go with you. Please be careful, be valiant, and come back safely. Simon, be strong. Have faith.’

Her voice had grown softer and softer and now it tailed off altogether while her eyes closed as if to shut off the flood that threatened.

Simon felt his heart lurch and he went to her, hugging her and kissing her brow. ‘Be strong, Meg. I can’t be if you’re not.’

‘Father!’ Edith cried. ‘I didn’t mean it when I said I blamed you. Please be careful!’ Sir Baldwin, look after him, won’t you?’

The knight gave her a sombre look, taking in the over-bright eyes, the thin trickling of tears, the drawn, pale visage. ‘Edith, your father is innocent, and while there is a God in Heaven, I cannot lose trial by combat on his behalf.’

It was pleasing to see her demeanour alter, as an expression of relief and gratitude slowly suffused her features. She sniffed and then reached up and kissed him full on the lips before walking to her father and kissing him too.

Ridiculously, Baldwin felt a thrill run through his body. It was as if a liquid fire had filled him, converting his occasionally melancholic humour to a sanguine one. As he and Simon walked from the castle, he felt more alive than he had for many years. This was responsibility, he thought: when a friend’s life hung in the balance. As did his own, he knew, for Sir John would kill him if he could. The combat would be to the death.

The two men walked silently along the path to the jousting field. All about them, people pointed and fell quiet. Baldwin ignored them. It was important to keep his mind clear, he knew. That was one of the things he had learned while fighting with the Templars: a man should empty his mind and enter the lists calmly. All fighters knew that a cool head was the first essential if you wished to win. And Baldwin had every intention of winning. That was why he refused to let himself think of his own wife and daughter. Distractions were dangerous.

He prayed as he entered the field. There was a corridor of other knights and squires leading to the area before Lord Hugh’s stand, and although some called out his name, Baldwin didn’t hear.

Simon often found his beliefs difficult to comprehend, he knew, but to Baldwin it was very simple. He knew that God was the heavenly creator, and that He would listen to the prayers of any man who called out in need. The fact that Baldwin thought the Church a milch cow for the Pope and that while the Pope lived at Avignon under the direct control of the French King he would be flawed and open to corruption, did not affect his own belief in God. The Templars had been destroyed by the greed of the French King, who saw the Templars as an easy means to wealth. Now there were other forms of corruption appearing, with pardoners selling their scraps of paper to promise full remission of sins, provided that the money was right, and priests buying their own advancement.

But whether or not the Catholic Church was falling into corruption, Baldwin knew that God would protect His faithful followers, and although Baldwin had endured a crisis of confidence after the destruction of the Templars, wondering why God did not save His most loyal army, he had come to realise that probably not all the Templars were honourable.

It was only as he approached the main stand that he became aware of his surroundings. He saw Edgar with his destrier and walked to the horse, pulling at the girth straps, patting the creature’s neck as he checked the positioning of the bridle, feeling the saddle and making sure it was firm and the wooden frame had not been damaged.

Satisfied, he stood and waited, breathing easily. It was odd, but standing here, before all these fascinated people, he could appreciate the scene. Somehow there was more clarity to the air, for when he looked along the valley and to the hill at the opposite bank, it looked nearer than before, as if the very hills were edging closer to witness the fight. Flowers appeared brighter, more colourful; birds sang with more crystalline purity, making their songs achingly beautiful, while the gurgle and chuckle of the water was a constant but ever-changing backdrop which served to highlight the relative silence all about.

High overhead a lark sang and his attention rose to where the bird soared trilling with a liquid purity. When his gaze returned to earth, he found himself staring at Sir John.

Simon stirred. ‘Baldwin, I… ’

‘There is nothing to say,’ he murmured curtly. At this time above all others he must concentrate, must focus all his energy, and yet he was preoccupied. Glimpsing the pain in Simon’s eyes, he relented. ‘Friend, we know you are innocent.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then put your faith in God,’ Baldwin said and turned to face Lord Hugh.

Sir John joined him, his face set, his tilting helm in the crook of his arm, and his face showing his torment.

‘Sir John of Crukerne and Sir Baldwin of Furnshill, you have come here today to try your case before these witnesses,’ Mark Tyler said.

Baldwin glanced at him. The King Herald seemed nervous and was not using the normal words for the oaths.

Tyler continued, ‘This case has been brought by the death of Squire William of Crukerne who was most feloniously killed last night. Sir John accuses Bailiff Puttock of the killing and Sir Baldwin rejects that accusation. Thus we are here today to try the matter in trial of combat. Sir John, do you swear before God that you believe Bailiff Puttock to be guilty?’

‘I do so swear.’

‘Sir Baldwin, do you swear before God that Bailiff Puttock is innocent of this crime?’

‘I do so swear.’

‘Then may God show us who is right.’

‘Wait!’

Tyler had been about to leave, but Lord Hugh stood and stared down at the men below him.

‘Gentlemen, would it not be better for this to be delayed? Perhaps an answer can be found without the need for bloodshed. It would surely be better than to lose either one of you, or both.’

Sir John set his jaw. ‘I have no fear of death, my Lord. My cause is just and my son demands vengeance. I will brook no delay.’

‘Sir Baldwin?’

‘I fear I can hardly back down, my Lord, when a false accuser maintains the guilt of an innocent man.’

Lord Hugh shook his head disappointedly and Baldwin realised the cause for his reluctance: with the present dangerous state of the realm, no lord would wish to lose one of his best fighters. Better that he should win a delay in order that the affair could be ironed out behind closed doors.

But it was not to be, and Baldwin secretly thought that Lord Hugh looked half pleased when the two combatants refused to back down. Like so many others there, he would enjoy witnessing a fight to the death. It was a more interesting spectacle than a joust à plaisance, where the danger was accidental.

Baldwin was glad to see that at least Sir Roger did not appear content to see the fight go ahead. He sat frowning at Lord Hugh’s side, for it was the Coroner’s duty to witness fatal encounters.

Mark Tyler was speaking again. ‘Gentlemen, you will take a pass with lances and if one of you is unhorsed, you can continue on foot. This fight is to the death, but if one submits, his cause is lost. Do you both understand?’

Perfectly well, Baldwin thought, studying Sir John’s face. He will kill me as soon as he has an opportunity.

Without a second look, Baldwin made the sign of the cross. Then he slowly drew his sword free, a great long weapon he had bought many years before in Paris, with a grey-brown sheen to the notched blade. Baldwin lifted it before him, bowed his head to the cross-symbol of the hilt and guards, and kissed it before replacing it in the scabbard. Abruptly turning on his heel, he went to his horse and Edgar.