The Tournament of Blood

Chapter Thirty-One

Odo was tired of the continual deception. His head ached as though it did in reality contain the thoughts of two souls. Noticing the two grim-faced men walking towards him, he set his jaw, but without truculence. It would almost be a relief to confess at last. ‘Do you mean to accuse me?’ he said immediately.

Baldwin studied his pale and drawn features for a while. ‘No, my friend,’ he said gently. ‘I wish you to hear a story – and please do not comment until I am done. It is a long tale, but a good one for a herald to consider. It may have merit and deserve to be retold.’

‘What is this tale?’

Baldwin considered the ground at his feet, then put his arms behind his back and strolled slowly away from the crowds and any others who might overhear. Odo was grateful. It could have been embarrassing for him if someone like Tyler was to eavesdrop. He was so taken up in his reflections that he hardly heard Baldwin begin to talk.

‘In 1306 there was a great tournament at Exeter. It was a marvellous show, with people coming from all about. Many of those who came to watch would normally have led quite workaday lives, and seeing the pageantry and excess would be an occasion of great excitement. Among those present was a merchant who had decided to bring his young family to watch. A certain Master Tyrel.’

‘Yes. And a stand collapsed while Sir Richard’s mother watched her husband fight with Sir John,’ Simon said officiously, breaking the flow of Baldwin’s story.

‘No. Lady Alice’s mother watched her husband fight and die.’

‘But Sir Richard told me… ’ Simon frowned. ‘You mean Sir Richard was illegitimate?’

‘Yes. Sir Godwin was a cheery fellow, very keen on exercising his skills in courtly love. You recall Sir John accused him of cuckolding him? He was not without reason. But be that as it may, the stand collapsed and many died. In particular, one family perished called Tyrel. A mother, daughter, son – but not the father.

‘He was a large, bearded man – strong and powerful. And when the stand collapsed, I imagine that he tore his great sinews as he tried to free his loved ones. Tried to save them. He probably has a faint humped back even now. Not that he could achieve much. They, along with others, were all dead.

‘So he lost his mind. He left England and sought death, in whatever way he could find it. He travelled widely and learned songs, and because of them he became a herald. Lords are always looking out for a man who can recognise arms and who can sing or play instruments. Someone who was also an educated man who had skills as a merchant would be a godsend.’

‘But since he was no longer Tyrel the family man, he became Odo the herald,’ Simon breathed.

Odo dropped his head. All the protestations that he had intended to use to assert his innocence were stifled. He was sick of lies and inventions. If Sir Baldwin wished to accuse him, he would accept God’s fate.

But Baldwin looked at Simon pointedly. ‘No, no. I am sure that this man Tyrel remains in France – if he is still alive, of course, which I strongly doubt. I was simply telling you the background to the events here. The Coroner has made his conclusion. There is no point in having him alter it, is there?’

Odo shot him a stunned look. If he had suddenly been struck by a bowl of pottage he could not have been more surprised. ‘I…’ He snapped his mouth closed again, deciding to obey Baldwin’s instruction and listen.

Simon growled, ‘You mean you’d let him go free? He’s murdered four people!’

‘Odo the herald has killed no one, Simon,’ Baldwin said. ‘Odo has no interest in something that happened so long ago. But if Tyrel were to come back and avenge his family, I would not condemn him – would you? If someone had killed Margaret and Edith and the baby in front of you, Simon, would you rest? Ever? Or would you seek out the murderer and execute him?’

Simon considered. In his mind he could see his wife, Meg, laughing in the sun with their children, a competent and beautiful mother; he could see her in bed, writhing against him as they made love; he could see his daughter running happily, giggling, through the long grasses of a meadow. Then he was silent a long while, thinking. At last he cast a look back towards the stands, seeking his wife’s face in the crowd. ‘I think I am glad that Odo is not related to Tyrel,’ he said gruffly.

‘So am I,’ Baldwin said, his voice hard. ‘I hate to think what I would do if I were in his position. Bludgeoning men to death in payment for crushing his family to death so long ago seems strangely kind compared to what I would have done… What do you think, Odo?’

‘Me, sir?’

‘What do you think has happened to this Tyrel? Is he alive and nursing his desire for revenge – or is he now dead at last?’

Odo felt a heaviness leave him. It was as if sixteen years of bitterness and torment had sloughed from his shoulders. Suddenly he felt lighter, free. ‘Sir Baldwin, I think Tyrel is dead. I think he died recently and will never return.’

‘May he rest in peace.’

The next day was the finale of the tournament – a massive mêlée in which all the knights not already too wounded to take part, rode into the fighting area and fought to a standstill through a sweltering sunny day.

Simon watched unimpressed as knights and senior squires traded blows in a rising mist of dust. Every so often there would be a louder ringing sound as a hollow piece of steel was struck, and then the noise was deafening, but he could see that Baldwin was as bored as he was. It was tedious after the excitement of the last days. The only man worth watching was Squire Andrew, who darted about with flashing weapons like a man half his age.

When he looked at his daughter, he could see that she was uninterested, too. Since the death of her lover, Edith had been overcome with mourning, and she had no desire to witness another brawl.

‘Simon?’ Baldwin whispered in his ear. ‘Could I borrow Hugh for a minute or two?’

‘Yes, of course. And try to send him back in a better frame of mind. If Edith’s pissed off, Hugh thinks his world has fallen apart.’

Baldwin grinned. ‘I’ll do my best.’

He stood at the back of the stand while Hugh came down the steps, and then Baldwin led the way out to the river. He sat on a fallen tree-trunk and motioned to Hugh to sit. There was a jug of ale and one of watered wine waiting and Baldwin passed Hugh the ale.

‘The murderer was not Sir Walter, Hugh. Sir Walter was a lunatic who decided to kill himself because he was consumed by jealousy, but he had no need to kill Sir William.’

‘Maybe he heard what I saw – Sir William with his wife?’ Hugh tried hopefully.

‘Do you think so?’ Baldwin asked pointedly.

Hugh stared morosely at the ground and said nothing.

Eyeing him, Baldwin took a deep swig of wine and swilled it about his mouth. ‘The man who killed William was more likely someone who wanted to protect somebody. Now who could that be? I consider it from this way. If someone was to threaten to hurt my daughter, I would stop them. If they tried to molest or rape her, I would kill them and I would have no compunction whatsoever about doing so. Any father who would not kill to protect his daughter would be no father. And if I was not there, Edgar would do so in my place, and I would protect him in the courts and elsewhere if he was put to trial because he would be looking after my family as my servant should. Any servant who loves his master would do the same.’

Hugh looked up. For once he met Baldwin’s gaze. ‘You know?’

‘That the fellow threatened to ruin Edith, threatened to make her unmarriageable, and you heard it? Yes. I think you sought to protect her the only way you knew.’

‘Not only that. I saw him pawing that Lady Helen, too. I thought of my wife. She was messed about by her man. If I hadn’t been there, what might have become of her? I couldn’t let that happen to Edith, oh no – but here he was, making her go all wobbly over him while he was planning to marry one woman and then trying it on with another.’

‘I understand,’ Baldwin nodded. ‘It was as I thought.’

Hugh sank his head lower. ‘What will you do?’

‘Me? There have been enough deaths already, Hugh. I shall do nothing.’

‘You mean it, sir?’

‘Finish your ale, Master Hugh. You are a good, loyal servant. My own concern is, should I tell Simon? You risked your life for his daughter. He would be grateful.’

Hugh considered. ‘Be best if you didn’t, I reckon. He’d have to keep it from Edith. She’d be terrible upset to find out. Probably hate me, too. My master, he’s not good at keeping secrets from her.’

‘Then I shall not tell him.’

They sat companionably for a while. Soon Hugh gruffly announced that he should return to his work and drained his jug. He gave a grunt of gratitude, opened his mouth as if he had more to say, but then thought better of it and shook his head.

Baldwin watched him slouch away, then put his hands behind his head and stared down at the water.

He was sad that the tournament had been so dismal an event for Simon; he would have wished that his friend could look back on it with pride, but that was impossible. At least he could keep the truth about Sir William’s death secret. It would be unfair to expect Simon to conceal it from his daughter, and revealing the facts could only result in great upset for everyone.

If it was him in Simon’s position, he wondered, would he have preferred to know? He had a daughter now, a young child who would perhaps grow to be as difficult a teenager as Edith. Would he want to be secured from the truth about Edgar, should Edgar kill a man to protect her?

There were times when ignorance was preferable to knowledge, he decided.

From the tilt-area there came a raucous shout and a clattering of iron. A man had been thrust from his horse. Baldwin glanced back. It was tempting to return and witness the end of the displays, but he was overcome with a lassitude that prevented his rising.

No, he thought. The hastilude was for younger men. It was no place for an old knight like him.

Perhaps his own time was past. Younger fellows like Sir William seemed to hold little regard for the female sex. They bragged about their conquests (whether real or imagined), they boasted and insulted women to their face. Women of all ages and classes – even ladies – were violated to satisfy their lusts. Was this a country in which to raise a young daughter? Could his own little girl be raped before she was yet twenty by some callow fool like William?

Perhaps, he allowed.

But not while he or his own servant Edgar had breath in their bodies.

Sir Baldwin rode along the deeply rutted roadway from Crediton to Cadbury with a feeling of growing pleasure. As they came to the top of the hill before his home, he left his men with the carts and clapped spurs to his mount, cantering down the hillside, then turning off the road to gallop along the meadows.

The sun was high overhead and it was a pleasure to feel the warmth on his back as the wind whistled in his ears. His horse cantered sure-footedly down through the long grasses, and Baldwin could see all about him that nothing had changed. His peasants worked in the fields, amid long rows of crops, while others watched geese or lambs in meadows.

Somehow Baldwin felt that the scene should have changed. So much had happened since his departure to go to the jousting, so many deaths, that Baldwin thought his own home might have been altered.

When he left Lord Hugh, Baldwin had seen much that he could be glad about. After admitting to his offences with the lances, Mark Tyler had departed to travel over Europe, leaving Odo as the new King Herald in Lord Hugh’s household. Baldwin was sure that the quiet, contemplative herald would be a better man than Tyler at the job. Also, just before leaving Oakhampton, Baldwin had watched as Lord Hugh sought to replenish his forces, making good the loss of Sir John and his son. Baldwin had spoken to Sir Peregrine about the matter, and had been pleased to witness both Sir Edmund and Andrew kneeling before Lord Hugh and holding up their hands, palms together, while he placed his own about them and took their oaths of service. Sir Edmund was safe for now, and Squire Andrew was created Sir Andrew, a knight in his own right, with a small manor granted to him.

Baldwin was pleased for Andrew. The squire had lived in fear and obscurity for too long: Pope Clement V and the French King Philip IV were both dead now, but together had seen to the destruction of the Knights Templar purely to satisfy their own greed. But even after death both had long arms, and their legacy remained. After the absurd accusations of sodomy and cannibalism, to be known as a Templar was still to risk imprisonment or worse.

That was the cause of Andrew’s suspicion of strangers, the reason why he avoided those whom he did not know. He was in constant fear of his life.

It was good to see that he was at last brought back into the fold, that he could become a knight within Lord Hugh’s host. Baldwin was convinced that he would prove to be a worthwhile servant. Certainly his fighting skills were beyond reproach – he had not forgotten the techniques learned with the Templars.

And Baldwin was glad to see that Andrew had been gently, almost shyly, paying court to Alice. She was still terribly affected by Geoffrey’s death, but she appeared to take some comfort in Andrew’s obvious sympathy and compassion, and Baldwin hoped she might soon get over the loss of her husband and pay attention to Andrew – once a suitable period of mourning had passed, of course.

But then Baldwin smiled. He could never believe that a Templar could make a bad husband, friend or ally. To him, all Templars were perfect.

He was almost at the door, and reined in to slow his horse. All about him, birds called and trilled, there was the noise of animals from the yards, pastures and from the stables behind the house. Barking showed that his hounds and guard-dogs had heard his approach. Baldwin smiled to himself as the door opened to display a wary eye. An older servant had been instructed to protect Lady Jeanne with his life and Baldwin was pleased to see that the fellow obeyed so well.

And then Jeanne herself came bursting from the house.

Baldwin swung himself from his saddle and grasped her, kissing her and feeling once more that he was the luckiest man on earth to have been able to marry her.

Yet he was still aware of the sense that something was different. He felt different. His house, his home, might be unchanged to the naked eye, but there was something that was profoundly altered.

He realised what it was as his daughter began a loud crying from inside the house. That shrill mewling made Jeanne wince but it only made him smile and grip her in a tight embrace.

Suddenly he realised that he was coming home not only to a wife, but to a family.

His family. And he would protect it as selflessly as ever Odo had.

Sir Edmund sat before the fire at Oakhampton Castle and drained his cup.

He was grateful to Lord Hugh for taking him on, although he knew it was a matter of simple necessity. Lord Hugh needed all the loyal vassals he could gain in these uncertain times. War was near, if the rumours were true. Many magnates were appalled at the execution of Earl Thomas after Boroughbridge, and still more horrified by the encroaching greed of the Despensers.

Yet his life felt empty. Warfare and chivalry were not enough. He craved the companionship of a woman.

It was hard to believe that she was gone. All through the years he had thought that he might somehow be able to win her back. After the disaster at the hands of Sir John he had thought that she would wait for him, but she hadn’t. And then he had learned that she had married that oaf. The murderous bastard.

Reaching for the jug, Sir Edmund poured a fresh cup of wine and sipped.

Sir Walter had been an evil brute – and yet he must have had some feelings for his wife. He didn’t go and murder her straight after hearing the Bailiff question the groom, but instead he walked to a tavern and sat drinking in melancholy mood. Andrew had asked about the town afterwards and spoke to the host of the inn where Sir Walter drank. It appeared that the knight had remained there until long after dusk.

Of course Sir Edmund knew what had happened afterwards. Lady Helen returned to her tent to find her husband in a furious temper, inflamed with wine. He accused her of infidelity, then rushed at her and slaughtered her in a frenzy.

Sir Edmund flinched as he recalled the sound of the sword striking her body. He had been standing outside, having just bidden her farewell, and was feeling lost, wondering how he could live knowing that his Helen was married to another man, that she did not love him any more, when he heard the hissed curse and screams, the damp slap of sword cleaving flesh. When he realised what it meant, and without pausing to draw his own sword, he rushed inside, concerned only for Helen.

His beautiful Helen lay slumped, dead on her bed – and without a moment’s hestitation, Edmund snatched the sword from Sir Walter and thrust it up deep into the man’s chest. Sir Walter fell and, sobbing harshly, Sir Edmund dropped to Helen’s side, kissing her, trying to bring her back, but she was gone. He stayed there until the middle of the night, but as her body cooled, Squire Andrew found him and persuaded him to leave that slaughterhouse. There was no point calling attention to the bodies: that could have led to suspicion falling on Sir Edmund. They left the tent, Sir Edmund walking dazedly with his despair, back to their own pavilion, only realising when they arrived that Sir Edmund was splattered all over with Helen’s blood. It was Andrew who gently washed his master’s face and hands, tearing off the hideously stained tunic and setting it aside to be burned.

Yet even as Andrew rinsed away her blood with the chill water of the river, Sir Edmund had seen with his mind’s eye not the corpse of his lover, but the curious dullness in the eyes of Sir Walter as Edmund shoved the blade into his chest. It was as though Sir Walter was already in Hell, as if he was grateful for the final blow.

Perhaps he truly had loved her in his own way.