The Tournament of Blood

Chapter Four

‘Who is it from, Baldwin?’ asked his wife Jeanne when she entered the room a few minutes later. Edgar had taken the soggy Odo from the hall to the kitchen to eat his fill, and she found Baldwin still contemplating the paper with a dubious expression.

‘Simon,’ he said. Jeanne crossed the room and sat near the window so that the light shone clearly upon her needlework. Baldwin smiled at her, but then his face hardened as he read the note. ‘He’s organising a tournament.’

Jeanne caught his tone of voice and sighed, pinning her needle into the cloth and leaving it there. ‘And?’

‘Hmm?’

‘I said, “And?”. You have a face that would curdle cream, Baldwin. What is it he is suggesting? Oh, I understand! He invites you to go along and help! That means travelling miles to some wind-swept and chilly field.’

‘Yes, he has asked me to join him,’ her husband admitted, ‘and to help with the tournament. Thank God I don’t need to participate at my age.’

‘Wouldn’t you secretly like to?’

‘A hastilude is dangerous enough when you are young and fit.’ He patted his growing belly. ‘It would be lunacy for me to tempt God by pitting myself against men half my age.’ More seriously he added, ‘And I want to see our child growing.’

She touched the silver crucifix at her neck. ‘Let’s just pray it is born safe and healthy,’ she said. ‘When is the jousting to be?’

‘Not for a while. Late June.’

‘You should see to your armour, then. There will be events or feasts where you will be expected to wear it.’

‘Jeanne, I’m sure I won’t need to worry about that! Lord Hugh would hardly expect a man of my age to take up arms and tilt before him.’

‘It would be better to be safe than be forced into a course and find that your armour doesn’t fit you any more,’ she said firmly and rose to her feet. Usually an elegant, slender woman with the pale complexion and red-gold hair of the north, she had to puff and blow as she levered herself upwards. As was his wont recently, Baldwin went to her side and helped her with a hand under her armpit.

‘Thank you,’ she gasped. ‘It is hard work to get up now. Oh! And it aches so much! I shall tell Edgar to see to your arms and armour. I would worry else that you could be in danger.’

He watched her rubbing at her groin with a worried frown. This was his first child, and the tournament held little terror for him compared to the thought of what his wife must soon endure. It was hideous, all the more so since one of his villeins had recently died in childbirth. Jeanne was his first wife and he had only been married a year; the thought that he might lose her was appalling. ‘You’ll be all right,’ he said gruffly.

Hearing the note of alarm in his voice, his dog walked over to him and thrust his nose into Baldwin’s hand. ‘Good boy, Aylmer,’ he said absent-mindedly, watching his wife go to the door which led to the privyhouse. She had lost her cheerful smile and now all he ever saw in her features was a stolid fortitude, as if all she could concentrate on was giving birth and ridding her body of this extra weight.

She disappeared and he patted the dog’s head. ‘What do you think, Aylmer? She’ll be all right, won’t she?’

It was hard for him to come to terms with his impending change in status. Other men he knew accepted fatherhood as easily as buying a new horse or dog, but Baldwin had mixed feelings. Although he was desperately keen to have his own children, when he had been a Knight Templar he had taken the threefold oaths of obedience, poverty and chastity. His wife’s present shape was all too obvious proof of his failure and Baldwin still found that his vow haunted him, reminding him whenever he thought of it that he had broken an oath sworn before God. It was futile to try to exorcise the demon. He knew that he would die with the weight of his failure dragging at his soul, no matter how much he hoped and prayed he might find peace before death.

There was another facet to the destruction of his Order, and that was that he had a deep and abiding loathing for any form of injustice. His Order had been destroyed as a matter of politics and greed, the King and Pope taking all they could from the Templar treasuries while burning any Templars who could not be forced to confess to sins which any reasonable man would have known to be false. It was this which had fired his determination to prevent injustices and led to his position as Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton. Wherever possible he tried to save men from conviction and punishment for crimes of which they were innocent; it was a novel approach in an age when most Coroners and Sheriffs were happy to imprison those people whom the local jury accused, but Baldwin preferred to investigate methodically. When possible he tried to free the innocent and only convict the guilty – a trait which had led him and his friend Simon to some surprising discoveries in the last six years; occasionally to horrific ones.

He was learning to relax somewhat at home now he was married. Since first meeting Jeanne, he had become aware of a sense of ease, a general relaxation of spirit. He was less driven, he told himself with more than a hint of smugness; less bitter, more tranquil generally.

‘What are you smirking about?’

He started at his wife’s voice but laughed when he saw how her head was tilted, her eyebrow lifted in sardonic enquiry. ‘Considering fate and marriage, my Lady.’

‘I suppose I should be glad, then, to see you wearing that hound-like expression of devotion,’ she said, returning to her chair.

‘And I should be glad too, to see how such a magnificent lady could bear to tolerate such a mean and disreputable fellow as me,’ he responded with a bow.

‘That’s all very well,’ she said, sitting slowly with a hand on her belly. ‘Ooh! That’s better.’

‘About this tournament. I hardly think it is necessary for me to attend,’ Baldwin said. ‘And I have no desire to go and display myself in shining robes at ridiculous expense just to prove my vanity.’

‘I am delighted to hear it – I wouldn’t wish to see you wasting good money in a frivolous manner. You must have taken part in many hastiludes, my love, but from what you said, you are glad to be able to avoid this one?’

‘I certainly have a dislike for being beaten about the head and body by ape-like drunks who occasionally lose their tempers and flail about them with an mace or axe. I should have thought that you would be nervous about seeing me enter the fray.’

‘As for that, I expect you would be a match for competitors half your age.’

‘Perhaps, except this would not involve only one or two single combats,’ Baldwin said, slapping the message with the back of his hand. ‘Simon says that the events will take place over three days: the first for the opening and some early jousts, the second with more individual challenges, and then a finish with a grand mêlée in which two opposing teams will try their fortune.’ He winced. ‘Think of it: two teams of knights at it hammer and tongs. Entering the ring on horseback until they are brought to the ground, then stumbling about, many of them blinded by dust and dirt and stunned by the blows raining down on them from all sides. Those who are captured will lose their horse, armour, weapons – and have to pay a ransom besides for their freedom. My God! It’s such a waste! And you want me to enter this?’

‘It always looks so spectacular,’ she told him honestly. Like many women, she enjoyed watching knights practising.

‘You want to be a widow so soon?’ he growled but then he remembered and could have kicked himself. ‘My darling, I am sorry. I wasn’t thinking.’

Jeanne was not upset. ‘I lost my first husband when he died young, Baldwin, but you know I do not regret it. I cannot lie: I hated him. It was a relief when he became ill and succumbed. You mustn’t treat everything so seriously. And I wasn’t pulling a face because I was hurt by your words; I had a twinge, that’s all.’

Baldwin felt as if the world had suddenly jolted beneath him. ‘A “twinge”? What do you mean, a “twinge”? What sort of a “twinge”?’ he gabbled.

She eyed him with amusement. ‘Baldwin, you have seen plenty of hounds give birth to their whelps, and mares deliver themselves of foals. You know what sort of twinge.’

Baldwin threw a glance over his shoulder at the door. ‘I… ’

‘Shall sit and amuse me. You don’t expect me to explode in a moment, do you? How long does a birth usually take? Sit here, hold my hand, and keep talking.’

‘You’re sure you won’t, um… ’

‘It’s the beginning, but that may mean I have another thirty hours. It doesn’t feel very urgent yet,’ she assured him. ‘Sit!’

Reluctantly he obeyed her, still gripping the message. His dog, hearing the sharp command, simultaneously squatted behind him.

‘Stop staring at my belly like that! Now, tell me what Simon plans. Why is he organising this tournament, anyway? What has it got to do with the tin miners, with the Stannaries?’

‘It is not his responsibility to arrange such events,’ Baldwin admitted, ‘but Lord de Courtenay has asked him to help. He wrote to Abbot Champeaux to enquire whether Simon could be released from his duties for a while. You may recall that Simon’s father used to be a steward in the pay of Lord de Courtenay’s father until old Lord Hugh’s death in 1292. Apparently Simon’s father was most adept at setting out the grounds and siting the ber frois, the stands. So our Lord Hugh asked that the former steward’s son should be allowed to help with his latest tournament. It is a matter of tradition – and an honour for Simon.’

‘But surely the Pope has only recently removed his ban upon all tournaments?’

‘And the King has imposed his own,’ Baldwin agreed.

‘May the Sheriff prevent it?’

Baldwin laughed aloud. ‘The good Sheriff is one of Lord Hugh’s men. If I know him at all, he’ll be chafing at the bit to be there himself! No, there is no likelihood that the King would stop it.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘If the good Lord Hugh de Courtenay considers that he can arrange to hold a spectacle, I see no reason to think he is wrong,’ Baldwin said. ‘Perhaps he has a dispensation from the King. In any case, Lord Hugh has requested and the good Abbot has enthusiastically agreed. Even now Simon is travelling to Oakhampton, I expect.’

‘Why is the Lord de Courtenay so keen to hold a tournament, I wonder?’

‘It’s probably something to do with that primping coxcomb Sir Peregrine of Barnstaple, Lord Hugh’s banneret. He is always scheming and playing political games. It is just the sort of vain, pointless affair he would think diverting.’

‘You still do not like Sir Peregrine?’ Jeanne said lightly, her hand moving back to her belly. It felt as if her pelvis was preparing to explode.

Baldwin had not noticed her wince. ‘I do not. Give me a plain enemy with a sword in his hand any day in preference to a subtle, devious courtier like Sir Peregrine.’

‘He was always polite and courteous to me.’

‘He would be,’ Baldwin grunted.

She continued musingly, ‘And I felt very sorry for him over that woman of his.’

‘Yes, he was plainly upset when she died,’ Baldwin said, and then his attention flew back to his wife as he recalled that Sir Peregrine’s woman had died in childbirth. ‘I am sorry,’ he added wretchedly. ‘I didn’t mean to remind you that–’

‘Stop blathering, Baldwin,’ she snorted. ‘I am not going to die. I’m going to have a perfectly normal delivery – unless, of course, you unbalance my humours by interrupting me every few minutes with apologies for what you may or may not have done!’

He saw that she had gone pale, and now both her hands were at her belly. ‘Are you all right?’

‘It’s like cramps, but it’s not coming fast enough yet,’ she murmured half to herself. ‘Still… Oh, wipe that look off your face, Baldwin, and pour me some more wine!’

Later that same day Sir Peregrine of Barnstaple was seated in the small hall over the gatehouse warming his hands about a pot of spiced wine.

‘Did it take long to get here from Sir Baldwin’s house, Odo?’

‘No, Sir Peregrine. Only the afternoon. It’s downhill from Furnshill to Tiverton,’ the herald replied, sipping at his wine.

‘How was the good knight? Did he seem reluctant?’

Odo laughed. ‘Sir Peregrine, he’s much more concerned about his wife’s pregnancy. It’s his first child.’

Sir Peregrine grunted. Over the last year his woman and their child had died in childbirth. ‘What of the others?’

While Odo spoke about the people he had visited, Sir Peregrine’s mind wandered. It was hard to concentrate on so many different matters at once. The main thing, he knew, was that the tournament must go to plan, without embarrassment and without alarming the King. For the King would have his spies there to see that there was no risk of treason among his subjects.

Sir Peregrine knew he was fortunate to have professional heralds. Lord de Courtenay’s own man, his ‘King Herald’ Mark Tyler, was incompetent and lazy. It was fortunate that they had found Odo, a man who had served in other large households. He had experience of continental jousting, and was a much better musician than Tyler.

‘What do you think of Mark Tyler?’ he asked abruptly.

Odo hesitated. ‘You want me to slander him?’

‘Your answer already does!’

‘His playing can be good, but he does have a problem.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Why do you value me?’

Sir Peregrine was ready to snap that he had his reasons, but then he caught sight of Odo’s expression. Odo was no fool, and Sir Peregrine did value his opinion. ‘Because you have travelled. You can tell us of the honourable customs which exist in foreign lands and relate highly prized deeds of valour.’

‘That’s right. I have seen the world and I have officiated at tournaments from Bordeaux to Paris. It’s the first duty of a herald to find new tales of courage – but Tyler has no idea. He has once, I hear, been to Guyenne with his lord and that was many years ago.’

‘If he is so provincial and dull, why are you here?’ Sir Peregrine asked sharply.

‘He is so provincial and dull that I should soon be able to take his position,’ Odo said frankly.

Peregrine had to grin and shake his head. Ambition was no sin. ‘Well, if this tournament goes smoothly, I might help you,’ he said at last. He didn’t need to explain why. Tyler was one of the least popular members of the household, universally disliked for his rudeness and overbearing manner.

‘I thank you. I shall not let you down.’

‘Do not,’ said Sir Peregrine, but then his attention flew outside: he could hear horses’ hooves. It was so late the gates would shortly be locked for the night, and the arrival of a traveller at this time of day was so unusual that he cocked his head to listen. Sure enough there was the sound of running feet and a sharp call of enquiry as a man-at-arms demanded the stranger’s business.

Sir Peregrine motioned to Odo to remain where he was – the poor fellow had ridden twenty miles or more that day – and pulled on a thick cloak. No matter how often you tried to drum these things into the heads of the dim-witted bastards at the gates, they would still treat all visitors as enemies. That was the problem with hired guards, they had no idea of courtesy or hospitality.

As he left the hall and stood at the stairs leading down to the yard, he reflected that it probably wasn’t surprising, since many of the mercenaries who were employed in the castle had in fact been disinherited or deprived of their livings by men such as this visitor. Many of the fighters who protected the place had once been squires or men-at-arms, but had lost their masters in battle and were now forced to eke out a living by offering their services to others. They were not tied to Lord Hugh de Courtenay by feudal loyalty, only by necessity.

Lord Hugh had little need of additional vassals: they were an expensive resource, after all. Men whom he accepted into his ranks cost him their food and lodging, their spending money, their arms, their mounts, their clothing – everything. Whereas a mercenary was cheap; he expected a wage, supplemented with bread and ale, but would clothe and arm himself.

This visitor looked just the sort of man who could have caused mayhem to many. That he was a knight was obvious from his golden spurs and enamelled belt. Long in the body, with square, heavy shoulders, he had the build of an athlete. He sat on his horse like a man born to the saddle, moving easily with the animal as it skipped and pranced, blowing loudly through its nostrils. The man wore a brimmed felt hat against the chill, a heavy red riding-cloak and a warm-looking tunic of green wool over a greying linen shirt while his boots looked like best Cordova leather.

‘Good evening, sir,’ Sir Peregrine called.

At once the horse whirled so the visitor could face him. Sir Peregrine found himself being studied intently, the traveller’s eyes flitting over his worn and slightly faded tunic before fixing upon his face.

The stranger had thick brown hair worn shorter than was fashionable, and intense grey eyes that were curiously disturbing because not only did he not blink, the irises were small, making him look as if he was holding them wide in challenge. His face was square and large, the jaw jutting a little. His nose was broken, and there was a scar beneath his left eye from a raking stab wound. Sir Peregrine decided that he did not like the look of him one little bit.

‘Godspeed,’ the stranger called. ‘Are you the Keeper of this castle?’

‘I am,’ Sir Peregrine answered. ‘Your name, sir?’

‘You may call me Sir Edmund of Gloucester. I have heard that there is to be a tournament in your lord’s demesne. Is that correct?’

‘We’re holding a festival in our castle at Oakhampton,’ Sir Peregrine confirmed.

‘I should like to participate.’

‘You would be very welcome, Sir Edmund.’ Sir Peregrine bowed, but truth be told, he was reluctant to accept strangers to the tournament. Men who were unknown could prove dangerous. They might lose their tempers and kill combatants, or by dropping a sly word into the ear of a bitter loser, cause a feud which could lead to bloodshed.

The knight smiled as if he could read Sir Peregrine’s mind. ‘May I ask leave to stay here the night? There is an inn, but a traveller can often be waylaid in a new town.’

‘Of course, Sir Edmund. The stables will look to your horse, and if you have servants, they would be welcome to join you in the hall.’

‘I have only a squire and an archer,’ the knight said. He shouted through the gateway and soon a man with a nut-brown face and rough dark hair appeared on a heavy pony. He wore green like a forester, and had a long knife hanging from his belt while a rein held in his hand led a second horse, which was laden with sacks and provisions, as well as what looked like a pair of longbows well-wrapped in waxed cloth. A thick bundle of arrows was securely strapped alongside. Behind him came a blue-clad man, who trotted quickly under the castle’s entrance leading his own sumpter horse. It was heavily laden, rattling and clanking, apparently with armour, and lances projected forwards and backwards.

Although he didn’t look above medium height, the squire gave Sir Peregrine the impression of wary power restrained only with conscious effort, just like his knight. His eyes moved over the whole yard, taking in the hogs in the corner, chickens scrabbling among the dirt and twigs, the lounging guards. Sir Peregrine thought a smile of disdain twisted his face at the sight, as if he was amused by the quaintness of the place.

If anything, he felt that the squire deserved more careful watching than the knight. The squire was older; he looked a formidable fellow and Sir Peregrine’s attention remained upon him as he rode to a stable and sprang down as agile as a cat, and gave the reins to a young boy.

As the three visitors were welcomed into the castle, Sir Peregrine experienced a feeling of unease. This fighting trio looked like a good team – possibly one of the best, and he wasn’t used to feeling outclassed.