The Tournament of Blood

Chapter Five

A week had passed since Jeanne’s false labour, which had subsided as suddenly as it began. A good night’s sleep, and the pains had been put down to a bad bout of wind. Now, however, there could be no mistake and Baldwin watched his wife with rising anxiety. Jeanne knelt on a cushion on the floor and gripped her maid Petronilla’s arm, eyes squeezed tight shut as the contractions ground into her belly.

He knew perfectly well that women were built for this, that their bodies had been given to them by God to produce children. He also knew that Jeanne was being supported by a woman who had experience herself of childbirth – and yet the knowledge was no help. Watching his wife, he knew only panic that she might not endure.

Poor Jeanne looked so tired as she waited for the next clenching; her eyes scarcely noticed him or the room, but instead were turned in upon herself. Baldwin wished he could comprehend what she was going through – but he couldn’t.

He had appealed to Simon Puttock many months ago now, asking how the Bailiff coped with his wife’s childbirth, and Simon had merely laughed, saying, ‘It’s a woman’s thing. You don’t go and help your shepherds in lambing, do you? No – so why on earth sit in with your wife? You can’t help because you don’t know how – all you can do is unsettle her. Women know what to expect and all that, so I leave them to it and find someone to share a glass of wine or ale with me. So will you, if you have any sense!’

‘Let them get on with it,’ Baldwin repeated to himself, watching as Jeanne’s maid gently wiped her brow with a cloth dipped in rose-water. It was definitely a tempting thought, running outside to escape, but he felt his departure would be pure cowardice in the face of his wife’s suffering.

‘Could you fetch some wine?’ Jeanne gasped after a moment.

Petronilla nodded and rose, walking quickly from the room.

‘Water, too!’ Jeanne called after her.

‘How are you?’ Baldwin enquired tentatively.

She looked up at him. The dampness on her forehead made her look pale and ill in the candlelight, as though she was perspiring from a fever. ‘I’m not in pain, Baldwin, it’s not like that, it’s just that it’s so relentless! I know it won’t end until the baby is ready, but I wish it would hurry!’ She stopped suddenly, closing her eyes, her head falling forwards, a hand resting on her belly. ‘Here it is again – come here. Quick!’

He went and crouched at her side as she stiffened, her arm gripping his, eyes tight shut, a sighing gasp breaking from her as the ripples cramped through her womb. It lasted but a few moments, but to Baldwin it was an age. ‘That’s it. It’s finished for now,’ she sighed.

Baldwin was relieved to see Petronilla return and watched the maid mix wine with warmed water, holding the cup to Jeanne’s mouth. She sipped and swallowed, then leaned back. For once Baldwin poured himself a cup of wine and drank it neat. He glanced at the water, but then tipped more wine into his bowl, drinking deeply. Turning, he was in time to see his wife moan and reach for the bucket at her side. Before he could speak, she was sick, vomiting and spitting. Shivering, she sat back.

‘More wine?’ Petronilla asked.

‘No.’ Jeanne shook her head, eyes closed. ‘It’ll only make me sick again.’

Petronilla nodded and wiped her brow.

‘It’s very cold in here,’ Jeanne said accusingly. ‘Baldwin, can’t you make the fire hotter?’

‘Of course,’ he said enthusiastically, glad to be able to help in even so minor a way. He threw logs onto the hearth and turned to find that Petronilla had left the room to fetch more rose-water. ‘Are you well?’ he asked with the return of his nervousness.

‘It’s… coming again. Come here!’

He hurried to her and she grabbed at his arm, her fingers digging in while he stared down at her. It was an appalling sensation this, knowing that there was nothing he could do to ease her anguish, but he was reassured by her apparent resilience and fortitude.

‘It just keeps on, again and again,’ she whispered.

‘Don’t worry, it’ll soon be over,’ he said heartily.

Her eyes flashed at him. ‘Don’t you bloody dare say that again! And why’s it so fucking hot in here?’

The next morning, in his castle at Penhallam, Sir Walter Basset slapped his thigh when the message was delivered and read out to him. ‘A tournament? With all Lord de Courtenay’s knights? Wonderful! I can feel a treasury of money coming my way! Darling? My Lady?’

His wife Helen left their steward to decide on his own which barrels should be taken up to the castle’s buttery, and walked to her man’s side. ‘What is it?’

Sir Walter told her of the summons. ‘It’s excellent! Just think of the men who’ll be there – old fools, many of them. There’re bound to be loads of easy targets. Think of it! Ransoms, horses, armour – and even a handout of cash as a reward for my prowess from Lord Hugh!’

Helen listened, and in truth she could smile with him. His joy was ever-infectious. He was large, strong, and entirely masculine, his whole body covered with a light curling down of black hair. His odour was to her the finest perfume; his leathery skin was rough against her own, which she found intensely erotic. His scars were proof of his chivalry; his hands large and powerful. He was not tall, but huge. Barrel-chested, his frame rested on short but solid legs. His constant practice with sword and lance had given him the massive shoulders of a wrestler, while his neck was almost non-existent.

But he wasn’t ugly. He moved heavily, as befitted someone with so substantial a frame, but above it all, he had calm eyes of a deep blue, which were commonly crinkled at the edges with pleasure. His mouth was a little too wide, above the pointed chin, but his features were regular and pleasing, especially when he smiled. When he grinned, Helen would swear that he could tempt an angel. Now his sheer delight and conviction meant that the news of the tournament was in every way as pleasing to her.

‘So long as you don’t fall and damage your new armour,’ she teased.

‘For you I would tilt without armour,’ he said gruffly. ‘For my Lady’s honour, my hide would be enough.’

‘I prefer jousting with you when you’re naked,’ she giggled.

‘Come to the chamber now. Prove it.’

‘I don’t have time,’ she protested.

‘I order it,’ he said simply.

‘My Lord,’ she said, surrendering happily.

Their solar was at the other side of the hall, and they walked through it to their private chambers. There a man was sweeping away old rushes.

‘Out!’ Sir Walter snapped and the man fled while the knight untied his hose and pulled off his shirt.

Helen watched him while she slowly removed her skirts and tunic. In every way he was a good husband to her, kindly and generous, and a master in the tournament. They had been married three years now, and she had never yet seen him bested.

‘Hurry, woman! I’ll burn with lust else!’ he grumbled. He was already on their bed, the blankets pulled back, and now he took hold of her and pulled her towards him.

It was a wonderful body, he thought, holding her at arm’s length a moment while he felt his ardour mount. Long in the leg, slim in the waist, she had a flowing mane of red-gold hair framing a finely sculpted face with small nose, high cheekbones and slanted green eyes.

Sensing his impatience, she quickly climbed atop of him, kissing and stroking to ensure his pleasure. It was her duty. She knew that he would suspect her of adultery if she ever rejected his demands, and his response would be swift and uncompromising. She made love with a silent passion until he spent, and then worked a little longer, more slowly, until she gasped and fell onto his chest, her breathing gradually calming.

His chest was damp with their sweat. She kissed it, then rested her cheek on his shoulder, twining her fingers in the thick hair of his breast. ‘You’re confident of winning?’

Glancing down at her, his voice registered his surprise. ‘Do you have any doubt?’

‘I have never seen you lose.’

‘Yes, I will win. I have the horse, I have the equipment, and I know I have the most virtuous Lady to egg me on.’

‘After that display? You can still think me virtuous?’

‘For a woman, yes. Yes, I would say you are honourable enough,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t dare to be otherwise, would you?’ He gave a low chuckle as he rolled her onto her back and climbed between her thighs.

Only when he had exhausted himself and could lie back with his hand on her belly did his mind return to the tournament. Sighing contentedly, he allowed himself to consider the thrill of riding once more against another man.

It was rather like this taking of a woman, he thought. There was a similar tingle to the blood, a similar clutch at the belly, a heightened awareness of life. And the delight as an opponent fell was similar to the pleasure when a woman surrendered herself. Both were exquisite, wonderful experiences. Different, but similar in some way.

He had never lost in the lists. He couldn’t. He would take on any odds to win because within him he knew he harboured a strain of explosive cruel violence that exceeded the fabled madness of a berserker. When his blood was up, his rage was like a red mist which encompassed his entire being, and he could throw himself into combat without a thought for his own safety, beating at his opponent with a wholehearted ferocity that terrified any who stood before him.

It even shocked him sometimes. Like when he had almost killed Sir Richard Prouse six years ago at Crukerne. Not that it was his fault. Anyone could fly off the handle in a mêlée; he wasn’t the first. It was nothing to be ashamed of. Especially in a battle. The ransom had been paid in full, which was what mattered. More business for that usurer Benjamin, no doubt.

The memory of Dudenay brought a scowl to his features. Tight fisted bastard son of a Parisian peasant’s poxed dog! His charges for the armour had been extortionate. It was all Sir Walter could manage not to put his hands about the money-man’s throat when he had demanded his interest. Never again, thank God! Not now the creature was dead.

Baldwin felt his wife’s grip tighten as the contractions returned, her breathing changing until she was almost panting while her fingers dug into his forearm, making him wince. Gradually her breathing recovered and Baldwin blew out his cheeks in relief as her fingers released him.

She looked up at him, her hair clinging damply to her forehead, her face pale and weakly. ‘I feel so cold now. As the contractions get me, I burn, but as soon as they pass I freeze.’

Wary after her earlier outburst, Baldwin ventured nervously, ‘Um… should I put a log on the fire?’

‘My winter cloak would be easier. Then I can throw it off when I’m hot again.’

He went to the chest and pulled out a heavy woollen cloak lined with warm squirrel fur, draping it about her.

She touched his hand. ‘Thank you.’

‘How much longer will this go on?’ he asked quietly.

She looked up at his wretched expression, and rested her hand on his, smiling up at him. This was a new experience for her, a strange, overwhelming experience, but it felt oddly natural. There was no fear for her, no terror, although she was aware of the risks: she had seen other women die in childbirth, especially when the delivery took too long. That was something that didn’t worry her. At a fresh sensation her attention turned inwards again.

‘I can feel the baby,’ she said softly. ‘It’s moving… dropping downwards.’

His face relaxed slightly, but she could still see his anguish. In his eyes she could see his concern, his fear for her. She reached up and pulled his head down to her, kissing him. As the next wave of pain mounted she let him loose. ‘You can’t do anything here, Baldwin. Go! Leave Petronilla with me and we will call you when all is done.’

He was tempted to argue, but then he saw the cramping begin to distort her features again, and he rose quickly, calling for Petronilla.