Bernard Knight - Figure of Hate

But de Wolfe, who had seen them all before, loped on and made his way back to a form of entertainment that suited him better, on the turf of Bull Mead. The area was now crowded, compared to his visit yesterday, as the contests had been in progress for several hours.

The stand was filled with the more exalted spectators, colourful in a variety of costumes, including quite a few women. They were by no means all dewy-eyed maidens come to wave a handkerchief at their champions, for a good half were the solid wives of burgesses, knights and several barons who had come to watch the bouts. Along the ropes marking off the battle area was a straggling line of lesser spectators, many from the city itself, together with supporters and gambling men from the Devon countryside and several other counties. As John arrived, a series of trumpet blasts from a herald marked the end of the morning's bouts and the field was cleared for workmen and boys to go out to shovel up piles of dung and to knock the worst of the hacked-up turf back into shape, after the pounding it had had from so many heavy hoofs.

John made his way to the recet, the contestants area behind the stand, which was now crowded with men and horses. Both there and at the opposite end of the ground, where the circular tents of other competitors stood, he saw several men prostrate on the ground, some being tended by their squires, others lying groaning under horse blankets. At least they all seemed alive, he thought, as he saw no still bodies with a cloak thrown over their heads. He made his way to where a florid-faced man was talking to a pair of stewards, all with red bands tied around their arms. Lord Guy Ferrars broke off his conversation to greet the coroner.

'Good day, de Wolfe. You're early, but none the less welcome.'

Ferrars, as the most influential baron in the district, was overseeing the tournament, being convenor of the committee that was organising it. A gruff, no-nonsense man, with considerable wealth and estates scattered all over England, he had the ear of many in the King's Council and made a good ally, as well as a bad enemy.

'I thought I'd get my eye in by watching a few bouts before I start my duties,' John replied. 'Have there been any problems so far?'

Ferrars shook his head, a pugnacious globe set on a thick neck.

'Nothing of importance. A few cracked heads and a couple of broken arms. These were the youngsters this morning, with more spunk than sense! The serious men will be on this afternoon, which is why we asked you to keep an eye on things, being the most experienced fighter in Devon.'

This was a rare compliment, coming from the usually taciturn and aggressive baron, and John could not suppress a small glow of pride warming him from within. They talked for a few moments about the morning's events and the prospects for the later, more serious contests, then walked over to a tent where some food and ale were laid out for the stewards and judges.

As he would miss his dinner at home, John laid into a few capon's legs, mutton pasties, hard-boiled eggs, fresh bread and cheese, washed down with an ale markedly inferior to Nesta's brew at the Bush.

'Who's likely to win the most loot today, d'you think?' he asked Guy Ferrars, as they chewed and drank.

'A dozen good men in the running, I'd say,' replied the other. 'There's a French fellow here, Reginald de Charterai. It seems he's a professional, going around all the tournaments both here and in France.' He wiped his bristly moustache with his fingers. 'Damned odd, when you think of it! Our King and thousands of our soldiers are fighting the bloody French year in, year out — yet one of their knights comes over here to win our money. Could be a damned spy for all we know, by Christ!'

John shrugged. 'Our men do exactly the same — they have far more tourneys in France than we do here and plenty of Englishmen take part.'

Ferrars grunted as he grabbed a couple more chicken thighs.

'I suppose so. War seems to make little difference to trade or learning. My sister's son has just gone to Paris to study some useless subject called philosophy, instead of staying home to hunt and learn how to use a lance properly!'

John brought him back to the subject of potential winners on the field.

'This Frenchman is tipped to do well, then?' Guy waved a hand at some other men standing near by, who were rather furtively exchanging bags that clinked with coin.

'Plenty of money being wagered on him, I hear. It's not only the contestants who make or lose in this game, as you well know.' He tapped the side of his fleshy nose with a forefinger. 'The bloody priests pretend to abhor betting, but they're damned hypocrites, for I know for a fact that several canons not half a mile from here have got quite a few marks riding on the winners today.' De Wolfe grinned, as he knew as well as Ferrars that though wagering was officially forbidden, half the people on the field today would be gambling between themselves, either for a penny or a few pounds. Many a time he had done the same himself, though today his sense of honour prevented him having a flutter, as he was one of the judges.

'Any others favoured for a win?' he asked.

The baron scratched the iron-grey stubble on his cheek as he considered.

'There's Thomas de Cirencestre, he's usually good for a few overthrows, though maybe he's getting on in years now. And Robert de Northcote from Lyme, he did well at Wilton a few months back. Of course, we've got the gang from Peverel as usual. The old man got himself killed earlier this year. He was a cunning old devil, God knows — but his sons are hungry fighters.

I've no doubt there's a few wagers on Hugo and his brother Ralph today.'

John knew the Peverels by sight and recalled that they were not the most popular lords of the Devon manors, but if they were doughty fighters, then their other faults were none of his business.

The bouts had. temporarily ceased as most of the knights and their squires wanted to eat and drink before the second half of the day began. When John went out of the meal tent, he could see that many people were seated or sprawled on the grass, drinking from flasks and skins and munching on bread and meat produced from their saddlebags or bought from the several stalls set up well back from the boundary ropes by enterprising traders.

The respire was as much for their horses as for the men, as the heavy destriers were being cared for by squires, varlets and grooms at each end of the ground.

They were being fed oats and hay and watered from wooden troughs filled by a succession of small boys with buckets brought from nearby wells. But in less than an hour, the trumpet sounded again, discordant blasts giving a five-minute warning. There was a groundswell of movement, as spectators climbed back into the stand or moved towards the boundary ropes, some already fingering purses in anticipation of the next wager.

John made his way to the centre point of the combat area, meeting the other umpire for the afternoon, Peter de Cunitone, a knight from a small manor near Ashburton, farther down the county on the edge of Dartmoor. He knew him slightly, having been at a siege with him in France ten years earlier, where he had been wounded in the leg. A much older man than John, he had lost most of his hair and had such a ruddy complexion that the coroner suspected that he was too fond of brandy wine for his own good. But today he seemed sober and alert, and after discussing the way they were going to handle the events, they retired to stand one on either side of the arena, at about the halfway mark. John was on the side nearest to the herald and trumpeter and he gave them a signal that they were ready for combat to start again.

A wailing blast produced a flurry of activity in the recet, and a moment later two horsemen cantered out of the gate alongside the viewing stand, to the accompaniment of shouts and a few jeers from the spectators, who now numbered several hundred. They rode up to John, one of the destriers nervously jumping about and tugging sideways as his rider swore and tried to pacify him. Each marr'had a squire who ran behind and stood anxiously inside the ropes — they were the only persons other than the judges permitted within the combat area and were allowed to assist their lords if they came to grief. The contestants confirmed their names to the coroner and he called these out to the herald, who was a clerk from one of the fulling mills, able to read and write. The man checked the names on his parchment register and nodded agreement, then in a resounding voice announced them to the crowd.