Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

Gidleigh was only a tiny castle, little more than a tower with a wooden fortification encircling it for protection from wild animals, but he wouldn’t see it taken from him. It was all his father had left him. Sir Richard had no need of a great household. Only those who aped great lords needed the hangers-on, and Sir Richard was happy to live the life of a quiet rural knight. He had enough money now, just, to support himself if he lived frugally, and that was why he objected to attending tournaments. If he was to attend, surely he would have to display those qualities expected of knights, and that would mean he must pawn his belongings again, perhaps even his best pewter.

There was little enough left now, since Benjamin the Usurer had taken all he could. Sir Richard spat a curse at the ‘foul offspring of a leprous whore’ but it didn’t ease his loathing for the banker.

At least the poxed bastard couldn’t do the same to anyone else now. Not that Benjamin alone deserved Sir Richard’s detestation. Others had helped destroy him. Others deserved his revenge. Especially Hal Sachevyll and his foul lover Wymond Carpenter. And Sir John, of course. Sir John of Crukerne, who had killed Sir Richard’s father with that mace-blow and then helped destroy Sir Richard himself when he was crippled.

He bunched a fist and brought it down on a table, trying in vain to vent his rage – but it was no good. It never was. His frustration was caused by his body’s limitations and all he knew now was a sense of impotence at the injustice of it all. Sir John, Wymond and Hal had done this to him. And now he must go to another hastilude to witness their so-called skills. He glanced with hatred at the paper in his hand. Much though he’d like to ignore it, he couldn’t. He would have to go all the way to Oakhampton. Well, it could have been worse. Lord de Courtenay could have asked everyone to visit him in one of his castles farther north. At least Oakhampton wasn’t too far.

Although with his ruined body it would take him long enough to travel even that distance in his coach.

‘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.