Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

‘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.