Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

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.

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.