Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

That was why Benjamin’s stands had collapsed, why Benjamin had to die. Because he had charged for the best timbers but had used the cheapest, and when people filled the stand, the stand fell.

Now Benjamin too was dead, punished for his greed.

Not that it would bring back those who had died; nor could it renew the ruined lives of the survivors. Philip wiped away the tear that smeared his sight, and with an effort smothered his emotions before they could overwhelm him. He had work to do.

Walking back the way he had come, he continued beyond the armourers towards the field. There, he cast a professional eye over the stands, nodding at the size and siting. All looked well enough at first glance, but then he caught sight of a rotten board panelling a side-wall.

He walked over and touched it; the wood felt damp, as though rot was eating into it. Such timber should never have been used. He only hoped that the boards which formed the flooring were of better quality. Putting out his hand, he touched the wood again to prove to himself that this was no figment of imagination, that his mind was not deteriorating. His every sense was heightened, and before his fingers encountered the chilly wetness he could smell the disease in the planks.

A shiver rattled its way through his body and he was struck with a sensation of freezing, as if he had been instantaneously transferred to winter and left naked, standing in snow. Then a bird called out a shrill tune and he felt the sudden warmth thrill him as if God had chosen that moment to bestow a smile upon him.

He couldn’t be sure, but how many carpenters were there who specialised in tournaments? Perhaps he could soon have his revenge on a second man. One who was even more directly culpable than the money-lender.

There was one way to verify his impression. He walked to the ale-sellers and gazed upon the drinkers, but his target wasn’t there, so he returned to the battlefield and stared about him. Then he saw the carpenter. Up near a rack of lances, Philip spotted him, bent at his task and he knew he had found his second victim.

Strolling towards the castle, Sir Baldwin felt the holiday atmosphere that pervaded the place. For a while, enjoying the sight of flowers at the hedges, the cheery cries of traders and hucksters, the teasing and ribald comments passed by men to women and returned, he could forget that the purpose of this festive occasion was a series of fights, many of which would inevitably be bloody, possibly even fatal.

He had left his servant Edgar in charge of his cavalcade. Horses, carts and men were everywhere fighting to keep together in the crowd. Now Baldwin was in the midst of a stream of wagons and carts, with only the protection of his small riding sword. It was almost new, but he was delighted by it. The blade was a fabulous peacock blue, and inscribed upon one side was BOAC , standing for Beati Omnipotensque Angeli Christi , meaning ‘blessed and omnipotent are the angels of Christ’, while on the reverse was the small cross of the Knights Templar. The two, he felt, were charms as powerful as any prayer or scrap of paper sold by a pardoner.

Many folk were drinking freely from skins and one man was so drunk he fell to the roadside and rolled into the river with a loud hiccup. Baldwin was concerned that he might drown, but two other travellers reached down and rescued him, one amused, the other loudly proclaiming his fury at being forced to get his best velvet coat wet to ‘save a drunken sot who’ll probably be dead in a few days anyway, and it’ll be a good thing for all of us when he does bleeding well die and stops being such a nuisance to his fellows.’

The castle lay a half-mile or so further upriver from the town, and Baldwin studied it as he approached, eyeing the improvements.

This was Lord Hugh’s main post on the road that led from Exeter to Cornwall, and the last time Sir Baldwin had been here, many years before, its dilapidation had been all too evident. During Lord Hugh’s minority, from 1292 to 1297, it had been maintained by the King, and although Lord Hugh had been saddened by its condition when he saw how badly it had fallen into disrepair, there had been little he could do until he came into his inheritance.

As soon as Lord Hugh was twenty-one, he took over his estates, determined that the castle should be renovated and made fully habitable again. From what Baldwin could see, he had achieved a great deal. The timber bridge over the stream that bounded the northern walls was new, replacing the old one. That had been so rotten that many travellers had bypassed it, preferring to ford the stream farther up than put their faith in the decaying wood. Once over the stream, the road curved under the northern side of the castle, beneath the soaring new curtain wall.

Baldwin stood at the side of the road and let other travellers pass by while he ran his eyes over the place. It had a curious design, but that was only because it was so strongly placed. Baldwin was sure that he had seen a place built to a similar design before: long and narrow, sited upon the long spur of a hill. He smiled when he pinpointed his memory: it was like Richard Coeur de Lion’s Château Gaillard, albeit on a smaller scale. Both lay on top of ridges, taking advantage of the line of the land.

At the south-west point of Oakhampton was a keep set atop a solid mound. This had been a part of the spur, but beyond the keep the land had been dug away and used to raise the keep’s mound still higher, creating a deep and unbridgeable crevasse and making attack along the line of the spur itself all but impossible.

In front of the keep was an almost triangular bailey, holding the hall, kitchens and chapel and main accommodation for Sir Hugh’s men. A square barbican faced the bridge, and it was connected to the main gatehouse some 100 feet behind it by a high-walled corridor which extended like a long finger of moorstone pointing at the bridge. Any attacker who succeeded in breaking down the door to the barbican would run the gauntlet of concentrated fire from above all the way along that length before he could attempt to storm the gatehouse – a suicidal mission if ever there was one, Baldwin acknowledged.

Above the roadway the ground rose steeply to the curtain walls bounding the castle itself, and when Baldwin continued with the flow of people to the southern side of the place, he saw that the walls here were set as high above the meadow. The castle loomed above the people meandering from tents to stalls as they surveyed the goods on display.

Usually Oakhampton was a tranquil castle. Far enough from the town, which was itself remote at the best of times, the castle saw only occasional travellers passing along the road. From the dung that lay about so liberally, this field was normally pasture for sheep, horses and cattle. With the river flowing around in a great loop, the soil must have produced good grass for the animals even in the driest summer, and this would commonly be a pleasant, out-of-the-way place where a man could sit on a stone at the water’s edge and contemplate his life while the sunlight danced over the waters. Or so Baldwin assumed, for today it was a scene of lunatic mayhem.

Men milled about and bellowed at each other. Here, at the foot of the barbican, nearer the river, there was a set of horse-lines, but the main part of the field was now a tended area with gaily coloured pavilions, flags fluttering in the breeze. Squires and heralds set out the carefully painted shields of their masters so that others could challenge them, while spectators strolled idly by, confirming who was present. The sight made Baldwin want to groan. He knew that his own tent would soon be erected, a damp and chill home for a week.

Eventually he came to a second field which was dedicated to a market. It was filled with small sheds and wagons where local folk had set up stalls. Food, ale and wine were in plentiful supply, but so were bolts of cloth, jewels and trinkets, because wherever knights met to tourney, their women would be close at hand to egg them on, and even if they weren’t, knights were among the vainest of men, forever seeking fashionable or expensive cloth to proclaim their richness. It was natural for merchants to try to sell gold, silver and silks at a tournament, just as it was natural that the usurers and money-lenders would also be on hand. They too had their place.