Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

Beyond this was a third field, and it was here that Baldwin saw his friend.

‘Simon!’

On hearing his name called, Simon Puttock turned, wearing a scowl which only faded when he recognised Baldwin. He was standing by a lance-rack at the side of a ber frois , talking to a sandy-haired man with a sallow, pinched face. At the lance-rack itself leaned a short, squat, truculent Celt with near-black hair and blue eyes, who wore a leather apron. From the adze thrust into the apron string, Baldwin assumed he was a carpenter.

‘Baldwin – thank God! I thought it was more problems! How are you, old friend? I was beginning to wonder whether you’d plead fatherhood to avoid the event. How are they?’

Baldwin noticed that the other two men appeared irritable, but he saw no sign that Simon wanted to return to his discussion with them. ‘Jeanne is fine, but very tired,’ he replied. ‘Our daughter Richalda is keeping her and Petronilla awake through the night.’

‘Not you?’

‘Yes, she keeps me up as well,’ Baldwin admitted. There was no surprise to it. His manor house was a good size, but the solar block was not vast and Baldwin was learning that one baby girl could make more noise than any animal of the same size when desiring attention.

‘Is Jeanne coping?’

‘She fluctuates between weeping from sheer frustration and tiredness, and laughing with delight when she sees what she calls a smile on the baby’s face.’

‘You don’t see it?’ Simon asked.

‘There is nothing to see,’ Baldwin said severely. ‘The child is a mass of bawling noise, nothing more.’

Simon made no comment, there was no need. Baldwin’s words might have been harsh but his tone, when he spoke of his daughter, was gentle and proud.

‘And how are Margaret and Peterkin?’

‘They are fine. Meg’s perfectly used to podding. I left her to it,’ Simon said absently, then he appeared to recall the man at his side. ‘Oh, Sir Baldwin, this is Hal Sachevyll, who is designing the ber frois and setting out the space for fighting.’

Baldwin gazed at him blankly. ‘The ber frois aren’t ready?’

‘No,’ Sachevyll snapped. ‘It’s ridiculous. We’ve got the main frames up in place, but we need fresh timber for the flooring. The stuff we’ve been given is useless. Soggy, rotten and feeble.’

‘The wood’s shite,’ the carpenter asserted. ‘ I wouldn’t stand on those planks. They’re rotten.’

‘It’s an outrage, Bailiff,’ Hal Sachevyll declared passionately. ‘All the timbers are of poor quality and there’s scarcely enough, in any case. I demand that the town provides more.’

‘We’ve been through this already, Hal,’ Simon said shortly. ‘If you want more timber, you’ll have to pay for it.’

‘I have paid! The stuff delivered is just not good enough, is it, Wymond?’ He appealed to the carpenter, who spat at Simon’s feet.

Simon looked at him coldly. ‘Then buy more. You have been given a good sum of money to make the tournament work, haven’t you? Use it.’

‘What, waste more of Lord Hugh’s money? It may be loaned by a money-lender, but Lord Hugh will have to pay it all back sooner or la–’

‘You have enough to build,’ Simon said impatiently. ‘You suggested a budget, I daresay. Stick to it.’

Hal sighed. ‘Look, Lord Hugh told me how much he wanted to pay. He agreed a budget with my banker, and Lord Hugh will settle up later. But that doesn’t mean I can go willy-nilly ordering fresh wood and–’

‘I repeat: you have enough funds. Use them!’

‘Our banker is dead, Bailiff. Murdered some weeks ago. I would pawn my own few belongings, but since you have plenty of wood here, why not give me some? It’s all Lord Hugh’s. And it’s his own villeins who shortchanged me, supplying rotten timbers when I ordered the best. You should command them to give us more for their lord’s honour.’

‘For the last time, I’m not going to steal from the townsfolk,’ Simon said sharply. ‘Why don’t you make the stands smaller, or have lower rails at the front? I can’t believe you really need so much wood.’

‘You’ve never built stands, have you, Bailiff?’ Wymond the carpenter interrupted. ‘Maybe you’d like to take my fucking hammer and show me how to do it?’

Simon’s patience was frayed. Unused to such rudeness, he was close to losing his own temper. His features hardened, but after a moment’s effort he composed himself. ‘Well, perhaps you can show me what I fail to comprehend, Wymond.’

‘Yes, I too should like to see these bers frois ,’ Baldwin said.

With Wymond following, swearing, Sachevyll led them to the high walls of the stands enclosing the lists.

Baldwin left Simon and the other two as they argued, the carpenter pointing to weaknesses and the dearth of wood while Simon shook his head and declared himself satisfied with the preparations. Instead Baldwin went to look at the layout. He was grateful that a small team of workmen were sawing and hammering because their row smothered the noise of the bickering between Simon and Sachevyll.

The area was large. There would be space for at least fifty knights to contest within its fencing, first with horses, then on foot. Baldwin had seen many tournaments, and this seemed to have been set out with skill. The space between the ber frois was adequate, there was plentiful land for the horses to build up their speed, and the stands were a good size for all the men and women who would want to come and watch the spectacle.

It would be interesting to see a tournament again, he thought. He had practised regularly while a Knight Templar and had fought in the lists, both in individual clashes with lance on shields, and in the mêlée where everyone wielded their favourite weapon after the initial brutal, thundering collision, but now he was approaching fifty years of age he was happy that younger bones and muscles should have their turn.

He heard the voices behind him as the others approached. Hal was talking. ‘And just look at this! I’ve never seen such shoddy lumber! My heavens, I shudder to think what Lord Hugh will think when he sees it. It’s an embarrassment, that’s what it is.’

‘If it’s the best–’

‘Don’t fucking tell me it’s the best they can do,’ Wymond rasped. When Baldwin turned to glance at them, he saw that the carpenter was right before Simon and pointing with a furious finger.

The Bailiff’s voice was curt but controlled. ‘Perhaps it would be better if you could get on with the ber frois .’

‘I don’t want to be associated with–’

‘You already are, Master Carpenter, so I suggest you get on with it.’

‘ Not without better wood .’

‘Christ Jesus, give me strength!’ Simon cried heavenwards. ‘Wymond, get back to your work, and if you need more, petition your friend Hal here.’

‘You’ll have a disaster. It’s happened before, a long time ago, at Exeter,’ Sachevyll said, panicking. ‘You’ll have a collapse and then where will we all be?’

‘In the shit,’ Wymond spat.

‘What happened at Exeter?’ Baldwin asked.

‘A knight was killed and the crowd was angry. He was a well-liked fellow and the mob wanted the blood of his killer. They all moved forward, and the barrier gave way before the press, letting people tumble out. Women were smothered beneath the bodies, Sir Baldwin. Women and children, all crushed. It’ll happen here if the Bailiff remains obdurate. I warn you now: if you don’t get me new wood, I won’t be responsible.’

‘Lord Hugh advanced you sufficient funds to buy decent wood. If you skimped in order to line your own pockets, you’ll have to buy more. No matter what, the safety aspect is entirely your responsibility !’