Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

Still, if he could find a cheap supplier, he could come out of it all right – and meanwhile make sure that Lord Hugh knew exactly how unpleasant that Bailiff had been.

Hal was still nervous that the project might be late. The job had progressed alarmingly sluggishly. It was his duty to see to the layout and design of the field, but also to ensure that everything happened on time. Of course his budget was nowhere near adequate. If only he had been given more money to play with, he could have worked wonders.

Sipping his wine, Sachevyll allowed himself to daydream, recalling the plans he had formed when Lord Hugh first asked him to help. In his mind it would have been a gorgeous display: red silks forming a canopy over the Lord’s own grandstand, with a throne of wood upholstered with crimson velvet and cushions. Sachevyll had thought instantly of the chivalrous stories of Arthur when Lord Hugh suggested that he might like to help. He envisioned his employer dressing as a king, perhaps wearing cloth of gold and an ermine-trimmed robe, while his knights took on the rôles of Arthurian characters, acting out their parts at the Round Table before all joined in a splendid clash of steel.

That Bailiff could be the evil Mordred, he snickered, his eye drawn once more to the stands.

But no. The King had banned all showy tournaments since the alliance formed to destroy his favourite Piers Gaveston in 1312, and it would be tempting fate, let alone the King’s patience, to pretend to be Arthur, to wear a crown and show off his knights as men from the legends. The King would turn a blind eye to a simple tournament with few knights and no other magnates, intended purely to exercise steeds and men together in order to ensure their skill for the better defence of the realm, but it would be very different were Lord Hugh to put himself forward as a king – and not just any king, but England’s greatest. People might consider that Lord Hugh was getting ideas above his station, and if other magnates were invited, King Edward II would be a fool not to wonder whether plots against him were being hatched. It had happened before.

No, the tournament must have the workaday appearance of simple martial practice. It was terrible, of course, for the spectacle was all there, ready, in Hal Sachevyll’s mind, but at least he was working on a tournament again, and that was all that really mattered. He loved them, even after the disaster at Exeter so many years ago.

He hadn’t been entirely responsible, of course. There was little doubt in his mind that the crowds moving forward had brought about the stand’s collapse, and many of the furious people were crushed by the weight of bodies behind them before the wood had given that appalling, groaning crack and shuddered. There was a kind of silence, then. A pause. Hal had stopped and gaped. He had never heard such a sound before. From somewhere a bird called. And then the dust was hurled into the air as the wood gave way and the screams began.

The memory still made him feel queasy. After that he had travelled, providing smaller stages for other lords, going wherever his master had commanded. One always obeyed one’s master, Hal reminded himself. Especially when your master was the King himself.

Recollecting that, Hal stood, fastidiously brushing lichen and mud from his hose. His master would want him listening, watching and learning, not sitting back and whining. He drained his cup and returned it to the wine-seller before squaring his shoulders, putting that scene from his mind; he gave a prim sniff and considered his next move. Perhaps he could ask the wine-seller where he might acquire some wood inexpensively.

He was about to do so when he caught sight of Sir John of Crukerne striding through the crowds.

‘Oh my God!’ he squeaked, and involuntarily ducked behind the wine barrel. He didn’t want to be seen by the Butcher of Crukerne. As soon as he could, he scurried away back to Wymond and safety.

Walking past the smugly grinning King Herald, Simon stormed away from the tournament field. He marched quickly, seething with anger at the carpenter and builder. Baldwin walked a little more slowly in his wake, leaving Simon to work off his ire.

It was not until Simon had reached the entrance to the tented field, near the river, that he realised that his friend had lagged behind. He stopped and waited for Baldwin. ‘My apologies, that was an unnecessary outburst.’

Baldwin shrugged. ‘The carpenter deserved worse for his lack of respect to an official. What of it?’

‘I’ll explain more when we find a moment’s peace,’ Simon said, his face hardening.

Following his gaze, Baldwin saw the King Herald approaching, Odo behind him. Odo gave Baldwin a nod of recognition before going to his pavilion, a small tent near the river. He pulled off his garish tabard, marked with the symbols of Lord Hugh’s family and lineage, and Baldwin had to restrain a smile when he saw that beneath it, Odo wore a threadbare linen shirt and a pair of faded hose. Finery could conceal utter poverty, he thought.

The King Herald mockingly bowed to Simon, and although Baldwin saw that his shirt and boots were of the first quality, he was sure that Mark Tyler also used his tabard to hide poverty, although in the King Herald’s case it was the poorness of his character rather than of his clothing.

Simon barely acknowledged the King Herald, but instead led Baldwin to the castle, avoiding anyone who wanted to speak to him. ‘I would have procured a room for you in the castle,’ he told him confidentially, ‘except I recall how badly you got on with Sir Peregrine last time you met him at Tiverton. He’ll be taking the chamber above the gatehouse and will live there while the Lord Hugh is in residence.’

‘That dreary, mendacious lob!’ Baldwin said without rancour. ‘No, I am happier with the cheery company of the field.’

‘Like friend Hal, I suppose?’

Baldwin then said, in earnest now: ‘Aren’t you worried that the stands may not be strong enough? What if one collapses?’

‘If they do, it’ll be Hal’s fault,’ Simon said. ‘He’s creamed off a load of Lord Hugh’s money for his own pocket and he’s trying to keep it. He can afford the best. Lord Hugh is generous, especially when he’s trying to impress his own knights. No, don’t worry, old friend. Hal isn’t stupid enough to let anyone get hurt at this tournament.’

At Oakhampton Castle, the two men had to walk around the barbican to enter its north-facing doorway and then Simon took Baldwin up the long cobbled corridor that ended at the gatehouse itself.

Looking up at the walkways inside the battlements, Baldwin voiced his earlier thoughts. ‘Only a brave man or a fool would attempt this to enter the castle.’

It was easy to envisage a group storming this narrow, deadly killing ground and being crushed by missiles raining down from above. The two crossed the bridge and entered the court beyond. The spur on which the castle was built was shaped roughly like a shield, and here at the entrance Baldwin saw they were at the narrow point at the base. Before them a broad yard fanned out with high walls enclosing a number of buildings, while in the background ahead was the looming grey shape of the keep on its high motte. Baldwin had little time to study the place because Simon strode off to their right, to a long, high hall. Soon they were sitting at a table with jugs of ale.

Simon wiped a hand over his face. ‘God’s bones! I begin to wish I had never agreed to help with this. If I hear one more complaint from that cretin of a carpenter or his girlfriend Hal, I swear I’ll reach for my knife and gut them!’

‘It is mayhem down there, isn’t it?’ Baldwin said, comfortable in the knowledge that his servants would have seen to his belongings and that he need do nothing but idle away the day.