Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

Simon grunted nastily, ‘I hope you realise you’ll be trying to sleep in the midst of that row.’

He had a point. Since the tournament was viewed by townspeople as a cross between a fair and a market, with the money-making potential of a saint’s day feast, there was plenty of raucous entertainment. Outside in the fields they could hear stall-keepers and men-at-arms singing lustily, drinking noisily and behaving as badly as young men would. Even here in the castle’s hall there was horseplay. Two lads were involved in a drinking bout that involved one placing a funnel in his mouth while his companion filled it with ale. Apparently the drinker intended swallowing faster than his friend could pour. Baldwin was confident that neither would be able to wake him later with singing or gaming. Their only means of disrupting his sleep would be by their snoring… or vomiting.

‘What is the plan for the event?’ Baldwin asked.

Simon drained his cup and refilled it. ‘Tomorrow Lord Hugh will arrive with the last of his household. He’s planning a quiet night with a vigil in the chapel to pray for God’s blessing, and the day after tomorrow will begin with a procession to the church in Oakhampton, after which the games will start. There’s to be a béhourd for squires and knights in training, and Lord Hugh will want to reward the best of the lads; some will be given their spurs. Then we’ll have two days of individual jousting to keep the men busy and the young girls in a state of feverish excitement before no doubt some of them hie to the woods and offer each other insincere vows of eternal fidelity in exchange for a crafty grope.’

‘You sound bitter,’ Baldwin observed.

‘Bitter?’ The other man looked up and gave a feeble grin. ‘Aye, well, wait until your daughter is a little older. Don’t get me on to the subject of Edith.’

‘I see.’

‘Not yet you don’t, but you will! Finally there’ll be a grand mêlée for all the knights to show their magnificence and prowess.’

‘Wonderful!’ Baldwin said drily. ‘So all those who haven’t already been battered to Banbury and back can have their brains mashed on the last day!’

‘Oh, it shouldn’t be too bad. At least it’s to be fought à plaisance , not à outrance .’

‘Thanks to God for that!’ Baldwin said with feeling.

‘You don’t like to face weapons of war?’ Simon asked with a grin. ‘I’ve seen you with weapons in your hands before now.’

‘I’ve fought often enough, and I’ve killed many men as you know,’ Baldwin agreed, ‘but this is supposed to be a demonstration of valour and chivalry. Sharpened lances and swords have no place here. It is one thing to be deafened from two days of having a mace or sword clattering against your helm, but quite another to have to avoid some enraged cretin trying to slice through your guts with an upwards stab underneath your plate. There are too many risks with weapons à outrance . Better that men should fight with blunted swords and joust with a coronal on their lances.’

‘Would you prefer to see everyone wearing toughened leather and fighting with whalebone swords?’

‘Ha! There’s always likely to be one fool who forgets and turns up with a real sword, or someone who loses his temper and grabs a bill. No, for my money I’ll take all the protection I can!’

Simon eyed him. ‘I forgot you’re nearly fifty,’ he said with a faint hint of surprise in his voice. There was enough grey in Baldwin’s hair and beard, he could see, but somehow he had never before considered how old his friend was. In the six years since they had first met, Baldwin had remained a solid, dependable factor in his life. Now he realised with a slight shock that his companion was an old man.

‘I am not quite ready for a winding-sheet yet,’ Baldwin said sharply, reading his mind. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like I am about to drop dead at your feet!’

Baldwin was not alone in viewing tournaments with concern.

In the small tent erected for her alongside Sir John’s and Squire William’s, Alice Lavandar, Sir John de Crukerne’s ward, slept badly. She tossed and writhed on her hard mattress, but sleep eluded her although she was exhausted after the journey. Then, at last, she felt herself drifting off.

But not to peace. It was the old dream. She was back in the tournament ground of Exeter, and before her were two knights, both sitting high on their horses in their war-saddles with the enveloping cantles and high pommels, both wearing full battle-armour, with helmets. They lowered the points of their massive lances to her in salute, and she watched as the protective coronals were fitted, the metal crowns which blunted the points. But then, as the two turned and rode off, she saw the coronals falling from their points. She wanted to scream at them to stop, but her voice was gone; she couldn’t speak, she could only observe.

The two men cantered to opposite ends of the field, wheeling so that their horses faced each other. There they stood, their mounts breathing out a fine mist from their nostrils, stepping heavily on the grass, eager to hurtle towards each other.

Alice watched with horror, and now, at last, she recognised the heraldic symbols on both kite-shaped shields: one was her long-dead father, the other, her husband Squire Geoffrey.

In the dream, her feet were rooted to the woodwork of the stand; she couldn’t move as she became aware of another man on the staging with her. It was Squire William, Sir John de Crukerne’s son, and he leered at her as he walked in front of her. Leaning over the rails, he gazed contemplatively at first one man then the other before facing Alice.

In her hand was a white cloth. She knew that dropping it would be the signal for the two men to gallop at each other, but she couldn’t, wouldn’t let it fall. She refused to make them die. She clung to the small square of gauze, but William reached forward and took her hand. Although she desperately tried to clench her fist about the cloth, although she tried to withdraw her hand from William’s, she couldn’t. It was as if she was bound with invisible cords that prevented any limb or muscle obeying her panicked, desperate will. She could only watch as William grinned, then held the shred of cloth high over his head.

She wanted to promise him anything – swear that she would marry him, swear that she would for ever give up her love for Geoffrey, anything! – but she couldn’t; she could only watch with horror as he dangled the cloth over the edge of the stand, and let it fall.

Her eyes were taken by the fluttering cloth as it opened into a regular square, falling gradually to the grass, but then her attention was grabbed by the horses.

The riders saw the cloth at the same time and spurred their mounts. Both leaped forward as if on massive springs. The horses cantered, then galloped, and the pounding hoofbeats were deafening. All she knew was terror as she saw the two charging ever nearer. Then the points of the lances dropped inch by inch until the heavy wooden poles shod with bright steel, uncapped by coronals, were pointing at each other.

There was a crash, a shattering explosion, and a thick smoke rose from the ground to save Alice from the hideous sight. Then it cleared, and she saw that the horses had collided even as the two men were spitted on each other’s lance. She could see the four bodies, the horses strangely peaceful, but the two knights thrashing in their agony, and now both had lost their helms and she could see their anguished death throes, as they looked to her for aid.

Sir John appeared and turned her from the hideous sight, and she took his solace gratefully, thinking he was protecting her; but then she was turned to face William once more, and he gripped in either hand the decapitated heads of her father and her lover.