Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

Her own scream woke her. Drenched in sweat, shivering with horror, she leaned over the edge of her mattress and vomited on the grass before collapsing into sobs.

She had to rise. Even as Helewisia, her maid, wiped the sleep from her eyes and gazed uncomprehendingly at her, Alice pulled a shift over her head to cover her nakedness and went to a stool, pouring herself wine with a hand that shook uncontrollably.

‘Mistress? Are you sickening?’

‘No, it was just a mare, that’s all,’ Alice said.

The maid nodded and sat back, her eyes flitting about the darkened tent. The small cresset with its tiny flame lit the place dimly but she knew she would be able to see the goblin if he was still there. Mares were nasty creatures that sat on your chest and sent you evil dreams. Not that anyone believed in such things, of course. It was a story for children, she thought as she suspiciously stared at a fold of cloth that could have concealed a small figure.

Alice ignored her. She sat down on her mattress again and held her head in her hands. The nightmare had shown her an appalling scene. Her father was already dead – killed in the tournament many years before at Exeter. Would Geoffrey die as well?

It was an awful thought. She must let him know how much she thought of him, let him know of her hideous dream, so that he could protect himself from danger. Perhaps that was what the dream was for; maybe God was sending her a vision in order that she might save her Geoffrey. At least at a place like this there were conventions. Heralds were known to be safe messengers for lovers; it was looked upon as part of their duty to aid and abet courtly lovers. She didn’t like the look of that greasy man Tyler, but the older, skinny fellow, Odo, he looked all right. She could speak to him and see whether she could entrust him with her message.

To save Geoffrey, she would offer herself as a sacrifice, giving herself adulterously to Squire William in order to save Geoffrey’s life. The thought made her want to vomit again, but she recalled the picture she had seen in her mind, of Geoffrey with a lance thrust through his belly, his eyes begging for help as he died…

If it would save his life she would marry William.

Or kill him.

The law can move at a snail’s pace when no one wants to be involved. And no one wanted to report discovering a dead body when the result was that the finder would be attached , held in custody, and amerced – forced to pay a surety to guarantee attendance at the next court when the justices arrived.

Sitting in a tavern early that morning, Philip sipped his wine thoughtfully. The revulsion he had experienced while killing Benjamin was gone, this second time. Perhaps because the victim was loathsome – certainly he had caused Philip’s ruin still more directly even than Benjamin. Or perhaps killing became easier with experience.

It was certainly easy enough when he thought of his wife’s crushed and ruined body or his son’s and daughter’s tiny broken corpses.

In a just world, this victim would have been outlawed as a felon, could have been legally executed by any man. Philip had visited justice upon him. Like Benjamin, he had taken men’s money to ensure that others died. Philip was satisfied that condign punishment had been visited upon a murderer, and that reflection pleased him.

He surveyed the field before him. At this time of day there was a gentleness to the general noise. Smoke drifted from a dozen cooking fires – they weren’t permitted within the stalled area, but cooks were allowed their own fires for preparing food, and pies were already being heated, fowls roasting, wine and ale was being warmed with hot, sweetened and spiced water. Over all came the odour of freshly baked bread, attacking the nostrils with the fragrant guarantee of repletion. Philip promised himself a loaf, drained his pot and went to seek a hawker.

As he walked, he glanced about him. Someone had surely seen the body by now, he reckoned, but no one had reported it. The camp was peaceful. Men emerged from their tents and scratched in the chilly early morning air, others rose from the ground, shaking the cloaks and blankets which had been their bedding. To his left were horses, and here grooms were already seeing to their masters’ mounts, whistling under their breath or chatting idly. No, the body couldn’t have been reported yet. If it had, these unruly youths would have been all a-twitter with the news, scampering about to tell everyone of the discovery.

He walked over to the cooks and bought a small capon. With his knife he split it down the middle then into quarters before wrapping three parts in a scrap of linen. He chewed on a thigh while he sought a bread vendor. With a good rye loaf in his hand, he returned to his own pavilion, where he sat on a stool, set his booted feet on a chest and leaned back against his tentpole while he drank wine from his skin.

Soon, he reminded himself, soon there would come a shriek from the tilting field. A man would run in from the woods, and Philip knew perfectly well who that would be.

It would have to be Hal Sachevyll, the sodomite and lover of Wymond.

Baldwin had agreed to meet Simon near the tented field and the knight was waiting patiently when Simon left the barbican and made his way towards him.

‘Your face would look well on a stormcloud,’ Baldwin commented happily.

‘I’d be better pleased if I’d stayed outside the castle, like you did last night,’ Simon grunted.

‘It was noisy?’

Simon shot him a darkly meaningful glance. ‘This castle is too small to house a host of ants. There’s no space anywhere. If you want to sleep, you have to share the hall with all the servants and guests – and that odious cretin Hal Sachevyll comes whining and pleading every five minutes for more money or wood or nails or cloth or something similar. Christ’s bones, but I only slept a scant hour. No more. There was a knight from Taunton next to me snoring the night away. And when he was done I’d just got to sleep when some drunken oaf tripped over my feet and woke me.’

‘I slept well,’ Baldwin lied cheerfully, recalling the singing and shouting from tents all about him as revellers celebrated the tournament to come. One was singing the praises of his hero, Sir Walter Basset, the wild man of Cornwall, while another told him he was a fool, that Sir John from Crukerne would be sure to win.

‘Wait till you see ’un in the medley , mate. That’s when you can tell their mettle,’ he asserted.

‘Nah! I’ve seen ’em both and my money’s on Sir Walter. He’s got the speed and the strength, as well as bein’ younger by ten year or more. He’ll carve his initials in your man’s helm.’

‘You reckon, Bob Miller? There’s something your ’un ain’t got – and that’s experience. Sir John is skilled, he is. He’s killed plenty o’ men in his time.’

‘Who hasn’t? Sir Walter has too. In the joust, as well.’

‘So’s Sir John. I remember him slaughtering that cocksure fool Godwin of Gidleigh.’

‘Godwin? Oh, I remember him. He was shafting Sir John’s wife, if the stories are true.’

‘Really? You reckon?’

‘That’s what they say.’

‘That’s bollocks, that is!’ The man spat. ‘That were a bad do, that were. Exeter. The whole Tyrel family died, all except the father, Philip. Big man, he was, powerful, bearded, strong, but his family got flattened when the stand fell. Pretty wife, two nippers. Philip himself pulled the boards off them. Poor bugger.’

‘Folks moved?’

‘Yeah, they were furious because their favourite got killed by Sir John. They all moved forward and the stand collapsed. Several got flattened, like this Tyrel family.’