Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

Outside, Simon’s feelings of complacency were gone, replaced by a mixture of anxiety and anger: anxiety because a murder had been committed, and that would be bound to reflect upon him; but he was also angry that someone could murder Wymond when he still had need of the man. God knew the carpenter was a tricky and truculent bastard at the best of times, but that was no excuse for murder.

‘Was it you , Bailiff? Did you kill him?’ Sachevyll demanded, eyes streaming. He was clinging to a guy-rope near the entrance, but now his eyes fixed upon Simon with a dreadful accusation.

Simon felt his jaw sag in disbelief. ‘Good God – why should I have killed him?’

‘You argued with him. You and he just about came to blows, didn’t you?’ Hal sniffled. ‘I know you were cross with him, but he was only tired and irritable. There was no need to murder him.’

‘I didn’t kill him, you moron! The first I knew of his death was when you appeared just now!’ Taking a deep breath, Simon tried to speak calmly, aware that others were eyeing him now but it was not easy. He was embarrassed to be the centre of attention. ‘You said you slept in there with him? Didn’t you notice he was dead?’

‘I couldn’t hurt my Wymond!’

There was a snigger behind him but Simon ignored it. ‘How could someone else have done this, with you asleep a few feet away?’

‘We finished our work as the sun was going down, and went together to buy wine and pies. When we returned I was very tired. We had been slaving hard all day and after a quart of wine, I was nearly passing out, so I went to my bed. Wymond wasn’t ready to sleep; he said he was going to go and take a piss. That’s all I remember – I must have dozed off. When I woke up today before dawn, I thought he was still resting and left him there. That’s all. A little while ago, when I realised that he still wasn’t up, I got riled and came back to give him a piece of my mind.’ The fellow began to weep softly again.

Baldwin had come out and stood with Simon. He glanced at the tent, then back towards the market and castle. Hal and Wymond’s tent was far from the rest of the camp. There was no one else nearby, for the architect and his carpenter had pitched theirs here to protect their work. From here it was possible that a scream or shout could be missed from the camp – if, say, a man was belted over the head. But it was inconceivable that Hal wouldn’t have heard if Wymond had been attacked here, in the tent. ‘I can find no weapon in there,’ he said.

Hal stuttered. ‘What of his hammer?’

Baldwin shook his head. ‘He has no hammer here.’

Hal couldn’t help but glance again at Wymond’s face. It was all but unrecognisable, the jaw broken, one eye-socket smashed and the eye itself red as though it was filled with blood. Simon followed his gaze, winced, and moved away. He could never come to grips with the evidence of brutality to men. Although he had seen enough corpses in his time, and had killed men himself, he felt a familiar writhing in his guts at the sight of this ruined body. He looked away when Baldwin returned to study the corpse again.

Baldwin noticed Simon’s expression and smiled to himself. This squeamishness of Simon’s was one of his more endearing traits. Baldwin knew no such qualms. He had seen so many deaths in his youth during the Siege of Acre that he had little compunction in pulling bodies about.

‘Well?’ Simon demanded.

‘Beaten to death. Maybe with a rock, or a cudgel, but a hammer would have done it as well.’ He was undressing the body as he spoke, and now he gazed at the man’s torso. ‘He died hours ago. His body is cool to the touch. No stab wounds on chest… ’ he lifted the arms ‘… or flanks… ’ he hauled the body over, a workman helping him ‘… nor on the back. Hello – what’s this?’ he declared and pounced.

‘What?’ asked Simon.

‘Bramble thorns in his head here, and also on his shirt,’ Baldwin explained.

‘So what?’ asked Mark Tyler impatiently. ‘There are brambles all over the place.’

Baldwin barely glanced at him. ‘In the tent, for example?’

‘Eh?’

‘This means Wymond was not killed in the tent. Do you think Hal could have carried this fellow?’

‘ Him? Look how feeble he is!’

‘Then Hal is presumably innocent.’

In his relief at this conclusion, Hal Sachevyll was noisily sick again, heaving convulsively. For his own part Simon wanted to do the same; his belly rebelled and he could taste the bile at the back of his throat.

Baldwin turned to Hal. ‘And you say you heard nothing?’

‘Of course I didn’t,’ the man said shakily. ‘If I had, I’d have called for help.’ He closed his eyes and wiped his mouth. ‘Oh Christ. Poor Wymond.’

Mark Tyler looked at Baldwin. ‘So where’s the weapon?’

‘Missing,’ Baldwin admitted. ‘But the murderer could have taken it and hurled it into the woods or the river.’ He was gazing at the ground near the tent’s entrance as he spoke, and now he frowned and darted forward. ‘Ha!’

‘What?’ Simon asked.

‘Blood,’ Baldwin said with suppressed excitement. ‘Look, there’s a large smudge here. It is the imprint of his head, I think. It proves that Wymond was killed outside, not in the tent.’

‘So someone knocked him down out here,’ Mark Tyler said. He had wandered over to Baldwin’s side and was staring down at the mark. ‘Perhaps Hal did it and dragged Wymond in.’

‘No! No, I was asleep.’ Sachevyll looked as if he might vomit again.

Tyler sniggered, unimpressed. ‘Anyone could have killed Wymond and carried him in. Or dragged him.’

Simon interrupted. ‘Could Hal have dragged him in, Baldwin?’

Baldwin pulled a doubtful expression. ‘Sachevyll is not strong enough. And why should he?’

Simon was eyeing the distance from the tent to the market area. ‘Wouldn’t someone have heard a man being struck? It’s only a hundred yards or so. The noise of the blows… When a bone breaks it makes a hell of a din.’

‘So Wymond probably wasn’t killed here, but further away,’ Baldwin mused. ‘The killer perhaps set the body down here – while he glanced into the tent to see whether Hal was awake?’

Tyler gave an irritable, ‘Tchah! Hal was in the tent. Who else could have killed him?’

Baldwin nodded. ‘I think we have to arrest him anyway.’

‘Oh no!’ Tyler exclaimed, his amusement fading like morning mist. ‘You’re not arresting him . Anyone, but not Hal. He’s not finished his work yet, and I won’t have Lord Hugh’s show ruined to satisfy your fanciful whims.’

‘If he committed the murder, he’ll–’Simon growled, but Tyler cut across him.

‘I said no , Bailiff. Or you can explain to Lord Hugh why the field isn’t ready.’

‘He was the man nearest the body; he was definitely the first finder; he may have had his reasons to kill Wymond,’ Baldwin said contemplatively.

‘But I loved him, I couldn’t have hurt him.’ Hal fell to his knees, one hand going to Wymond’s shattered and bloody face. ‘I loved him,’ he choked, and covered his own face with his other hand as he mourned the loss of his partner.

They left him and withdrew a few yards, Baldwin eyeing the crouching man with sympathy, Simon with contempt, and Tyler watching them all warily. He would move heaven and earth if that were necessary to prevent Hal’s arrest until after the tournament.

‘Are you sure it wasn’t him?’ Simon asked.

‘Simon, really. Was that man lying?’

‘Who knows? Damned sodomite. He could have been a wife, squatting there like that. Pathetic!’