Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

‘I was not talking to you, but to the lady,’ William said, taking a swift backwards step. His blade was out now, and he stood with the knife held low, ready to strike.

‘Well, if you want to talk to my wife, you have to talk to me first, you misbegotten piece of shit! I don’t like little half-grown bastards trying their bollocks with her.’

‘My Lord, I am sorry,’ William blurted. ‘I meant no insult to you or your Lady, but I didn’t realise she was married. My compliments to you.’

Sir Walter Basset was not interested in Squire William’s apologies. His anger was fanned by the boy’s thoughtless behaviour and he gripped his knife, tempted to launch himself upon the squire as William strode away. Just as he was about to chase after the lad, there was a touch at his forearm.

‘He’s not worth it. Bollocks, you say? Do you think he has any?’

Sir Walter shuddered with the release of tension and thrust his knife back in its sheath. The nearness of violence had thrilled his blood. He loved to fight, loved the rush of energy that flooded his body and filled his soul, but when some little shit like that tried to get his leg over Helen, there was always a harder edge to his rage. Helen was a beautiful woman, one any man would be proud to have dangling on his arm or adorning his bed, but Sir Walter was keenly aware that others envied him and wanted her for themselves. Let them try! He would cut off the prick of any man who poked it too near his woman. Cut it off and feed it to the crows. The whoreson needed a lesson and Sir Walter would be happy to teach him.

‘Husband? Shall we return to our tent so I can prove my loyalty?’ she chided him gently.

He chuckled gruffly as the boy receded in the distance, swallowed by the crowd. ‘You’re sure he didn’t insult you? If you think he deserves it, I’ll make him eat his own liver.’

Helen Basset smiled at her man. ‘There is no one but you, husband. That young fool will realise that when he sees you destroying your foe in the tournament.’

‘If I see him there, I’ll kill him,’ Sir Walter swore.

Geoffrey saw Alice from a distance while he was exercising his master’s horse, and he reined in, ambling along gently some distance behind her, twirling a switch in his hand.

There was a gleam at her temple: surely a strand of her hair had come astray from her wimple, and it glinted bright gold when the sun streamed between the tree-boughs overhead. She moved with an easy, long-legged gait that he would have recognised from a mile away, or so he told himself, and then he grinned at the inanity of the thought. With his eyes, he’d be lucky to see more than a blob at a hundred yards, let alone a mile.

But from this close he could discern her figure, her walk, her tallness… and her beauty. For Alice was very beautiful: her eyes were large and as blue as cornflowers on a bright summer’s day, her lips were full and soft, tasting faintly of the spices she chewed, her brow was broad and as pale as the rest of her flesh.

And what flesh! His fingers itched to touch her again, to feel her soft skin, to smell her odour, as sweet and heady as a strong wine! She was everything he had hoped, on that day when they had sworn their eternal love and exchanged their vows, and now, seeing her so close, he was on fire to lie with her again.

Alice had the face of an angel, a face that Geoffrey wanted to kiss again and again. The sooner he could announce to the world that they were wed, the better. Ideally at the church door while here in Oakhampton. That would be best, while the tournament was still in progress, with all the Lord Hugh’s knights and bannerets in attendance. Of course Geoffrey would have to be knighted first, but he saw no impediment to his securing that honour: he was wealthy enough in his own right, he had the support of his master, Sir Ralph Sturrey, and he was old enough to be granted his spurs. With the inbuilt confidence of a man who could name all his ancestors even before the invasion of King William the Bastard, a man who still owned his grandsire’s sword, rusted and chipped as it was, Geoffrey knew he would become a knight of renown.

He had to. The thought brought a shiver to his frame. He must deserve his woman’s faith in him, true, but there was more to it than that. His recent history as a warrior left much to be desired. If news of his failure of courage was to be bruited about, he would become an object of ridicule, a joke, a nickumpoop. Geoffrey didn’t want that, but he should be safe. All those who had witnessed his desertion at the Battle of Boroughbridge were dead.

Not that he doubted for a moment that his wife would remain loyal. She was wedded to him now, before God, and if accusations of cowardice were levelled against him, Alice would support him.

Seeing his wife walking ahead of him brought to his mind the consideration that she was his now, and must acquiesce to his desires. If he demanded that she join him in a lecherous excursion in the long grasses of the meadow, she must comply.

Suddenly the memory of her ivory skin, the warmth of her body as she encompassed him, was so vivid that the recollection was almost painful. There was a clutching at his heart at the picture in his mind of his wife smiling up at him, the grass cushioning her head, cornflowers and poppies dancing in the wind.

It was too much – he had to have her again! Spurring his mount, in moments he was behind Alice and he glanced about him warily.

They were almost alone, apart from a man or two ahead. No one was watching; it was the work of a moment. He reached down with his switch and settled it lightly upon her rump, giggling to himself as she spun round, startled, like some light-footed nymph.

‘Haha, that got you, my love, didn’t it?’ he chuckled.

‘Who are you? What do you mean by it, sir?’

With a slowly dawning horror, he realised this wasn’t Alice. ‘My Lady, I offer my sincerest… ’

‘How dare you, sir!’ The woman stamped with rage. ‘Do I look like a common slut to be thus tickled? Do I act the whore for your pleasure?’

Whoever she might be, she was not Alice, and her fury made her loud. Ahead, the men had turned round to look at her, wondering at her temper. At such a distance Geoffrey could not see their faces, but he was sure he could hear some laughter, along with some rumblings of anger as well. They thought he had given the woman some intolerable insult, which, he could only admit abjectly to himself, he had.

‘No, my dear Lady, I give you my most sincere apology. You see, I thought you were someone else whom I know very well. I would never have dreamed of insulting you. I would rather cut off my arm than let it demean you in such a way.’

‘It felt like a lewd and intolerable slight.’

‘I fear, my Lady, that I was lewd, common and irreverent. But I thought… ’ he hesitated only a moment ‘… you were my sister.’ He didn’t want to admit he had thought she might be his wife.

‘Your sister?’

‘Lady Cecilia Carew,’ he said.

She drew her chin up. ‘You thought me brunette? And three inches shorter?’ she enquired with a cold sneer.

He felt panic overwhelming him. Two of the men ahead looked as though they were considering protecting this strident young wench, and if he should be slandered as a womaniser, such unchivalrous behaviour could prevent his being dubbed knight.

Opening his mouth to protest his innocence, he found himself incapable of speech. He moved his jaw but no words would come. Face reddening, he bit at his lip.

‘Well, sir? Have you nothing to add?’

Frustration, shame and embarrassment took him over. He jerked at the reins and jabbed spurs to his horse’s flanks, riding off as quickly as he could, although not fast enough to miss the woman’s jeering curses.