Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

‘What of Hal?’

‘He’d gone. I saw him enter his tent. Waiting for Lover-boy.’

As he spoke, Sachevyll himself appeared around the side of the stand and stared at them. He looked gaunt and pinched, and Baldwin felt a pang of sympathy for him: he had lost his lover, perhaps his only friend and also his companion in business. What future could he expect now?

Sachevyll screeched at the workman, ‘What are you doing? Don’t you want to keep your job?’ Facing Baldwin, he pleaded: ‘Leave them alone, can’t you? Holy Mother, send me patience! With Wymond dead, I have enough to do without worrying that you’ll stop the men from their work.’

‘You should be grateful: he has confirmed your story. You say you had been in business with Wymond for some years?’ Baldwin asked as the man hurried away.

‘Yes,’ Hal Sachevyll sighed. ‘God! What of it?’

Baldwin was tempted to ask whether they had embezzled money from Lord Hugh, but Sachevyll would guess that the worker would have tipped him off. It appeared unlikely, but if Sachevyll had killed Wymond, he would make short work of the builder. Baldwin held his peace; instead he asked, ‘What interests did you have in common?’

‘We enjoyed making tournaments, that’s all,’ Hal Sachevyll snapped.

‘Can’t you tell me anything that could help me find his killer?’

‘I don’t know anything!’ The man was wringing his hands.

‘Did you see anyone with him yesterday? Someone you didn’t recognise?’

‘No! When I saw him it was only to talk about the timbers. Why the men used them to erect the stands baffles me. A complete waste of time. They will all have to come down. Wymond was supposed to be keeping an eye on all that. The wood is useless. As it is, I have been forced to go and buy more, and you’ll never guess how much I–’

‘I have no wish to know,’ Baldwin interrupted smoothly, ‘but I am glad to hear that you can guarantee the safety of the stands.’

He left Sachevyll and wandered pensively back to the river near the architect’s tent, looking down into the water again, contemplating the tranquil scene. A little further on the river curved back towards the hill on which the castle stood. Baldwin strolled along the bank. There was a thick muddy patch where cattle came to drink at the far bank, and a corresponding mess on his side. It was a pleasant, shaded spot, with the sun dappling the waters, and the river gave a pleasant, gurgling chuckle as it rippled past. Baldwin stood and rested a hip against a low branch, turning back to face the field.

Baldwin considered Wymond perfectly capable of viciousness; he could well have committed some foul act in the past which was deserving of retribution. His appearance went against him, but so did his quick temper. Baldwin, a man who had seen men-at-arms who raped, slaughtered and tortured, saw in Wymond someone who could have been guilty of the same kind of behaviour. Not, he sighed to himself, that that was in any way an excuse for what had happened to Wymond.

How did the murderer actually commit the crime? Where was Wymond caught, where was he bound, where was he hammered to unconsciousness and murdered?

Before him, in between himself and the wooden stands of the ber frois was the tent where Wymond had been found. The stands blocked the view to the fairground scene beyond. Right was the sweep of the river, curving around the whole area. Baldwin was sure that someone who wanted to kill a man would have taken the victim to a quiet area so he couldn’t be interrupted. His eyes were drawn back to the hill on his left, behind the castle. Up there the trees might smother a little of the noise, a man’s screams or shouts – but a killer would surely want somewhere safer, where he couldn’t be seen or heard. The hill was too close to the market and stands for that.

A murderer would want a more private place. Perhaps he found it by crossing the river.

The man they were seeking was not some reckless, random killer. And this was no spur-of-the-moment deed. A man with a grudge was the most likely candidate – but who ?

He turned and stared out over the river. The water looked deep, but then he noticed that a causeway lay just beneath the surface. Ah, well! he thought resignedly, and stepped boldly into it, trying to ignore the water which lapped over the tops of his boots.

Sir Edmund of Gloucester rode his horse at a fast gallop into the tented area, guiding his mount with an automatic tweak of the reins and subtle shift of his weight. The great charger turned, avoiding a small child by inches, and Sir Edmund laughed to see the brat caught up by an outraged mother.

It was forbidden to ride fast in this area, but he didn’t care. Not now. There was nothing anyone could do to him that could affect him. After his last English tournament he had been ruined, a knight without horse, without armour, a wandering, lordless knight, a nothing , and he would never forget the horror of that time. He had been forced to leave his home and seek fame abroad. Tournaments in France and Germany had helped hone his skills and had given him a focus, and after his successes, he had returned, laden now with plate and gold.

While abroad he had met Andrew. The older man was experienced, a dutiful servant and reliable squire in the hastilude . Together the two had slowly built up their fortunes, assisted by the patronage of a powerful banneret at Bordeaux who was a vassal of Thomas of Lancaster, and it was Earl Thomas who had rescued Sir Edmund from his wanderings and gave him back his pride.

He leaped from his mount at the entrance to his tent and stood patting the great horse’s neck while he glanced about him superciliously. The people repelled him: dull, stupid folk who had no idea what life was really about. They none of them had a clue about the meaning of chivalry.

Pulling his horse behind him, he walked to the river and let his beast drink. It was the most important rule for any fighting man: the horse always came first. A knight depended upon his mount before any servant, woman or companion.

He passed his horse to a groom and wandered back to his tent, a brightly coloured pavilion with his shield prominently displayed outside. The thick canvas was painted and stained in strips to match the colours of his shield: red and white vertical bars. He had discarded the marks of his Lord.

The thought was bitter. He was constantly aware of it. His master was dead, murdered by the Butcher of Boroughbridge: King Edward II.

Neither he nor any of the other men in Earl Thomas’s host had believed that the man who so completely failed at Bannockburn and during the Despenser war last year would actually fight Earl Thomas. It had seemed ludicrous to think that so pathetic a King, who preferred swimming and play-acting with peasants to hunting or taking part in honourable pursuits, would dare confront a proven warrior like Earl Thomas. Edward had even banned tournaments; and only a man who was fearful of his own warriors would stop Englishmen from their practice.

When the King rode north with his host, Earl Thomas knew he must protect himself and moved south to block his advance and force a negotiation, but all went wrong. The King avoided direct contact, and instead looped around behind the Earl’s forces, threatening to cut him off and forcing the Earl to retreat.

That was the reason for the disaster. During the long march northwards, trying to outmanoeuvre the King’s forces, several of Earl Thomas’s allies proved their dishonour. They simply faded away as the line of march extended; not only peasants fearing for their lives, either, but magnates like Sir Robert Holland, who rode off with all his retainers, the foresworn coward!