Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

The final disaster came at the river. Sir Andrew Harclay stood on the bridge with only a small force, but they were resolute, a band of veterans from the Scottish wars. Earl Thomas rode to a ford to take Harclay in flank, while his friends held Harclay at the bridge, but the attacks failed. Harclay had mingled archers with dismounted men-at-arms, and the Earl could make no impression on them. At night the fight was halted, and it was then that Earl Thomas told his companions to ride away if they would save themselves.

Sir Edmund refused to desert his master, but Earl Thomas took his sword and cut the trailing tail from his banner. ‘There, Sir Edmund. Now you are a knight banneret.’

‘My Lord, I don’t have the income to justify… ’

‘Never mind that,’ Earl Thomas said, beckoning a clerk. He took a heavy purse and pressed it into the younger man’s hand. ‘Take this and save yourself. I will grant you a manor near Exeter. Make yourself known to Hugh de Courtenay and he may accept you into his household. If the King is merciful, you may be permitted to remain there.’

‘What of you?’

‘There is nothing I can do. I am advising all my friends to save themselves,’ he said heavily.

‘I should remain at your side, my Lord.’

‘You should obey my commands, Sir Edmund!’ Earl Thomas had snapped, and that was that. A matter of days later, he was executed on the orders of the King, in the most demeaning manner possible for someone who was himself of royal blood.

Sir Edmund had obeyed his last wish, and now he owned a pleasant manor east of Exeter near Honiton, high on a hill from which he could see for miles. It gave him a sense of security knowing that he could see an enemy’s approach, for he was convinced that the King himself would want to persecute him for his support of Thomas; if the King did not, then the Despensers would see to his destruction, for in their greed they sought always to ruin their enemies and steal any lands they might for their own enrichment.

That was why Sir Edmund was here, at the tournament. To be safe he needed a new lord, a master who could protect him against the most powerful men in the realm after the King. The alternative was to go into exile again. Lord Hugh was not the wealthiest baron, but he was no threat to the King or Despensers either. If Sir Edmund could join his host, he might be safe. The Despensers had bigger fish to catch.

A tournament offered a unique opportunity to shine before a lord. Other knights had won patronage from new lords after demonstrating their valour and prowess in the tourney, and there was no reason why Sir Edmund shouldn’t as well.

His squire, Andrew, was not in the tent. His Welsh archer, Dewi, sat on a stool stropping his long-bladed knife.

‘Where’s Andrew?’ Edmund demanded.

‘There’s been a dead man found. He’s gone to watch.’

‘Morbid bugger! Tell him I’ve gone to the tilt-yard. Men will be practising and it’ll be useful to assess their skill.’

He left his archer and made for the tilt-yard, but before he passed through the main field, he suddenly saw a face he recognised.

‘Sir John!’ he breathed.

Sir John of Crukerne heard his name and glanced about. Seeing Sir Edmund, he stared hard a moment, but then slowly his face broke into a grin. ‘Ah! Edmund of Gloucester. I am pleased to see you, Sir Knight. I shall look for your shield, I promise; after all, you will need an opportunity to regain the wealth you lost six years ago!’

With a sudden roar of laughter he slapped his thigh with delight and walked away, leaving Sir Edmund frozen, his face set into a mask of rage and disgust.

Sir John was the man who had ruined him in 1316; the man who had caused Sir Edmund’s flight.

The knight was gripped with a loathing that tightened his chest until he found it hard to breathe. He watched, his features twisted, as the tall figure of Sir John marched away, and then his expression changed into one of longing and sadness as he caught sight of Lady Helen Basset.

The woman who had promised herself to him. Before she married Sir Walter.

It was peaceful at the other side of the river. A small stand of trees blocked this part of the stream from the noise and bustle of the stalls nearer the castle, and no one had advanced over the water to this meadow – possibly because they didn’t want to get their feet soaked, Baldwin considered as he pulled his boots off and upended them. The squelching had become all too noticeable as he walked in the meadowland.

There were cattle standing in a wary huddle and Baldwin avoided them, walking instead along the bank near the fast-flowing water. The sunlight filtered through the branches to spot the ground and the river was a constant chuckling companion. Even bearing in mind the serious nature of his investigation, he felt his mood lighten.

However, the good weather had one negative aspect: it had been so dry that the soil was dusty and, although he looked for signs that Wymond could have come this way, the ground was too hard to show footprints.

If Wymond had come here with another man, was it, as the workman suggested, for sexual favours, Baldwin wondered. What other reason could the killer have given for bringing Wymond to this deserted place? There was no proof that the carpenter had, in fact, come here.

He strolled further along the bank, until he arrived at the far corner of the meadow. The cattle had remained in the middle, regarding him suspiciously. Usually he found them astonishingly inquisitive: only worried animals huddled together. And the scent of blood unsettled them.

There was no obvious sign of a scuffle or murder at the riverside. Baldwin surveyed the view back to the castle. Through the trees he could see the vibrant colours of the pavilions, the darker russets and ochres of the market’s tents, but the rowdy noise of Oakhampton’s population enjoying themselves was stilled by distance and the trees.

Trees ! Baldwin gave an involuntary start. The one thing that Hal and Wymond wanted was wood . Could someone have brought him here to show him trees or branches which he could buy or thieve?

The idea caught his fancy. He looked all about him, trying to see where a man might go. It would be better for the killer’s security not to kill Wymond too close to the river, for there he would run the risk of lovers wandering at the waterside hearing him. No, if Baldwin were to commit such a crime, he would do so up nearer the treeline above the meadow.

Setting off away from the river, he crossed the field and was soon climbing a reasonably steep incline until he came to the trees.

They rose from what looked like an ancient hedge which had been left to its own devices. Where the straggling branches should have been cut back and new branches threaded in among the others to form a solid barrier against wolves, sheep and cattle, the limbs had been left in place to grow. This place was so badly looked after that many of the bushes had over time grown into trees and now the old line of the hedge could be seen as a row of boughs straggling slightly along the edge of the pasture. Between the trees there was a thick line of smaller bushes and brambles, impenetrable for Baldwin since he was wearing one of his better tunics and he knew what his wife would say were he to attempt to force his way through. Instead he moved slowly along the line until he came to a gap.

Kneeling, he studied the place with a frown. The brambles and young twigs had been pulled aside, dragged into the field as if a cow had pushed her way through – but there were no hoof-prints.

Baldwin had investigated enough crimes to know that there were always little signs, if you knew how to spot them, which would tell you how a man had been killed and by whom; and he never lost this special frisson of excitement as his investigation suddenly took off. He felt much like a harrier which had detected the scent of a fox or rabbit and was circling to find out which direction the quarry had taken before howling to attract the attention of the rest of the pack.