Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

Helen’s arm was through his and she gave him a squeeze as if affectionately reminding him of her presence. He smiled down at her. Yes, Helen was a worthwhile mate. She was soothing and sweet, and her lovemaking was reason in itself to want to keep her. And yet even with these attributes, if Sir Walter ever found that she had been disloyal, he would kill her like a rat.

He thought of the pipsqueak squire who had paid court to her, and snorted contemptuously. Then he recalled the face of the knight from Gloucester upon catching sight of her. Sir Edmund – the man from whom Sir Walter had taken her.

‘Well, one thing is certain, and that is that I will have to hold a formal inquest into Wymond’s death.’

Simon glanced at Sir Roger. The Coroner was staring thoughtfully into his wine bowl. ‘So you think there is a connection between the two deaths?’

‘Benjamin and Wymond? Yes, there can’t be much doubt. I started thinking that it was a simple crime, committed by someone determined to avoid repaying his debts, but now it seems that Dudenay was a spy, it is a different matter.’

Simon nodded. ‘Yet it could be that the two are unrelated. Or perhaps they died for a different reason.’

‘Such as what?’

‘I don’t know – just as I don’t understand why spies should suddenly be killed here. There is nothing to suggest why .’

‘No doubt we’ll learn that in good time,’ Sir Roger said. He noticed that Simon was gazing ahead blankly. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘No, I was just looking at that scruffy devil,’ Simon said. ‘He seems to be wearing a sword.’

‘Gracious God, anyone would think he was the lowliest villein, wouldn’t they?’

‘Who is he? Is he allowed to carry a weapon at the tournament?’

‘That fellow, Bailiff, is Sir Walter Basset. He dresses like a slovenly cur, but don’t for God’s sake mention the fact to him or gaze lasciviously at his wife, Lady Helen. He has killed men for less, if the stories be true.’

‘You expect to see a knight in his finery.’

‘Yes. But Sir Walter appears to take a pride in going about dressed worse than the meanest peasant on his lands.’

‘It is curious that a man in the wrong dress can appear so utterly different,’ Simon shrugged, then put the disreputable-looking knight from his mind.

Soon afterwards the Coroner left him, and went off to make his arrangements for the inquest.

Simon had been about to stroll towards the combat field, intending to see how the works were progressing, when he passed a group of lads leaning nonchalantly against a fence, one sitting astride it as if to gain a better view of the people before him. He was apparently ogling a young woman, puffing out his cheeks in pretended admiration and feigning despair when she tilted her head and turned from him.

‘Just look at the arse on that,’ one of the boys said, and belched loudly.

Simon gave a wintry smile. Youths were the same the world over. Randy sods! Give them a female to gawp at, and they’d pant like hounds after a bitch. From the wafts of beery breath reaching his nostrils, the four here had been drinking. Simon could remember behaving much the same way when he was younger, especially after drinking. It was good to be distracted for a moment from his anxieties about the murder and the effect it would have on the tournament.

He idly paused to listen.

The lad on the fence gave a low whistle. ‘She is beautiful! I saw her before, and I thought then I had never seen such perfection, but now I am certain.’

One of his companions clutched at his breast and turned soulful eyes heavenwards. ‘Oh, for a touch of her hand, for a lick of her shoe, for a kiss from her lips, or a fondle of her tits… ’ The others laughed loudly.

‘Shut up, you prating cretin,’ Simon heard the boy on the fence say. He was only listening with half an ear, because he had just spotted his daughter. He hadn’t thought that Edith would be here already! She and her mother must have arrived while he was seeing to Wymond’s corpse. Where was Meg? he wondered, peering at the crowd.

‘Shut up yourself, William!’

‘Look at her legs,’ The blond boy said dreamly. ‘They are the length of a… ’

‘A good mare’s?’ his friend on the ground interrupted with glee.

Another broke in; ‘It’s not the meat on the legs, it’s where the legs meet!’

Simon felt his mouth fall slackly open. These ugly, poxed, inane brats weren’t ogling a woman! Their target was Edith!

Feeling his blood stir, Simon would have walked away, but then one of the lads at the fence made a filthy sign at Edith, a lewd beckoning, as if he were calling over a whore.

Luckily, Edith didn’t see her father, but she saw the youth’s signal. She haughtily raised her chin and slipped among the crush of people. Try as he might, Simon could not see where she had gone. He hoped – he prayed – that his servant Hugh was nearby to protect her from the two-legged wolves who were parading themselves about the area.

‘Did you see the tits on that?’

It was the boy who had made the sign. Simon walked over to him. Although a part of his brain took careful note of the position of each lad, his rage was fanned by the careless attitude of the fellow who had insulted his daughter. ‘Are you talking about the lady who was over there?’ he asked coldly.

‘Yeah.’ The boy was too drunk to sense danger. He sniggered. ‘Wouldn’t mind stumbling over that in the dark!’

‘You’d never find her in the dark, Nick,’ said the lad on the fence. ‘You’re always too bloody pissed.’

‘Speak for yourself! I’d find her, I’ll bet!’ The lad was shorter than Simon by a head, a barrel-chested youth of maybe twenty, with thick, short fingers, and a dull expression. Large brown eyes slowly swept around the crowd, seeking a new target. ‘Mmm! Sweet, she’d be, like a taste of sugar syrup.’

Simon looked up at the youth on the fence. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Me? I am Squire William, son to Sir John of Crukerne. Why?’ William asked and lightly swung down from the fence. ‘You have a problem? You aren’t a knight, so you can’t command us, and you’re surely no squire, so what’s your difficulty?’

Nick, the barrel-chested youth, circled slowly around Simon. ‘I think he’s a merchant, Will. Not successful, though. Look at the hose, and that tatty tunic. Surely a mean little peasant man should be punished for speaking insultingly to a group of squires. What should his punishment be, d’you reckon? A ducking in the river?’

Simon ignored him. William appeared to be the ringleader and Simon concentrated on him with a steady, unsmiling stare. ‘I am Bailiff Puttock and I’m here to organise the tournament. And I don’t like to hear women slandered. Nor would Lord Hugh be pleased to hear that the fairest ladies of his household could be insulted by a mess of youths who had hoped to win the favour of the collée from him.’

The gang’s expressions altered subtly. They had been expecting to have some fun tweaking the nose of this grim-faced man, but none wanted to risk the wrath of Lord Hugh. Especially since his Bailiff might be able to put in a bad word about them to the heralds, a bad word which could take many years to clear. No one wanted their character stained.

Squire William recovered his aplomb first. He smiled and allowed his head to tilt to the side as he shrugged apologetically. ‘Sir, I am deeply sorry if we appeared to be disrespectful, but we were only admiring a woman.’

‘She was beautiful,’ the one called Nick said unwisely. ‘Built like the prettiest wagtail the King himself could afford! To see her wriggle her arse under that tight skirt… it was like watching a pair of cats fighting in a sack. Tee hee! You should have seen her figure, sir. Any man would fall in love with her for the opportunity of seeing her remove her skirts and tunic. I’ll bet even you’d give your soul for the chance of mounting her, Sir Bailiff. Tee, hee!’