Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

He had left her at her home up near Iddesleigh. The child she had borne was more than nine months old now, and she was over the worst: not only must she cope with the birth of her child, her house was old and more than a little dilapidated. Once it had been a cottar’s home, with a vegetable garden at the rear and a shaw to provide all the owner’s wants in terms of wood, but the cottar had died and the place then left to rot.

When Constance arrived, she found she must renew thatching, clear weeds from the yard, hack back the overgrown shaw and prepare the soil for planting. That was outside; inside, the hearth must be renewed, furniture replaced, the walls replastered and painted. A woman already far into pregnancy could not achieve much and Hugh had taken on the work, his wiry frame bending and hauling and dragging and painting stolidly, until evening when he returned indoors, undemonstratively eating the bread and pottage she had made for him, before they both went to the only bed in the house.

His admiration for her was forged and tempered in the passionless environment of the convent, but now it grew as he created a place where she could bring up her child. Until winter and the freezing chill, he had not touched her in their bed, lying carefully away from her, but with the snow the two clung together for warmth.

When the boy was born, Hugh was there to help her settle, but he hadn’t expected her to grow to love him. The dour, uncommunicative moorman accepted his own love for her like a responsibility which must be shouldered, never anticipating that it could be returned. He was a servant and knew his position. She had been a nun, and was thus inviolate, but she had been persuaded into a man’s bed, and now bore a bastard child.

Soon after the birth, when she brought the child to Hugh and told him that it was named after him, he had felt a curious feeling of hunger, an emptiness that couldn’t be filled, and for a while he held the swaddled child, unable to speak. Her action had overwhelmed him. He stood contemplating the baby, whose eyes had opened and fixed Hugh with a serious squint before trying to suckle from his leather jack.

‘I’ll get back to work,’ Hugh had said gruffly, passing the baby back to his mother, and going out with a light step to fetch his axe. That afternoon he scarcely managed half the work he’d intended.

Constance was ever kind and appreciative. A trained infirmarer, she was used to calming the ill, soothing their pain with her soft voice, her light touch and warmth of spirit. For Hugh these qualities were all but unknown in his life. He had helped her from a desire to assist a mother whom he loved as one might love the Madonna, a woman seen from afar and admired for her qualities, but by the time the baby was born he adored her utterly. Before the end of the spring they were married.

It had been hard for him to leave her at their home, but his master owned him, and at least Simon allowed him time to travel home and see his woman whenever he wanted. It was better than most servants received.

Today, seeing William talking to Edith he felt torn. The girl was his own secret treasure: since her childhood, he had been her closest accomplice and ally, often delaying his duties in order to see her smile, giving himself as a mount when she wanted to pretend to ride, playing hide-and-seek with her or whittling sticks into fantastic shapes while she watched open-mouthed.

That was years ago. Now she was a mature young woman, and sought friends of her own age. It felt like a betrayal, the way that she curled her lip when told to remain with Hugh at the house, but Hugh phlegmatically accepted it. He knew girls of her age would lose interest in childish pursuits and would be keen to move to more mature behaviour. It was natural, even if it was hurtful. And from the look of her, she had found a lad who had a similar interest in her. Not some scruffy churl from a peasants’ vill, but a man of better birth than Hugh or even Simon himself: a squire.

He only caught a fleeting glimpse of Edith’s face as she left the lad, but Hugh was sure he saw in her features the same joy, the same happiness he had felt himself last year when he first realised he was in love.

That was why he didn’t tell his mistress about Squire William. He was not to know that if he had, he might have been able to save himself and his master a great deal of trouble.

Later, as the light was fading, Andrew walked along the road towards the tavern where he had arranged to meet William, when he heard feet behind him. He continued without breaking his step, but his attention was concentrated behind him.

Caution was an essential part of him now. It wasn’t an act to impress women, much though frivolous fools like William sometimes assumed it was. Andrew had no need to impress. He was confident in his own abilities. That was enough.

Whoever it was had approached closer now. ‘Hey! Don’t I know you, Squire?’

‘Me, sir?’ Andrew demanded and spun around. Then he recognised Odo.

The herald had lost much weight, he thought. His head was hanging lower than it had before, although that light was still there in his eyes, but at his cheeks and forehead were the lines that denoted pain and exhaustion.

For Odo’s part, he saw that Andrew had improved no end since their last meeting. ‘You have a new master, my friend,’ he stated. ‘It is clear from your tunic and weapons.’

‘Aye. A good man called Edmund.’

‘Sir Edmund of Gloucester?’ Odo asked.

‘You know him?’

‘I have heard much about him. He is without a lord, I hear?’

‘True. But perhaps he will be fortunate here. I understand Lord Hugh could always use a strong arm.’

‘Yes. I am hoping he will want a useful herald with an eye for an enemy’s coat-of-arms, too!’ Odo said with a chortle.

‘A man can grow tired of wandering,’ Andrew said, eyeing Odo’s worn boots and faded hose.

‘And of sitting atop a horse. Yes.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Ah, I seek a man, a squire. I am acting as a go-between, to give messages to him from his beautiful lover.’

‘If only I could be so fortunate.’

‘Andrew, my friend, you and I are too old by many and many a year to hope to win the heart of a maiden. We must accept bachelorhood and assist those who, younger than we, would seek a wife from the ranks of young maidens here.’

‘Godspeed your delivery, then.’

‘Ah, but surely a pint or two would speed me still faster on my way,’ Odo laughed as he pushed his way into the tavern behind Andrew.

When they both held jugs and could drink their fill (for this tavern had no more pots or cups to offer), Andrew glanced at Odo from the corner of his eye.

‘So is this some wealthy young buck who seeks a woman for a night or two?’

‘No, no, no!’ Odo tutted. ‘If that were all, I’d tell him to come here and sample one or two of the wenches. No, he is convinced of his love for this girl. And she declares her love for him.’

‘A pretty tale. I suppose neither has enough money to wed? Or are they waiting for a suitable moment to announce their intentions?’

‘Hardly that. They have already exchanged their oaths and enjoyed the first proof of love, but clandestinely. The girl is a ward and cannot tell anyone of their marriage until her husband is knighted.’

‘A ward?’ Andrew shot him a look. ‘It’s not Lady Alice, the ward of Sir John, is it?’

Odo said nothing, merely sipped contentedly at his jug.

‘And her husband?’ Andrew frowned, thinking his friend had lied. ‘Is it Squire William?’

‘No, another local squire.’

‘My God! Squire Geoffrey,’ Andrew breathed.

Today being the first night Lord Hugh was staying at the castle, there was a feast planned, to which all the participants in the tournament were invited. First a service was held in the chapel, while servants and more lowly officials were fed so that later they could serve the guests.