Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

Baldwin nodded and soon afterwards left her, to move to the table where Sir Walter sat. The Cornishman was a powerful-looking man, Baldwin thought, with dark eyes that glanced keenly about him. This was no fool, whatever one might assume about such a muscle-bound, oafish-looking fellow. Baldwin introduced himself and Sir Walter was polite in return. It was always safer for a knight to be courteous in case offence might be given.

‘It is a pleasure to meet you. I have heard much about you from Lord Hugh,’ Baldwin said. ‘You know him well?’

‘I see him fairly often. I live between his castles of Exeter and Tiverton, so he occasionally visits me.’

‘A good lord.’

‘Yes. Honourable and generous.’

‘Yes.’ Sir Walter smiled widely. ‘Very generous.’

So Baldwin had guessed correctly. This man was more interested in obtaining a financial reward than in displaying the other aspects of knighthood. It was the modern way, he knew, but he could not help but feel it to be contemptible.

‘So shall I meet you in the lists, Sir Baldwin?’

‘I fear not, Sir Walter. I am over-ancient for lance-play.’

‘True,’ Sir Walter said without thinking. He was eyeing the quality of Baldwin’s clothing sadly, as though mourning the wealth that he would miss by not being able to capture Baldwin in the ring. ‘Still, there’ll be others, I suppose.’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin smiled. ‘I am sure you will find enough targets for your lance.’

‘I always do,’ Sir Walter yawned.

‘You have fought often?’

‘Enough. I’ve made my money from tournaments in Europe.’

‘It is an expensive pursuit.’

‘It can be,’ Sir Walter agreed. ‘But if you win often enough, the expense is left to the other man.’

‘Quite so,’ Baldwin said. ‘It is the loser who has to travel to the money-lender to have his purse robbed by those such as Benjamin Dudenay.’

‘You knew that bastard, did you? He was a godless, poxed shit, that man. Thank Christ he’s long dead.’

‘Did you know the carpenter who died – Wymond? He was an associate of Benjamin’s,’ Baldwin said mildly, but his eyes were fixed upon the other man with greater than normal keenness.

Sir Walter met his gaze with a fixed stare. ‘You think I killed them? You’re mad.’

As he spoke, his wife returned to the table. She walked with an effortless grace which Baldwin considered would suit a queen, as she approached the table where the two men sat. ‘My husband? Is all quite well?’

Sir Walter eased his shoulders and appeared to physically relax. He leaned back in his seat and grinned mirthlessly. ‘This good knight seeks to accuse me of murdering a peasant. If you want to, Sir Baldwin, carry on. No one would convict me of a crime of that nature. No, I wouldn’t worry about an accusation like that.’

As he spoke, he glanced idly about the room, and suddenly Baldwin saw him clench his jaw and glare with real rage. He almost stood as though to go and fight.

Lady Helen put a hand on his arm. ‘My husband, please. The fellow is only a boy. He means nothing.’

Baldwin turned to see Squire William with his friends, but although the other lads were enjoying their freedom and Lord Hugh’s ale, Squire William appeared to be staring directly at her.

Sir Walter turned and leaned towards Sir Baldwin. ‘I didn’t kill that pathetic carpenter, nor that thieving arse of a banker, but I’ll tell you this: if that little shit ever touches my wife, you can come straight to me when you find his corpse. All right?’

Much later, Hal left the tavern, stumbling along the road in the clear night air.

The atmosphere in there was just awful. Horrid! Smoke-filled from the badly drawing fire, cold from the multiple draughts that sought entry through the shuttered but unglazed windows, loud with the roars of the men-at-arms and their squires as they drank, belched, ate, sang, and quarrelled. One man was stabbed, although his attacker apologised profusely once he had calmed himself. And all this accompanied by the wailing and thumping from the musicians in the little gallery.

Hal swayed gently at the foot of the castle and sniffed back another sob. There was no point in weeping and wailing. Wymond wouldn’t have wanted him to be upset; Wymond was too strong and hearty for that, but Hal was desolate without his friend and lover.

They had met many years ago now, building a tournament together, and they had hit it off immediately. Then they met Benjamin, who was not interested in them in the same way, for which Hal was grateful. He couldn’t fancy the banker. He had always been attracted to very masculine men like Wymond, and Benjamin’s podgy figure was revolting. Not that he’d thought Wymond could possibly want him . No, Wymond was the source of some delightful fantasies, but Hal never thought it could go further – until one night he got the carpenter terribly drunk and the two of them fell together as soon as they returned to their rooms. Rough, coarse, occasionally cruel – all described Wymond; and yet he was also curiously vulnerable. The harshness was a show put on to protect him from hurt.

Hal sighed and closed his eyes, feeling the tears approaching once more as the memories flooded back. The tears weren’t only for Wymond, but for himself. He didn’t know how he could live without his lover.

If he could, he would have admitted his other job, too, but he daren’t. All he could achieve was enemies. Nothing more. Lord Hugh’s men would be furious if they learned that he, Wymond and the banker had spied for Hugh Despenser.

Hal suddenly wondered whether Wymond’s death was the result of his spying.

It was so inexplicable! Hal had gone to bed thinking that his lover would soon follow him. They tended not to share beds while working, because it was too tiring, but both slept in the same room. Hal had thought Wymond was going to return – in fact, he had a feeling he had half woken when Wymond had returned – and now he knew that it was the murderer who had woken him.

And the next morning Hal had let him stay in his bed. How did he not realise that something was wrong? How could he have missed the glaring, terrible fact that his lover was dead? True, they never rose together normally, they didn’t care to be too obvious about their relationship, but Hal, when he woke and hurried from the tent, should have realised that Wymond was dead.

Hal walked the few paces to the bridge over the tiny stream and sat at its edge. Disconsolate, he had no energy. The prospect of all the years to come, long decades alone, seemed intolerable. That was the curse of his kind: no companionship. If another man with the same simple urges was ever found, he was to be held on to with a fierce grip, for it was so hard to seek out another. At least a man who lost his wife could count upon being able to find a new woman; most would have a son or daughter to remind them of the happiness they had once known, but not Hal. His life was ended as effectively as if he had hanged himself. Whoever had killed his lover had destroyed him too.

He closed his eyes and wept silently. The tears had been with him all day, but only now that he was alone could he indulge in his misery. And he would be alone for the rest of his life.

‘Are you all right, master?’

Hal looked up into sympathetic eyes. ‘No. I am devastated,’ he wept.

‘There is a cure for that.’

‘Ale, wine, both give oblivion, but I need a stronger cure for my bereavement.’

‘I was thinking that the best cure is to talk about it, master. Would you like to tell me your troubles?’

‘No. But if you aren’t busy, I will buy you a pot of wine and we can talk and you can take my mind from them.’