Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

‘Very well, sir,’ said Wymond’s killer, and he smiled as he helped Hal to his feet.

Just as the skies had promised, the morning of the first day of the tournament was clear and fine when Simon walked from the castle towards the tilting ground, resolutely putting all thought of Wymond and Benjamin from his mind.

He was up before dawn and drank his morning whet of a pint of thin ale at the castle’s bar before setting off. As he gathered up watchmen and inspected the field to make sure that all was ready, walking about the ber frois and reassuring himself that everything was prepared, he couldn’t help but be glad that Coroner Roger was responsible for investigating sudden death. Simon had enough to occupy him already.

He checked that Lord Hugh’s seat was safe and hadn’t been stolen (stranger things had happened) before peering beneath the stand and making sure all looked sound. It would be dreadful to have Lord Hugh’s own stand collapse, not that it was only the fear of poor construction that made him nervous. He was concerned. The sight of Wymond’s mutilated body had shocked him and the more he considered it, the more he was sure that a killer who could strike once in so devastating a manner could do so again. That was why Simon had wanted to come and check the area once more. To make sure that there were no more unpleasant surprises lurking for Lord Hugh.

Lord Hugh had listened with frowning disbelief when Simon and Roger spoke to him of Wymond’s death, but his first thoughts were for his tournament.

‘Whoever it was must be mad,’ he concluded after consideration. ‘But you must find him, Coroner, Bailiff. If someone could be a danger to other people here, you must stop him.’

‘Fine,’ Simon muttered to himself. ‘Show me who he is and I’ll catch the bastard!’

With no clear idea who could have killed Wymond or why, Simon found himself scouting about the stands, glancing beneath all those which did not have solid wooden walls, poking in the bushes lining the field with a stick and generally reassuring himself that no one was lying there dead like Wymond the previous day. He had to keep occupied, keep moving – the alternative was to sit and fester, wondering who and why, and whether another attack would take place.

He had completed a half-circuit of the ground, and was standing at the riverside, morosely contemplating his tunic, hose and boots, all of which were sodden and wrinkled with the dew from the long vegetation, when one of the watchmen gave a muttered curse and called to him.

‘What is it?’

‘Some drunk. He’s puked all over himself,’ the watchman called back, kicking at a figure lying supine near the river some yards away.

Simon wrinkled his nose. Even from where he stood he could smell the rancid stench. He ordered another watchman to help and stood back while the drunk was hauled upright and half helped, half dragged away. Simon continued on his rounds reflecting with satisfaction that even drunks hadn’t caused too much trouble with this event. Evicting one snoring reveller who had over-indulged the previous night didn’t compare with other festivities, when men and women could be found drowned in their own vomit, or in a well, or having tripped and fallen into a stream or river.

There were legions of dead associated with events. Sometimes it was children who, having enjoyed ale or wine with their parents, would fall asleep out of doors and freeze to death. Simon had himself, some years before, seen a boy running about a campsite after too much wine, and fall into a fire. Such deaths were natural, if unpleasant.

There was a loud splash. Simon saw that the two watchmen had hurled their burden into the river. One of the watchmen was walking back, chuckling to himself.

‘Is he all right?’ Simon asked, jerking his head towards the noise.

‘He’s smelling a lot better already. He sobered up soon as the water closed over him.’

Simon opened his mouth but the watchman reassured him. ‘Don’t worry, he’s not going to drown. It’s only a couple of feet deep there.’

At the bank Simon could see the second watchman standing and laughing. Simon assumed that the drunk was still in the water, hidden by the trees, and nodded to himself. ‘Fine. Let’s get on, then.’

As they continued their slow progress around the staged area, Simon found it hard to maintain his solemn visage. All was well; very well. The ground was a little damp and muddy, but this was Dartmoor, and the ground was always a bit damp and muddy. Flags had been raised and hung heavily, waiting for the first breezes to clear the dew from them, while every wooden surface Simon touched was slick with the damp, but all was as well-prepared as he could hope. Feeling his spirits rising by the moment, he led the way into the tilt-area itself. The sight of the lists was daunting and he was pleased not to have to worry about fighting here, with the local population and strangers from miles around watching to see if he might dishonour himself by incompetence or cowardice.

The space was flanked by the ber frois , each of which had strong boards facing the fighting area, all painted with the heraldic symbols of many of the knights who would be fighting here. Lord Hugh’s own shield was painted before his seat, at the point where the competing men-at-arms should meet in their headlong clash, for there was no point patronising tournaments if you couldn’t enjoy the best view. On the last day all would change, for this would be the day that the two ends would be blocked off, and all knights would compete inside the enclosed ground to fight with whatever came to hand, while diseurs and heralds noted who had achieved signal feats. The mêlée was always the most popular of the events staged.

However, today’s show should be a good sweetener, a taste of the displays to come, for today selected squires would show their skill. Riding to prove their courage in front of their lord would lead to some being knighted – although Simon knew perfectly well that all the men to be knighted had already been chosen. It would be foolhardy to leave such things to the last minute. Especially since many of them were to be rewarded for their fathers’ service or for some praiseworthy deed supporting the Lord’s interest.

As the thought came to him, he realised that others were already arriving. Sauntering over the grass were knights and squires. Some heralds were already standing in a small knot and gazing about them as they agreed where each would stand in order to have a clear view of the tilting.

‘Where is Hal?’ he grumbled to himself, glancing over to the tent where Wymond and he had slept during the building of the tournament. There was no sign of the man, nothing at the tent, nothing in the ber frois , but neither was there any sign of the watchman sent to guard him, so Simon told himself resignedly that the silly little sod must have gone to fetch wine or bread.

Philip Tyrel watched them as the stench of vomit gradually faded. It was a relief that the Bailiff had not recognised whom he had caught; a wonderful relief! Especially with the body lying so close.

When the Bailiff and watchmen appeared from the market, he had realised that he only had the one means of escape. He had pulled the tunic from the body, stiff and chill from cooled puke, and hauled it over his head, then emptied the remaining wine in his skin over his head. He reeked, but he should be safe if he was careful. Quickly he drew ferns and weeds over the corpse and crawled until he was in full view on the grass at the foot of a stand. He was not concealed. Why should he be? He was guilty of nothing so far as anyone knew. No, he was only a drunk who had spent the night snoring in the open air. He was safe enough.