Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

The two watchmen had dragged him to the river and thrown him in, but he was grateful to have been taken away before the Bailiff could see his face. Far better that he should be remembered as a vagrant without features. There were so many others here in a similar condition, it was no surprise that he should have been found there. It was practically a daily occurrence. He sat on his arse in the water and belched, scooping water over his head to make his hair dangle over his features and hide them. That way nobody could swear to him. Wearing this tunic, no one would associate him with his usual finery and in any case no jury would be happy to convict him. Before long the second watchman lost interest in him and gave a yawn before strolling away to rejoin his friend and the Bailiff.

As soon as the guard was gone, Philip stopped making a fool of himself and climbed from the water on the farther bank, shivering. The water came straight from the moors, and was as cold as ice. Walking in the shade of the trees into the field where he had killed the carpenter, he cast about constantly for other people who could be watching him, but everyone was busy breaking their fast: bakers were stoking their little fires, poulterers preparing fowls and songbirds, pastrycooks kneading dough ready for the first spiced pies. All had plenty to do without watching a man dressed in soaking wet garments walking away.

The field curved about the line of the hill and soon he was out of view. Walking up the hillside, he went to a natural gash in the ground, and here he sat down for a moment. He took off the dead man’s tunic. There was no need for it now. Screwing it into a ball, he tossed it away from him. Here, among the long grasses, it could lie hidden until winter. Removing all his own clothes, he set them out to dry on the grass, then lay down patiently to wait.

There was a tingling in his whole body as the sun crept over the trees and its warmth touched him with the softness of a kiss. He felt almost as though he had been rebaptised by his immersion in the river. Gazing up at the clouds floating past so slowly, he could almost believe that God was up there even now, watching him with a smile on His face while He considered Philip’s acts.

Three had died. Three! All by his hand, and he felt no remorse. How could he? What, regret the loss of Benjamin the usurer, Wymond the carpenter, and now Hal? Who could regret the passing of such men! They deserved the punishment meted out to them. The guilty had paid for their crimes.

Except one.

He shivered. There was a leaden sensation in his bowels. Why should all the others have been punished, but this last one escape justice?

Closing his eyes, he tried to ignore his qualms. He was at ease here, as the sun warmed him lying among the long grasses; it was hard to bring to his mind the anger and determination necessary to kill. What was the point? Did he truly have justification? He had murdered three, and surely that was enough? This last was not even involved . The sole reason for executing him was to make another realise his evil. Make him confront his crime.

Here in the sunlight that scene of carnage seemed so remote, so impossibly distant in time, that his long-planned vengeance appeared almost as foul as the original act. It was as if he had suddenly acquired a sense of proportion which had thrown all his plotting into confusion. It was a terrible possibility – but what if his slaughter made him no better than his enemy?

He felt tears running down both cheeks. With them he could feel his remaining determination seep away like water dripping from a leaking wineskin. His plan had been to kill the murderous bastard’s son as a fitting revenge for the loss of his family. That thought, together with the deaths of Hal and Wymond and Benjamin, had driven him. Yet now it seemed absurdly cruel to execute the youth. If anyone, he should kill the father, not the whelp.

Undecided, he lay trying to clear his mind but the thoughts would give him no peace. They chased about his heart: the boy should die, an eye for an eye; the father was guilty, not the boy. He couldn’t make a decision. It was impossible.

Sitting up, he felt his clothes. They were dry enough, but his shirt and hose were dreadfully scruffy. He would have to get changed into clean finery for the béhourd , but there should be plenty of time. Rising, he walked up the hill in among the trees, then followed the line of the woods eastwards until he was past the castle and on the way to Oakhampton. Here a tree had fallen over the river, and he waited a moment, clawing his hair back from his face and tidying himself, before clambering on to the tree and stepping assuredly along the trunk until he reached the other bank. Once there he turned back towards the castle, a late-night reveller wandering homewards. None of the other travellers on the road took any notice of him.

Philip entered the tented area and was about to go to his own small pavilion when he saw the last man. And he felt the rage, freezing as winter frost, ice its way along his spine, felt the muscles of his back and belly suddenly clench as if he was preparing to strike the mortal blow.

He turned away and entered the pavilion, quickly doffing his clothes and washing his face and hands before selecting a fresh shirt and pulling on his tunic. Soon he was back in the tilt-yard.

His determination had returned. He would kill one more time.

‘You have achieved much, Bailiff. Is there any news of the dead man?’

‘I thank you, Sir Richard. No, there is nothing yet on Wymond, but the Coroner has hopes.’

There was no need for an introduction to Sir Richard Prouse; everyone knew who he was. His scarred features, with the appalling line of twisted and raw-looking flesh that ran from his temple, close to the milky white and ruined eyeball, down through his ravaged cheekbone to his broken jaw, was instantly recognisable. Seeing him so close, Simon felt his belly lurch. He looked away hurriedly.

‘You need not worry about my feelings, Bailiff. I know I am an ogre now, a repellent creature used to scare children when they misbehave. “If you don’t behave and do your chores, they’ll send Sir Richard Prouse to take you away”! I have heard it often enough.’

Wanting to change the subject, instead Simon found his mouth running on. ‘It was in a tournament you got that wound, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, Bailiff. I got in front of a dangerous man. I was only twenty-four when this happened.’ His eyes clouded and a slight tremble made him lean more heavily on his stick. Hobbling slowly and carefully, for his right leg still dragged, he walked to the stands beneath Lord Hugh’s seat and stared about him. ‘It was in Crukerne, back in 1316 – another tournament designed by that sodomitic cretin Hal Sachevyll.’

‘You are angry with him?’

‘How would you feel?’ Sir Richard snapped, his voice rising as he spoke. ‘The Goddamned fool didn’t strengthen the stands. That was how I got this!’ He spoke with a bitter, shivering rage, but gradually his fury ebbed. ‘Damn him! I was riding in the mêlée and became the target of an attack by Sir Walter Basset. The murderous bastard managed to squeeze me up against the stands, where he started beating me about the head with a mace. I was forced up against the wooden barricades, and he was on my left side. It was hard to wield my sword to protect myself, and he was battering me with two or three blows for each one of mine.’

He could recall it perfectly. The mount beneath him kept trying to move away, but was forced against the wooden boardings while Sir Richard felt the heavy ball on its reinforced wooden shaft raining down upon him.

‘I was young and resilient, but deafened by the clanging of steel striking my helm. It felt as though my head was being used as the clapper of a giant bell. And there was no let-up to the ringing, hammering torture. Do what I might, I could not stop the assault. Nor could I escape. Some of my anxiety was reflected in my horse, too: pushing forward, then pulling back, trying to release himself from Sir Walter’s great destrier, but he was snared. And meanwhile I could feel the energy sapping from my arm. I will not lie – I was panicked.’