Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

‘Who, Tyrel? No, I’d have noticed someone like him. Tall, strong, dark of hair and bearded, he wasn’t the sort of man you’d miss. No, he’s not here. Poor devil has probably died.’

‘Yes. Perhaps,’ Simon said, unconvinced. ‘But if he did return here, it would explain much.’

‘His seeking revenge on the men who destroyed his family, you mean?’

‘Yes, and all because of money. At least Benjamin won’t fleece anyone else now,’ Simon said soberly ‘He’s dead.’

‘Yes. The devil’s gone, thank God. May he rot in eternal fire. He almost cost me my castle.’

‘Do you know how he died?’

‘Beaten, I heard. So what? Many a cut-throat will execute a victim with a club.’

‘True. Where did you hear of his death?’

‘Do you think me guilty of his murder? Oh Bailiff, you should arrest me at once! Do you know, I can’t remember who told me about him. Perhaps it was an itinerant carter passing by my castle.’

Simon gave a faint grin in apology. ‘I am too used to suspecting everyone.’

‘Perhaps you should.’

‘Do you think he helped finance the ber frois that collapsed at Crukerne?’

Sir Richard gave him an intent stare. There was no shame or fear in his eye, only an increased sharpness. ‘You do think I killed him? Perhaps I did, Bailiff. But if I did, it was because he funded a cheap piece of work which indirectly led to this damage. That is all. Surely if I wanted revenge, I’d have killed Sir Walter?’

‘Perhaps you thought that would be more difficult?’

‘Aye. Perhaps I would,’ said Sir Richard with a twisted smile, glancing at his feeble leg. He opened his mouth but, as he did so, his expression hardened and a shiver of revulsion made him tremble like a willow in a gale.

Turning, Simon saw that he was staring at the figure of Sir Walter Basset.

Sir John had left his son to go and talk to a couple of armourers. Having settled with them for a new sword and matching dagger, he left the rattle and hammer of their anvils, and strode along their lines to the usurers’ discreet section of tents and tables.

It was hard to keep his features under control. Useless swine, the lot of them! All of them of low birth; not one nobleman in the country would want to be accused of money-lending: it was a source of shame. Worse than entering into mercantile ventures.

The pity of it was that men had to make use of them occasionally. He had himself been forced to go to the usurers: for arms, for Pomers – even for sheep, because he’d never have restocked his flocks else. After the famine, his sheep had died almost to a ewe from a murrain that struck down not only his own flocks but also all the others in the country.

He cheered up a little as he recalled the hatred on Sir Edmund’s face. It was refreshing to see that a man whom he had beaten so many years before still felt the humiliation of his conquest.

Sir John marched along the money-lenders’ tables, his mind on the difficulty of replacing that shit Benjamin. But he had to, somehow. With so much of his property already in pawn, it was going to be much harder to borrow. He could almost believe that Benjamin had warned everyone not to take any debts from him, from the reception he was getting. At least he didn’t need to repay his old debts now Benjamin was gone. Widow Dudenay could whistle for it. She could threaten all she wanted, Sir John would never return the money her husband had lent him. He cast a speculative eye towards the arena. That was the best way to win more money.

Not that he needed cash for long. Surely his flocks would soon recover, now that he had brought in rams and ewes, and then he could look to redeem the plate and gold he had left in pawn.

However, if he were to find another Sir Edmund, life would become a great deal easier.

The thought was an idle one, but it was enough to bring a beaming smile to his face. Then he caught sight of Sir Baldwin. There was a man he’d like to meet in the hastilude . It’d be next to impossible to lose against a pathetic-looking specimen like him. Sir Baldwin was the archetypal farmer-warrior. Just enough money from his manor to justify the retention of his titles and keep him in good clothes, if Sir John’s guess was accurate. Probably as bound up with financial troubles as he was himself. Certainly not Sir John’s ideal companion. A good, sound man-at-arms was more to his taste; someone with whom he could drink his fill of strong ales or wines, then gamble on a horse or a knight in lance-play, not some straight-faced old fast like Sir Baldwin. However, any man was better company than no one. And anyone at all was better than his son William at present. He was going about the place like a bear in the pit.

Seeing an attractive woman at Sir Baldwin’s side, Sir John’s smile grew. At least he had a pleasing decoration. ‘Sir Baldwin, how go things in Furnshill?’

‘Well, I thank you,’ Baldwin answered, fitting a dishonestly welcoming smile to his face.

Margaret hoisted her child higher on her breast as she gave the knight a polite greeting.

‘I was just thinking I will have to enter the tournament,’ Sir John told Baldwin. ‘Take a look at the youngsters here. Any one of them could be thrashed with one hand bound behind me. A man could make a fortune.’

‘Surely you aren’t thinking only of money, Sir John?’ Margaret exclaimed. ‘Not when you could win renown for your courage and deeds in the tournament?’

Sir John smiled patronisingly. ‘Lady, a man might easily win honours for his prowess, but when all is said and done, a purseful of coins speaks loudest. A knight wins no praise if he never wins at a fight, and the natural accompaniment to success is wealth. Besides,’ he added, glancing at the milling squires and servants, ‘look at the fools here. Many of them should be grateful for a good lesson taught at the hands of a practised knight.’

‘They should be grateful for being beaten about the head?’ she enquired, and Baldwin nearly laughed out loud.

‘Lady, the lessons learned here on a field with bated weapons will stand many a fellow in good stead upon a field in which the weapons are all sharp. And anyway, there is nothing wrong with a man winning money from his captives.’

‘Combatants can die even with bated weapons,’ Baldwin observed.

‘Of course. How else do you teach a man chivalry if he won’t risk his own life?’

‘Have you killed many in the lists?’ Margaret asked.

‘Not many. A few.’

Baldwin looked at him. The lists were supposed to be for practice, not to kill. ‘I heard that you fought Sir Richard’s father in the lists.’

‘Godwin? Yes. He was a popular fellow, but not much good as a fighter. A splinter of steel from his helmet cut his throat while he fought me, and he died.’

‘Was that at Exeter?’ Baldwin enquired, recalling Hal’s words. ‘Didn’t a stand give way?’

‘Yes. Rot the bastards! The crowd was furious to see their darling little Godwin fall! They surged forward in the stands and people at the sides of the ber frois moved forward, all howling like wolves. I’ve never seen a mob like it! And then someone fell, or a rope gave way – I don’t know – and a mass of folks tumbled down. Several died.’

‘But you escaped.’

‘Yes, Sir Baldwin. When those people were turned off the stand like so many felons pushed off a cart, others ran to help them. I managed to get to my horse and leave the field.’

Margaret was smiling in a brittle, insincere manner. ‘You must have been terribly upset. To have killed a popular knight and thus cause the death of innocents… ’

‘I was pleased, Lady. Pleased ! Godwin had cuckolded me!’ Sir John burst out. He was suddenly silent, staring away into the distance. ‘Godwin was known for it. He was useless as a fighter, but he loved to dally with women. Well, I heard he’d been dallying with mine. She’s long dead now, I fear, but then I wouldn’t have it! If I’d had the chance, I’d have challenged him formally and killed him in legal combat before God, damn him!’