Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

The rush of words was embarrassing. Baldwin met Margaret’s eye. Sir John saw their look and quickly changed the subject.

‘It is rare to kill men now. And one shouldn’t wish to. Not with the rewards of ransom. In Crukerne in 1316 I captured several.’

‘Any we know?’ Margaret asked brightly.

‘You may know some. One was Sir Edmund – I think he hales from Gloucester. I was not actually a combatant at the time of the mêlée , but I was watching from an inn, and disgusted with most of what I saw. Youths who hardly knew how to hold a blade were trying their luck against older, more honourable fellows and beating them through sheer strength of numbers.’

‘Isn’t that always the way?’ Baldwin asked with some surprise.

‘I suppose it is sometimes, but it’s hardly right, is it? One of the only decent fighters was Sir Walter Basset. Now there was a man who could fight! Stormed from one combat to another, winning horses and armour on all sides. Wonderful work! He pushed Sir Richard Prouse through a wall.’

He smiled at the memory. The sight of the clumsy fool tottering sideways through the wooden stand had been hilarious.

‘And this arrogant young puppy Sir Edmund stormed in to attack Sir Walter. Christ! Oh, forgive me, my apologies, my Lady, but what can you say about a fool like that? What did he think he was doing? Sir Walter is trained and experienced, as well as having a very short temper. It was predictable. Sir Edmund tried to fight, but kept being pressed back, his horse suffering as many buffets as Sir Edmund himself, until he had to break and ride off. Sir Walter had the choice of chasing him or returning to his already fallen prey and like a cat he went back to Sir Richard, except now his blood was well and truly up, which is how he came to half kill poor old Prouse.

‘I was drinking ale and saw all this. As it happened, my horse was saddled, and I was armoured. I thought, Well, here’s an opportunity for some money! I climbed up into the saddle, took a lance, and hurtled off after Sir Edmund. I caught him completely unawares, the damned fool, and in a moment he was out of the saddle and sprawling in the dirt. So, I captured him and took him back to the diseur who confirmed I had won him legally.’

‘Did no one try to stop you?’ Margaret asked.

‘No, the other folks had seen how badly hurt Sir Richard was, so they were all busy fetching leeches and suchlike. No, no one tried to stop me. They were making sure that Sir Walter escaped the mob. So many of the folks grow angry to see a man win his bout; they try to catch the man who stopped their own favourite win. I recall Benjamin was happy to see me – he had a large bet on Sir Edmund losing his armour and I helped him win the gamble.’

‘What happened to Sir Richard?’ Margaret enquired. ‘He didn’t die, did he?’

‘He lives yet,’ Sir John said thoughtfully. The thought of living like that, unable to walk or run, without the use of an arm or the sight in one eye, and with those scars! Terrible! Every fighter’s nightmare. ‘Better perhaps that he had died,’ he said heavily, with the faintest touch of compassion. ‘He was badly crushed when the ber frois collapsed on him. And not only him. Several people were killed when he fell, especially since his horse was flailing about with its hooves and killed some folks before it, too, died. It’s unfair, of course, but some bystanders blamed Sir Walter at the time.’

‘Why?’

‘Because when Sir Richard fell through the barriers many people were crushed. Most were villeins, though. No one significant.’

Baldwin was frowning. ‘Do you know who was responsible for the ber frois that collapsed?’

‘Of course I do. It was at my manor – I’d arranged it,’ Sir John said impatiently. ‘The stands were designed by Hal Sachevyll, and constructed by Carpenter Wymond. Who else builds tournaments in Devonshire?’

‘Didn’t their failure cost you dearly?’

‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’

‘I am surprised that after that, Hal and Wymond were used again,’ Margaret said.

‘Hal has a good eye for spectacle. He’s always in demand.’

‘Not recently, surely,’ Baldwin murmured. ‘While the King has his ban.’

‘Hal was with the King himself until recently,’ Sir John said. ‘I know he was at court until the end of last year. And then I believe he helped Earl Thomas. Before the Earl was executed, of course,’ he added with a chuckle.

‘They could travel from one side to another so easily?’ Baldwin asked.

Sir John grinned. ‘Everyone likes to see a tournament. And the King would have liked to know what was happening in his uncle’s camp.’

‘You think they were spying?’ Baldwin shot out.

‘At Crukerne, Hal was very friendly with Despenser’s allies. What would you think?’ Sir John laughed and left them.

As soon as he had gone out of earshot, Odo apologetically cleared his throat from behind them. ‘Sir Baldwin? Might I have a word?’

‘Of course, my friend. What is it?’

Odo shot a look at Margaret, and she smiled graciously and left them, walking a few feet away.

‘It’s confidential, Sir Baldwin, but I thought you should know. I am taking messages between Squire Geoffrey and Lady Alice. They are married.’

‘I had heard that,’ Baldwin said loftily. He disliked gossip and had no wish to see their affair becoming common knowledge until they were ready.

‘But were you aware that Sir John is heavily in debt and seeks to have Alice marry his son so that he can use her estates to support his own? If he learns she is married to Geoffrey, he could become dangerous.’

‘I see,’ Baldwin said. He mused a while. ‘What of Sir Edmund? What do you know of him?’

‘He’s a very a good man. Honourable, a renowned fighter on the continent. Why do you ask?’

‘He is one of the men who was in Exeter at the time Benjamin Dudenay was murdered. I merely wondered about him.’

‘You need have no concerns about him,’ Odo said.

‘You sound very convinced.’

‘Sir Baldwin, I know many knights and squires. I may be less than a competent squire in Mark Tyler’s eyes, but I know my job. Sir Edmund is an honourable man.’

‘Yes. It is sad, isn’t it?’ Baldwin said quietly. ‘All the squires and knights here should be decent, honourable, chivalrous folk – yet someone is a murderer.’

Seeing Sir Peregrine, Simon bent his steps towards the banneret. Although Baldwin professed an intense dislike for the man, Simon was ambivalent. Sir Peregrine was no more fearsome than many other men he had known. ‘Morning, Sir Peregrine.’

‘Ah, Bailiff Puttock! I am glad to see you again. How are you this fine morning?’

‘It is very clear, isn’t it, thanks to God!’ Simon agreed fervently. ‘I feared normal Dartmoor weather.’

‘Aye. Mizzle, drizzle, rain or howling gale. It’s rare enough you see sun for more than a few days,’ the knight said, his teeth showing briefly. He could never entirely trust the Bailiff, for Simon and Baldwin had once suspected him of murder, but Sir Peregrine was a fair man and he could see that his behaviour had been suspicious, so he tried not to hold a grudge. ‘Any news of the murdered man?’ he asked quietly.

‘Nothing, I fear. There is no clue as to who the killer could be. Perhaps he was a mindless fool who has since run away.’

‘Stranger tales have come to my attention before now,’ Sir Peregrine nodded. ‘But if I were you, I should tell the watchmen to keep a wary eye open. I suppose you have heard that people are joking about Hal and his lover… you knew that Wymond and Hal were bed-fellows?’

‘Was anyone not aware?’