Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

Oh God, she longed so much for the moment when she might confess her marriage.

Andrew sipped from a pot of wine and eyed the contestants. None struck him as overly fearsome. He had charged against better men in his time. Before long he must return to his master. Sir Edmund would be wanting to prepare himself and watch the early tilts. Looking up, Andrew gauged the position of the sun, then looked down at the shadows. It was growing late.

He drained his cup and left it on the wine-seller’s table, then set off to his master’s tent. He took the path which meandered through the middle of the camp, because it was the most direct route, but a squealing pig which had been intended for butchery, objected to its early demise and escaped, setting off across the way. It destroyed two tents, snapping the guy ropes, bit a man in the calf, knocked over a table of cloths, and then escaped into the river.

Any diversion was always welcome, especially in the fair-time atmosphere of the tournament. Suddenly Andrew was surrounded by shouting, laughing people who set off in pursuit and although he tried to duck away he was swept along for some distance and missed his master’s tent, instead finding himself nearer the castle than he had intended.

A pavilion was open, a servant polishing carefully at a blue riding sword, and Andrew smiled at him. ‘Do you mind if I stand here until the tumult has died down?’

‘Not at all. You are a squire?’

‘Yes. To Sir Edmund of Gloucester.’

‘I’m Edgar, servant to Sir Baldwin of Furnshill,’ Edgar said. He glanced out at the thick crush of people. ‘Would you like some wine?’

Andrew nodded with gratitude, and while Edgar rose to fetch a cup, he looked at the bright blue riding sword, admiring the quality of the script on the blade. Perhaps not as well executed as some he had seen, but still very good. He picked it up. It balanced perfectly in his hand, and he eyed it enviously.

‘You like my master’s sword?’ Edgar asked.

‘I’ve used many, but this feels better than any,’ Andrew said feelingly. He set it back down, and then he noticed the other symbol.

The sign of the detested, illegal and heretical group called the Knights Templar.

Clouds appeared overhead while Simon stood before the small altar, and his attention wandered while he observed the sky darkening through the lovely glass windows, feeling relief when the service ended and he could hurry outside. There he was happy to find that although the sky was presently grey and heavily overcast, the clouds showed no promise of rain. True enough, as he snuffed the air, he could smell no hint of damp.

There were many bystanders here to watch the official opening of the tournament. Philip Tyrel stood with his arms folded, standing still as a man-at-arms should and watching while the people milled about. Simon never so much as glanced in his direction. From interest, Philip eyed the Bailiff. Simon Puttock looked a pleasant enough man, someone with whom he would have liked to broach a barrel of ale, to discuss the realm’s difficulties now that the Despensers were the arbiters of power. It was a shame that he would never be able to do so.

He was distracted by the trumpets and noise of the knights and squires. A glittering pageant appeared at the castle’s gate, led by one startlingly beautiful girl dressed all in virginal white and leading a white mare. Behind her were other girls, all similarly robed in white.

Despite himself, a trace of his sadness passed over the killer’s face. The last tournament he had seen in Devon had started in much the same way, except then he had been a part of the parade with his woman. And his children had been there too, proud to see their father. It was at just such a tournament as this that they had died, the unwitting victims of other men’s greed. They had died for money. He could cry to recall it.

That day had started bright and clear, just like this. Far from the town’s fires, the air was pure, blowing straight from the moors beyond the river. That day had been as gay and lively as this, with flags fluttering in the breeze and women dressed in their best and finest clothes, watching the men lined up, smiling at them flirtatiously or flaunting themselves. Older women contemplated the men with a more speculative gaze, offering bets on which would win his jousts.

Tyrel’s reverie was destroyed when he saw Sir John a short way away, the grizzled old bastard standing proudly with his arms folded, his pup at his side. The two looked bored, as if they had seen so many events like this that one more was of little interest to them.

It made Philip set his jaw to see them so arrogant, but he forced himself to relax and not show his tension, for then his revenge against Sir John might somehow be deflected. No, the final blow of his vengeance must be struck as soon as possible – although he had no specific plan as yet. However, it would come.

The first target for punishment, Benjamin, had been waylaid, it was true, but the other two had been carefully enticed from their work: Wymond by the promise of fresh green timbers for a pittance while he worked at making new lances, and Hal by the invitation to drink. The fool knocked back all he could, sobbing about his friend Wymond and condemning the Bailiff for his incompetence. He couldn’t handle the strong wine and was grateful for the offer of an arm to steady him back to his tent as it grew dark.

Carrying Wymond down the hill had been backbreaking, but necessary. Otherwise it might have been ages before anyone found his body, and Philip wanted Hal to know that something was happening – and by God, it had worked. Hal had plainly been putting off the evil moment when he had to return to his bed alone. Without Wymond, he was lonely and wanted company.

In fact, Philip had a feeling that Hal knew who he was. When they were in the area before Lord Hugh’s ber frois , Hal had walked on ahead determinedly, like a man going to the block, careful never to glance behind him at his executioner, as if he knew he would die and wanted to get it over with.

It was as well. Hal had met his eyes a couple of times in the inn earlier, and there was a sort of gratitude in them. At the time, Philip simply put it down to Sachevyll being thankful that he had someone to talk to… but now he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps Hal had seen something about him, something in his eyes, or something about his face, that revealed the truth. And maybe a man who was fearful of killing himself even when he was certain that there was nothing left for him to live for, would be glad that someone else would do the job for him. Hal was actually thankful for his deliverance.

Tyrel shivered. Surely no man could hate life so much that he would welcome death. Something had made him feel sorry for the fellow and Philip struck swiftly. Hal collapsed and lay with his eyes closed while his breath snorted, and then he was sick, the vomit spewing over his tunic and dripping on to his hose. Philip struck once more and the breathing stopped. He picked up the corpse and made his way to Hal’s tent – and only when he was near did he realise that there was a guard near Hal’s pavilion. Patiently he settled to wait, while the puke dried on Hal’s cooling body. The blasted man was still there next morning when the light came, and then he saw the Bailiff and others approaching. That was when he grabbed Hal’s tunic and pulled it on.

The train of thought had distracted him. He watched dully as the procession wound around the castle yard, then Alice approached Lord Hugh with gifts.

If the men were truly in the hands of God, was he justified in exacting his own revenge? He glanced again at Sir John and his son. He saw Squire William smile courteously at Alice, saw him bow honourably, just like a preux chevalier and suddenly he was racked with shame. If the lad was decent, he couldn’t deserve death!