Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

Baldwin would make a good father, she thought. Solemn, true, but understanding. He had been around the world, seen cities, met strange foreign people; when he was young he had joined the last Crusade, Simon told her once. He was old, she thought critically. Someone so ancient was practically in the grave, although she could understand why Jeanne found him attractive. He had something about him, especially with that scar on his cheek. It added a sort of hint of danger.

Even as the word sprang into her mind she recalled the terror she had felt on seeing her champion on the grass. Ah, it was such a relief when he moved. If he had been killed, she would have died too. At the least she must have swooned, overcome with emotion like that other girl. And Edith’s love for her dead champion would have become common knowledge, and men and women all over Europe would have heard about her fidelity, and minstrels would have sung about her and her William.

It was a lovely thought, and made her quite light-headed. If she could be sure that she would die on his death, she must surely be in love. It was consoling – and sustaining.

Inspired by this to a spirit of rebellion, she met her mother’s eye boldly, but when she saw Margaret’s sad expression, she felt her resolve melting. She hated hurting her mother. Sometimes she did so when her temper flared, but she always regretted it even when she couldn’t bring herself to apologise.

Margaret merely said, ‘Do you love him?’

Edith felt her composure crack like glass. ‘Of course I do, Mother.’

‘Then,’ Margaret sighed, ‘if you are sure, we shall have to convince your father.’

Sir Edmund had left his pavilion with a distinct sense of grievance. His mail had gained a faint dusting of rust where it had been insufficiently oiled and there was a rip in his tunic that had not been mended. Both should have been dealt with by his squire, but Andrew was nowhere to be seen. Usually Sir Edmund would not mind, but today he was tense after seeing Lady Helen Basset last night.

She was as beautiful as ever, he reflected. The thought that she had married that brutish man of hers was enough to make him want to puke; the idea that he would be pawing at her body after she left Edmund made him shudder with jealousy and disgust. Andrew had led her away, protecting her from unwanted attention, and now Edmund desperately wanted to speak to Andrew, to hear what he thought of her attitude, but he was nowhere to be seen. Where in hell’s name had he got to! Andrew was a good man generally, an experienced fighter and loyal servant, but recently he had become quite lax. Sir Edmund wasn’t sure why, but thought it was since they had come down here to Devon after Boroughbridge. In fact, now he thought about it, it was ever since Andrew had met Odo the Herald at the feast. Afterwards Sir Edmund often saw Andrew eyeing the herald with many a sidelong glance.

Sir Edmund had met Andrew in Béarn at a tournament, shortly after Sir Edmund had fled England to seek his fortune. Being beaten by Sir John had ruined him and he needed to win some tournaments and accumulate some money. With neither horse nor resources, he found himself watching other knights fighting in the lists, unable to participate. He had no armour, no squire, nothing.

It was there that he also met Sir Roland de le Puy, a cheery old man who saw his gloom and offered to loan his own horse and armour. Unable to believe his fortune, Sir Edmund accepted with alacrity. But he needed a squire, a man on whom he could trust to protect him. He found Andrew – and after that, the two had travelled widely through France and the English King’s territories, visiting all the tournaments. Within a year they had won for themselves more than forty Knights Bachelor and one Count. The ransoms made them wealthy and led to their being noticed by others. Soon they had a new lord, a vassal of Earl Thomas, and when they returned to England it was only natural that they should in their turn become vassals to him.

Ever since, even after the disaster at Boroughbridge, Andrew had been a perfect servant, but recently he had grown slack, as though losing interest. Sir Edmund hoped he had not become over-religious. It happened sometimes that a man who had lived too long in the secular world could seek to hide himself in a convent. Sir Edmund knew that well enough himself – but he hoped Andrew wasn’t heading that way. A good squire was hard to find. Still, the fellow would have to be told to mend his ways. Sir Edmund could not tolerate having his own schedule dictated by his squire’s. Sir Edmund left his archer oiling his armour, muttering rebelliously, and strode purposefully towards the jousting.

Entering the field, he had to stand back while a pair of galloping men-at-arms shot past, great clods of mud and grass thrown up by their mounts as the riders whooped and cheered them on. Sir Edmund cast an eye over his light velvet tunic to make sure no dirt had been flung upon him, then carried on to the stands in the middle of the field.

As another pair of opposing riders hurtled towards each other, he looked over the field for his man. He was not at either end where the racks stood filled with lances. At each were huddles of squires waiting to pass fresh ones to their friends. There was a lot of laughing and joking in the fair-day atmosphere but Sir Edmund’s face was not softened by the sounds of other people’s enjoyment. He had seen Sir John.

The last time they had met in a tournament was when Sir Edmund had been unfairly captured. Sir John had not been a part of the mêlée but he had joined in for profit. And as a result, more people had died. Sir Edmund could have saved some if he had been able to keep Sir Walter off Sir Richard. He had seen the hooves flailing, had seen the bodies.

He was at the side of the stand now, and a trembling in the ground made him halt. Any man who had fought in a battle would recognise that brutal drumming: warhorses. Over his shoulder he could see the first one approaching, gradually building up speed, lance held point high, so that the unwieldy weapon was balanced vertically. That was the trouble with lances, as Sir Edmund knew. The things were long and heavy, impossible to hold on target from a bouncing saddle, so they could only be lowered at the last moment.

This fellow was experienced. His point was still up as his horse cantered on, although it had dropped halfway to the horizontal by the time he entered the enclosed fighting area. Once there, it kept falling until the rear end slipped beneath his armpit and the whole massy pole was pointing at his enemy. Sir Edmund held his breath, waiting for the inevitable crash of metal on metal, and sure enough there it was, a terrible hammer stroke that almost seemed to explode inside his ear drums. Then the audience were clapping, one or two drunks roaring their approval, and a riderless horse cantered past Sir Edmund, stirrups flying. A mounted herald overtook it and snatched at the reins to hold it before it could enter the tented area and cause havoc.

Meanwhile, Sir Edmund could see that in the lists heralds and squires were running to the assistance of the fallen man. There were enough people there. One more would just get in the way, Sir Edmund thought philosophically.

Where was Andrew? He cast a careful look over all the spectators, but the squire was not there. He walked along between the stands to the other end, but there was no sign of him there either. This was growing slightly worrying. Andrew could have gone to visit the town, but he usually asked permission, as he should, before leaving his master. Besides, Andrew was a keen martial artist and would not miss an opportunity to watch fighting.

There was laughter and giggling from the riverbank. Sir Edmund wondered whether Andrew could have found a woman, and headed towards the sound. There was thick gorse lining the bank except at the ford which Baldwin had used, but in a clearing Sir Edmund glimpsed a young woman with her man, a youth little more than a boy. He left them and continued along the bank, listening to the soothing noise of the water. The jousting appeared to have ended for a space.