Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

‘Even a clandestine marriage?’

In answer she took his hands and stared into his face. ‘I will be your wife. I swear to be yours for all my life and no other man’s.’

‘Then I will be your husband,’ he smiled, and pulled her to him. The ceremony was now complete – and binding. ‘Who needs a church door? We’ll tell the priest when we have time.’

She responded eagerly to his kiss, pulling him down to the grass beside her, and there, with the cool spring air washing over them, the two made love, sealing their wedding contract. They had given their oaths; they were married before God and Alice knew only relief, even if they must keep their promises secret for a short while.

Sir Roger of Gidleigh, a thickset man with heavy shoulders and shrewd dark eyes, approached the alley with a scowling visage, regretting the merry gathering he had been forced to leave in order to perform his legal duties. As Coroner in the busy and prosperous city of Exeter, he must often desert his friends during their drinking parties, but he had been looking forward to this session, and learning that a corpse had been found was a source of grave irritation. Why did people choose such damnably inconvenient times to be killed?

‘In here, Sir Roger.’

Following the watchman, he ducked beneath the lintel into the small chamber. It was lighted by a smoking tallow candle that gave off a thick and noisome stench, as if a pig was being slowly burned in the room. At least it provided enough light for him to see the body.

The corpse was lying face uppermost, his hands at his side, and the head appeared to be lying on a shining halo. In the candlelight it looked like a sheet of bronze, and Sir Roger grimaced. ‘Bloody hell!’

‘A right evil bastard did this, sir,’ the watchman wheezed. He was an old man, much older than Sir Roger, and he had to lean upon his staff as he surveyed the body. ‘Stabbed?’

‘No. Beaten till his head was a pulp.’

‘Jesus save us!’ Sir Roger squatted. ‘Any weapon?’

‘Nothing. I suppose the killer took it with him.’

Sir Roger reached out and prodded at the skull, thickly crusted with blood. ‘Christ, what a mess.’ Standing, he eyed the corpse thoughtfully. There was something about the brutality of this murder that gave him pause.

Then he shrugged. He’d think about that later. ‘Gather the neighbours and we’ll hold the inquest immediately.’ The people who lived nearest to this place had to be fined to guarantee that they would appear at the next session of the court and present their evidence. He shook his head as the old man limped outside to begin gathering the jury and muttered to the corpse: ‘So who the hell killed you, Dudenay? And why , in God’s name?’

Walking up the road towards his home, Bailiff Simon Puttock cocked an ear, listening intently. As soon as he heard the dismal wailing scream, he sighed happily and his stern features relaxed.

From here, the road which led up from Lydford cleave, the cleft at the bottom of which the fast-flowing river hissed and swore, he could often hear the bellowing of prisoners in the stannary gaol declaring their innocence and demanding release, but today all was silent, the gaol empty for once, and there were no screams from the great square blockhouse. Instead it was the shriller cries issuing from his own house that made him smile because Simon, after many long years of trying, was once more a father. In January his wife Margaret had given birth to a son whom they had christened Peterkin after their dead firstborn boy.

Only two and a half months old, yet the boy had disrupted their home. Simon paused at his door, hearing the howls of desolation, confident that the boy was even now being cradled by his wife and rocked in an attempt to lull his tiny, indignant frame to sleep. ‘Some hope!’ his father muttered wryly after too many broken nights.

His house was less than half a mile from Lydford Castle. Limewashed walls and thatch made for a warm and pleasant dwelling. From the rear he could see the peasants working in the fields. Each field consisted of a narrow strip of land, and Simon could look along his own from the yard behind his house to see how the young crops were faring. In and among them men and women wandered, tending the plants to ensure that there would be plenty to eat over the coming summer and winter.

It was hard for farmers. They never saw the end to their labours, not until they died. Each year was simply a fresh round of back-breaking jobs. At least his own villeins wouldn’t have the extra worry of the poor devils around Oakhampton, he reflected. The planned tournament up there would have them running around like blue-arsed flies.

He entered his house and peered in at his hall. There was no one there, so he walked through to the garden, cocking an ear upstairs. His son’s complaints had died away, and he could hear nothing from the small chamber which he proudly thought of as his solar. Instead he heard calling from his yard, and walked out to seek his wife.

As soon as he left the hall, he was struck in the midriff by a short figure pelting along at full speed. Sitting abruptly, winded, Simon struggled for air while his assailant plonked down in front of him, laughing.

‘Father, what were you doing there?’

‘You stupid, clumsy, misbeg–’

‘Simon!’

As his eyes regained their focus and he could take in his surroundings, he recognised his wife. ‘Meg, can’t you keep the child under control?’

‘Child?’ Edith demanded, her smile instantly replaced by a black frown. ‘I’m nearly fourteen.’

Simon ignored his daughter, clambering to his feet and rubbing his belly ruefully. He was a tall man, with thick, dark brown hair frosted at the temples. With his face ruddy from the wind and rain, he scarcely looked his age, almost thirty-six.

His wife, Margaret, a tall, slender woman whose blonde hair was turning grey, smiled serenely. Over the years since their marriage she had seen him change considerably, but now she was delighted to see that he was losing the thinness about his cheeks and at the edges of his mouth. They had been caused, she knew, by her failure. It was easy to remind herself that many women couldn’t give their husbands the sons that they craved, but in Margaret’s case there was an intense guilt because she had regularly conceived but then miscarried since poor Peterkin died. She felt as though her womb had shrivelled inside her, was incapable of supporting another child.

After Peterkin’s death, Margaret had blamed herself for the way that her man shrank in upon himself. He withdrew, his hair greying and his complexion growing sallow. Each time she conceived she was aware of his solicitousness, which only served to make her feel still more wretched as each time she failed to give him another son.

Not now. Simon could hold his head high once more, and the light of contentment filled his eyes, making them gleam with an inner fire. Right now he was eyeing his daughter with orbs that appeared to shoot fire – and Margaret was convinced that their incendiary impact would soon make itself felt.

‘Well, Dad? You could have hurt me!’ Edith declared, hands on her hips. ‘You should have looked where you were going.’

‘You dare try to blame me?’ Simon thundered.

‘Edith, fetch wine! Go!’ Margaret ordered and, hearing the sharp tone of her voice, Edith shot her a glance, giggled, and sprang away. ‘You appeared in the doorway so swiftly you made me jump,’ she said reprovingly. ‘I could have dropped Peterkin.’

She saw his gaze flit down to the bundle in her arms and his fury cooled immediately.

‘I thought he was upstairs. Is he all right?’ Simon asked.