Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

Odo had finished monitoring the latest joust and there was a short pause in the events while Lord Hugh left the stand to take a piss against one of the grandstand’s stanchions. While he was gone, Odo trotted on his pony towards the huddle of men, his expression bemused. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked.

‘I have accused the Bailiff of murder,’ Mark told him haughtily.

Odo glanced at Mark with an expression of surprise. ‘But the Bailiff is needed by Lord Hugh.’

Mark stiffened. ‘The man is a killer! Would you have him next to your own lord?’

‘I’ve killed no one here,’ Simon sputtered angrily. He would have liked to continue, but Odo cut him off.

‘There is no need to worry, Bailiff. I am sure that Mark has merely made an error. Isn’t that right, Mark?’

‘I’ve made no… ’

‘Lord Hugh was very specific just now that he wishes the Bailiff back at his side as soon as possible.’

Mark stared at Odo. There was unsheathed steel in the other herald’s voice, a conviction and firmly threatening tone. Mark turned to Sir Peregrine and would have appealed to his better judgement, except he caught sight of a wink from Sir Peregrine to Odo: the two were in league! Mark felt his guts lurch, but then he managed to reply with hauteur. ‘Of course. We can’t have a murderer arrested , can we?’

‘Lord Hugh was sure you would retract your allegation,’ Odo said, with emphasis. ‘He is convinced that the good Bailiff is innocent.’

‘Then of course I withdraw,’ Mark agreed tightly. ‘If my lord tells me so, it must be true.’

He couldn’t wait and listen to their chatter; he had to get away. Being beaten like that by a man so new to the trade he could scarcely call out the colours of Lord Hugh’s own host was a proof, if he had needed it, that Lord Hugh’s patronage was gone. The writing was on the wall; Mark could see that. He had known for some little time that Sir Peregrine was disatisfied with him, but he hadn’t realised just how low was the esteem in which the banneret held him. It was a shock that Peregrine would side with a new herald and a Bailiff who was not even of Lord Hugh’s household in order to get rid of him , Mark Tyler, King Herald.

The Bailiff had been a thorn in his side from the moment they had first met. Big-headed shit! He thought he knew how to set out a tournament, how to lay out horse-lines, how to site stands, where to put lance-rests and equipment. As a mere Bailiff, Mark considered that Simon had managed reasonably well – but that didn’t alter his opinion that the Bailiff was a cocky old fool with little idea of how to perform the simplest task. And he had quarrelled with both Hal and Wymond. He was the obvious suspect! Mark had to wonder why on earth Lord Hugh should bother to protect him.

Then Mark recalled the disaster at Crukerne where folks had died, mainly because Hal and Wymond had scrimped on the timber. The stand had collapsed when that fool of a knight, Sir Richard Prouse, fell upon it, and spectators were crushed beneath his mount. Hal and Wymond had promised to erect suitable stands and then thieved Sir John’s money for their own purposes. That horrible accident had enraged Lord Hugh himself, for he had friends in the stands who could have been wounded.

Well, sod them! If Mark couldn’t accuse the Bailiff himself, he knew how to spread gossip.

Arriving at a wineseller, Mark sank a large pot. ‘It was the Bailiff.’

‘Eh?’ The wine-seller gazed at him blankly, already more than half-drunk himself.

‘That Bailiff killed Hal and Wymond,’ Mark said. ‘Probably thought Lord Hugh would reward him. After all, Lord Hugh hated the two sodomites.’

The wine-seller nodded knowingly, but Mark was sure he hadn’t taken it in. No matter. He could see another man listening intently, from a table in the corner. Mark knew the rumour would be all over the place by dark.

There was little or no satisfaction in it. Mark knew his position was gone. His thoughts became more and more gloomy. It was obvious that Sir Peregrine wanted him out of the way; that Odo coveted his position for himself. No one would support Mark. All were keen to see the back of him.

Perhaps he should leave. Go to France, to the south where it was warm, or to Bavaria. There were good opportunities for an experienced herald there, so he had heard. New tournaments were being arranged there all the time, with all the great families lining up to display their finery and bash the living daylights out of each other. A herald could pick up a patron with ease, if he had a good tongue and could sing new songs, and the English ones that filled much of Mark’s repertoire should be new enough for any Swabian or Bavarian count.

He squinted up at the sun as a wave of sadness washed over him. It was all very well talking about going to visit new countries, but Mark was happy here in Devon. The thought of packing his few belongings and traipsing over to Europe held no appeal.

Yet it could become necessary. If Sir Peregrine and Odo had their way, he would soon be forced from his position. And the Bailiff, too, wanted him gone. He was playing the same game as Sir Peregrine and Odo.

He purchased more wine and gazed glumly into the depths of the liquid. The trouble was, if they were all to gang up against him, he was powerless. The worm Odo must feel that he as good as had Mark’s job already.

Well, he hadn’t ! The herald squared his shoulders. He would see off any man who tried to get him thrown from his master’s household.

Any man at all, he thought, as a picture of Odo appeared unbidden in his mind.

When Simon saw Edith, he felt an overwhelming relief that she was all right, but that was quickly washed away when he saw with whom she walked.

It was among the food stalls that he sighted her. He and Baldwin had hurried that way as soon as they had spoken to Margaret. The tearful woman was standing at the rear of the stand while Hugh glowered at the world, wanting to seek Edith but unwilling to leave his mistress. Margaret was consumed with dread for what might have happened to her daughter.

‘You were right to stay with Meg,’ Simon said when he’d heard the story. As he spoke he was jostled by a burly fellow, who looked the Bailiff up and down insolently before carrying on his way. If Simon had been less concerned about his daughter, he would have demanded an apology, but as it was, he let the incident pass. ‘Did either of you see where she went?’

‘Couldn’t,’ Hugh mumbled. He was prone to sulkily muttering towards the ground when he wasn’t sure of his actions, and today his black countenance showed his concern. ‘Had to help the mistress from the stand.’

‘Was it bad in there?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Everyone looked at us,’ Margaret sobbed. ‘Someone said Simon had been responsible for a murder – that he killed the designer.’

‘News travels fast,’ Baldwin commented. He looked up to find himself being stared at by a man. Catching Baldwin’s eye, the stranger gave a brief shake of his head and a grimace, then walked away.

It made Baldwin frown, and then he began to watch others about the place. With a chill he saw that many people in the immediate area were eyeing Simon, one or two fingering their belts as though they regretted the fact that their knives had been left behind in accordance with the ordinance against carrying weapons to a tournament. Men became tribal in their support of their own champions against others, and fights were all too common at such events, but never before had Baldwin felt so deeply grateful to the dead King Edward I for his far-sighted restrictions on the carrying of weapons among the public. Only knights and squires could walk armed.