Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

‘Bailiff, my Lady Edith,’ William said, and gave them his courtliest bow. ‘I look forward to meeting you again soon. Sir Baldwin, good day.’

Baldwin watched him go with a small smile. ‘I used to be much like that,’ he said.

‘Thank God you’ve learned to be more respectful to your betters,’ Simon grated.

‘He was perfectly respectful until you insulted him!’ Edith burst out. ‘Why did you have to be so rude to me?’

‘You deliberately misled me and your mother,’ Simon rasped. ‘Don’t now try to blame us for your own failings.’

‘I did not lie,’ she equivocated.

‘When we asked you about your neck-scarf, you changed the subject, didn’t you?’

‘That has nothing to do with… ’

‘Come back now. I can’t trust you alone.’

She stamped her foot with a quick fury. ‘You can’t expect me to leave the field just because you want to go to the castle! I won’t!’

Simon stepped closer, and the light of battle was in his eye. ‘You can come back with me willingly or not, but by God’s cods, you are coming back right now. I will not leave your mother thinking you could be in danger, no matter how badly you behave.’

Edith drew in a breath, meeting his angry stare with a gaze quite as unflinching. ‘I won’t.’

‘Then I’ll carry you.’

‘You wouldn’t dare!’

Baldwin groaned. ‘May I interrupt? Edith, I think you should assume your father will dare do exactly that, so please do not tempt him. And Simon, Edith is prepared to fight you, so may I suggest that Edith comes back with me? If you would care to follow, Simon? There is no need to create even more of a spectacle than we already have, is there?’

His suggestion was followed, to Baldwin’s gratification, although some of his pleasure was dulled as he led the way to the castle when he heard a voice declare:

‘Wot, won’t there be a fight, then? I was going to bet tuppence on the squire.’

Philip Tyrel contemplated the field as the last of the squires handed his reins to a friend and dropped from the saddle with relief. It was a long way down, sitting up there, with the high seating position inches above the mount’s back. Once there, leaning back into the cantle that surrounded a man’s body, curving around his kidneys, one realised how far it was to fall.

He had witnessed the tilt between William and Geoffrey, but he had seen many such collisions in the lists – some fatal and others in which, miraculously, both seemed unhurt – and now his interest was taken by the direction in which William was going, back towards the pavilions.

The lad was nothing to him. Nothing at all… he was the bait, the lure to the father, that was all. And yet in some ways, he was the embodiment of the crime.

It was strange. At first Philip had not expected to get further than Benjamin, but then when he arrived here at this tournament, he realised that he could make Hal Sachevyll and Wymond Carpenter pay for their part in the crime. Now there remained only the last of the four, the man whose greed had directly led to the deaths. The man who had ended Philip’s marriage by seeing to it that his beloved wife was killed. And his two young children.

It was a curious fact that William happened to be around the same age as his children would have been now, had they lived; it almost made the next stage feel like a divine form of retribution, as if God Himself had willed that Sir John should pay for his offence with the blood of his own son.

He followed William to the tents with a feeling of calmness and ease. All of a sudden, his pain and grief were eradicated. He felt better each morning when he awoke, soothed by the death of the men who had ruined his life. Their destruction was balm to his soul.

This boy was different, though. He was not directly responsible for anything. He was merely the tool of vengeance. Nothing more.

While Philip watched, William ducked into his tent and the murderer heard his father’s rumbling tones. Philip dared not approach too close, but from the other side of the lane between the tents, he could hear Sir John enquire after his son.

‘I know a knock like that can shake a man.’

‘I’m fine. I lost a tooth, got some bruises but that’s all.’

‘How about Geoffrey?’

‘What do I care? The fool lost.’

‘And a fortunate thing. He may die and leave you a safe tilt at the girl.’

‘She will do as you tell her.’

‘You think so? Did you hear what she said? That she was already married to Geoffrey?’

‘Deny it. You are her guardian and you never gave her permission. A clandestine marriage cannot be proved. Anyway, if she is married, she will soon be a widow.’

There was a pause, then, ‘Don’t you care if she has lost her virginity?’ Sir John’s tone expressed disbelief.

‘Father, I have slept with many women. Few of them were virgins. Why should I care if this one is or is not?’

‘You should treat things more seriously! This woman is to be your wife – what if she’s poxed, eh? If she’s been incontinent in lust, what then? She may give birth to half-wits or lepers. Do you want a leper for a son? And what if she’s over-sexed? She may search about for other men.’

‘Oh, if she’s experienced, she’ll be more enjoyable.’

Philip could almost hear Sir John forcing the angry response down. ‘You enjoy taunting me. So be it. But it’s your future we’re discussing.’

That was the start of a list of recriminations for William’s loose lifestyle. Sir John remonstrated with his son, reminding him of the sacred nature of knighthood. It made Philip smile. That an avaricious, murdering swine like Sir John of Crukerne should try to instil honour and decency in his son was laughable. What of his own failings? Were they to be eradicated with absolution on his deathbed? Philip couldn’t help but grimace as he walked away. There was no need to remain. He knew where he must go.

With a hand resting at his knife-hilt, he strolled to the castle and waited outside the chapel, leaning negligently at the wall. It wasn’t long before he saw the burly figure of William, freshly dressed in clean tunic and hose, walking with his father to the chapel.

He hated Sir John. Once again, Philip was struck with the conviction that there was something wrong about executing the lad. He was so young, so full of life, and now he was about to be made a knight, an honourable and chivalrous position for a man entering adulthood.

Philip watched as the two men halted near the door, Sir John instructing his son with a pointing finger, Squire William listening with a serious frown before nodding.

The two looked like a picture of the courtly ideal. Sir John, tall, grizzled, powerful and experienced, his son slimmer, a little shorter, but handsome with his perfect features and hair moving in the wind. He could have been a saint if looks were all, and the sight of the two of them talking in a low undertone, clearly in accord, gave the killer a pang. Tears threatened his eyes, blurring his vision, and he groaned quietly. A passing servant gave him a curious look, but he waved his hand and the fellow carried on his way.

It was that scene: the two men so content in each other’s company. Their happiness was almost tangible, like an enveloping halo that protected them from the world and suffering. The bond which forged the love of a father for his son and a son for his father was so powerful that no man should destroy it, Philip thought. No man had the right. It was foul to contemplate it.

But what of his own little boy, destroyed by Sir John’s greed? Sir John had wrecked many other lives. Wasn’t it justice to see him pay for his crimes? He deserved to be punished – and yet by taking the action he planned, Philip would punish the son as well as the guilty man.