Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

Wiping at his eyes, he glanced back at the two men. Squire William stepped forward and the murderer could see his face distinctly. Calm, unworried, handsome and haughty, aware of his rank and the coming celebration in his honour, it was the face of a lad any man could be proud of. Philip himself would have been pleased if his own son had grown like this.

The two men nodded to the murderer standing by the chapel, and then entered, and as they walked in, William’s voice carried on the clear evening air.

‘I know, Father. As far as I am concerned, as soon as I have taken Mass and been dubbed knight, I will become renewed – reborn. I intend to take my vows seriously. Before God, I promise you that I shall uphold the knightly virtues of courtesy, honour and prowess. What is chivalry, if a knight behaves no better than a drunken churl? No, a knight should be beyond reproach, should be clean-living and uphold the law. I certainly intend to be exemplary. You’ll be proud of me, and so will Alice. As you wish, I shall marry her.’

The killer closed his eyes while his heart pounded and his resolve fell from him like filth sloughed away in the rain. With those words Squire William had saved his life. Philip couldn’t kill a lad who professed such integrity. If he was serious about upholding the law and behaving as a perfect husband, he was so far removed from his father as to be inviolate. Philip couldn’t kill someone like that. It would be a genuine crime.

No, his wife and children must be satisfied with the revenge he had already exacted. Surely three dead men was sufficient.

His heart was heavy; he was not sure that he was doing the right thing. He gazed up at the heavens, praying for an answer, but there was none.

‘Sir? Sir? Are you all right?’

Opening his eyes, he found himself staring into the morose features of Hugh, Simon’s servant.

‘Could you fetch me a jug of wine?’ he asked shakily.

It was a slow service, William thought. Slow and dull. He must kneel devoutly for God was watching, if the priest could be believed – not that this fool cleric seemed to have much idea – but in Christ’s name, it was hard. All his muscles complained, his back was aching from his tumble, and his head hurt abominably. It was the normal result of a tilt, but that was no comfort.

Yet over it all, William was aware of a thrilling eagerness. It was a curious sensation, this. A sort of glow emanated from his belly and warmed his heart at the thought that he would soon become a knight as he had always wanted. A knight, a full chivalrous member of Lord Hugh’s host!

The service done, William avoided his father’s company. Sir John was too serious and besides, William needed a drink to soothe the bruises and strains from his fall. William left Sir John at the church door and went to join his friends. Nick had already drunk a fair amount, but he’d made himself sick and now he was ready for more. William was a little wary, thinking that he’d do well to keep his head and avoid too much wine or ale, but he was thirsty and the prospect of a quart of Lord Hugh’s ale proved too tempting.

They walked to the buttery and stood at the bar. It was hellishly hot in there, with the heat from candles and oil-lamps adding to the fug and odour of sweat from the servants who had worked all day in the sun on Lord Hugh’s lands. The warmth made the faces of the serving-boys glisten and run with moisture, and it wasn’t long before William felt the same.

At the bar, the group of young men ordered their drinks from a sweating pot-boy and took them outside to sit at a bench. Girls walked past and were leered at or respectfully acknowledged, depending upon their status. Serving wenches suffered if they approached too close to Nick, for his tunic stank of vomit, and he grabbed any who passed by.

‘You should bathe and change your clothes,’ William said as another girl screwed up her face in disgust and ran from Nick.

‘What’s the point? I’m going to drink a lot more before I collapse tonight. Sir Nick I become today. A knight! Hah! Give me two years and I’ll be a banneret, just you see,’ he said, trying to focus seriously on his friend.

William laughed. The ale made him glad to be alive. ‘And I’ll be Sir William. Here’s to the knights of Oakhampton, eh?’

They all raised their jugs and pots, and soon after Nick stared into his jug and grumbled that he needed a refill. His face was pale and gleamed in the light of the torches in the court, and William was unpleasantly persuaded that he was about to be sick.

Nick glanced about him. ‘Hey, you! Come here.’

Simon’s servant Hugh heard the summons but chose to ignore the beckoning finger.

‘I said come here, churl! Don’t disobey a knight unless you want to feel my boot up your backside,’ Nick growled, but even as Hugh hesitated, Nick bent over and spewed.

‘That’s better,’ he gasped, wiping his mouth.

‘You are revolting,’ William said with disdain. ‘Look at you. It’s no wonder you’ve no prospect of marriage.’

‘You think so? I could take any woman I wanted,’ Nick belched. ‘You! Fetch us more wine.’

‘I’m fetching wine for my master,’ Hugh mumbled, scowling at the ground.

William grinned. ‘Which woman could you take, then?’

‘Me? Well, none will be available tonight, but tomorrow… well, how about I take that little wriggle-arse from you? The one we saw in the crowds – with the angry father.’ He sniggered at the memory of Simon’s furious face.

‘Little Edith? Ah, I don’t know. I fear she prefers the subtle charms of a clean-living fellow like me.’

‘Bollocks! She’d rattle me happily enough.’

‘I’d wager a shilling you’d not take her with her permission,’ William said.

‘A shilling? It’ll make it all the more worthwhile.’

‘Only after I’ve had her, though. And then I’ll have to become chaste for my wife.’

‘Poor Alice,’ Nick laughed. ‘She doesn’t realise what she’ll miss in marrying you.’ He reached for his jug, recalled that it was empty and glowered around. ‘Where’s that poxy servant gone?’

William stood. ‘I’ll fetch more ale.’

It was still crowded in there. Servants who were finished with their day’s service in Lord Hugh’s fields or members of his household seeking their daily ration, all stood more or less patiently waiting to be served.

Hugh was leaving with three jugs of wine on a tray as William entered. The squire grinned. Right – ‘I’ll take those.’

‘You can’t. They’re for my master.’

‘Too bad. Go and get more for him. These will do for me.’

‘No.’

William drew himself up. ‘You do realise who you’re talking to, don’t you? I am a knight. So let go of that tray! If you want more wine, get it from the bar.’

‘Why don’t you fetch your own drinks?’

‘What is your name, fellow?’

‘Hugh.’

‘Well, Hugh. You go and get more wine from the bar. Because if you try to keep these, I’ll see you regret it.’

‘Something wrong, Will?’

Nick had thrust his face in through the door and was staring aggressively at Hugh.

‘No, it’s all fine,’ William said, taking the tray from Hugh’s reluctant hands.

Lady Helen Basset was late and she could already hear her husband’s remonstration, feel the harsh slap of his hand on her face, on her rump. He would be furious.

This time, for the first time, he would be justified. He must never know what she had been doing. Day-dreaming about the man she had once promised to marry, long before she had met Walter, wondering what Sir Edmund would have been like as a husband. A part of her quickened to see him, but as soon as he spoke, she realised he was too soft for her. Not a real, vibrant man like Sir Walter. No, she had made a better choice. All she felt for Edmund was a tolerant sympathy, like a sister might feel for a brother.