Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

It was last night that she had gone to meet him – the first time they had been together since that terrible day when he had been captured and ransomed by Sir John. Helen had been close to refusing to go, she was so petrified that her husband might find out – but then she told herself that since she was only going to ease the spirit of a man who had once been her lover, it was a matter of simple duty.

Squire Andrew had spoken to her so respectfully, so persuasively, on his master’s behalf. Later, she had sneaked away with him, the squire cautiously scouting ahead, making sure that the coast was clear so her reputation couldn’t suffer, and checking all the time that they were not being followed. At the river he went ahead and sought a quiet place and then left, soon after sending Sir Edmund to her. He remained on guard just out of earshot, to prevent anyone approaching.

Sir Edmund had changed so much since that fateful afternoon six years ago at Crukerne, when his future was devastated in the tournament. After Sir John had captured him, he was ruined, completely. He couldn’t even afford a jug of wine. Sir John had taken everything – even the horse, which Sir Edmund had borrowed from a friend.

Helen was thrilled by his history: his escape to foreign lands, his apparent salvation when he found himself vassal to Earl Thomas, and finally his return to the West Country in search of a new master.

‘I thought you would wait for me,’ he told her.

‘How could I?’ she protested. ‘I had no idea where you had gone, nor for how long.’

‘So you wed the man who ruined me?’

His bitter tone had stung. ‘What would you have had me do? Wait for a man who might have been dead?’

‘No, my Lady, of course not.’

They had walked in silence then, she trying to think of something that would placate without patronising, while he scowled up at the castle.

‘I must return,’ she had said nervously at last. ‘My husband… ’

‘Oh, the hell with him! What of me ?’

‘Edmund – I married Walter. I loved you, but that was a long time ago.’

‘So you do not love me any more, Helen?’ he had said with despair in his voice.

There was nothing she could do to ease Sir Edmund’s envy; he must grow accustomed to the fact that he could not possess her – but against her better judgement she had agreed to meet him again later, after tonight’s feast.

Helen hurried up the tunnel towards the castle’s main entrance and stood a moment to settle her breathing. Fitting a serene, innocent expression to her face, she made her way to the hall’s entrance.

Sir Walter’s violence could terrify her, but it was thrilling as well. Most of the time he was a courteous, pleasing husband. He lived to satisfy her, with frequent assertions of his love for her, his utter and undying delight in her. His lovemaking was rough, but she found that satisfying, more so than she would some polite, insipid youth who might roll on to her and roll off with a calm murmur of gratitude. She wouldn’t want that. She wanted a man with fire in his belly and loins.

Sometimes though, it was hard, when his jealously came to the fore. And he detested to be kept waiting.

‘My Lady, you are alone?’

‘I am going to meet my husband.’

Squire William was feeling good after the wine. Following on top of the ale, it hit his empty stomach like a flame, filling him with the sense that he was all-powerful and irresistible. Alice would soon change her mind about marrying him once she saw him in his knightly finery, he thought optimistically. As for Edith Puttock, he’d be able to rattle her as soon as he got her alone. Her languishing expression when he was knocked from his horse told him that. She’d also let him bull her just to tweak the nose of her father. The Bailiff would be very angry indeed when he heard. His fury would be overwhelming, William thought contentedly. Edith might need protestations of undying love to get her to lift her skirts for him, but if it was necessary, William could promise marriage. If she made problems later, it would be his word against hers. And who would believe a sulky girl’s claims against the word of a knight?

As the night grew more chill his friends had moved into the buttery itself; he had left them there while he came out here to empty his bladder against the hall’s wall. It was while he was adjusting his hose that the woman had approached. It was only the second time he’d seen her but, as before, the sight of her fired his blood. She was beautiful, he thought, drunkenly certain that she couldn’t refuse him.

‘You must give me a kiss, Lady, before I let you pass.’

‘Sir, you are pestering me.’

‘I only want a kiss, Lady. No one would ever know.’

‘Leave me,’ she snarled. ‘I don’t have time to play with children.’

‘Me – a child?’ William gasped. He’d teach the cow a lesson. His arms grabbed her before she could run or cry out. Ignoring the guards who meandered along the battlements, William pulled her towards him and sought her lips.

‘Leave me!’ she gasped.

‘Child, am I? Have a feel of this!’ he demanded, taking her hand and pulling it towards his hose. ‘I’ve got a better prick than your husband, I’ll wager!’

His arm was around her waist, his other hand slipping down to her buttocks, then up to her waist and breast. There was nothing she could do to prevent him. He held her too firmly.

‘Get off me, you drunken bastard!’ she managed.

‘Not until you kiss me,’ William leered.

Hugh appeared in the doorway and quickly crossed to them. ‘Lady, are you all right?’

It was enough to break William’s concentration. Helen pulled away, then snapped her knee up to his groin, feeling the softness as her knee connected. His breath left his body in a short gasp and his hands were off her. She walked past him, head high, and gave Hugh a coin. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.

‘No, Lady,’ Hugh said, glowering at the wheezing figure of William. ‘Thank you . That sight was payment enough.’

Glancing back haughtily at the moaning William, she sniffed and entered the hall.

She didn’t recognise Andrew in the doorway. She just pushed past him.

The feast was intended to celebrate the magnificence of the tournament’s opening and give people a taste for the events to come, but Alice sat there, waiting for it to begin, her appetite nonexistent. The choicest meats would taste of nothing; mere ashes would have been as good. The wine was like vinegar, the smoke stung her eyes, and the raucous enjoyment of the other men in the place was all but intolerable. She felt sick with worry about her man, terrified that he might die, appalled to have seen his near-fatal fall from the horse.

Odo had ensured that Alice’s maid and two gentlewomen had attended to her after her collapse. All Alice could remember was waking and hoping it had all been a nightmare. She prayed that the vision of Geoffrey being hurled from his horse by the evil lance in William’s hand was but a dream, a hideous scene sent by a Mare to terrify her.

But as soon as she awoke, Alice found herself staring into the compassionate eyes of a female attendant – and realised that it had been no dream. Her husband was lying at death’s door, and she could do nothing to help. Rising, she learned that Geoffrey had been taken to a chamber near the castle’s hall and she hurried there, ignoring the servants who tried to bar her way and prevent her from entering. ‘He is my husband!’ she declared, with tears in her eyes.

The physician and priest could give her no positive response. ‘If he is to heal, it is in God’s hands,’ the priest said, trying to soothe her, but in his eyes she could see the terrible truth. Geoffrey wouldn’t live; she was sure of it.