Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

Edith had no wish to see Hugh in trouble, but this was her chance to escape. She had but two choices: go to Hugh’s aid, in which case he would no doubt take her straight back to the castle and her mother, or disappear from this place as quickly as possible.

She made her choice. The river gave her an escape, but she must be careful and avoid getting her feet wet. If she were to turn westwards, she would follow the loop of the river around the back of the jousting field away from most prying eyes, but surely that was the direction Hugh would expect her to take. No, she would go eastwards, back towards the market area.

Resolved, she lifted her skirts and went to the water’s edge. She removed her shoes and stepped reluctantly into the water. ‘Oh!’ It felt freezing. A few short feet away there was a small island in the midst of the river, and she made for it, then crossed to the other side, where she put on her shoes once more and hurried from tree to tree, feeling more and more like a felon avoiding the reeve’s men.

She had gone a matter of twenty yards when she came across a lad scowling over his shoulder at her. His shirt up over his naked buttocks, he was kneeling between the plump thighs of a grinning girl whose skirts were thrown up over her breast.

‘Oh – I… I’m sorry,’ she said, flushing bright crimson.

‘Haven’t you seen a man and woman together before?’ the youth demanded scathingly.

Edith left them to their rutting, circling around them in a wide sweep, averting her eyes, but aware of a warm feeling of jealousy. She wanted to be the one lying there on her back, getting leaves and brambles in her hair and clothing, while William knelt above her.

The thought held her spellbound, and she felt the familiar tremble of desire in her belly. Realising she had come far enough, she looked at the riverbank once more. There was a thick mess of brambles, but a short distance from her was a gap. She pulled her skirts closer to her legs and trod carefully between the thorns, then stepped down into the shingle. Removing her shoes, she warily crossed the river and stood slipping them on again before raising her eyes to the riverbank.

And screamed.

Simon had a premonition of disaster as the shrill cry broke out. He turned and his eyes met Baldwin’s, and then he was moving towards the river as fast as his legs would take him, closely followed by Baldwin and Coroner Roger.

Edith’s scream had come from near the horse-lines, at the riverbank where the pavilion field met the market, and many squires and archers who were not needed by their knights, as well as several knights who would not be jousting for some time, were also hurrying to see what was going on. Simon saw several faces he recognised, including Sir John, Odo the Herald, the King Herald Mark Tyler, and Sir Peregrine.

Simon forced his way to the front of the crowds as the screams came with redoubled force, and then he saw her: Edith, her mouth wide with horror, her hands clenched at her sides as she stood, petrified, uttering scream after scream.

His heart felt as though it would burst to see her so desolate – but he was also filled with dread. Whatever could have so terrified his daughter like this? Perhaps Hugh was hurt – or Margaret?

He ran to her side, pulling her stiff body to him, murmuring soothing noises, patting her head and rocking her slightly from side to side. He felt her head gradually sink into the angle between his shoulder and neck, until he could sense that she was relaxing, and could gently turn her away from the awful sight that had so shocked her.

Baldwin was already at the body, and he gave Simon a look of sympathy. Simon couldn’t understand what it meant, but then he saw the bloody face of Squire William lying among the grasses and brambles.

‘Dead?’ he mouthed, although the question was unnecessary.

Baldwin nodded without speaking. The Coroner was already standing over the corpse while bystanders shuffled and glared at Simon suspiciously.

‘Who is it this time?’ Mark Tyler demanded, swaggering over with his thumbs in his belt. ‘Another carpenter? Or is it someone more… ’ He broke off as he took in the face. ‘Gracious God in heaven, Sir William of Crukerne!’

Sir John had followed in the King Herald’s wake and now he stood dumbly staring down at his dead son. He gave a single choking sob, sinking to his knees, his features twisting in despair and desolation.

Baldwin put a hand to his shoulder, but the knight shrugged it away. ‘Who did this?’

Nobody answered him. Coroner Roger cleared his throat, then bellowed, ‘Back, you whoresons! Stand back, in Christ’s name! Jesus, God and Holy Mother Mary, if you don’t give me room I’ll have Lord Hugh find space for you in his worst dungeons. Back, you misbegotten sons of a worm-infested mongrel!’

He stood a while staring down and Simon could see that he was reluctant to get between Sir John and the corpse. ‘Sir John, you recognise this boy?’

‘It’s my son,’ the man said dully.

‘I know who killed him!’

‘Who was that?’ Sir Roger called, scanning the crowd which stood so thickly at the bankside. ‘Who can tell us who the murderer was?’

Simon too was staring at the figures on the bank. Edith was quivering and sobbing in his arms, and he was trying to pull her away from the scene when the voice called out again.

‘It was the Bailiff! He was arguing with the lad yester’ even, because young William fancied his daughter. That’s who killed your boy – it was Bailiff Puttock!’

Sir John slowly turned to face Simon. ‘Is this true?’

Edith suddenly went rigid in his arms. She pulled away, her eyes staring into his with an expression of revulsion. ‘Did you, Father?’ she said brokenly. ‘Did you kill him to keep him from me?’

Simon felt his heart shrivel within him at her accusation. ‘By Christ’s bones, by the life I hope to win in heaven: NO!’ he declared, but even as he said the words he heard Tyler’s snide voice.

‘I said he was the murderer, didn’t I? I accused him only yesterday, because he murdered Hal and Wymond. Now he’s slaughtered this honourable lad as well. Is there no end to his lust for blood?’

Sir John stood and walked to Simon. Baldwin automatically stepped between them. ‘Sir John, this is only an unsubstantiated accusation, nothing more. I do not believe it, and you shouldn’t either.’

‘Bailiff, I accuse you of the murder of my son and I demand trial by battle to prove your guilt or innocence.’

‘Trial by… ’ Simon stuttered. ‘But I’ve done nothing. I can’t fight you, a knight!’

‘Name your champion, Bailiff. I challenge you to trial by battle, and if I kill him and win, you will hang. I swear it!’

Margaret sent Hugh to fetch them wine, but then sat with Edith cradled in her lap, sobbing. She had given her son to Petronilla and now rocked her daughter as she listened to the men talking.

Sir Roger was shaking with emotion. ‘Bailiff, you can’t accept the challenge. It would be insane. The man’s a killer, he’s often killed his foe. Prove your innocence in court, it’s much safer.’

‘He challenged me before all those people,’ Simon said dully. ‘Even my own daughter thinks I am guilty. If I refuse, many will assume I did do it, that I don’t dare to throw my fate into God’s hands, that I prefer to bribe officials, jurors and lawyers to find for me.’

‘Let people believe what they want,’ Baldwin said earnestly. ‘Do not risk yourself in this way.’

Simon met his eye a moment, but then looked back to Edith and his wife. ‘Meg, I am so sorry. I should never have come here. It was a matter of pride. Stupid pride. I thought that if my father could organise tournaments, I could do it as well. I never thought I’d be risking everything.’