Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

Reaching for the jug, Sir Edmund poured a fresh cup of wine and sipped.

Sir Walter had been an evil brute – and yet he must have had some feelings for his wife. He didn’t go and murder her straight after hearing the Bailiff question the groom, but instead he walked to a tavern and sat drinking in melancholy mood. Andrew had asked about the town afterwards and spoke to the host of the inn where Sir Walter drank. It appeared that the knight had remained there until long after dusk.

Of course Sir Edmund knew what had happened afterwards. Lady Helen returned to her tent to find her husband in a furious temper, inflamed with wine. He accused her of infidelity, then rushed at her and slaughtered her in a frenzy.

Sir Edmund flinched as he recalled the sound of the sword striking her body. He had been standing outside, having just bidden her farewell, and was feeling lost, wondering how he could live knowing that his Helen was married to another man, that she did not love him any more, when he heard the hissed curse and screams, the damp slap of sword cleaving flesh. When he realised what it meant, and without pausing to draw his own sword, he rushed inside, concerned only for Helen.

His beautiful Helen lay slumped, dead on her bed – and without a moment’s hestitation, Edmund snatched the sword from Sir Walter and thrust it up deep into the man’s chest. Sir Walter fell and, sobbing harshly, Sir Edmund dropped to Helen’s side, kissing her, trying to bring her back, but she was gone. He stayed there until the middle of the night, but as her body cooled, Squire Andrew found him and persuaded him to leave that slaughterhouse. There was no point calling attention to the bodies: that could have led to suspicion falling on Sir Edmund. They left the tent, Sir Edmund walking dazedly with his despair, back to their own pavilion, only realising when they arrived that Sir Edmund was splattered all over with Helen’s blood. It was Andrew who gently washed his master’s face and hands, tearing off the hideously stained tunic and setting it aside to be burned.

Yet even as Andrew rinsed away her blood with the chill water of the river, Sir Edmund had seen with his mind’s eye not the corpse of his lover, but the curious dullness in the eyes of Sir Walter as Edmund shoved the blade into his chest. It was as though Sir Walter was already in Hell, as if he was grateful for the final blow.

Perhaps he truly had loved her in his own way.