Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

Baldwin grinned understandingly. Heralds were the eyes and ears of their masters, pointing out which men had displayed the greater prowess or courtesy in the tournament, or espying the insignia of the enemy in battle, and guiding their masters away from dangerous opponents; in peacetime they were musicians and entertainers. Prolonged journeys were not sought by men who enjoyed a more contemplative lifestyle, and although this Odo had a certain wiriness about him, he was bent, like a man who has travelled too much in his time.

‘Where do you go after this?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Back to Tiverton, where I can pick up my flute and practise again. With fortune, I may win the heart of a woman visiting the tournament. I’ve always found that a ready wit, a tune, a rehashing of another man’s poetry and a purse full of golden coins will win companionship.’

‘Many would say that showing prowess with a sword would be a better way to win the heart of a lady.’

‘So they might, my Lord, but they would be fools. What sort of woman wishes to see her man risking his life on a field of battle? No, give me a buxom wench with a sparkle in her eye and a ready laugh, one who will keep your bed warm, but who will still mull your ale and cook your breakfast in the morning. You can keep all the tarts who hanker after a man’s hose because he’s knocked five or six others on the head!’ Odo said sagely, adding, ‘On the other hand, I have learned some new stories from France which should please – although no doubt Lord Hugh’s fellows would prefer tales of their own valour. I’d better study his knights. It wouldn’t be sensible to forget the deeds of men who might decide to cut my hair with a battle-axe!’

Baldwin chuckled. He found the herald highly entertaining. ‘I’m sure you’d be safe from any number of axes, Odo.’

‘Perhaps. A fellow learns to duck, doesn’t he?’ Odo agreed. ‘But I prefer an easy life. Let me escape from danger and I’ll be happy.’

He was a slender man in his forties, with an intelligent ruddy-coloured face and mild grey eyes. In some ways he reminded Baldwin of a slimmer, shorter version of his friend Simon Puttock. Near-white hair framed a gleaming pate, and his head was thrust forward, giving him a permanent stoop. He wasn’t a true hunchback, but somehow gave the impression that he carried a weight upon his shoulders, a suggestion which was given the lie by his cheerful visage.

‘Have you often been in danger?’ Baldwin asked.

A serious set came to Odo’s face. ‘I have avoided it wherever I could, Sir Baldwin, but I have committed my sins like all us poor folk.’

‘I am sure you could find a Pardoner willing to forgive them in exchange for money,’ Baldwin said lightly.

‘I have no doubt. There are always thieves prepared to gull the gormless,’ Odo said. ‘But for my part, I doubt whether God would be impressed. No, I’ll make my own peace with God, if He wills it, without the intervention of a conman.’

‘How did you come to be in Devonshire?’

Odo shrugged. ‘I have no home. I’ve wandered widely all my life, about the continent, travelling from Guyenne to Paris, for a herald must learn new songs – what is he without his songs of chivalry? – but I grew to miss my own language.’

‘I suppose a herald can travel easily. He will be welcomed in any great household.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Odo smiled. ‘Although sometimes I wonder whether lords should enquire more carefully about some of their newer staff. Even I have committed my sins.’

‘So you said,’ Baldwin nodded, glancing at him. ‘But you wouldn’t hurt my lord Hugh?’

‘Ah no! My most heinous crime I still feel was venial. I found a man who was hiding from justice, a man with fear stamped upon his face. I have no idea what made me do it, probably mere sympathy, but I gave him food and helped him escape.’

‘Was he a felon, then?’

‘He was a renegade, Sir Baldwin – a sergeant from the Knights Templar.’

‘How did you find him?’ Baldwin asked sharply.

‘I was at a town with my master when we heard the Hue and Cry and were told that a fugitive had been seen, a fellow who had been born in the town but who had joined the Templars. You know what happened to them. All the knights were imprisoned and tortured. Many were executed. A terrible injustice, I always felt. Well, we set off with hounds and men-at-arms to seek this fellow and a short way from the town, I twisted my ankle and had to return. And when I got there, I saw a fellow with stubble, a filthy tunic with a faded mark like a Templar cross on his breast, and a pronounced limp. He didn’t even deny it; he told me he was so tired I could kill him on the spot as far as he was concerned.’

‘What did you do?’

Odo gratefully took the large pot of ale proffered by Baldwin’s grim-faced servant Edgar and said with quiet conviction, ‘Do? Nothing! He seemed to me to be a fair, reasonable man, a fellow of integrity and honour, who had been betrayed or lied about. And I don’t believe all this bollocks about the Templars being evil. They were the Pope’s own army, and protected pilgrims all over the world. How could they be evil? No, I think they were destroyed for other reasons. Anyway, I wouldn’t willingly see him killed, so I gave him food and showed him a path which should avoid the men seeking him.’

‘Did you learn his name?’

Odo grinned. ‘If I had learned it, I ensured that I speedily forgot it, Sir Baldwin. The man was a renegade. It could do me no good to remember him.’

Baldwin eased his grip on his cup. He had tensed to hear the name Knight Templar, for although this Odo obviously had no idea, Baldwin had been a ‘Poor Fellow Soldier of Christ and the Temple of Solomon’, a Templar, and he too had survived only because of the help of others, although survival had been hard. It had left him with deep tracks raked into his forehead and at either side of his mouth, and while his melancholy had left him since his marriage, and crows’ feet at his eyes proved that his nature now tended to be more cheerful, there was a steady intensity in his eyes that many distrusted. Beyond the curious fixity of his stare, the only visible proof of his past lay in the scar at his cheek which twisted the line of the neat beard growing along the edge of his jaw.

‘Anyway,’ Odo continued, moving uneasily in his seat as he felt the force of Baldwin’s gaze, ‘not long afterwards I met an English lord who accepted me into his retinue, for he missed English songs and tunes. With my flute-playing and my experiences on the battlefield, it was easy to win a post as herald. Who better could a lord gain than someone like me?’

‘Who was that?’

‘Hugh Despenser the Elder,’ Odo said, and then chuckled at Baldwin’s startled expression. ‘I know – many don’t like the man, but I found him a good master.’

‘Perhaps, but he is no friend of Lord de Courtenay.’

‘No. That is why I told Lord de Courtenay right away about my service to Lord Despenser,’ Odo grinned. ‘I came clean about it – yet there is no trouble. Lord de Courtenay is now my lord.’ He paused. ‘A herald must tread a difficult path sometimes. When my lord Hugh returned to England this year, I came with him. I had witnessed enough death and fighting abroad. It seemed like a good time to return and share my knowledge.’

Baldwin was curious. ‘And what sort of knowledge would that be?’

‘Ah well, have you seen the new craze for weapons in Europe? And mercenaries from Germany now wear plate armour.’

‘Like an English coat of plates?’

‘No. Where we use interlocking plates to cover our chests, the Germans use one plate alone. I have heard that in Benevento some years ago the Germans charged a stronger force of Provençals and were winning the day because their armour was so strong it was proof against all their weapons. It was only when some sharper-eyed Provençal saw a gap beneath the armpit of these knights that the Provençals could turn their enemies aside. There was a great cry of “ À l’estoc! ”, “ At the point! ”, and they began to sweep through the enemy.’