The Tournament of Blood (11 page)

He would have to acquire more wood. The stuff he had bought was not up to the standard, and he’d have to get more. That would cut into his profits, and his master carpenter’s, too.
Silly Wymond, making the Bailiff angry like that when there was still a chance he might agree to let them have wood from the castle’s own stocks or something. That had been their plan –
to buy cheaper quality in the expectation that Simon would cave in and give them better material. It had worked before. But Wymond had seen how annoyed Hal was growing. Heyho! Now they’d had
to buy more themselves with the money they had saved from the job. There were few enough perks to jobs like this one, but taking the money and buying fewer planks or beams than necessary, or
getting only cheap stuff which wasn’t worth half the amount paid, was one way of making profit. It was all accepted and understood, a means by which talent could be rewarded, like the
dairyman who carefully warmed cream and took off a few clotted lumps for his own breakfast; except now it looked as though Hal was going to have to use the money he had skimmed from the deal.

Still, if he could find a cheap supplier, he could come out of it all right – and meanwhile make sure that Lord Hugh knew exactly how unpleasant that Bailiff had been.

Hal was still nervous that the project might be late. The job had progressed alarmingly sluggishly. It was his duty to see to the layout and design of the field, but also to ensure that
everything happened on time. Of course his budget was nowhere near adequate. If only he had been given more money to play with, he could have worked wonders.

Sipping his wine, Sachevyll allowed himself to daydream, recalling the plans he had formed when Lord Hugh first asked him to help. In his mind it would have been a gorgeous display: red silks
forming a canopy over the Lord’s own grandstand, with a throne of wood upholstered with crimson velvet and cushions. Sachevyll had thought instantly of the chivalrous stories of Arthur when
Lord Hugh suggested that he might like to help. He envisioned his employer dressing as a king, perhaps wearing cloth of gold and an ermine-trimmed robe, while his knights took on the rôles of
Arthurian characters, acting out their parts at the Round Table before all joined in a splendid clash of steel.

That Bailiff could be the evil Mordred, he snickered, his eye drawn once more to the stands.

But no. The King had banned all showy tournaments since the alliance formed to destroy his favourite Piers Gaveston in 1312, and it would be tempting fate, let alone the King’s patience,
to pretend to be Arthur, to wear a crown and show off his knights as men from the legends. The King would turn a blind eye to a simple tournament with few knights and no other magnates, intended
purely to exercise steeds and men together in order to ensure their skill for the better defence of the realm, but it would be very different were Lord Hugh to put himself forward as a king –
and not just
any
king, but England’s greatest. People might consider that Lord Hugh was getting ideas above his station, and if other magnates were invited, King Edward II would be a
fool not to wonder whether plots against him were being hatched. It had happened before.

No, the tournament must have the workaday appearance of simple martial practice. It was terrible, of course, for the spectacle was all there, ready, in Hal Sachevyll’s mind, but at least
he was working on a tournament again, and that was all that really mattered. He loved them, even after the disaster at Exeter so many years ago.

He hadn’t been entirely responsible, of course. There was little doubt in his mind that the crowds moving forward had brought about the stand’s collapse, and many of the furious
people were crushed by the weight of bodies behind them before the wood had given that appalling, groaning crack and shuddered. There was a kind of silence, then. A pause. Hal had stopped and
gaped. He had never heard such a sound before. From somewhere a bird called. And then the dust was hurled into the air as the wood gave way and the screams began.

The memory still made him feel queasy. After that he had travelled, providing smaller stages for other lords, going wherever his master had commanded. One always obeyed one’s master, Hal
reminded himself. Especially when your master was the King himself.

Recollecting that, Hal stood, fastidiously brushing lichen and mud from his hose. His master would want him listening, watching and learning, not sitting back and whining. He drained his cup and
returned it to the wine-seller before squaring his shoulders, putting that scene from his mind; he gave a prim sniff and considered his next move. Perhaps he could ask the wine-seller where he
might acquire some wood inexpensively.

He was about to do so when he caught sight of Sir John of Crukerne striding through the crowds.

‘Oh my God!’ he squeaked, and involuntarily ducked behind the wine barrel. He didn’t want to be seen by the Butcher of Crukerne. As soon as he could, he scurried away back to
Wymond and safety.

Walking past the smugly grinning King Herald, Simon stormed away from the tournament field. He marched quickly, seething with anger at the carpenter and builder. Baldwin walked
a little more slowly in his wake, leaving Simon to work off his ire.

It was not until Simon had reached the entrance to the tented field, near the river, that he realised that his friend had lagged behind. He stopped and waited for Baldwin. ‘My apologies,
that was an unnecessary outburst.’

Baldwin shrugged. ‘The carpenter deserved worse for his lack of respect to an official. What of it?’

‘I’ll explain more when we find a moment’s peace,’ Simon said, his face hardening.

Following his gaze, Baldwin saw the King Herald approaching, Odo behind him. Odo gave Baldwin a nod of recognition before going to his pavilion, a small tent near the river. He pulled off his
garish tabard, marked with the symbols of Lord Hugh’s family and lineage, and Baldwin had to restrain a smile when he saw that beneath it, Odo wore a threadbare linen shirt and a pair of
faded hose. Finery could conceal utter poverty, he thought.

The King Herald mockingly bowed to Simon, and although Baldwin saw that his shirt and boots were of the first quality, he was sure that Mark Tyler also used his tabard to hide poverty, although
in the King Herald’s case it was the poorness of his character rather than of his clothing.

Simon barely acknowledged the King Herald, but instead led Baldwin to the castle, avoiding anyone who wanted to speak to him. ‘I would have procured a room for you in the castle,’ he
told him confidentially, ‘except I recall how badly you got on with Sir Peregrine last time you met him at Tiverton. He’ll be taking the chamber above the gatehouse and will live there
while the Lord Hugh is in residence.’

‘That dreary, mendacious lob!’ Baldwin said without rancour. ‘No, I am happier with the cheery company of the field.’

‘Like friend Hal, I suppose?’

Baldwin then said, in earnest now: ‘Aren’t you worried that the stands may not be strong enough? What if one collapses?’

‘If they do, it’ll be Hal’s fault,’ Simon said. ‘He’s creamed off a load of Lord Hugh’s money for his own pocket and he’s trying to keep it. He
can afford the best. Lord Hugh is generous, especially when he’s trying to impress his own knights. No, don’t worry, old friend. Hal isn’t stupid enough to let anyone get hurt at
this tournament.’

At Oakhampton Castle, the two men had to walk around the barbican to enter its north-facing doorway and then Simon took Baldwin up the long cobbled corridor that ended at the gatehouse
itself.

Looking up at the walkways inside the battlements, Baldwin voiced his earlier thoughts. ‘Only a brave man or a fool would attempt this to enter the castle.’

It was easy to envisage a group storming this narrow, deadly killing ground and being crushed by missiles raining down from above. The two crossed the bridge and entered the court beyond. The
spur on which the castle was built was shaped roughly like a shield, and here at the entrance Baldwin saw they were at the narrow point at the base. Before them a broad yard fanned out with high
walls enclosing a number of buildings, while in the background ahead was the looming grey shape of the keep on its high motte. Baldwin had little time to study the place because Simon strode off to
their right, to a long, high hall. Soon they were sitting at a table with jugs of ale.

Simon wiped a hand over his face. ‘God’s bones! I begin to wish I had never agreed to help with this. If I hear one more complaint from that cretin of a carpenter or his girlfriend
Hal, I swear I’ll reach for my knife and gut them!’

‘It is mayhem down there, isn’t it?’ Baldwin said, comfortable in the knowledge that his servants would have seen to his belongings and that he need do nothing but idle away
the day.

Simon grunted nastily, ‘I hope you realise you’ll be trying to sleep in the midst of that row.’

He had a point. Since the tournament was viewed by townspeople as a cross between a fair and a market, with the money-making potential of a saint’s day feast, there was plenty of raucous
entertainment. Outside in the fields they could hear stall-keepers and men-at-arms singing lustily, drinking noisily and behaving as badly as young men would. Even here in the castle’s hall
there was horseplay. Two lads were involved in a drinking bout that involved one placing a funnel in his mouth while his companion filled it with ale. Apparently the drinker intended swallowing
faster than his friend could pour. Baldwin was confident that neither would be able to wake him later with singing or gaming. Their only means of disrupting his sleep would be by their snoring . .
. or vomiting.

‘What is the plan for the event?’ Baldwin asked.

Simon drained his cup and refilled it. ‘Tomorrow Lord Hugh will arrive with the last of his household. He’s planning a quiet night with a vigil in the chapel to pray for God’s
blessing, and the day after tomorrow will begin with a procession to the church in Oakhampton, after which the games will start. There’s to be a
béhourd
for squires and
knights in training, and Lord Hugh will want to reward the best of the lads; some will be given their spurs. Then we’ll have two days of individual jousting to keep the men busy and the young
girls in a state of feverish excitement before no doubt some of them hie to the woods and offer each other insincere vows of eternal fidelity in exchange for a crafty grope.’

‘You sound bitter,’ Baldwin observed.

‘Bitter?’ The other man looked up and gave a feeble grin. ‘Aye, well, wait until your daughter is a little older. Don’t get me on to the subject of Edith.’

‘I see.’

‘Not yet you don’t, but you will! Finally there’ll be a grand
mêlée
for all the knights to show their magnificence and prowess.’

‘Wonderful!’ Baldwin said drily. ‘So all those who haven’t already been battered to Banbury and back can have their brains mashed on the last day!’

‘Oh, it shouldn’t be too bad. At least it’s to be fought
à plaisance
, not
à outrance
.’

‘Thanks to God for that!’ Baldwin said with feeling.

‘You don’t like to face weapons of war?’ Simon asked with a grin. ‘I’ve seen you with weapons in your hands before now.’

‘I’ve fought often enough, and I’ve killed many men as you know,’ Baldwin agreed, ‘but this is supposed to be a demonstration of valour and chivalry. Sharpened
lances and swords have no place here. It is one thing to be deafened from two days of having a mace or sword clattering against your helm, but quite another to have to avoid some enraged cretin
trying to slice through your guts with an upwards stab underneath your plate. There are too many risks with weapons
à outrance
. Better that men should fight with blunted swords and
joust with a coronal on their lances.’

‘Would you prefer to see everyone wearing toughened leather and fighting with whalebone swords?’

‘Ha! There’s always likely to be one fool who forgets and turns up with a real sword, or someone who loses his temper and grabs a bill. No, for my money I’ll take all the
protection I can!’

Simon eyed him. ‘I forgot you’re nearly fifty,’ he said with a faint hint of surprise in his voice. There was enough grey in Baldwin’s hair and beard, he could see, but
somehow he had never before considered how old his friend was. In the six years since they had first met, Baldwin had remained a solid, dependable factor in his life. Now he realised with a slight
shock that his companion was an old man.

‘I am not quite ready for a winding-sheet yet,’ Baldwin said sharply, reading his mind. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like I am about to drop dead at your feet!’

Baldwin was not alone in viewing tournaments with concern.

In the small tent erected for her alongside Sir John’s and Squire William’s, Alice Lavandar, Sir John de Crukerne’s ward, slept badly. She tossed and writhed on her hard
mattress, but sleep eluded her although she was exhausted after the journey. Then, at last, she felt herself drifting off.

But not to peace. It was the old dream. She was back in the tournament ground of Exeter, and before her were two knights, both sitting high on their horses in their war-saddles with the
enveloping cantles and high pommels, both wearing full battle-armour, with helmets. They lowered the points of their massive lances to her in salute, and she watched as the protective coronals were
fitted, the metal crowns which blunted the points. But then, as the two turned and rode off, she saw the coronals falling from their points. She wanted to scream at them to stop, but her voice was
gone; she couldn’t speak, she could only observe.

The two men cantered to opposite ends of the field, wheeling so that their horses faced each other. There they stood, their mounts breathing out a fine mist from their nostrils, stepping heavily
on the grass, eager to hurtle towards each other.

Alice watched with horror, and now, at last, she recognised the heraldic symbols on both kite-shaped shields: one was her long-dead father, the other, her husband Squire Geoffrey.