The Tournament of Blood (12 page)

In the dream, her feet were rooted to the woodwork of the stand; she couldn’t move as she became aware of another man on the staging with her. It was Squire William, Sir John de
Crukerne’s son, and he leered at her as he walked in front of her. Leaning over the rails, he gazed contemplatively at first one man then the other before facing Alice.

In her hand was a white cloth. She knew that dropping it would be the signal for the two men to gallop at each other, but she couldn’t,
wouldn’t
let it fall. She refused to
make them die. She clung to the small square of gauze, but William reached forward and took her hand. Although she desperately tried to clench her fist about the cloth, although she tried to
withdraw her hand from William’s, she couldn’t. It was as if she was bound with invisible cords that prevented any limb or muscle obeying her panicked, desperate will. She could only
watch as William grinned, then held the shred of cloth high over his head.

She wanted to promise him anything – swear that she would marry him, swear that she would for ever give up her love for Geoffrey, anything! – but she couldn’t; she could only
watch with horror as he dangled the cloth over the edge of the stand, and let it fall.

Her eyes were taken by the fluttering cloth as it opened into a regular square, falling gradually to the grass, but then her attention was grabbed by the horses.

The riders saw the cloth at the same time and spurred their mounts. Both leaped forward as if on massive springs. The horses cantered, then galloped, and the pounding hoofbeats were deafening.
All she knew was terror as she saw the two charging ever nearer. Then the points of the lances dropped inch by inch until the heavy wooden poles shod with bright steel, uncapped by coronals, were
pointing at each other.

There was a crash, a shattering explosion, and a thick smoke rose from the ground to save Alice from the hideous sight. Then it cleared, and she saw that the horses had collided even as the two
men were spitted on each other’s lance. She could see the four bodies, the horses strangely peaceful, but the two knights thrashing in their agony, and now both had lost their helms and she
could see their anguished death throes, as they looked to her for aid.

Sir John appeared and turned her from the hideous sight, and she took his solace gratefully, thinking he was protecting her; but then she was turned to face William once more, and he gripped in
either hand the decapitated heads of her father and her lover.

Her own scream woke her. Drenched in sweat, shivering with horror, she leaned over the edge of her mattress and vomited on the grass before collapsing into sobs.

She had to rise. Even as Helewisia, her maid, wiped the sleep from her eyes and gazed uncomprehendingly at her, Alice pulled a shift over her head to cover her nakedness and went to a stool,
pouring herself wine with a hand that shook uncontrollably.

‘Mistress? Are you sickening?’

‘No, it was just a mare, that’s all,’ Alice said.

The maid nodded and sat back, her eyes flitting about the darkened tent. The small cresset with its tiny flame lit the place dimly but she knew she would be able to see the goblin if he was
still there. Mares were nasty creatures that sat on your chest and sent you evil dreams. Not that anyone believed in such things, of course. It was a story for children, she thought as she
suspiciously stared at a fold of cloth that could have concealed a small figure.

Alice ignored her. She sat down on her mattress again and held her head in her hands. The nightmare had shown her an appalling scene. Her father was already dead – killed in the tournament
many years before at Exeter. Would Geoffrey die as well?

It was an awful thought. She must let him know how much she thought of him, let him know of her hideous dream, so that he could protect himself from danger. Perhaps that was what the dream was
for; maybe God was sending her a vision in order that she might save her Geoffrey. At least at a place like this there were conventions. Heralds were known to be safe messengers for lovers; it was
looked upon as part of their duty to aid and abet courtly lovers. She didn’t like the look of that greasy man Tyler, but the older, skinny fellow, Odo, he looked all right. She could speak to
him and see whether she could entrust him with her message.

To save Geoffrey, she would offer herself as a sacrifice, giving herself adulterously to Squire William in order to save Geoffrey’s life. The thought made her want to vomit again, but she
recalled the picture she had seen in her mind, of Geoffrey with a lance thrust through his belly, his eyes begging for help as he died . . .

If it would save his life she would marry William.

Or kill him.

The law can move at a snail’s pace when no one wants to be involved. And no one wanted to report discovering a dead body when the result was that the finder would be
attached
, held in custody, and
amerced
– forced to pay a surety to guarantee attendance at the next court when the justices arrived.

Sitting in a tavern early that morning, Philip sipped his wine thoughtfully. The revulsion he had experienced while killing Benjamin was gone, this second time. Perhaps because the victim was
loathsome – certainly he had caused Philip’s ruin still more directly even than Benjamin. Or perhaps killing became easier with experience.

It was certainly easy enough when he thought of his wife’s crushed and ruined body or his son’s and daughter’s tiny broken corpses.

In a just world, this victim would have been outlawed as a felon, could have been legally executed by any man. Philip had visited justice upon him. Like Benjamin, he had taken men’s money
to ensure that others died. Philip was satisfied that condign punishment had been visited upon a murderer, and that reflection pleased him.

He surveyed the field before him. At this time of day there was a gentleness to the general noise. Smoke drifted from a dozen cooking fires – they weren’t permitted within the
stalled area, but cooks were allowed their own fires for preparing food, and pies were already being heated, fowls roasting, wine and ale was being warmed with hot, sweetened and spiced water. Over
all came the odour of freshly baked bread, attacking the nostrils with the fragrant guarantee of repletion. Philip promised himself a loaf, drained his pot and went to seek a hawker.

As he walked, he glanced about him. Someone had surely seen the body by now, he reckoned, but no one had reported it. The camp was peaceful. Men emerged from their tents and scratched in the
chilly early morning air, others rose from the ground, shaking the cloaks and blankets which had been their bedding. To his left were horses, and here grooms were already seeing to their
masters’ mounts, whistling under their breath or chatting idly. No, the body couldn’t have been reported yet. If it had, these unruly youths would have been all a-twitter with the news,
scampering about to tell everyone of the discovery.

He walked over to the cooks and bought a small capon. With his knife he split it down the middle then into quarters before wrapping three parts in a scrap of linen. He chewed on a thigh while he
sought a bread vendor. With a good rye loaf in his hand, he returned to his own pavilion, where he sat on a stool, set his booted feet on a chest and leaned back against his tentpole while he drank
wine from his skin.

Soon, he reminded himself, soon there would come a shriek from the tilting field. A man would run in from the woods, and Philip knew perfectly well who that would be.

It would have to be Hal Sachevyll, the sodomite and lover of Wymond.

Baldwin had agreed to meet Simon near the tented field and the knight was waiting patiently when Simon left the barbican and made his way towards him.

‘Your face would look well on a stormcloud,’ Baldwin commented happily.

‘I’d be better pleased if I’d stayed outside the castle, like you did last night,’ Simon grunted.

‘It was noisy?’

Simon shot him a darkly meaningful glance. ‘This castle is too small to house a host of ants. There’s no space anywhere. If you want to sleep, you have to share the hall with all the
servants and guests – and that odious cretin Hal Sachevyll comes whining and pleading every five minutes for more money or wood or nails or cloth or something similar. Christ’s bones,
but I only slept a scant hour. No more. There was a knight from Taunton next to me snoring the night away. And when he was done I’d just got to sleep when some drunken oaf tripped over my
feet and woke me.’

‘I slept well,’ Baldwin lied cheerfully, recalling the singing and shouting from tents all about him as revellers celebrated the tournament to come. One was singing the praises of
his hero, Sir Walter Basset, the wild man of Cornwall, while another told him he was a fool, that Sir John from Crukerne would be sure to win.

‘Wait till you see ’un in the
medley
, mate. That’s when you can tell their mettle,’ he asserted.

‘Nah! I’ve seen ’em both and my money’s on Sir Walter. He’s got the speed and the strength, as well as bein’ younger by ten year or more. He’ll carve
his initials in your man’s helm.’

‘You reckon, Bob Miller? There’s something your ’un ain’t got – and that’s experience. Sir John is skilled, he is. He’s killed plenty o’ men in
his time.’

‘Who hasn’t? Sir Walter has too. In the joust, as well.’

‘So’s Sir John. I remember him slaughtering that cocksure fool Godwin of Gidleigh.’

‘Godwin? Oh, I remember him. He was shafting Sir John’s wife, if the stories are true.’

‘Really? You reckon?’

‘That’s what they say.’

‘That’s bollocks, that is!’ The man spat. ‘That were a bad do, that were. Exeter. The whole Tyrel family died, all except the father, Philip. Big man, he was, powerful,
bearded, strong, but his family got flattened when the stand fell. Pretty wife, two nippers. Philip himself pulled the boards off them. Poor bugger.’

‘Folks moved?’

‘Yeah, they were furious because their favourite got killed by Sir John. They all moved forward and the stand collapsed. Several got flattened, like this Tyrel family.’

‘That’s because John Crukerne is a murderous bastard.’

‘Don’t you take that attitude wi’ me, Bob Miller, or I’ll push that quart pot down your throat so far you’ll have to drink it out your arse.’

There was a loud crash at this point, which Baldwin suspected, correctly, was due to a man tripping and taking a table with him, but it was closely followed by guffaws of laughter and Baldwin
was inclined to the view that the two had settled their differences in the easiest manner, by sharing another pot of ale.

In the end he and his servant Edgar had exchanged a long-suffering look before rising. They had travelled many thousands of miles in each other’s company, both having served together as
Knights Templar in God’s service, and each was used to lack of sleep due to noise. They had whiled away the night playing dice while the arguments outside continued at a muted level, not
finishing until a little before dawn.

Simon would usually have noticed the knight’s red-rimmed eyes and yawns, but today he was more taken up with his own concerns. ‘Lord Hugh arrives today, and God only knows what that
gibbering fool Hal Sachevyll has managed to do. He’ll complain, of course. At least,’ he added, brightening, ‘Meg and Edith will arrive as well.’

‘I had not realised they would attend,’ Baldwin said with genuine pleasure.

‘Try to keep them away! I shall be tied up with Sachevyll and others . . . could you look after them?’

‘I should be glad to. It is months since I saw either of them.’

‘I’m afraid neither of them thought of you when they asked to come here,’ Simon said frankly. ‘All they had on their minds was seeing lunatic deeds of courage – and
the cloths on sale too, of course.’

‘You mean that they would not expect to see courage on my part?’

Simon laughed at his mock-offended expression. ‘Let’s just say, Baldwin, that both know
exactly
what to expect of you.’

‘And I have to remain contented with that, do I?’ Baldwin said. He glanced over his shoulder on hearing hooves approaching.

‘The King Herald, Mark Tyler,’ Simon muttered.

‘I recognised his chins,’ Baldwin agreed affably.

It was true; he recognised Tyler from the day before. As Baldwin watched, the herald rode past Baldwin’s own tent. Edgar was outside, and as the herald passed by, he and Baldwin’s
armour were spattered with mud. Baldwin saw Edgar look at the man’s back long and hard, but then he shrugged. Such accidents could happen even when a man took great care. However, that
didn’t prevent Edgar feeling resentment at the extra work. He bent and set about cleaning Sir Baldwin’s shield again.

The herald cantered on, his nose in the air as if he was trying to keep it away from the smell of the common folk all about him. He was a proud man, very self-important. Not a youngster, Baldwin
noted: the fellow was almost Baldwin’s own age, certainly over forty. Yet for all his apparent haughtiness, his eyes looked anxious, like a man fearful for his future. Interesting, Baldwin
thought.

‘Bloody Tyler,’ fumed Simon at his side. ‘He’ll be looking for Hal Sachevyll to pester. He’ll want confirmation that all is ready.’

‘He was there yesterday.’

‘I know, but if he sees more of a mess today he’ll not be impressed. I should go straight there and find out what that ninny-hammer managed to screw up after I left last
night.’

‘There is little enough to do here. Let us both go and see.’

They walked slowly, for Simon was unenthusiastic about seeing Sachevyll. He meandered, buying a cup of ale and draining it before continuing. At the gate they saw the herald again. He was
staring about him in a peevish manner, as if he had been expecting to be met by someone of rank.

When Simon and Baldwin came nearer he recognised them, snapping rudely, ‘Bailiff Puttock, where have you been? How are things progressing? It is crucial that we have the whole field
prepared well in advance. Lord Hugh will not want excuses when he arrives.’