The Tournament of Blood (23 page)

Leaving Hugh to protect Margaret, he went to seek more wine. It was while waiting to be served that he saw a squire stumbling near the river. The lad appeared to be upset, walking with a clumsy
gait like a man who was ill, and Baldwin watched him some little while before setting off after him.

‘Who are you?’ Geoffrey demanded.

Baldwin was some distance away still and all the squire could see was a large, square-built man trailing after him. True, his tunic was a plain cream colour unlike Andrew’s red hose and
shirt under a jack, but Geoffrey was not of a mood to notice details.

‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace. Are you all right?’

Geoffrey couldn’t meet Baldwin’s eye as the knight approached. He looked down at his feet and took a deep breath, then sniffed and walked on. Seeing Squire Andrew here was appalling.
Dreadful. If Alice got to hear of his behaviour at Boroughbridge, she would surely throw him over. The shame – to be disgraced before everyone, and just when Geoffrey had thought things were
going so well. His messages were being delivered and the responses fired his heart with hope. Alice was happy to repeat her love for him. They would declare their wedding before Lord Hugh as soon
as Geoffrey had won his spurs.

‘You are a squire?’ Baldwin asked gently.

‘Yes. To Sir Ralph Sturrey.’

‘Sir Ralph? I saw him only a few weeks ago and he had no squire,’ Baldwin said mildly. Sir Ralph was an old friend and had bemoaned his lack.

‘I joined him only three months ago,’ Geoffrey admitted. ‘Before that I served Sir Hector Barr, but he fell at Boroughbridge.’

Baldwin considered him a while, then, ‘When I was young, squires used to meet in taverns. Does that still happen?’

‘Of course it does,’ Geoffrey said scathingly. ‘Why shouldn’t we?’

‘I see. Where were you last night after dark?’

‘Peter and I went to a tavern near town.’

‘What time did you return?’

‘I don’t know. Late.’

‘What of your friend?’

‘Peter? He passed out. I left him there.’

‘On your way back to the camp, did you see anyone else?’

Geoffrey shook his head, then: ‘Oh, there was one man – up near the lance-racks.’

‘Who?’

Geoffrey gave a wry grin. ‘My eyes are bad. At twenty paces in daylight I find it hard to recognise a man. In the dark I have no chance. All I could see was a shape. Why all the questions,
sir knight?’

‘Wymond Carpenter was murdered last night.’

Geoffrey curled his lip. ‘That vicious bugger?’

‘Many people say the same,’ Baldwin sighed. ‘It seems everyone loathed the fellow.’

Geoffrey was quiet a moment. ‘I couldn’t swear to it, but it’s possible that the man I saw was him.’

‘Alone?’

‘Well, I did see another shape with him – ach! How can I tell?’

‘And there was no one with you when you saw him?’

‘You mean you suspect
me
?’ Geoffrey stopped and peered up at Baldwin. He would like to be able to speak to someone whom he could trust, and Baldwin’s grave features
were comforting, but his secret must not be divulged to Sir John. Making a quick decision, he said, ‘I am married, Sir Baldwin. Lady Alice is my wife – although we have not announced
our wedding. We are waiting until I am knighted. She was with me. Perhaps she recognised the men.’

‘I see.’

‘But please do not tell anyone. Our marriage was clandestine and there would be trouble if news should be spread.’

‘Why?’

‘Her family perished when a stand collapsed in Exeter several years ago. Since then she has been the ward of Sir John of Crukerne, and he wants her to wed his son Squire William. He would
remove her from this tournament if he realised she had been already married. He’d reject it. You know how much power a man has over a ward.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Baldwin considered. This was interesting, but surely it was irrelevant to Wymond’s murder. ‘But you think she might be able to tell me who this man was at
the lances?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘Did you walk her back to her tent afterwards?’

‘Of course.’

‘So what would Wymond have been doing there at the lances so late at night?’ Baldwin wondered. ‘And who was the man with him?’

Andrew saw William stoop and collect the scarf. It was typical that the squire should try his luck with the girl. The kid was attractive enough, certainly, but Andrew knew from
long association with Squire William that he would seek to storm almost any bastion of feminine defence more as a matter of practice than from any genuine need.

‘She fell at your attack?’ Andrew said drily.

William started, then gave a shamefaced grin. ‘Christ’s bones, but you can walk quietly when you have a wish!’

‘Guilty conscience?’

‘No need for that, Andrew. Some of us only ever behave with the best of intentions.’

‘I am sure you’re right, but when it comes to women, your intentions have always been murky.’

William gave a fleeting grin, but his attention was fixed on the disappearing Edith. ‘She is beautiful.’

‘She looked it,’ Andrew agreed. ‘So were many of your other conquests.’

‘I wouldn’t put her in the same category.’

‘No? You don’t mean you’re in love? Good God, you’re too young for that!’

‘Just because you have never married.’

‘No, it wasn’t possible.’

‘Wasn’t possible?’

Andrew said nothing and William gave him an interested glance. He had not met Andrew before the Boroughbridge campaign and the thought that a man of some thirty-five years should have found it
impossible to marry seemed peculiar. ‘You must have found opportunities to marry. Didn’t you ever come across a woman whom you desired?’

‘My master was strict,’ Andrew said shortly.

‘Ah, I remember you saying that you were living in France. They can be strange over there,’ William said dismissively and returned to a more interesting subject. ‘She is a
graceful filly, isn’t she? I shouldn’t go near her, for I promised my father that I wouldn’t risk my match to Alice – but she’s a tempting morsel.’

‘He still wants you to wed Alice?’

‘Oh, I shall. I can marry her and use her lands, and she will be delightful to embrace on a dark and chill winter’s evening.’

‘What if she refuses to marry you?’ Andrew asked.

‘She can’t. There are pressures a guardian can bring to bear on his ward. No, I don’t fear that.’

‘Then what of this latest one?’ Andrew said, jerking a thumb at Edith’s back.

‘Ah! Well, she is the Bailiff’s daughter, and he’s annoyed me.’

‘So you’ll take her in order to get back at him?’

‘What better way? Well, other than bulling his wife and pinning the cuckold’s horns on him,’ William laughed.

‘Christ Jesus! Are you sure of this?’

‘You can’t understand,’ William said tolerantly.

Andrew bridled. ‘I may be five-and-thirty, but I can remember what it is to desire a woman.’

‘What better way to get my revenge on him than by deflowering his daughter? It will be doubly pleasurable for me, and all the more bitter for him.’

‘But she will be ruined,’ Andrew said more quietly.

‘The alternative is a vulgar fight with her father. I’d certainly rather sheath my weapon to the hilt in her than have him thrust his dagger in
me
.’

‘At least there is some honour in a fight.’

‘True. Standing with comrades to defeat the enemy.’

‘If you can trust your comrades,’ Andrew said.

‘That sounds bitter.’

‘It was.’

‘Yet your comrades were stout-hearted enough. They attacked many times.’

‘Horses and armour are poor protection against a small but determined band of archers protected by men-at-arms,’ Andrew agreed.

‘It was a good fight,’ William said. They had been on opposite sides during the battle and William had captured Andrew. ‘Why are you bitter about your companions?’

‘Before Boroughbridge I and a small group of foragers were ambushed and I was knocked from my horse. Several of us were killed, but one, a coward, fled the field.’

‘That’s disgusting!’ William said vehemently.

‘And he will be knighted.’

‘You’d prevent it?’ William asked doubtfully. ‘He could challenge you to combat.’

‘If he’s too scared to risk his life in a fight, I doubt he’d test his skills with me,’ Andrew said dismissively.

‘Who was it?’

‘Geoffrey.’

William gaped. ‘No! Christ’s blood! He’s the man Alice wanted instead of me!’

‘If she wants him,’ Andrew said, ‘she should be quick. He may not be around for much longer. And if he is, I’ll make sure he’s never knighted.’

‘Do so with my pleasure. But if you say he deserted you during the fight at Boroughbridge, you may have to stand in a queue to get to him!’

While Margaret rocked her young boy waiting for Baldwin to return, Hugh absently scratched his head and sucked at a piece of meat stuck in the gap of a broken tooth. It was
while he was standing with no particular thought in his mind that he saw Edith talking to William.

Hugh was a lonely man. Raised as a shepherd on the moors, he was used to quiet emptiness with only dogs and lambs to talk to, and until a year before he had felt jealous of other men who had
their own women, like his master and Sir Baldwin. Even Edgar, Sir Baldwin’s man, had married after many years of philandering, but Hugh had been convinced no woman could want him. Until
recently.

He had left her at her home up near Iddesleigh. The child she had borne was more than nine months old now, and she was over the worst: not only must she cope with the birth of her child, her
house was old and more than a little dilapidated. Once it had been a cottar’s home, with a vegetable garden at the rear and a shaw to provide all the owner’s wants in terms of wood, but
the cottar had died and the place then left to rot.

When Constance arrived, she found she must renew thatching, clear weeds from the yard, hack back the overgrown shaw and prepare the soil for planting. That was outside; inside, the hearth must
be renewed, furniture replaced, the walls replastered and painted. A woman already far into pregnancy could not achieve much and Hugh had taken on the work, his wiry frame bending and hauling and
dragging and painting stolidly, until evening when he returned indoors, undemonstratively eating the bread and pottage she had made for him, before they both went to the only bed in the house.

His admiration for her was forged and tempered in the passionless environment of the convent, but now it grew as he created a place where she could bring up her child. Until winter and the
freezing chill, he had not touched her in their bed, lying carefully away from her, but with the snow the two clung together for warmth.

When the boy was born, Hugh was there to help her settle, but he hadn’t expected her to grow to love him. The dour, uncommunicative moorman accepted his own love for her like a
responsibility which must be shouldered, never anticipating that it could be returned. He was a servant and knew his position. She had been a nun, and was thus inviolate, but she had been persuaded
into a man’s bed, and now bore a bastard child.

Soon after the birth, when she brought the child to Hugh and told him that it was named after him, he had felt a curious feeling of hunger, an emptiness that couldn’t be filled, and for a
while he held the swaddled child, unable to speak. Her action had overwhelmed him. He stood contemplating the baby, whose eyes had opened and fixed Hugh with a serious squint before trying to
suckle from his leather jack.

‘I’ll get back to work,’ Hugh had said gruffly, passing the baby back to his mother, and going out with a light step to fetch his axe. That afternoon he scarcely managed half
the work he’d intended.

Constance was ever kind and appreciative. A trained infirmarer, she was used to calming the ill, soothing their pain with her soft voice, her light touch and warmth of spirit. For Hugh these
qualities were all but unknown in his life. He had helped her from a desire to assist a mother whom he loved as one might love the Madonna, a woman seen from afar and admired for her qualities, but
by the time the baby was born he adored her utterly. Before the end of the spring they were married.

It had been hard for him to leave her at their home, but his master owned him, and at least Simon allowed him time to travel home and see his woman whenever he wanted. It was better than most
servants received.

Today, seeing William talking to Edith he felt torn. The girl was his own secret treasure: since her childhood, he had been her closest accomplice and ally, often delaying his duties in order to
see her smile, giving himself as a mount when she wanted to pretend to ride, playing hide-and-seek with her or whittling sticks into fantastic shapes while she watched open-mouthed.

That was years ago. Now she was a mature young woman, and sought friends of her own age. It felt like a betrayal, the way that she curled her lip when told to remain with Hugh at the house, but
Hugh phlegmatically accepted it. He knew girls of her age would lose interest in childish pursuits and would be keen to move to more mature behaviour. It was natural, even if it was hurtful. And
from the look of her, she had found a lad who had a similar interest in her. Not some scruffy churl from a peasants’ vill, but a man of better birth than Hugh or even Simon himself: a
squire.

He only caught a fleeting glimpse of Edith’s face as she left the lad, but Hugh was sure he saw in her features the same joy, the same happiness he had felt himself last year when he first
realised he was in love.

That was why he didn’t tell his mistress about Squire William. He was not to know that if he had, he might have been able to save himself and his master a great deal of trouble.

Later, as the light was fading, Andrew walked along the road towards the tavern where he had arranged to meet William, when he heard feet behind him. He continued without
breaking his step, but his attention was concentrated behind him.

Caution was an essential part of him now. It wasn’t an act to impress women, much though frivolous fools like William sometimes assumed it was. Andrew had no need to impress. He was
confident in his own abilities. That was enough.