The Tournament of Blood (8 page)

At once the horse whirled so the visitor could face him. Sir Peregrine found himself being studied intently, the traveller’s eyes flitting over his worn and slightly faded tunic before
fixing upon his face.

The stranger had thick brown hair worn shorter than was fashionable, and intense grey eyes that were curiously disturbing because not only did he not blink, the irises were small, making him
look as if he was holding them wide in challenge. His face was square and large, the jaw jutting a little. His nose was broken, and there was a scar beneath his left eye from a raking stab wound.
Sir Peregrine decided that he did not like the look of him one little bit.

‘Godspeed,’ the stranger called. ‘Are you the Keeper of this castle?’

‘I am,’ Sir Peregrine answered. ‘Your name, sir?’

‘You may call me Sir Edmund of Gloucester. I have heard that there is to be a tournament in your lord’s demesne. Is that correct?’

‘We’re holding a festival in our castle at Oakhampton,’ Sir Peregrine confirmed.

‘I should like to participate.’

‘You would be very welcome, Sir Edmund.’ Sir Peregrine bowed, but truth be told, he was reluctant to accept strangers to the tournament. Men who were unknown could prove dangerous.
They might lose their tempers and kill combatants, or by dropping a sly word into the ear of a bitter loser, cause a feud which could lead to bloodshed.

The knight smiled as if he could read Sir Peregrine’s mind. ‘May I ask leave to stay here the night? There is an inn, but a traveller can often be waylaid in a new town.’

‘Of course, Sir Edmund. The stables will look to your horse, and if you have servants, they would be welcome to join you in the hall.’

‘I have only a squire and an archer,’ the knight said. He shouted through the gateway and soon a man with a nut-brown face and rough dark hair appeared on a heavy pony. He wore green
like a forester, and had a long knife hanging from his belt while a rein held in his hand led a second horse, which was laden with sacks and provisions, as well as what looked like a pair of
longbows well-wrapped in waxed cloth. A thick bundle of arrows was securely strapped alongside. Behind him came a blue-clad man, who trotted quickly under the castle’s entrance leading his
own sumpter horse. It was heavily laden, rattling and clanking, apparently with armour, and lances projected forwards and backwards.

Although he didn’t look above medium height, the squire gave Sir Peregrine the impression of wary power restrained only with conscious effort, just like his knight. His eyes moved over the
whole yard, taking in the hogs in the corner, chickens scrabbling among the dirt and twigs, the lounging guards. Sir Peregrine thought a smile of disdain twisted his face at the sight, as if he was
amused by the quaintness of the place.

If anything, he felt that the squire deserved more careful watching than the knight. The squire was older; he looked a formidable fellow and Sir Peregrine’s attention remained upon him as
he rode to a stable and sprang down as agile as a cat, and gave the reins to a young boy.

As the three visitors were welcomed into the castle, Sir Peregrine experienced a feeling of unease. This fighting trio looked like a good team – possibly one of the best, and he
wasn’t used to feeling outclassed.

A week had passed since Jeanne’s false labour, which had subsided as suddenly as it began. A good night’s sleep, and the pains had been put down to a bad bout of
wind. Now, however, there could be no mistake and Baldwin watched his wife with rising anxiety. Jeanne knelt on a cushion on the floor and gripped her maid Petronilla’s arm, eyes squeezed
tight shut as the contractions ground into her belly.

He knew perfectly well that women were built for this, that their bodies had been given to them by God to produce children. He also knew that Jeanne was being supported by a woman who had
experience herself of childbirth – and yet the knowledge was no help. Watching his wife, he knew only panic that she might not endure.

Poor Jeanne looked so tired as she waited for the next clenching; her eyes scarcely noticed him or the room, but instead were turned in upon herself. Baldwin wished he could comprehend what she
was going through – but he couldn’t.

He had appealed to Simon Puttock many months ago now, asking how the Bailiff coped with
his
wife’s childbirth, and Simon had merely laughed, saying, ‘It’s a
woman’s thing. You don’t go and help your shepherds in lambing, do you? No – so why on earth sit in with your wife? You can’t help because you don’t know how –
all you can do is unsettle her. Women know what to expect and all that, so I leave them to it and find someone to share a glass of wine or ale with me. So will you, if you have any
sense!’

‘Let them get on with it,’ Baldwin repeated to himself, watching as Jeanne’s maid gently wiped her brow with a cloth dipped in rose-water. It was definitely a tempting thought,
running outside to escape, but he felt his departure would be pure cowardice in the face of his wife’s suffering.

‘Could you fetch some wine?’ Jeanne gasped after a moment.

Petronilla nodded and rose, walking quickly from the room.

‘Water, too!’ Jeanne called after her.

‘How are you?’ Baldwin enquired tentatively.

She looked up at him. The dampness on her forehead made her look pale and ill in the candlelight, as though she was perspiring from a fever. ‘I’m not in pain, Baldwin, it’s not
like that, it’s just that it’s so
relentless
! I know it won’t end until the baby is ready, but I wish it would hurry!’ She stopped suddenly, closing her eyes, her
head falling forwards, a hand resting on her belly. ‘Here it is again – come here. Quick!’

He went and crouched at her side as she stiffened, her arm gripping his, eyes tight shut, a sighing gasp breaking from her as the ripples cramped through her womb. It lasted but a few moments,
but to Baldwin it was an age. ‘That’s it. It’s finished for now,’ she sighed.

Baldwin was relieved to see Petronilla return and watched the maid mix wine with warmed water, holding the cup to Jeanne’s mouth. She sipped and swallowed, then leaned back. For once
Baldwin poured himself a cup of wine and drank it neat. He glanced at the water, but then tipped more wine into his bowl, drinking deeply. Turning, he was in time to see his wife moan and reach for
the bucket at her side. Before he could speak, she was sick, vomiting and spitting. Shivering, she sat back.

‘More wine?’ Petronilla asked.

‘No.’ Jeanne shook her head, eyes closed. ‘It’ll only make me sick again.’

Petronilla nodded and wiped her brow.

‘It’s very cold in here,’ Jeanne said accusingly. ‘Baldwin, can’t you make the fire hotter?’

‘Of course,’ he said enthusiastically, glad to be able to help in even so minor a way. He threw logs onto the hearth and turned to find that Petronilla had left the room to fetch
more rose-water. ‘Are you well?’ he asked with the return of his nervousness.

‘It’s . . . coming again.
Come here!
’

He hurried to her and she grabbed at his arm, her fingers digging in while he stared down at her. It was an appalling sensation this, knowing that there was nothing he could do to ease her
anguish, but he was reassured by her apparent resilience and fortitude.

‘It just keeps on, again and again,’ she whispered.

‘Don’t worry, it’ll soon be over,’ he said heartily.

Her eyes flashed at him. ‘Don’t you bloody
dare
say that again! And why’s it so fucking hot in here?’

The next morning, in his castle at Penhallam, Sir Walter Basset slapped his thigh when the message was delivered and read out to him. ‘A tournament? With all Lord de
Courtenay’s knights? Wonderful! I can feel a treasury of money coming my way! Darling? My Lady?’

His wife Helen left their steward to decide on his own which barrels should be taken up to the castle’s buttery, and walked to her man’s side. ‘What is it?’

Sir Walter told her of the summons. ‘It’s excellent! Just think of the men who’ll be there – old fools, many of them. There’re bound to be loads of easy targets.
Think of it! Ransoms, horses, armour – and even a handout of cash as a reward for my prowess from Lord Hugh!’

Helen listened, and in truth she could smile with him. His joy was ever-infectious. He was large, strong, and entirely masculine, his whole body covered with a light curling down of black hair.
His odour was to her the finest perfume; his leathery skin was rough against her own, which she found intensely erotic. His scars were proof of his chivalry; his hands large and powerful. He was
not tall, but huge. Barrel-chested, his frame rested on short but solid legs. His constant practice with sword and lance had given him the massive shoulders of a wrestler, while his neck was almost
non-existent.

But he wasn’t ugly. He moved heavily, as befitted someone with so substantial a frame, but above it all, he had calm eyes of a deep blue, which were commonly crinkled at the edges with
pleasure. His mouth was a little too wide, above the pointed chin, but his features were regular and pleasing, especially when he smiled. When he grinned, Helen would swear that he could tempt an
angel. Now his sheer delight and conviction meant that the news of the tournament was in every way as pleasing to her.

‘So long as you don’t fall and damage your new armour,’ she teased.

‘For you I would tilt without armour,’ he said gruffly. ‘For my Lady’s honour, my hide would be enough.’

‘I prefer jousting with you when you’re naked,’ she giggled.

‘Come to the chamber now. Prove it.’

‘I don’t have time,’ she protested.

‘I order it,’ he said simply.

‘My Lord,’ she said, surrendering happily.

Their solar was at the other side of the hall, and they walked through it to their private chambers. There a man was sweeping away old rushes.

‘Out!’ Sir Walter snapped and the man fled while the knight untied his hose and pulled off his shirt.

Helen watched him while she slowly removed her skirts and tunic. In every way he was a good husband to her, kindly and generous, and a master in the tournament. They had been married three years
now, and she had never yet seen him bested.

‘Hurry, woman! I’ll burn with lust else!’ he grumbled. He was already on their bed, the blankets pulled back, and now he took hold of her and pulled her towards him.

It was a wonderful body, he thought, holding her at arm’s length a moment while he felt his ardour mount. Long in the leg, slim in the waist, she had a flowing mane of red-gold hair
framing a finely sculpted face with small nose, high cheekbones and slanted green eyes.

Sensing his impatience, she quickly climbed atop of him, kissing and stroking to ensure his pleasure. It was her duty. She knew that he would suspect her of adultery if she ever rejected his
demands, and his response would be swift and uncompromising. She made love with a silent passion until he spent, and then worked a little longer, more slowly, until she gasped and fell onto his
chest, her breathing gradually calming.

His chest was damp with their sweat. She kissed it, then rested her cheek on his shoulder, twining her fingers in the thick hair of his breast. ‘You’re confident of
winning?’

Glancing down at her, his voice registered his surprise. ‘Do you have any doubt?’

‘I have never seen you lose.’

‘Yes, I will win. I have the horse, I have the equipment, and I know I have the most virtuous Lady to egg me on.’

‘After that display? You can still think me virtuous?’

‘For a woman, yes. Yes, I would say you are honourable enough,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t dare to be otherwise, would you?’ He gave a low chuckle as he rolled her onto
her back and climbed between her thighs.

Only when he had exhausted himself and could lie back with his hand on her belly did his mind return to the tournament. Sighing contentedly, he allowed himself to consider the thrill of riding
once more against another man.

It was rather like this taking of a woman, he thought. There was a similar tingle to the blood, a similar clutch at the belly, a heightened awareness of life. And the delight as an opponent fell
was similar to the pleasure when a woman surrendered herself. Both were exquisite, wonderful experiences. Different, but similar in some way.

He had never lost in the lists. He couldn’t. He would take on any odds to win because within him he knew he harboured a strain of explosive cruel violence that exceeded the fabled madness
of a
berserker
. When his blood was up, his rage was like a red mist which encompassed his entire being, and he could throw himself into combat without a thought for his own safety, beating
at his opponent with a wholehearted ferocity that terrified any who stood before him.

It even shocked
him
sometimes. Like when he had almost killed Sir Richard Prouse six years ago at Crukerne. Not that it was his fault. Anyone could fly off the handle in a
mêlée
; he wasn’t the first. It was nothing to be ashamed of. Especially in a battle. The ransom had been paid in full, which was what mattered. More business for that
usurer Benjamin, no doubt.

The memory of Dudenay brought a scowl to his features. Tight fisted bastard son of a Parisian peasant’s poxed dog! His charges for the armour had been extortionate. It was all Sir Walter
could manage not to put his hands about the money-man’s throat when he had demanded his interest. Never again, thank God! Not now the creature was dead.

Baldwin felt his wife’s grip tighten as the contractions returned, her breathing changing until she was almost panting while her fingers dug into his forearm, making him
wince. Gradually her breathing recovered and Baldwin blew out his cheeks in relief as her fingers released him.

She looked up at him, her hair clinging damply to her forehead, her face pale and weakly. ‘I feel so cold now. As the contractions get me, I burn, but as soon as they pass I
freeze.’

Wary after her earlier outburst, Baldwin ventured nervously, ‘Um . . . should I put a log on the fire?’

‘My winter cloak would be easier. Then I can throw it off when I’m hot again.’