The Tournament of Blood (29 page)

When could she declaim her love for Geoffrey? Perhaps he would ride to her and demand one of her favours. That was what knights did in the romances – but she and Geoffrey had agreed on
silence, so perhaps he wouldn’t. Not until he had his spurs. Then he could wear her tokens publicly without fear of Sir John or his horrible son William.

Praying that he would be safe in the lists, Alice closed her eyes fervently.

She was considering how pleasant it would be to tell William that she was already married, when her maid leaned forward. ‘Have you heard of the dreadful murder?’

Alice threw her an intrigued look and the maid carried on breathlessly. ‘They say that some ordinary churl was found dead near the castle, out on the hill behind, that his head was all
broken . . . you know, all smashed.’

‘Ugh!’ Alice pulled a face squeamishly, but looked back at her maid with interest.

‘Someone told me it was an evil witch who wanted his blood or something, but another man said that was rubbish and he was attacked by an outlaw for his purse.’

Alice considered. There was more romantic merit in the ghoulish tale, she felt, and gave a luxurious shudder at the idea of blood-drinking vampires. ‘An old witch, hiding up in the woods,
probably,’ she said.

‘Probably, yes, and waiting to steal the heart and lungs of any youth who wanders too close to her haunts, so that she can eat them and make herself look young again . . . Yuk!’

Alice ignored her servant. Her mind was back on her husband and she gazed into the distance in a pleasant daydream. Some time soon she would be able to proclaim her marriage. It was a wonderful
thought.

‘We must hurry, Dame!’

Alice tutted, but knew she must go through with the pageant. She had been chosen to be ‘Dame Courtesy’ – the virgin who would open the tournament, the woman who epitomised the
virtues of the tournament and chivalry generally. She must lead the procession to Lord Hugh. It made her want to cringe. Especially since she was no virgin and was married!

Oh God, she longed so much for the moment when she might confess her marriage.

Andrew sipped from a pot of wine and eyed the contestants. None struck him as overly fearsome. He had charged against better men in his time. Before long he must return to his
master. Sir Edmund would be wanting to prepare himself and watch the early tilts. Looking up, Andrew gauged the position of the sun, then looked down at the shadows. It was growing late.

He drained his cup and left it on the wine-seller’s table, then set off to his master’s tent. He took the path which meandered through the middle of the camp, because it was the most
direct route, but a squealing pig which had been intended for butchery, objected to its early demise and escaped, setting off across the way. It destroyed two tents, snapping the guy ropes, bit a
man in the calf, knocked over a table of cloths, and then escaped into the river.

Any diversion was always welcome, especially in the fair-time atmosphere of the tournament. Suddenly Andrew was surrounded by shouting, laughing people who set off in pursuit and although he
tried to duck away he was swept along for some distance and missed his master’s tent, instead finding himself nearer the castle than he had intended.

A pavilion was open, a servant polishing carefully at a blue riding sword, and Andrew smiled at him. ‘Do you mind if I stand here until the tumult has died down?’

‘Not at all. You are a squire?’

‘Yes. To Sir Edmund of Gloucester.’

‘I’m Edgar, servant to Sir Baldwin of Furnshill,’ Edgar said. He glanced out at the thick crush of people. ‘Would you like some wine?’

Andrew nodded with gratitude, and while Edgar rose to fetch a cup, he looked at the bright blue riding sword, admiring the quality of the script on the blade. Perhaps not as well executed as
some he had seen, but still very good. He picked it up. It balanced perfectly in his hand, and he eyed it enviously.

‘You like my master’s sword?’ Edgar asked.

‘I’ve used many, but this feels better than any,’ Andrew said feelingly. He set it back down, and then he noticed the other symbol.

The sign of the detested, illegal and heretical group called the Knights Templar.

Clouds appeared overhead while Simon stood before the small altar, and his attention wandered while he observed the sky darkening through the lovely glass windows, feeling
relief when the service ended and he could hurry outside. There he was happy to find that although the sky was presently grey and heavily overcast, the clouds showed no promise of rain. True
enough, as he snuffed the air, he could smell no hint of damp.

There were many bystanders here to watch the official opening of the tournament. Philip Tyrel stood with his arms folded, standing still as a man-at-arms should and watching while the people
milled about. Simon never so much as glanced in his direction. From interest, Philip eyed the Bailiff. Simon Puttock looked a pleasant enough man, someone with whom he would have liked to broach a
barrel of ale, to discuss the realm’s difficulties now that the Despensers were the arbiters of power. It was a shame that the would never be able to do so.

He was distracted by the trumpets and noise of the knights and squires. A glittering pageant appeared at the castle’s gate, led by one startlingly beautiful girl dressed all in virginal
white and leading a white mare. Behind her were other girls, all similarly robed in white.

Despite himself, a trace of his sadness passed over the killer’s face. The last tournament he had seen in Devon had started in much the same way, except then he had been a part of the
parade with his woman. And his children had been there too, proud to see their father. It was at just such a tournament as this that they had died, the unwitting victims of other men’s greed.
They had died for money. He could cry to recall it.

That day had started bright and clear, just like this. Far from the town’s fires, the air was pure, blowing straight from the moors beyond the river. That day had been as gay and lively as
this, with flags fluttering in the breeze and women dressed in their best and finest clothes, watching the men lined up, smiling at them flirtatiously or flaunting themselves. Older women
contemplated the men with a more speculative gaze, offering bets on which would win his jousts.

Tyrel’s reverie was destroyed when he saw Sir John a short way away, the grizzled old bastard standing proudly with his arms folded, his pup at his side. The two looked bored, as if they
had seen so many events like this that one more was of little interest to them.

It made Philip set his jaw to see them so arrogant, but he forced himself to relax and not show his tension, for then his revenge against Sir John might somehow be deflected. No, the final blow
of his vengeance must be struck as soon as possible – although he had no specific plan as yet. However, it would come.

The first target for punishment, Benjamin, had been waylaid, it was true, but the other two had been carefully enticed from their work: Wymond by the promise of fresh green timbers for a
pittance while he worked at making new lances, and Hal by the invitation to drink. The fool knocked back all he could, sobbing about his friend Wymond and condemning the Bailiff for his
incompetence. He couldn’t handle the strong wine and was grateful for the offer of an arm to steady him back to his tent as it grew dark.

Carrying Wymond down the hill had been backbreaking, but necessary. Otherwise it might have been ages before anyone found his body, and Philip wanted Hal to know that something was happening
– and by God, it had worked. Hal had plainly been putting off the evil moment when he had to return to his bed alone. Without Wymond, he was lonely and wanted company.

In fact, Philip had a feeling that Hal knew who he was. When they were in the area before Lord Hugh’s
ber frois
, Hal had walked on ahead determinedly, like a man going to the
block, careful never to glance behind him at his executioner, as if he knew he would die and wanted to get it over with.

It was as well. Hal had met his eyes a couple of times in the inn earlier, and there was a sort of gratitude in them. At the time, Philip simply put it down to Sachevyll being thankful that he
had someone to talk to . . . but now he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps Hal had seen something about him, something in his eyes, or something about his face, that revealed the truth. And maybe a man
who was fearful of killing himself even when he was certain that there was nothing left for him to live for, would be glad that someone else would do the job for him. Hal was actually thankful for
his deliverance.

Tyrel shivered. Surely no man could hate life so much that he would welcome death. Something had made him feel sorry for the fellow and Philip struck swiftly. Hal collapsed and lay with his eyes
closed while his breath snorted, and then he was sick, the vomit spewing over his tunic and dripping on to his hose. Philip struck once more and the breathing stopped. He picked up the corpse and
made his way to Hal’s tent – and only when he was near did he realise that there was a guard near Hal’s pavilion. Patiently he settled to wait, while the puke dried on Hal’s
cooling body. The blasted man was still there next morning when the light came, and then he saw the Bailiff and others approaching. That was when he grabbed Hal’s tunic and pulled it on.

The train of thought had distracted him. He watched dully as the procession wound around the castle yard, then Alice approached Lord Hugh with gifts.

If the men were truly in the hands of God, was he justified in exacting his own revenge? He glanced again at Sir John and his son. He saw Squire William smile courteously at Alice, saw him bow
honourably, just like a
preux chevalier
and suddenly he was racked with shame. If the lad was decent, he couldn’t deserve death!

Simon watched Alice advance towards Lord Hugh. The girl was beautiful, he thought, pale, serene and elegant, and it looked as though the Baron felt the same. He stood with his
wife on his arm, smiling graciously at the girl as she passed him the gifts to welcome him to his castle and thank him for the tournament.

When she was done, Lord Hugh’s Almoner appeared, ceremoniously holding a large leather money bag and, while the Baron and his lady looked on, money was given to the poor of Oakhampton who
had been waiting at the castle’s gate. Once they had all been given some money they were directed to the kitchen door where bread and all the leavings from the previous day’s meals were
set out.

Only when the poor had left the area did Lord Hugh and his wife proceed down the long corridor and out beneath the bailey. Turning right they led the way to the field of combat, with their
guests processing along in their train.

Simon took his place behind Lord Hugh and followed him to the field, but he could not help peering about to find Hal. ‘Where
is
he?’

Hal was nowhere to be seen. Simon had a shrewd guess that the architect would not willingly miss being around to welcome Lord Hugh to his seat, so his absence came as a surprise.

Lord Hugh apparently felt the same. He looked about him with evident dissatisfaction. It was a matter of courtesy that the builder should appear. Seeing him, Simon could appreciate how much of
an honour Hal would have been granted by being here. It seemed strange that a man so committed to show and flamboyance should have missed his moment of glory.

That thought set a worm of unease squirming in Simon’s belly but he forced himself to ignore it. There couldn’t be anything wrong. He had checked the field himself with two watchmen,
and Hal had been guarded all night.

Even so, not until Simon stood at Lord Hugh’s side and watched the other stands fill did he feel the concern slip away, together with the weight of the last week’s work. He had done
his best, and now he could relax. If there were any problems it would be the fault and responsibility of someone else, he thought thankfully. Probably Hal’s – and since the fool
wasn’t here to defend himself, if anything were to happen, he would be bound to be forced to shoulder the full blame.

There was to be less ceremony to this tournament. Often in the past, participants would first compete to earn respect from the overblown praise of their lord. Thank God, Simon thought, there
would be none of that nonsense here. Lord Hugh had one aim with this tournament, which was to see to it that all his men had a chance to exercise their skills. On this first day, the competitors
would be the squires – especially those who wished to be knighted.

The heralds appeared, riding in on their great mounts, batons of office held by all three of them, the King Herald, Mark Tyler, who was Lord Hugh’s own man, and the two others. Simon knew
Odo, of course. Like Mark Tyler, Odo seemed to have a high opinion of himself, but then heralds often did. They were little better than actors, to Simon’s mind. Invariably overpaid, their
duties mostly consisted of playing musical instruments and singing. And every so often they would disappear around the world to seek out new songs, new stories of imagined prowess and overblown
pride.

Simon didn’t like heralds.

However, today he couldn’t help but feel happy to see them. They were proof that the tournament was going off without a hitch, and he couldn’t get himself worked up over them. They
had their uses, he supposed.

The King Herald edged his horse forward a little. ‘My Lord Hugh, my Lady. We are here to begin the tournament held in your names, and I and these heralds have registered the names and arms
of all the knights who wish to display their prowess and courage before you. May I beg leave of your lordship to continue?’

Lord Hugh waved a hand with imperious dignity. ‘Carry on.’

The King Herald jerked at his horse’s reins and turned the mount around. His chest expanded until he resembled a barrel set atop his horse. Opening his mouth, he roared in a voice that
could surely have been heard in Oakhampton itself:

‘Now
HEAR ME
,
HEAR ME
! The tournament proper will open tomorrow, with individual knights jousting with their lances, each charging together to see who can survive the clash of arms. There
will be three courses run by each pair, and afterwards the knights will fight with sword and axe. The jousting will take three days, but on the last day there shall be a full
mêlée
so that all knights can demonstrate their skills. I and my two heralds shall be
diseurs
and our word will be final unless the Lord himself overrides us.