Read The Tournament of Blood Online
Authors: Michael Jecks
Okehampton Castle has suffered dreadfully over the centuries. It was built soon after Hastings, by Baldwin Fitz Gilbert, Sheriff of Devon under William the Bastard, and was mentioned in
Domesday. It became a de Courtenay property when Robert de Courtenay married Baldwin’s great-great-granddaughter in 1172. The earls of Devon were the de Redvers family, but the male line died
out in the 1200s. Hugh de Courtenay married one of the de Redvers women, and subsequently became Earl in her right in 1335.
There are enormous cracks in the walls, and the outer curtain wall to the north has all but disappeared, but this little castle has a wonderful feel to it, especially if one makes the laborious
ascent to the old tower on top of the steep spur. From there you can peer down at the yard before you, or gaze down the steep hill toward the meadows, up at Dartmoor, or at the line of the old
roadway. It may have been a small fort, but lying as it did on the main road from Cornwall, it had a tremendous strategic importance. It is well worth a visit.
After the forgoing, the more vigilant readers will have noticed that I spelled the town’s name as ‘Okehampton’ and not ‘Oakhampton’.
When I wrote the first of the
Templar
series, I wanted to use old spellings of place names. I thought they were more interesting, but to my surprise a number of people have complained
or have accused me of not knowing the area because I can’t spell the town’s name properly. For them, all I can say is that I wanted to use the names as they would have been spelled in
the past. In the same way I have stuck in the main to old-fashioned spelling of people’s names.
For those who dislike the ‘Oak’ spelling, I hope that seeing the more modern spelling here in the Author’s Note will satisfy them. After all, the Author’s Note is written
in and about the twenty-first century – it’s only right that Okehampton should be given its contemporary spelling!
With a work of this type the writer has to study many aspects of history, from methods of fighting to the clothing worn, to how Okehampton Castle would have looked in the
1320s. I am hugely grateful as always for the help of the Exeter University Library staff and the staff of the Devon and Exeter Institution, and any errors are entirely my own.
I’ve found it enormously enjoyable getting to grips with tournaments and I only hope you find the story as interesting to read as it was for me to write.
Michael Jecks
North Dartmoor
April 2000
Benjamin Dudenay, known to most people as ‘Ben the money-lender’, was not popular, so his murder caused no distress except to his three outstanding creditors, whose
demands for compensation were stolidly rejected by his widow, Maud. She was content to live on the proceeds of his wealth, feeling no need to maintain his business, and steadfastly claimed
impoverishment whenever bailiff or beadle asked that she settle the dead man’s debts.
Fortunately Benjamin’s death was much easier to arrange than his murderer had anticipated. And it was equally fortunate that the killer was unknown, that he had been away from the city of
Exeter for so long that his victim could not anticipate an attack.
It had been such a shock to see the banker after so many years, that Philip Tyrel dropped his cudgel.
His life had altered so much. Even his name had been changed now, though he still thought of himself as Philip, but to see Benjamin again made the years fall away.
Somehow Philip had expected the fellow to be dead. Benjamin wasn’t a young man when he’d killed his victims and Philip had momentarily thought he must be mistaken – it must be
a trick of the light that made this fellow look like Benjamin. Yet he followed him all the same, wondering if his memory was playing games with him after so many years. Then, when the money-lender
entered a hall, Philip heard him accosted by name –
Benjamin Dudenay
– and he had to lean against a wall to prevent his falling. This was the devil who had ruined
Philip’s life in the pursuit of his own profit. This was the fiend who made money from the deaths of men, women and children.
Philip could have walked away from Exeter and put the place from his mind if he had not seen Benjamin, but now he felt revulsion fill his soul.
He had never before harmed a man, let alone killed one, yet when he saw Benjamin later, strutting down the street and smiling suavely at other leading citizens, saw him arrogantly dropping coins
into the alms bowls which the beggars thrust towards him, Philip felt his anger rising. As he stood staring at the rich building that proclaimed Benjamin’s importance, his blood called out
for vengeance.
That night, Benjamin haunted his dreams, alongside the faces of Benjamin’s victims, who cried out for justice – as they had every night in the years since they had perished. Philip
shot awake, sweating as they called to him, searing his soul with their pitiful pleadings. Each time he dozed they returned to him, tortured, shrieking faces, until another traveller at the inn
grew so irritable at his restlessness that he heaved a boot at Philip’s head and demanded tersely why he didn’t go and seek his mother among the whores at the river and let other people
sleep.
Philip went out. Before light he found himself outside Benjamin’s hall again as if his feet had themselves instinctively made the decision to take him there. The usurer left his house as
the sky was changing from violet to gold and the sun was beginning to lift above the horizon. As if in a trance, Philip set off after him.
The streets were quiet at this time of day. A few people scuffed to church, an apprentice ran to his work after spending the night with his girl, a cat arched its back and spat at a lean and
expectant-looking terrier.
Benjamin strolled past them all, ignoring both people and animals. Philip was torn between excitement and terror. Walking swiftly, he overtook the man and then stopped at the entrance to an
alley, bending to retie his hose. The light from the waxing sun caught Benjamin’s face and Philip felt his anxiety slip away. There could be no mistake: it was definitely him. The
money-lender still wore that same supercilious smile of yore. He glanced down his nose at Philip and in that moment his fate was decided.
The cudgel dangled from his belt. Ben took one last, fateful step and Philip snatched it up, cracking Benjamin over the head. The banker fell like an axed hog, flat on his belly. Working
speedily, Philip dragged him into the alley. A short way in he found a low doorway leading to a tiny cell-like room, a storehouse, and he hauled the dead man inside. Then Benjamin moaned.
Philip nearly dropped him and bolted, he was that close to panic. He’d hoped the blow had slain Benjamin, yet now the man was feebly moving, grunting to himself. Swallowing hard, Philip
gripped his cudgel. He lifted it again even as Benjamin’s hand began to move towards his battered skull. Then Ben’s eyes opened and he squinted up.
‘Take my purse, you whoreson, if that’s what you want,’ he croaked.
‘Money? You killed my family for
money
! Do you think a few coins can save you?’
‘I killed
who
? You’re raving, man. I’ve never seen you before in my life.’
‘I am Philip Tyrel!’
‘Philip? Philip Tyrel? Oh, my God!’
Gritting his teeth, Philip brought his cudgel down, not once but five, six, seven times. He felt a spatter strike his cheek and his belly rebelled as he saw the result of his actions, but he
couldn’t stop. At first he knew the fear of a man who dare not leave a witness to his crime, but then it was overtaken by anger in the memory of the people this banker had slaughtered. Their
broken, ruined bodies, their gaping mouths begged for retribution.
Then it was over. Philip looked down, panting. The ghastly sight gave him a spasm of horror, and he went out to the alley and threw up. Reluctantly going back inside, he could see that there was
no possibility of Benjamin ever being able to accuse him.
Philip squatted at the side of the body, tears welling. He had become what the banker had been, a murderer. He had himself broken one of God’s Ten Commandments and taken life. If he was
discovered, he would hang.
Yet soon his despondency began to fade. Even if he was discovered he had done his duty. Justice had been visited upon the banker. Benjamin Dudenay was dead, and that was an end to the
matter.
In the main road at the top of the alley was a stream and Philip went to it and dropped his cudgel in, watching the blood as it was washed away by the flow, creating a stain like a massive red
feather in the water. He dipped his hands in and wiped his face, then rinsed out his mouth.
Standing, he felt as if he had been freshly baptised, free of sin or any guilt. Benjamin had deserved his end. Even the manner of his death had been somehow suitable, his head smashed and
destroyed. His own wife would find it hard to recognise him now, just as Philip and the others had struggled to identify their own loved ones.
There was a tavern nearby and Philip made his way to it. At last, he thought, the terrible dreams could end. He had done his part and the deaths were avenged.
Of course, that was before he met the other men responsible for the deaths.
One day later, when Benjamin’s body was already chill on the earthen floor, in a field not far from Crukerne, Alice Lavandar walked with her lover, holding his hand as
they passed through the long grasses up the hill. When they reached the top, the land before them was smothered in a light covering of frost, making all look grey in the shadows, although where the
sun touched the grass and woods there was a salmon tinge as if the land itself was heated from within by its own health and fecundity.
Alice could see that Geoffrey was proud but tongue-tied. She squeezed his hand, smiling at him, and he returned the pressure. If he agreed, this would be a huge step for both of them –
dangerous, even – not that he would believe her warnings, she thought.
‘Are you well?’ she asked when he winced.
‘Oh, yes.’ His return from the Battle of Boroughbridge, where his master had been killed, had accorded him high honour in her eyes. It was fortunate, he thought, that she would never
know the truth of his campaign.
‘See that?’ she said, pointing at the fields ahead of them. ‘It’s all mine; my dowry.’
‘With
my
eyes, I am lucky to be able to see you here at my side,’ Geoffrey smiled thinly. ‘Anyway, it’s only yours if Sir John allows you to have it.’
‘He has to; he can’t stop me.’
‘I think he’d rather it remained under his control. You’re not old enough to look after it as far as he’s concerned, are you?’
‘I am old enough to marry.’
‘Yes, but he can keep your dowry for as long as he wishes.’
‘I am sixteen. He has no right.’
‘He has every right, Alice, you know that.’
She was silent. Alice knew she was old enough, according to the Church, to contract her own marriage now she was over sixteen, but that didn’t matter in legal terms. She was still the
chattel of whichever man controlled her life: her guardian – or her husband. ‘He wouldn’t keep all my dowry for no reason,’ she said.
‘Sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself,’ he said with a grin.
She shrugged. ‘I hate him. I hate his son as well. Why should I reward him for murdering my father?’
Geoffrey was a solid youth and well-muscled, with thick arms and legs made sturdy by exercise. A sandy-coloured thatch of hair lay thickly over his brow, almost as far as his clear grey eyes,
reminding her of a sleepy puppy peering out from beneath a blanket. She knew he wanted her to hold him – but they still had too much to discuss.
‘He will try to marry me,’ she said.
‘That is what I am most scared of,’ he agreed.
‘He wants me to marry his son.’
Geoffrey shot her a quick look. ‘Then there’s only one way to prevent him.’
‘Yes.’
He stopped. A cloud had passed before the sun as they spoke but now it was gone and they could both feel the warmth. Alice turned to him and he took her other hand, surveying her seriously.
‘Alice, will you marry me?’
Her heart lurched. She had expected it, had tried to tease him into this for weeks, but it was a thrill to hear his words. All of a sudden her legs felt a little weak, but her heart fluttered as
if it was about to break free from her breast. It was impossible to stop the smile that pulled at her lips. ‘Yes.’
‘Even a clandestine marriage?’
In answer she took his hands and stared into his face. ‘I will be your wife. I swear to be yours for all my life and no other man’s.’
‘Then I will be your husband,’ he smiled, and pulled her to him. The ceremony was now complete – and binding. ‘Who needs a church door? We’ll tell the priest when
we have time.’
She responded eagerly to his kiss, pulling him down to the grass beside her, and there, with the cool spring air washing over them, the two made love, sealing their wedding contract. They had
given their oaths; they were married before God and Alice knew only relief, even if they must keep their promises secret for a short while.