The Tournament of Blood (40 page)

‘Trial by . . .’ Simon stuttered. ‘But I’ve done nothing. I can’t fight you, a knight!’

‘Name your champion, Bailiff. I challenge you to trial by battle, and if I kill him and win, you will hang. I swear it!’

Margaret sent Hugh to fetch them wine, but then sat with Edith cradled in her lap, sobbing. She had given her son to Petronilla and now rocked her daughter as she listened to
the men talking.

Sir Roger was shaking with emotion. ‘Bailiff, you can’t accept the challenge. It would be insane. The man’s a killer, he’s often killed his foe. Prove your innocence in
court, it’s much safer.’

‘He challenged me before all those people,’ Simon said dully. ‘Even my own daughter thinks I am guilty. If I refuse, many will assume I
did
do it, that I don’t
dare to throw my fate into God’s hands, that I prefer to bribe officials, jurors and lawyers to find for me.’

‘Let people believe what they want,’ Baldwin said earnestly. ‘Do not risk yourself in this way.’

Simon met his eye a moment, but then looked back to Edith and his wife. ‘Meg, I am so sorry. I should never have come here. It was a matter of pride. Stupid pride. I thought that if my
father could organise tournaments, I could do it as well. I never thought I’d be risking everything.’

‘It wasn’t your fault, Simon,’ Baldwin said.

A servant thrust his head through the doorway. ‘Bailiff ? Oh, good.’

Behind him was the herald Odo and Sir Peregrine, both with grim features as they entered. Simon wasn’t interested in their sympathy. All he wanted at this moment was some private moments
with his wife and daughter, to try to soothe them and persuade Edith he was innocent.

Baldwin said to the Coroner, ‘Have you completed the study of the body?’

‘Yes, and I am afraid that there is nothing to show who could have killed the fellow. He was stabbed twice in the back, then his throat was cut. Blood everywhere.’

‘So he died there,’ Baldwin noted. ‘And was not beaten to death like Benjamin and the others. Is there any suggestion that someone other than the Bailiff might have been
responsible?’

‘Only Simon has been accused.’

Simon nodded. ‘Everyone thinks I did it, don’t they? Even my own daughter.’

Baldwin frowned. ‘Never mind what everyone thinks, Simon. You did not kill the lad, so we must show you are innocent.’

‘If you think so,’ Simon said wearily. He walked to his wife and dropped onto the bench at her side, putting a hand on Edith’s back. ‘But how I can prove that? I know
nothing about the boy.’

‘Then we shall have to find out about him, won’t we?’ Coroner Roger declared.

Odo cleared his throat. ‘I think I might be able to help a little, Sir Roger. I knew the lad. He was in the host at Boroughbridge, serving under Harclay. He captured Andrew, squire to Sir
Edmund of Gloucester.’

‘Is Andrew the kind of man to take offence?’ Baldwin asked, recalling that the watchman had seen him the night Hal died.

‘I would say not,’ Odo said firmly. ‘He always struck me as honourable.’

‘Did Squire – sorry – Sir William have enemies?’

‘I only know of one. Geoffrey, who died last night. Geoffrey had married Alice Lavandar and would have declared their matrimony after being knighted.’

‘Ah, but William had intended marrying her.’

‘Yes.’

‘Except since Geoffrey is dead, he can hardly be the murderer,’ Baldwin said. He sighed and closed his eyes. He had a headache. It was painful to see Simon and his family suffering
like this. If he could, he was determined to prove who was the real murderer.

‘I daresay this was the random act of an evil man,’ Sir Roger said with distaste. ‘You often find murderers are like that. How else can you explain their behaviour? Murdering
an architect and carpenter, and a banker, and now this fellow – it’s madness.’

‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin said, his attention fixed on the dejected figure of Simon. ‘However, I have usually found that there was an understandable explanation for any murder when I
sought it.’ He faced Odo again. ‘What else can you tell me about this fellow?’

‘I am not sure I know much more.’

‘You mix with the squires, don’t you? Heralds always do. You must know their secrets.’

‘Perhaps a few,’ Odo said easily, allowing himself a small smile. ‘But I confess I have no idea who could have killed Sir William. He appeared to have many friends.’

Coroner Roger clapped his hands together. ‘It is plain enough that I must discover first where William went last night. What did he do and whom did he see? Once we know that, we can begin
to form an impression as to who could have done this foul thing.’

Odo gestured to Simon. ‘What of you? If you were with other people . . .’

‘I was exhausted after the strain of the last weeks,’ Simon said. ‘I went to my bed early.’

‘Oh,’ Sir Roger sighed.

Baldwin nodded. ‘If I may make a suggestion, Sir Roger, why don’t you speak to the other squires and get an idea from them as to whether there could be any other people with a grudge
against Sir William.’

The Coroner nodded and was about to leave the room when another herald appeared in the doorway, peering in nervously. ‘Bailiff ? I have been sent by Sir John of Crukerne – he asks
whether you have chosen your champion yet.’

Baldwin glowered and stated loudly, ‘The Bailiff will refute this ridiculous accusation in court. There is no question of his being foolish enough to respond to a grieving parent’s
very natural misery.’

‘If the Bailiff will not give Sir John satisfaction to resolve this matter speedily,’ the herald said hesitantly, ‘Sir John says he will assume the guilt and cowardice of the
Bailiff. He will come and whip the Bailiff over the whole length of the tilt-yard.’

‘Tell Sir John that he can do no such thing and that should he attempt it, he would be arrested,’ Baldwin grated.

‘Tell him that the Coroner will have him arrested if he so much as thinks of it,’ Roger blustered furiously.

‘Sir,’ the herald turned to Baldwin, ‘I fear Sir John is determined, and the mood of the crowd is growing ugly. There are too many who are prepared to declare the Bailiff
guilty, and there is a clamouring for his blood. If he doesn’t accept the challenge, hotheads could demand the Bailiff’s head.’

Baldwin glanced at the Coroner.

Sir Roger set his jaw. ‘I’ll go and reason with the miserable churls. I’ll have no lynchings here.’

‘No!’ Simon declared. ‘Damn the bastard, but I’ll find me a champion. I’ll not have any man declaring me a coward. I will venture God’s judgement because as I
stand here, I swear I am innocent.’

‘Who will you employ as champion, Bailiff ? You can’t fight him yourself,’ Coroner Roger asked.

Simon looked at him. ‘Who could I ask?’

Baldwin sighed. ‘I shall fight for you, Simon. God help us both!’

Simon gave his farewell to Meg and tried to kiss his daughter, but Edith buried her face in her mother’s neck and wouldn’t look at him. ‘Look after them,
Hugh,’ he said stiffly as he withdrew his hand from his daughter’s back.

‘I will, sir.’

‘Simon – Baldwin, be careful, won’t you?’ Meg suddenly cried out. ‘No, Baldwin, you can’t go like this. Wait!’ She deposited her daughter on the bench
and ran from the room, returning a few minutes later with a scarf which she thrust into Baldwin’s hands. ‘Wear this, my dear old friend, as a token.’ She reached up and kissed
him, resting her warm palm for a moment against his cheek.

He took her hand. His features were stern and composed, but he managed to give her a gentle smile as he gazed into her weeping eyes. ‘I will wear it, Lady, and I will bring your husband
back to you, safe and unharmed, I swear. For as God is my witness, I reject the accusations against him,’ he added in a louder voice, gazing sternly at the herald.

Odo was still in the room, standing near to Sir Peregrine. ‘Sir Baldwin, I entirely agree with you that the good Bailiff is innocent – but how can one prove another man was
guilty?’

‘Herald, I do not know,’ Baldwin said. ‘All I can ask is that Coroner Roger questions all those he can, and if you could help him, I would be most grateful.’

‘I shall help in any way I may,’ Odo said sincerely.

‘And as soon as this mess is sorted out, I’ll have that dog’s turd Tyler out of my Lord’s household,’ Sir Peregrine said savagely. ‘I’ll not have his
vicious tongue spreading villeinous rumours like this again. Cretin!’

Simon nodded in gratitude, but he could find no words as he walked from the hall behind Baldwin.

The Bailiff’s thoughts were disjointed as he wandered along the castle’s corridor towards the entrance and out into the sunlight. The sun was high now and the air
was still, so Simon could feel the heat scorching his bare arms. One moment he was seeing his daughter screaming in horror, the next he saw Sir John’s pale, shocked features as he took in the
sight of his murdered son. And now Sir John intended to kill Baldwin in order to prove Simon’s guilt.

Simon felt himself jostled but ignored it. His mind was too set on other matters. He allowed his head to droop, disconsolate.

‘Stand up straight!’ Baldwin muttered at his side. ‘Don’t walk like a felon. Remind them who you are.’

‘I don’t know . . . I . . .’

‘Simon!’ Baldwin turned and eyed him with glittering eyes. ‘You are innocent. If you look like this, everyone will want to convict you out of hand even if I win. Would you like
Edith to go through the rest of her life accusing you? Then stand straight and look these bastard sons of whores in the eyes.’

‘I don’t think I can,’ Simon confessed.

Baldwin grabbed his shoulder. ‘Then think of this! If
you
didn’t kill the lad, the murderer is out there, in that crowd. If
you
don’t care about being
accused, that’s one thing, but you might see the guilty man and meet his eye. When you do, you may just see something there that makes you recognise his guilt. You may recognise the stare of
the murderer!’

Simon gaped. He had been so entirely bound up in his own misery that the fact that
another
man was guilty had slipped from his mind. Now he felt a return of his anger, and with the
resentment of being forced to endure the punishment that another man deserved, a flame of rage consumed him. He gritted his teeth. ‘I shall watch all the men.’

‘Good,’ Baldwin said, ‘because I need your support, Simon.’ He looked up at the castle, at the flags hanging limply from the poles. ‘God knows, I need all the help
I can get,’ he murmured almost to himself. ‘It is many years since my last joust.’

Simon felt as though a rock had materialised in his belly. ‘When did you last fight like this?’

‘Me?’ Baldwin considered. ‘About 1306 I practised with friends in the lists in Paris.’

‘1306? That’s sixteen years ago!’

‘Your arithmetic does you credit.’

‘Baldwin, Sir John has fought in all the tournaments he could. This is madness – you’ll be killed. Can’t I find another man to challenge him?’

‘I don’t think so. Not now, Simon. This is a judicial fight and I accepted his challenge.’

Simon looked at him despairingly.

‘Do not fear for me. The matter is in God’s hands, old friend. And I shall fight confidently, knowing that the cause is just.’

They had arrived at his own pavilion and in the doorway Edgar stood waiting. ‘Sir, I have all your arms ready.’

‘How did you know?’ Baldwin asked.

‘There is a certain amount of chatter in the crowds, sir.’

Baldwin entered. On the table was all his armour and clothing. He touched the heavy quilted fustian of his
aketon
and sighed. He had not expected to be forced to ride in a joust and
fight to the death once more. It was a daunting prospect after so long a period.

‘Sir?’ Edgar brought him a mazer of wine.

‘Thank you,’ Baldwin said, drinking deeply and gesturing to Simon.

Edgar passed Simon the jug, having refilled the mazer. ‘Sir Baldwin, would you like to be dressed?’

‘Yes. And make sure every buckle and thong is secure. I don’t want to shed armour like an outlaw running from the hue and cry!’

Baldwin stood while Edgar pulled the thick
aketon
over his head. The padded cloth was designed to soften blows. When Baldwin was happy with it, Edgar lifted the
hauberk
of
fine, linked mail, slipping it over Baldwin’s head. It covered the knight’s arms and reached almost to his knees. Then came the
pair of plates
, the leather coat with plates of
steel riveted to the inside, that was buckled at the back. Baldwin stood while Edgar saw to the fastenings, before buckling the gutter-shaped plates to Baldwin’s arms.

Swinging his arms, Baldwin tried to get used to the restricted movement. Although the armour was very heavy, he could move his arms without difficulty. Over the top of this Edgar draped a long,
clean white tunic with Sir Baldwin’s arms marked out on the breast, his coat armour, and finally Baldwin’s recent acquisition, a skull-cap of steel which rose to a sharp point to
deflect axe or sword blows, with a loose, padded tippet of mail which hung to his shoulders. Hinged to the front to cover his face was a vizor, which he lifted away while Edgar pulled on bags of
mail to protect his hands, then the heavy gauntlet, the
main de fer
or fist of iron, which would protect his left hand as it gripped the reins.

The dressing took longer than Simon had expected, and he sat on a stool while Edgar carefully checked each strap and thong, lifting an arm to bind the steel plates, tugging cloth into place.
Baldwin lowered his head to help Edgar settle the tippet of steel links, stepped into the mailed footgear, pensively swivelled and bent to check the fit.

Simon could do nothing. The dreadful enormity of the occasion lent an especial solemnity to the process. He sat with drawn features, picking at a loose thread on his hose, praying for
Baldwin’s safety, wishing there were something he could do.

‘Couldn’t I borrow some armour and fight with you? Or take your place?’

Edgar glanced at him but said nothing. Somehow his expression was a more definite rejection than Baldwin’s quiet, ‘No, Simon. You would die in minutes in the
hastilude
.
Lance-play is too dangerous for people who haven’t practised the art. In any case, Lord Hugh would never permit you to joust. You are not chivalrous.’