The Tournament of Blood (15 page)

‘Sir John took her on, you say?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Why?’

‘Didn’t you know? She was Sir Godwin’s daughter.’

‘No, I didn’t know,’ Baldwin said.

Sachevyll cried mournfully ‘No, I could never wish to witness such a disaster again. Once was enough.’

‘And yet the same thing happened in 1316 at Crukerne,’ Baldwin said sternly.

‘That wasn’t my fault. Sir Richard was forced against the stand and his weight, with that of Sir Walter and their horses, was enough to break the stands. Most of the injuries were
from the horse’s death throes as it thrashed. It was awful, but it was nothing to do with me.’

‘You don’t think Wymond made any enemies here?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Other than’, Hal said coldly, brought back to reality with a lurch, ‘the Bailiff here, you mean?’

William was determined to see Edith again. Although she was young, that was no barrier. She was attractive, fresh and desirable. If it hadn’t been for that miserable
churl hanging around with her, he might have been able to take her off for a walk in the woods.

Not that he was set on a virgin. Inexperienced women ready to be deflowered were common enough, especially in a field of tournament. Christ’s blood! A man had to be careful to avoid
wenches hot with lust when he’d enjoyed a good run at an opponent, for women would scream and throw themselves at the winner. He remembered the last tournament he had attended, when he was a
mere boy. It was hard to move on the grass near the field because of all the successful knights covering the ladies who had given them the glad eye beforehand. Oh, one or two of the women played
hard to get, but they were often all the hornier when they grappled beneath the sun.

He had met enough of them during his time as a squire, following his master from one tournament to another, and when his master had his hands full with one, occasionally William was able to help
out with the next one in the queue. When he was younger he had been surprised that older women should fancy him, but he made full use of them. If he didn’t, others would, and at least with
his fair good looks he had his choice of the more attractive ones. He soon learned that those women who were most proud in public would behave more lewdly than the commonest slut, given the right
situation, and the right situation so often involved nothing more than a strong lusty youth.

And often the worst, most flagrant women, were those who were married and who should never have been anywhere near the tournaments.

He was musing pleasantly on such matters, recalling especially the wife of a knight from Somerset whose bawdy behaviour had exhausted him for almost an entire week, when he saw the brunette.

She was almost as tall as him, a leggy, full-breasted wench with enormous eyes which gave him a cursory once-over as her glance ranged over the crowds. When her gaze passed over him a second
time, and lingered on him a moment longer than was entirely necessary, he instantly decided to try his luck.

It was the thing about a tournament. The women always expected a tumble, he reflected as he stepped along in her wake. Bugger the ideals of courtly love – the main thing was, it gave an
excuse to any woman who wanted to fondle another man’s body rather than her own husband’s.

Of course some gave no thought for their danger, while others positively hankered after a fling with a lad like William because he
represented
danger; a few more simply didn’t
care what their husbands thought of their affairs. It was as if some women thought that they had the right to emulate the debauched behaviour of Guinevere with Lancelot – but God help those
who were found out.

Privately William often found them rather sad even as he tupped them. The idea that supposedly honourable women could behave in such a manner was disgraceful . . . but only a fool would refuse
the sweet taste of their lips and bodies or turn down the exquisite pleasure they offered.

And this one was perfection. From the look of her heart-shaped face, she could have been the Madonna Herself. High brow, arched eyebrows and a mouth with a natural pout that gave her a
come-hither, wanton look. With lips like hers she could suck the rivets off my helmet, he thought admiringly. Her attraction lay not only in her face: her body looked firm and taut, as sleek and
fit as an Arab-bred pony, strong without being unfeminine, while her gait was as proud and smooth as a queen’s.

It was strange that her husband allowed her to walk about the place with only a scruffy-looking fellow to protect her. Astonishing. Some men could be incredibly carefree with their women. Well,
William wasn’t going to let this beautiful filly slip through his grasp without a fair attempt to come to grips.

He caught up with her, bowing with his most appealing smile, a slight twist to one corner, an eyebrow raised. ‘My Lady, you eclipse the sun.’

‘Go bull your mother!’ the man at her side grated. He was shorter than William, heavy-set and strongly-built, but from closer to, an even more villainous-looking fellow. William felt
sure that he was only some servant.

After his defeat at Edith’s hands, William was not going to accept a second refusal so easily. He gave the man a surprised glance, but he clearly was not wealthy: the cloak he wore was
thin and worn, his tunic faded, his shirt threadbare, his hose of the roughest and cheapest fustian. The husband of this woman would surely be clad in similar finery to her own, velvet and rich fur
trimming. No, this fellow was only a guard, William considered. Ignoring the servant, he returned to his open admiration of the woman. ‘My Lady, I have never beheld such perfection before.
May I—’

‘Are you deaf, churl? You are asking for trouble – now shut up and clear off !’

William bridled. He drew himself up to his full height and met the man’s furious expression, but then he saw the other take a slow pace forward and reach for a small knife at his belt. His
own hand moved, but he had scarcely gripped his hilt when he felt the sharp point at his throat.

‘If this was anywhere else, I’d have cut your balls off and fed them to you by now. Leave the lady alone, brat,’ the man hissed.

‘I was not talking to you, but to the lady,’ William said, taking a swift backwards step. His blade was out now, and he stood with the knife held low, ready to strike.

‘Well, if you want to talk to my wife, you have to talk to
me
first, you misbegotten piece of shit! I don’t like little half-grown bastards trying their bollocks with
her.’

‘My Lord, I am sorry,’ William blurted. ‘I meant no insult to you or your Lady, but I didn’t realise she was married. My compliments to you.’

Sir Walter Basset was not interested in Squire William’s apologies. His anger was fanned by the boy’s thoughtless behaviour and he gripped his knife, tempted to launch himself upon
the squire as William strode away. Just as he was about to chase after the lad, there was a touch at his forearm.

‘He’s not worth it. Bollocks, you say? Do you think he has any?’

Sir Walter shuddered with the release of tension and thrust his knife back in its sheath. The nearness of violence had thrilled his blood. He loved to fight, loved the rush of energy that
flooded his body and filled his soul, but when some little shit like that tried to get his leg over Helen, there was always a harder edge to his rage. Helen was a beautiful woman, one any man would
be proud to have dangling on his arm or adorning his bed, but Sir Walter was keenly aware that others envied him and wanted her for themselves. Let them try! He would cut off the prick of any man
who poked it too near his woman. Cut it off and feed it to the crows. The whoreson needed a lesson and Sir Walter would be happy to teach him.

‘Husband? Shall we return to our tent so I can prove my loyalty?’ she chided him gently.

He chuckled gruffly as the boy receded in the distance, swallowed by the crowd. ‘You’re sure he didn’t insult you? If you think he deserves it, I’ll make him eat his own
liver.’

Helen Basset smiled at her man. ‘There is no one but you, husband. That young fool will realise that when he sees you destroying your foe in the tournament.’

‘If I see him there, I’ll kill him,’ Sir Walter swore.

Geoffrey saw Alice from a distance while he was exercising his master’s horse, and he reined in, ambling along gently some distance behind her, twirling a switch in his
hand.

There was a gleam at her temple: surely a strand of her hair had come astray from her wimple, and it glinted bright gold when the sun streamed between the tree-boughs overhead. She moved with an
easy, long-legged gait that he would have recognised from a mile away, or so he told himself, and then he grinned at the inanity of the thought. With
his
eyes, he’d be lucky to see
more than a blob at a hundred yards, let alone a mile.

But from this close he could discern her figure, her walk, her tallness . . . and her beauty. For Alice was very beautiful: her eyes were large and as blue as cornflowers on a bright
summer’s day, her lips were full and soft, tasting faintly of the spices she chewed, her brow was broad and as pale as the rest of her flesh.

And what flesh! His fingers itched to touch her again, to feel her soft skin, to smell her odour, as sweet and heady as a strong wine! She was everything he had hoped, on that day when they had
sworn their eternal love and exchanged their vows, and now, seeing her so close, he was on fire to lie with her again.

Alice had the face of an angel, a face that Geoffrey wanted to kiss again and again. The sooner he could announce to the world that they were wed, the better. Ideally at the church door while
here in Oakhampton. That would be best, while the tournament was still in progress, with all the Lord Hugh’s knights and bannerets in attendance. Of course Geoffrey would have to be knighted
first, but he saw no impediment to his securing that honour: he was wealthy enough in his own right, he had the support of his master, Sir Ralph Sturrey, and he was old enough to be granted his
spurs. With the inbuilt confidence of a man who could name all his ancestors even before the invasion of King William the Bastard, a man who still owned his grandsire’s sword, rusted and
chipped as it was, Geoffrey knew he would become a knight of renown.

He
had
to. The thought brought a shiver to his frame. He must deserve his woman’s faith in him, true, but there was more to it than that. His recent history as a warrior left much
to be desired. If news of his failure of courage was to be bruited about, he would become an object of ridicule, a joke, a nickumpoop. Geoffrey didn’t want that, but he should be safe. All
those who had witnessed his desertion at the Battle of Boroughbridge were dead.

Not that he doubted for a moment that his wife would remain loyal. She was wedded to him now, before God, and if accusations of cowardice were levelled against him, Alice would support him.

Seeing his wife walking ahead of him brought to his mind the consideration that she was his now, and must acquiesce to his desires. If he demanded that she join him in a lecherous excursion in
the long grasses of the meadow, she must comply.

Suddenly the memory of her ivory skin, the warmth of her body as she encompassed him, was so vivid that the recollection was almost painful. There was a clutching at his heart at the picture in
his mind of his wife smiling up at him, the grass cushioning her head, cornflowers and poppies dancing in the wind.

It was too much – he
had
to have her again! Spurring his mount, in moments he was behind Alice and he glanced about him warily.

They were almost alone, apart from a man or two ahead. No one was watching; it was the work of a moment. He reached down with his switch and settled it lightly upon her rump, giggling to himself
as she spun round, startled, like some light-footed nymph.

‘Haha, that got you, my love, didn’t it?’ he chuckled.

‘Who are you? What do you mean by it, sir?’

With a slowly dawning horror, he realised this wasn’t Alice. ‘My Lady, I offer my sincerest . . .’

‘How dare you, sir!’ The woman stamped with rage. ‘Do I look like a common slut to be thus tickled? Do I act the whore for your pleasure?’

Whoever she might be, she was not Alice, and her fury made her loud. Ahead, the men had turned round to look at her, wondering at her temper. At such a distance Geoffrey could not see their
faces, but he was sure he could hear some laughter, along with some rumblings of anger as well. They thought he had given the woman some intolerable insult, which, he could only admit abjectly to
himself, he had.

‘No, my dear Lady, I give you my most sincere apology. You see, I thought you were someone else whom I know very well. I would never have dreamed of insulting you. I would rather cut off
my arm than let it demean you in such a way.’

‘It felt like a lewd and intolerable slight.’

‘I fear, my Lady, that I
was
lewd, common and irreverent. But I thought . . .’ he hesitated only a moment ‘. . . you were my sister.’ He didn’t want to
admit he had thought she might be his wife.

‘Your sister?’

‘Lady Cecilia Carew,’ he said.

She drew her chin up. ‘You thought me brunette? And three inches shorter?’ she enquired with a cold sneer.

He felt panic overwhelming him. Two of the men ahead looked as though they were considering protecting this strident young wench, and if he should be slandered as a womaniser, such unchivalrous
behaviour could prevent his being dubbed knight.

Opening his mouth to protest his innocence, he found himself incapable of speech. He moved his jaw but no words would come. Face reddening, he bit at his lip.

‘Well, sir? Have you nothing to add?’

Frustration, shame and embarrassment took him over. He jerked at the reins and jabbed spurs to his horse’s flanks, riding off as quickly as he could, although not fast enough to miss the
woman’s jeering curses.

He felt the shame colouring his cheeks, flaming them until he was certain that all about could see his embarrassment. When he heard his name called, he was tempted to turn away and avoid
whomsoever it might be, but he had ridden into the press entering the next field and couldn’t escape. He set his shoulders and turned to face the man.