The Tournament of Blood (26 page)

He had completed a half-circuit of the ground, and was standing at the riverside, morosely contemplating his tunic, hose and boots, all of which were sodden and wrinkled with the dew from the
long vegetation, when one of the watchmen gave a muttered curse and called to him.

‘What is it?’

‘Some drunk. He’s puked all over himself,’ the watchman called back, kicking at a figure lying supine near the river some yards away.

Simon wrinkled his nose. Even from where he stood he could smell the rancid stench. He ordered another watchman to help and stood back while the drunk was hauled upright and half helped, half
dragged away. Simon continued on his rounds reflecting with satisfaction that even drunks hadn’t caused too much trouble with this event. Evicting one snoring reveller who had over-indulged
the previous night didn’t compare with other festivities, when men and women could be found drowned in their own vomit, or in a well, or having tripped and fallen into a stream or river.

There were legions of dead associated with events. Sometimes it was children who, having enjoyed ale or wine with their parents, would fall asleep out of doors and freeze to death. Simon had
himself, some years before, seen a boy running about a campsite after too much wine, and fall into a fire. Such deaths were natural, if unpleasant.

There was a loud splash. Simon saw that the two watchmen had hurled their burden into the river. One of the watchmen was walking back, chuckling to himself.

‘Is he all right?’ Simon asked, jerking his head towards the noise.

‘He’s smelling a lot better already. He sobered up soon as the water closed over him.’

Simon opened his mouth but the watchman reassured him. ‘Don’t worry, he’s not going to drown. It’s only a couple of feet deep there.’

At the bank Simon could see the second watchman standing and laughing. Simon assumed that the drunk was still in the water, hidden by the trees, and nodded to himself. ‘Fine. Let’s
get on, then.’

As they continued their slow progress around the staged area, Simon found it hard to maintain his solemn visage. All was well; very well. The ground was a little damp and muddy, but this was
Dartmoor, and the ground was
always
a bit damp and muddy. Flags had been raised and hung heavily, waiting for the first breezes to clear the dew from them, while every wooden surface Simon
touched was slick with the damp, but all was as well-prepared as he could hope. Feeling his spirits rising by the moment, he led the way into the tilt-area itself. The sight of the lists was
daunting and he was pleased not to have to worry about fighting here, with the local population and strangers from miles around watching to see if he might dishonour himself by incompetence or
cowardice.

The space was flanked by the
ber frois
, each of which had strong boards facing the fighting area, all painted with the heraldic symbols of many of the knights who would be fighting
here. Lord Hugh’s own shield was painted before his seat, at the point where the competing men-at-arms should meet in their headlong clash, for there was no point patronising tournaments if
you couldn’t enjoy the best view. On the last day all would change, for this would be the day that the two ends would be blocked off, and all knights would compete inside the enclosed ground
to fight with whatever came to hand, while
diseurs
and heralds noted who had achieved signal feats. The
mêlée
was always the most popular of the events staged.

However, today’s show should be a good sweetener, a taste of the displays to come, for today selected squires would show their skill. Riding to prove their courage in front of their lord
would lead to some being knighted – although Simon knew perfectly well that all the men to be knighted had already been chosen. It would be foolhardy to leave such things to the last minute.
Especially since many of them were to be rewarded for their fathers’ service or for some praiseworthy deed supporting the Lord’s interest.

As the thought came to him, he realised that others were already arriving. Sauntering over the grass were knights and squires. Some heralds were already standing in a small knot and gazing about
them as they agreed where each would stand in order to have a clear view of the tilting.

‘Where is Hal?’ he grumbled to himself, glancing over to the tent where Wymond and he had slept during the building of the tournament. There was no sign of the man, nothing at the
tent, nothing in the
ber frois
, but neither was there any sign of the watchman sent to guard him, so Simon told himself resignedly that the silly little Sod must have gone to fetch wine or
bread.

Philip Tyrel watched them as the stench of vomit gradually faded. It was a relief that the Bailiff had not recognised whom he had caught; a wonderful relief ! Especially with
the body lying so close.

When the Bailiff and watchmen appeared from the market, he had realised that he only had the one means of escape. He had pulled the tunic from the body, stiff and chill from cooled puke, and
hauled it over his head, then emptied the remaining wine in his skin over his head. He reeked, but he should be safe if he was careful. Quickly he drew ferns and weeds over the corpse and crawled
until he was in full view on the grass at the foot of a stand. He was not concealed. Why should he be? He was guilty of nothing so far as anyone knew. No, he was only a drunk who had spent the
night snoring in the open air. He was safe enough.

The two watchmen had dragged him to the river and thrown him in, but he was grateful to have been taken away before the Bailiff could see his face. Far better that he should be remembered as a
vagrant without features. There were so many others here in a similar condition, it was no surprise that he should have been found there. It was practically a daily occurrence. He sat on his arse
in the water and belched, scooping water over his head to make his hair dangle over his features and hide them. That way nobody could swear to him. Wearing this tunic, no one would associate him
with his usual finery and in any case no jury would be happy to convict him. Before long the second watchman lost interest in him and gave a yawn before strolling away to rejoin his friend and the
Bailiff.

As soon as the guard was gone, Philip stopped making a fool of himself and climbed from the water on the farther bank, shivering. The water came straight from the moors, and was as cold as ice.
Walking in the shade of the trees into the field where he had killed the carpenter, he cast about constantly for other people who could be watching him, but everyone was busy breaking their fast:
bakers were stoking their little fires, poulterers preparing fowls and songbirds, pastrycooks kneading dough ready for the first spiced pies. All had plenty to do without watching a man dressed in
soaking wet garments walking away.

The field curved about the line of the hill and soon he was out of view. Walking up the hillside, he went to a natural gash in the ground, and here he sat down for a moment. He took off the dead
man’s tunic. There was no need for it now. Screwing it into a ball, he tossed it away from him. Here, among the long grasses, it could lie hidden until winter. Removing all his own clothes,
he set them out to dry on the grass, then lay down patiently to wait.

There was a tingling in his whole body as the sun crept over the trees and its warmth touched him with the softness of a kiss. He felt almost as though he had been rebaptised by his immersion in
the river. Gazing up at the clouds floating past so slowly, he could almost believe that God was up there even now, watching him with a smile on His face while He considered Philip’s
acts.

Three had died. Three! All by his hand, and he felt no remorse. How could he? What, regret the loss of Benjamin the usurer, Wymond the carpenter, and now Hal? Who could regret the passing of
such men! They deserved the punishment meted out to them. The guilty had paid for their crimes.

Except one.

He shivered. There was a leaden sensation in his bowels. Why should all the others have been punished, but this last one escape justice?

Closing his eyes, he tried to ignore his qualms. He was at ease here, as the sun warmed him lying among the long grasses; it was hard to bring to his mind the anger and determination necessary
to kill. What was the point? Did he truly have justification? He had murdered three, and surely that was enough? This last was not even
involved
. The sole reason for executing him was to
make another realise his evil. Make him confront his crime.

Here in the sunlight that scene of carnage seemed so remote, so impossibly distant in time, that his long-planned vengeance appeared almost as foul as the original act. It was as if he had
suddenly acquired a sense of proportion which had thrown all his plotting into confusion. It was a terrible possibility – but what if his slaughter made him no better than his enemy?

He felt tears running down both cheeks. With them he could feel his remaining determination seep away like water dripping from a leaking wineskin. His plan had been to kill the murderous
bastard’s son as a fitting revenge for the loss of his family. That thought, together with the deaths of Hal and Wymond and Benjamin, had driven him. Yet now it seemed absurdly cruel to
execute the youth. If anyone, he should kill the father, not the whelp.

Undecided, he lay trying to clear his mind but the thoughts would give him no peace. They chased about his heart: the boy should die, an eye for an eye; the father was guilty, not the boy. He
couldn’t make a decision. It was impossible.

Sitting up, he felt his clothes. They were dry enough, but his shirt and hose were dreadfully scruffy. He would have to get changed into clean finery for the
béhourd
, but there
should be plenty of time. Rising, he walked up the hill in among the trees, then followed the line of the woods eastwards until he was past the castle and on the way to Oakhampton. Here a tree had
fallen over the river, and he waited a moment, clawing his hair back from his face and tidying himself, before clambering on to the tree and stepping assuredly along the trunk until he reached the
other bank. Once there he turned back towards the castle, a late-night reveller wandering homewards. None of the other travellers on the road took any notice of him.

Philip entered the tented area and was about to go to his own small pavilion when he saw the last man. And he felt the rage, freezing as winter frost, ice its way along his spine, felt the
muscles of his back and belly suddenly clench as if he was preparing to strike the mortal blow.

He turned away and entered the pavilion, quickly doffing his clothes and washing his face and hands before selecting a fresh shirt and pulling on his tunic. Soon he was back in the
tilt-yard.

His determination had returned. He would kill one more time.

‘You have achieved much, Bailiff. Is there any news of the dead man?’

‘I thank you, Sir Richard. No, there is nothing yet on Wymond, but the Coroner has hopes.’

There was no need for an introduction to Sir Richard Prouse; everyone knew who he was. His scarred features, with the appalling line of twisted and raw-looking flesh that ran from his temple,
close to the milky white and ruined eyeball, down through his ravaged cheekbone to his broken jaw, was instantly recognisable. Seeing him so close, Simon felt his belly lurch. He looked away
hurriedly.

‘You need not worry about my feelings, Bailiff. I know I am an ogre now, a repellent creature used to scare children when they misbehave. “If you don’t behave and do your
chores, they’ll send Sir Richard Prouse to take you away”! I have heard it often enough.’

Wanting to change the subject, instead Simon found his mouth running on. ‘It was in a tournament you got that wound, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, Bailiff. I got in front of a dangerous man. I was only twenty-four when this happened.’ His eyes clouded and a slight tremble made him lean more heavily on his stick. Hobbling
slowly and carefully, for his right leg still dragged, he walked to the stands beneath Lord Hugh’s seat and stared about him. ‘It was in Crukerne, back in 1316 – another
tournament designed by that sodomitic cretin Hal Sachevyll.’

‘You are angry with him?’

‘How would you feel?’ Sir Richard snapped, his voice rising as he spoke. ‘The Goddamned fool didn’t strengthen the stands. That was how I got this!’ He spoke with a
bitter, shivering rage, but gradually his fury ebbed. ‘Damn him! I was riding in the
mêlée
and became the target of an attack by Sir Walter Basset. The murderous bastard
managed to squeeze me up against the stands, where he started beating me about the head with a mace. I was forced up against the wooden barricades, and he was on my left side. It was hard to wield
my sword to protect myself, and he was battering me with two or three blows for each one of mine.’

He could recall it perfectly. The mount beneath him kept trying to move away, but was forced against the wooden boardings while Sir Richard felt the heavy ball on its reinforced wooden shaft
raining down upon him.

‘I was young and resilient, but deafened by the clanging of steel striking my helm. It felt as though my head was being used as the clapper of a giant bell. And there was no let-up to the
ringing, hammering torture. Do what I might, I could not stop the assault. Nor could I escape. Some of my anxiety was reflected in my horse, too: pushing forward, then pulling back, trying to
release himself from Sir Walter’s great destrier, but he was snared. And meanwhile I could feel the energy sapping from my arm. I will not lie – I was panicked.’

It was terrifying, and with the terror came the realisation: he was a failure just like his father; he would be captured and ransomed. A fool who would lose all, who would see his properties
mortgaged once more.

‘A heavy blow caught my head and glanced onto my right shoulder. Instantly my arm was dead. No sensation whatever. I had no defence. My sword-arm was gone. You know, at that moment I could
look into the eyes of the spectators. They were so close, I could see into the throats of the men and women as they roared. . . ’