The Tournament of Blood (35 page)

‘You should treat things more seriously! This woman is to be your wife – what if she’s poxed, eh? If she’s been incontinent in lust, what then? She may give birth to
half-wits or lepers. Do you want a leper for a son? And what if she’s over-sexed? She may search about for other men.’

‘Oh, if she’s experienced, she’ll be more enjoyable.’

Philip could almost hear Sir John forcing the angry response down. ‘You enjoy taunting me. So be it. But it’s your future we’re discussing.’

That was the start of a list of recriminations for William’s loose lifestyle. Sir John remonstrated with his son, reminding him of the sacred nature of knighthood. It made Philip smile.
That an avaricious, murdering swine like Sir John of Crukerne should try to instil honour and decency in his son was laughable. What of his own failings? Were they to be eradicated with absolution
on his deathbed? Philip couldn’t help but grimace as he walked away. There was no need to remain. He knew where he must go.

With a hand resting at his knife-hilt, he strolled to the castle and waited outside the chapel, leaning negligently at the wall. It wasn’t long before he saw the burly figure of William,
freshly dressed in clean tunic and hose, walking with his father to the chapel.

He hated Sir John. Once again, Philip was struck with the conviction that there was something wrong about executing the lad. He was so young, so full of life, and now he was about to be made a
knight, an honourable and chivalrous position for a man entering adulthood.

Philip watched as the two men halted near the door, Sir John instructing his son with a pointing finger, Squire William listening with a serious frown before nodding.

The two looked like a picture of the courtly ideal. Sir John, tall, grizzled, powerful and experienced, his son slimmer, a little shorter, but handsome with his perfect features and hair moving
in the wind. He could have been a saint if looks were all, and the sight of the two of them talking in a low undertone, clearly in accord, gave the killer a pang. Tears threatened his eyes,
blurring his vision, and he groaned quietly. A passing servant gave him a curious look, but he waved his hand and the fellow carried on his way.

It was that scene: the two men so content in each other’s company. Their happiness was almost tangible, like an enveloping halo that protected them from the world and suffering. The bond
which forged the love of a father for his son and a son for his father was so powerful that no man should destroy it, Philip thought. No man had the right. It was foul to contemplate it.

But what of his own little boy, destroyed by Sir John’s greed? Sir John had wrecked many other lives. Wasn’t it justice to see him pay for his crimes? He deserved to be punished
– and yet by taking the action he planned, Philip would punish the son as well as the guilty man.

Wiping at his eyes, he glanced back at the two men. Squire William stepped forward and the murderer could see his face distinctly. Calm, unworried, handsome and haughty, aware of his rank and
the coming celebration in his honour, it was the face of a lad any man could be proud of. Philip himself would have been pleased if his own son had grown like this.

The two men nodded to the murderer standing by the chapel, and then entered, and as they walked in, William’s voice carried on the clear evening air.

‘I know, Father. As far as I am concerned, as soon as I have taken Mass and been dubbed knight, I will become renewed – reborn. I intend to take my vows seriously. Before God, I
promise you that I shall uphold the knightly virtues of courtesy, honour and prowess. What is chivalry, if a knight behaves no better than a drunken churl? No, a knight should be beyond reproach,
should be clean-living and uphold the law. I certainly intend to be exemplary. You’ll be proud of me, and so will Alice. As you wish, I shall marry her.’

The killer closed his eyes while his heart pounded and his resolve fell from him like filth sloughed away in the rain. With those words Squire William had saved his life. Philip couldn’t
kill a lad who professed such integrity. If he was serious about upholding the law and behaving as a perfect husband, he was so far removed from his father as to be inviolate. Philip couldn’t
kill someone like that. It would be a genuine crime.

No, his wife and children must be satisfied with the revenge he had already exacted. Surely three dead men was sufficient.

His heart was heavy; he was not sure that he was doing the right thing. He gazed up at the heavens, praying for an answer, but there was none.

‘Sir? Sir? Are you all right?’

Opening his eyes, he found himself staring into the morose features of Hugh, Simon’s servant.

‘Could you fetch me a jug of wine?’ he asked shakily.

It was a slow service, William thought. Slow and dull. He must kneel devoutly for God was watching, if the priest could be believed – not that this fool cleric seemed to
have much idea – but in Christ’s name, it was hard. All his muscles complained, his back was aching from his tumble, and his head hurt abominably. It was the normal result of a tilt,
but that was no comfort.

Yet over it all, William was aware of a thrilling eagerness. It was a curious sensation, this. A sort of glow emanated from his belly and warmed his heart at the thought that he would soon
become a knight as he had always wanted. A knight, a full chivalrous member of Lord Hugh’s host!

The service done, William avoided his father’s company. Sir John was too serious and besides, William needed a drink to soothe the bruises and strains from his fall. William left Sir John
at the church door and went to join his friends. Nick had already drunk a fair amount, but he’d made himself sick and now he was ready for more. William was a little wary, thinking that
he’d do well to keep his head and avoid too much wine or ale, but he was thirsty and the prospect of a quart of Lord Hugh’s ale proved too tempting.

They walked to the buttery and stood at the bar. It was hellishly hot in there, with the heat from candles and oil-lamps adding to the fug and odour of sweat from the servants who had worked all
day in the sun on Lord Hugh’s lands. The warmth made the faces of the serving-boys glisten and run with moisture, and it wasn’t long before William felt the same.

At the bar, the group of young men ordered their drinks from a sweating pot-boy and took them outside to sit at a bench. Girls walked past and were leered at or respectfully acknowledged,
depending upon their status. Serving wenches suffered if they approached too close to Nick, for his tunic stank of vomit, and he grabbed any who passed by.

‘You should bathe and change your clothes,’ William said as another girl screwed up her face in disgust and ran from Nick.

‘What’s the point? I’m going to drink a lot more before I collapse tonight.
Sir
Nick I become today. A knight! Hah! Give me two years and I’ll be a banneret,
just you see,’ he said, trying to focus seriously on his friend.

William laughed. The ale made him glad to be alive. ‘And I’ll be Sir William. Here’s to the knights of Oakhampton, eh?’

They all raised their jugs and pots, and soon after Nick stared into his jug and grumbled that he needed a refill. His face was pale and gleamed in the light of the torches in the court, and
William was unpleasantly persuaded that he was about to be sick.

Nick glanced about him. ‘Hey, you! Come here.’

Simon’s servant Hugh heard the summons but chose to ignore the beckoning finger.

‘I said come here, churl! Don’t disobey a knight unless you want to feel my boot up your backside,’ Nick growled, but even as Hugh hesitated, Nick bent over and spewed.

‘That’s better,’ he gasped, wiping his mouth.

‘You are revolting,’ William said with disdain. ‘Look at you. It’s no wonder you’ve no prospect of marriage.’

‘You think so? I could take any woman I wanted,’ Nick belched. ‘You! Fetch us more wine.’

‘I’m fetching wine for my master,’ Hugh mumbled, scowling at the ground.

William grinned. ‘Which woman could you take, then?’

‘Me? Well, none will be available tonight, but tomorrow . . . well, how about I take that little wriggle-arse from you? The one we saw in the crowds – with the angry father.’
He sniggered at the memory of Simon’s furious face.

‘Little Edith? Ah, I don’t know. I fear she prefers the subtle charms of a clean-living fellow like me.’

‘Bollocks! She’d rattle me happily enough.’

‘I’d wager a shilling you’d not take her with her permission,’ William said.

‘A shilling? It’ll make it all the more worthwhile.’

‘Only after I’ve had her, though. And then I’ll have to become chaste for my wife.’

‘Poor Alice,’ Nick laughed. ‘She doesn’t realise what she’ll miss in marrying you.’ He reached for his jug, recalled that it was empty and glowered around.
‘Where’s that poxy servant gone?’

William stood. ‘I’ll fetch more ale.’

It was still crowded in there. Servants who were finished with their day’s service in Lord Hugh’s fields or members of his household seeking their daily ration, all stood more or
less patiently waiting to be served.

Hugh was leaving with three jugs of wine on a tray as William entered. The squire grinned. Right – ‘I’ll take those.’

‘You can’t. They’re for my master.’

‘Too bad. Go and get more for him. These will do for me.’

‘No.’

William drew himself up. ‘You do realise who you’re talking to, don’t you? I am a knight. So let go of that tray! If you want more wine, get it from the bar.’

‘Why don’t you fetch your own drinks?’

‘What is your name, fellow?’

‘Hugh.’

‘Well, Hugh.
You
go and get more wine from the bar. Because if you try to keep these, I’ll see you regret it.’

‘Something wrong, Will?’

Nick had thrust his face in through the door and was staring aggressively at Hugh.

‘No, it’s all fine,’ William said, taking the tray from Hugh’s reluctant hands.

Lady Helen Basset was late and she could already hear her husband’s remonstration, feel the harsh slap of his hand on her face, on her rump. He would be furious.

This time, for the first time, he would be justified. He must never know what she had been doing. Day-dreaming about the man she had once promised to marry, long before she had met Walter,
wondering what Sir Edmund would have been like as a husband. A part of her quickened to see him, but as soon as he spoke, she realised he was too soft for her. Not a real, vibrant man like Sir
Walter. No, she had made a better choice. All she felt for Edmund was a tolerant sympathy, like a sister might feel for a brother.

It was last night that she had gone to meet him – the first time they had been together since that terrible day when he had been captured and ransomed by Sir John. Helen had been close to
refusing to go, she was so petrified that her husband might find out – but then she told herself that since she was only going to ease the spirit of a man who had once been her lover, it was
a matter of simple duty.

Squire Andrew had spoken to her so respectfully, so persuasively, on his master’s behalf. Later, she had sneaked away with him, the squire cautiously scouting ahead, making sure that the
coast was clear so her reputation couldn’t suffer, and checking all the time that they were not being followed. At the river he went ahead and sought a quiet place and then left, soon after
sending Sir Edmund to her. He remained on guard just out of earshot, to prevent anyone approaching.

Sir Edmund had changed so much since that fateful afternoon six years ago at Crukerne, when his future was devastated in the tournament. After Sir John had captured him, he was ruined,
completely. He couldn’t even afford a jug of wine. Sir John had taken everything – even the horse, which Sir Edmund had borrowed from a friend.

Helen was thrilled by his history: his escape to foreign lands, his apparent salvation when he found himself vassal to Earl Thomas, and finally his return to the West Country in search of a new
master.

‘I thought you would wait for me,’ he told her.

‘How could I?’ she protested. ‘I had no idea where you had gone, nor for how long.’

‘So you wed the man who ruined me?’

His bitter tone had stung. ‘What would you have had me do? Wait for a man who might have been dead?’

‘No, my Lady, of course not.’

They had walked in silence then, she trying to think of something that would placate without patronising, while he scowled up at the castle.

‘I must return,’ she had said nervously at last. ‘My husband . . .’

‘Oh, the hell with him! What of
me
?’

‘Edmund – I married Walter. I loved you, but that was a long time ago.’

‘So you do not love me any more, Helen?’ he had said with despair in his voice.

There was nothing she could do to ease Sir Edmund’s envy; he must grow accustomed to the fact that he could not possess her – but against her better judgement she had agreed to meet
him again later, after tonight’s feast.

Helen hurried up the tunnel towards the castle’s main entrance and stood a moment to settle her breathing. Fitting a serene, innocent expression to her face, she made her way to the
hall’s entrance.

Sir Walter’s violence could terrify her, but it was thrilling as well. Most of the time he was a courteous, pleasing husband. He lived to satisfy her, with frequent assertions of his love
for her, his utter and undying delight in her. His lovemaking was rough, but she found that satisfying, more so than she would some polite, insipid youth who might roll on to her and roll off with
a calm murmur of gratitude. She wouldn’t want that. She wanted a man with fire in his belly and loins.

Sometimes though, it was hard, when his jealously came to the fore. And he detested to be kept waiting.

‘My Lady, you are alone?’

‘I am going to meet my husband.’

Squire William was feeling good after the wine. Following on top of the ale, it hit his empty stomach like a flame, filling him with the sense that he was all-powerful and irresistible. Alice
would soon change her mind about marrying him once she saw him in his knightly finery, he thought optimistically. As for Edith Puttock, he’d be able to rattle her as soon as he got her alone.
Her languishing expression when he was knocked from his horse told him that. She’d also let him bull her just to tweak the nose of her father. The Bailiff would be very angry indeed when he
heard. His fury would be overwhelming, William thought contentedly. Edith might need protestations of undying love to get her to lift her skirts for him, but if it was necessary, William could
promise marriage. If she made problems later, it would be his word against hers. And who would believe a sulky girl’s claims against the word of a knight?