The Tournament of Blood (43 page)

Baldwin surveyed him with a dispassionate calculation. His vizor open, he felt more free, as if the protection the helmet gave him was actually a constriction that prevented his defence. He
clenched and unclenched his left hand, pins and needles making the whole arm tingle while he sought an opportunity. Even as Sir John had screamed in pain, Baldwin had felt his own faculties return
to him and now he watched warily as his opponent knocked his vizor down again and came closer.

The axe swung, Baldwin ducked away from it, but then the mace was aimed at his face. Baldwin evaded that too, just in time to see his axe sweeping back to cut at his knees. He thrust the sword
blade in the path of the axe and raised it immediately to knock the mace aside as it aimed for his head. Sir John shrieked at him.

But Sir John’s attack had produced a fine spray of blood from beneath his arm as he lifted the axe once more. Baldwin knew Sir John was dying, that it was only a matter of time. But the
huge man wouldn’t give up. Baldwin dodged from under the axe and as he did so he saw the mace lift again.

Quickly, Baldwin shifted his position, lurching forward on exhausted feet to close with Sir John. He clubbed Sir John’s mace hand away, and stepped to his side. Sir John tried to slam his
helmet into Baldwin’s face, then brought the axe to play again, but he was too late. Pushing the point of his sword into the gap between the plates of steel under Sir John’s armpit,
Baldwin thrust with all his strength, now using both hands to force the point of the blade deep into Sir John’s chest, through his lungs, and twisting, grimacing as he butchered the
still-living body.

Sir John coughed, choked, and Baldwin could hear the rattling from within his throat as blood dribbled from his mouth and nostrils, but Baldwin could take no risks. He jerked the blade from one
side to another, feeling the edge grating on bones.

It was enough. Baldwin felt Sir John sag and had to kick him to free his sword. He tugged it out with difficulty, and was about to try another blow when Sir John fell to his knees, then on to
his face, the vizor closing as he dropped.

‘Air! Air!’

Baldwin felt a wave of revulsion wash over him. Sympathy for the dying man made him drop his sword and help Sir John on to his back. He fumbled at the knight’s helmet, trying to release
the heavy metal, but his fingers were dulled after trading blows and it took time. When he did, Baldwin was confronted by a mask of blood. Sir John’s mouth foamed with a bloody froth; his
nostrils ran with blood; his every breath produced a fine spray of blood.

‘Mercy! Mercy!’ came, the hoarse, gurgling cry.

Baldwin had seen wounded men often enough in his life. Sir John was slowly drowning in his own blood. Leaving him would be an act of cruelty. No physician could save him.

‘Sir Baldwin, I beg,’ Sir John choked, a stream of bright blood flooding from his mouth and staining the grass at his head. ‘End this!’

Before the seconds could arrive, Baldwin drew Sir John’s own
misericorde
and pushed the point through Sir John’s eye.

Simon stood in the great stand near Roger, and stared as Baldwin slowly bent and retrieved his sword. He moved like an old man, exhausted from the short but intense battle.
Then he straightened and hesitated before walking over to where the shards of the lances lay scattered. He stooped and picked up broken slivers of wood up to two feet long and appeared to be
studying them.

Roger gave Simon a delighted thump on the back, but Simon’s attention was fixed on the knight. As if he had been a participant in the fight, he was aware of a bone-deep lethargy as though
he himself had aged twenty years in the last hour.

Others in the stands and all about did not feel the same fatigue. There were roars of applause as those who had gambled upon Baldwin’s success celebrated their victory; a larger number had
wagered on Sir John and these men and women rolled their eyes and muttered contemptuously about the dead man’s incompetence as they filed away, seeking wine merchants with whose help they
intended forgetting their unprofitable speculation.

Simon heard the King Herald bellow the success of his cause and the Divine Judgement, but his mind couldn’t take it all in. He found he was shaking, suddenly enfeebled. He had to grip the
handrail to support himself.

Out in the field he saw Sir Edmund and Edgar at Baldwin’s side. With an affectionate and gentle care, Edgar took the sword from Baldwin and passed it to Sir Edmund before looping
Baldwin’s arm over his neck and helping him from the field. The sight made Simon realise that his friend was wounded and instantly his torpor fell away. He dashed from the
ber frois
and down the stairs until he found the trio.

Baldwin gave him a weak grin. ‘You should be in church giving thanks!’

‘I’ll go there as soon as I know you’re all right.’

‘I am fine.’

‘Really?’ Simon asked.

He stepped forward and took Baldwin’s left arm to help lead him away, but the hissing intake of breath made him pause. ‘Right, Edgar, you take him up to the castle and tell Meg to
prepare a bed in the castle’s lodgings. I’ll go and call a physician.’

‘Oh, in God’s name, Simon! There’s no need for that. No, I’ll go back to my tent and sleep there.’

‘I think you need a physician.’

Baldwin was about to argue when another wave of pain washed over his left side. ‘Tell him to see me at my tent. But before that, go and look at the lance. I think I know why Hal and Wymond
made so much money from jousting. I’ll explain later. For now, Edgar, by Saint Paul, take me to the tent.’

Simon stood feeling oddly small and insignificant as the trio made its way towards the pavilions, Edgar supporting the slack figure of Baldwin, his head dangling like that of a hanged
corpse.

‘You!’ Simon shouted at an urchin. ‘Fetch the castle’s physician and send him to Sir Baldwin’s tent. At once!’

Simon was torn. There were many things to be done, but he was aware that the investigation must continue, even if Baldwin was unwell for days. Wonderingly he walked to the tilt-area and studied
the shards of wood.

It was because he was there that he didn’t see Andrew as he joined Baldwin’s little group. ‘Sir Baldwin? Could I talk with you a moment?’ The squire asked.

Edgar stepped forward. ‘My master is very tired, sir. He cannot talk to you now.’

‘It is about the lances, Sir Baldwin,’ Andrew continued urgently, ignoring Edgar.

Baldwin closed his eyes. ‘Later, please. Or tell some one else. I am too worn out.’

‘It must be you, Sir Baldwin. Because of your sword, I know I can trust you.’ The squire had lowered his voice.

‘My sword?’ Baldwin echoed dully.

‘Yes. The Templar cross.’

Baldwin leaned more heavily on Edgar and paused to spit out a mouthful of blood. He was on fire with pain all over, and his ears still rang with the battle. He could barely speak, for the
aftermath of the duel had left him all atremble. ‘Very well,’ he said slowly. ‘Come to my tent and speak to me there.’

Odo dropped from his mount and patted the mare’s neck as he watched Baldwin being helped from the field.

‘A good fight, by God!’ Coroner Roger said at his side.

‘Yes! I’m glad
I
didn’t have to ride against Sir John. He was a terrifying opponent.’

‘Yes. And now he and his son are dead,’ Coroner Roger said heavily. ‘Come, we should speak to the Bailiff.’

They met Simon as he was picking up a large piece of wood.

‘What is it?’ Coroner Roger asked.

‘Baldwin told me to look at this. I can’t see why.’

Odo glanced over a timber splinter. ‘This is odd,’ he said. ‘Look, the wood here was cut.’

Simon took it from him and examined it. ‘Why, yes. Someone has drawn a narrow saw through it – why should they do that?’

‘To guarantee the winner,’ Odo said grimly. ‘I’ve seen it done in France. A slight saw cut through the lance weakens it so that it shatters as it hits a man without
knocking him down. Sometimes men will gamble heavily on a man’s victory in the lists, and they’ll pay to ensure that the right man wins.’

‘But how could they guarantee that the right man would get the damaged lance?’

‘By having an accomplice waiting at the lance-rack and giving the damaged lance to the man they wished to lose,’ Odo said.

‘It’s always a squire who passes the lances,’ said Coroner Roger.

Simon finished his thought for him. ‘And William used to help in the lists! So there
is
a connection between him and the other three.’

‘Who would have wanted them to die, though?’ Coroner Roger mused.

Simon felt as though he had a new lease of life. ‘First let’s go back to where the body was found,’ he said, setting off towards the camp.

‘We spoke to all the men about there, but no one saw or heard anything last night,’ Roger said.

Odo recalled his last thought before he was called back to witness Baldwin’s fight. ‘We spoke to the knights and squires, but there was one group we didn’t question: the
grooms. If someone was to go that way and pet his horse, no one would think anything of it, would they? And from there it would be a short walk to the river to murder Sir William.’

Simon caught his breath. ‘Of course!’ It would be the perfect excuse, he thought. Nobody would question a man-at-arms who went to ensure that his horse was settled for the night.
Unconsciously, his pace increased as he neared the horse-lines.

Odo hurried too. This development had confused him. It made no sense for Sir William to have been murdered.

The great destriers and several riding-horses of quality were hobbled or tethered near the water up by the castle’s bailey. Odo looked about him. Simon did not hesitate but walked straight
to a skinny youth clad in a faded and scratched leather jerkin. Odo found himself staring at one of the lad’s eyes because he had a terrible cast in the other. Afterwards he could remember
nothing else about him.

‘Were you here last night?’ Simon asked.

‘Yes, sir. I didn’t go to my bed until very late.’

‘Were you alone?’

‘Some of the time, when my mates were eating. We all sleep here, so I was never really alone.’

‘Did you hear anyone near the river?’

‘Not really,’ the youth said, but there was a dryness to his tone that caught Simon’s attention. He was holding something back: he hadn’t been asked the right question
and wouldn’t willingly volunteer anything to someone in authority.

Simon had dealt with types like him before. ‘Did you, or did you not, see or hear anyone there?’ he demanded.

‘There were some people walking up there.’

‘Who?’

‘A girl and a man.’

‘Who was the girl?’

The lad shrugged. ‘How should I know?’

Simon suddenly sprang forward. He reached out and grabbed his jerkin.

Odo moved forward. ‘Bailiff, I think . . .’

‘Silence, Herald! Baldwin nearly died saving my skin just now, and I don’t have the patience to listen to this fool playing games. Did you hear that, groom? Don’t try to be
clever with me because I don’t understand, and when I don’t understand I get irritable. Like this,’ he said, tightening his grip. ‘All right? If you don’t begin to
help I’ll choke the life from you. Is that clear enough?’

The youth could hardly speak, but simply nodded.

‘Good. Because I want to know all
you
know about the people moving about last night, near where Sir William’s body was found today,’ Simon said, releasing his grip a
little.

The lad spoke hurriedly. ‘The girl was Lady Helen. She is wife to Sir Walter Basset. There was a man with her. Andrew – Sir Edmund’s squire.’

‘What? Together?’

‘Well . . .’

‘Tell us what you saw, you damned whore’s kitling.’

‘That’s all. I saw the two of them walking out to the river together. I thought nothing of it.’

‘This was after dark?’

‘Yes. Will you take your hands away now?’

‘Not yet. What of Sir William? When did you see him?’

‘I didn’t say I did. Ouch!’

‘No, you didn’t.
I
did. Did you see him before or after the others?’

‘He walked up here a little before them – if it was him. I saw him at the other side of the river, then I saw the girl with Andrew.’

‘What then?’

‘Yes, what then?’

And Simon turned and found himself staring into the congested face of Sir Walter Basset.

‘It was awful, Roger. Probably the most embarrassing situation I’ve ever talked myself into,’ Simon admitted the next morning.

They were sitting in the hall. It was the first opportunity they had found to discuss the murders and Coroner Roger shared the same rickety bench as Simon. When either man moved, both had to
grab at the wood. ‘Sir Walter forced the groom to admit that Andrew had come away from there shortly afterwards, and then after a long pause, Lady Helen left the place, closely followed by
Sir Edmund.’

‘It was not your fault,’ Roger said. He eyed his jug of wine sourly. ‘So what have we learned?’

‘Little enough. We know that many people over the years could have wanted to see Hal and Wymond dead. It’s trying to see who could have wanted them dead
now
that’s the
problem.’

Margaret sat at the other side of the room, feeding her baby. ‘What of the girl?’ She reminded them.

‘Which girl?’ Coroner Roger asked.

‘The wife of that squire who was killed in the lists.’

‘Alice? What of her?’

‘It’s just that I don’t understand her. She was desperately keen to escape from her guardian, to marry Geoffrey.’

‘Yes. She would have done anything to avoid marrying Sir William,’ Roger said. ‘You don’t mean . . .?’

Simon stared at his cup. ‘That she killed William to prevent him from marrying her? Why should she have killed the others?’

‘Maybe someone else killed the others,’ put in Sir Baldwin.

‘Baldwin, are you well enough to be up?’ Margaret demanded, surveying him anxiously. Her gratitude to this man would never end, she knew.