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. . . ’
He was quiet a few minutes. ‘It was as if time stood still. I saw people shaking their fists, shrieking with blood-lust, longing to see a man die . . . to see me die. It was very curious.
‘Then another buffet knocked my head and I knew I must get away. My only safety lay in flight. I was desperate and spurred my horse until the blood ran in rivulets, staining the cloth covering.’
He had tried to move, Sir Richard told Simon, but he had no purchase. He barged forward and tried to thrust a path between the boarding and Sir Walter’s mount, but the Cornishman wheeled his horse to block them, his mount’s rump slamming into the ber frois. ‘I swear that at that moment I could hear a dreadful creaking,’ Sir Richard said quietly. ‘It was like a kind of grumbling, as though the barrier and plankings were complaining. That was it, a sort of moaning, like an old man muttering under his breath as the cold weather seized up his ancient joints.
‘And then, with a crash, the section nearest me gave way. I was falling, and as I went I felt an explosion of pain in my neck. The mace had struck the weak spot between my shoulders where the mail was feeble from age and rust. I had never worried about it before, but now, with my head bent, the spot was exposed. That blow felled me like an ox under the hammer. And if it wasn’t for Hal Sachevyll, that section of barrier wouldn’t have collapsed and I wouldn’t have fallen.’
‘Was it the barrier that did that?’
‘You mean, was it the barrier which so ruined my face and looks, Bailiff ?’ He smiled thinly. ‘No. This was a sword. I fell through the barrier, and as I fell a chance blow almost broke my neck. I was not aware of anything else for some time. But as I fell, Sir Edmund of Gloucester came to help me, I thank God. He rode up and fought with Sir Walter to protect me, but Sir Walter was a wild beast at being frustrated in capturing me. He set about Sir Edmund and so belaboured him that Sir Edmund was driven back.
‘I knew I’d been seriously injured. My horse was dead, impaled upon a metal spike, but when I saw Sir Walter was fighting someone else, I pulled my helmet off to breathe. God, it was hot! When he returned to me and bellowed at me to yield, I couldn’t hear. My head was full of a clamorous row, because of the beating I’d received. When I noticed him, I knew only fear to see him again. I grabbed for my sword, which lay a few feet from me and as I caught hold of it, Sir Walter swung.’
He remembered that blow. It came to him at night, when he was in a deep sleep, the sight of that notched and scratched blade swinging down at him as though time was standing almost still. Then the slamming agony of the blade above his temple and the hideous dragging as it clove through his flesh and skull, tearing and rending its way down, through eye-socket and cheek and on down to his jaw. That was where the blade and the horror ended. At last Sir Richard’s mind surrendered and he passed out.
‘Have you ever seen a bear enter a ring to be baited?’ he asked quietly. ‘Sometimes it will look mild, until the dogs begin to snap at it, and then it will defend itself, but without fury. That comes later. At first the bear wants only to protect itself, but then, once a mastiff has got to it and maybe chewed the bastard’s leg, that is when the thing becomes enraged and flings its tormentors away or smashes them. Sir Walter became like a bear, may his cods shrivel.
‘He brought it down two-handed,’ Sir Richard said softly, adding, ‘I felt every moment as it passed through my bones and skin.’
‘It must have been terrible,’ Simon said with an awed hush.
Sir Richard stared over Simon’s shoulder as his hand rose to the dreadful scar. A forefinger traced the line of rippling and badly mended flesh, following it from his ruined eye down to his cloven jaw. He looked like a man who lived in a permanent nightmare, a man pursued by his own terrors.
‘Terrible, Bailiff ? You could not possibly imagine. At the time I thought it was going to kill me. It never sprang to my mind that I would soon wish it had.
‘It almost split my head in two. And then Sir Walter, brave Sir Walter, would have gone to find another victim, but the people were so furious that they ran forward to attack him.’ His good eye hardened. ‘They chased him from the field. That bold, proud man fled before the rabble of Crukerne. But gentle, kindly hands came and collected me and took me to a convent where I was gradually healed.
Although then I was ruined financially instead by the usurers.’
‘Because you had lost?’
‘Yes. I was captured by Sir Walter, so I had no escape. He demanded my money since I had yielded to him, and would give no quarter when it came to his cash. What would he care? He had destroyed my life, so he might as well have my money as well. And he had a willing accomplice. Benjamin the Bastard came to me and said that he had settled on my behalf. I demurred, said I hadn’t agreed to any funds, but Benjamin had a clerk with him, and they showed me a document I had signed and sealed. It confirmed I had asked him to settle with Sir Walter.’
‘And you hadn’t?’
‘How could I?’ Sir Richard demanded sadly, his anger fading as swiftly as it had flared.
‘How could I have managed such an agreement while my face was being stitched or when the flesh had caught afire with agony as the fever gripped me? No, Bailiff. I knew nothing of this. Benjamin came to me in the convent while I suffered, pretending to be a friend and counsellor, but in reality he was a thief. And I could not even prove it. All I can say is, the bargain was less costly than my father’s.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘My father Godwin was a knight in the great tournament in Exeter of 1306, but he died when a mace caught his neck. At least I have my life, even if I’ve lost my leg and my arm,’ he said, gesturing with his left arm towards his useless right arm and leg.
‘I’ve heard of that one,’ Simon said. ‘There was a whole family killed.’
‘Yes. So I seem to recall,’ Sir Richard frowned. ‘Tyrel, that was their name. The father was there. Poor devil saw the stand collapse and tried to rescue his children and wife, but it was no good, of course.’
‘Christ Jesus! You mean that he was there and saw his family die?’ Simon winced.
‘Yes. Poor fellow. Philip Tyrel. I was only a child, of course, but I remember him.’
‘What was he like?’ Simon asked.
‘Tyrel? A large man, big-chested and with a great belly, if not very tall. He had a strutting arrogance, and he was always wary of insults. He took his own importance very seriously.’
‘He sounds like Tyler,’ Simon said half jokingly.
‘Hmm. If Tyler wore a beard, I would almost say they were brothers. Certainly not dissimilar.’
‘Really?’ Simon was interested. ‘Did this Tyrel survive?’
‘He disappeared soon after the disaster. His heart was broken, I think. Whose wouldn’t have been?’
Simon tried to imagine how he would have felt if he had seen his own wife and children killed. ‘Have you seen him since then?’ he asked absently, and then his head shot up. ‘Christ Jesus! You haven’t spotted him here, have you?’
‘Who, Tyrel? No, I’d have noticed someone like him. Tall, strong, dark of hair and bearded, he wasn’t the sort of man you’d miss. No, he’s not here. Poor devil has probably died.’
‘Yes. Perhaps,’ Simon said, unconvinced. ‘But if he did return here, it would explain much.’
‘His seeking revenge on the men who destroyed his family, you mean?’
‘Yes, and all because of money. At least Benjamin won’t fleece anyone else now,’ Simon said soberly ‘He’s dead.’
‘Yes. The devil’s gone, thank God. May he rot in eternal fire. He almost cost me my castle.’
‘Do you know how he died?’
‘Beaten, I heard. So what? Many a cut-throat will execute a victim with a club.’
‘True. Where did you hear of his death?’
‘Do you think me guilty of his murder? Oh Bailiff, you should arrest me at once! Do you know, I can’t remember who told me about him. Perhaps it was an itinerant carter passing by my castle.’
Simon gave a faint grin in apology. ‘I am too used to suspecting everyone.’
‘Perhaps you should.’
‘Do you think he helped finance the ber frois that collapsed at Crukerne?’
Sir Richard gave him an intent stare. There was no shame or fear in his eye, only an increased sharpness. ‘You do think I killed him? Perhaps I did, Bailiff. But if I did, it was because he funded a cheap piece of work which indirectly led to this damage. That is all. Surely if I wanted revenge, I’d have killed Sir Walter?’
‘Perhaps you thought that would be more difficult?’
‘Aye. Perhaps I would,’ said Sir Richard with a twisted smile, glancing at his feeble leg. He opened his mouth but, as he did so, his expression hardened and a shiver of revulsion made him tremble like a willow in a gale.
Turning, Simon saw that he was staring at the figure of Sir Walter Basset.
Chapter Eighteen
Sir John had left his son to go and talk to a couple of armourers. Having settled with them for a new sword and matching dagger, he left the rattle and hammer of their anvils, and strode along their lines to the usurers’ discreet section of tents and tables.
It was hard to keep his features under control. Useless swine, the lot of them! All of them of low birth; not one nobleman in the country would want to be accused of money-lending: it was a source of shame. Worse than entering into mercantile ventures.
The pity of it was that men had to make use of them occasionally. He had himself been forced to go to the usurers: for arms, for Pomers – even for sheep, because he’d never have restocked his flocks else. After the famine, his sheep had died almost to a ewe from a murrain that struck down not only his own flocks but also all the others in the country.
He cheered up a little as he recalled the hatred on Sir Edmund’s face. It was refreshing to see that a man whom he had beaten so many years before still felt the humiliation of his conquest.
Sir John marched along the money-lenders’ tables, his mind on the difficulty of replacing that shit Benjamin. But he had to, somehow. With so much of his property already in pawn, it was going to be much harder to borrow. He could almost believe that Benjamin had warned everyone not to take any debts from him, from the reception he was getting. At least he didn’t need to repay his old debts now Benjamin was gone. Widow Dudenay could whistle for it. She could threaten all she wanted, Sir John would never return the money her husband had lent him. He cast a speculative eye towards the arena. That was the best way to win more money.
Not that he needed cash for long. Surely his flocks would soon recover, now that he had brought in rams and ewes, and then he could look to redeem the plate and gold he had left in pawn.
However, if he were to find another Sir Edmund, life would become a great deal easier.
The thought was an idle one, but it was enough to bring a beaming smile to his face. Then he caught sight of Sir Baldwin. There was a man he’d like to meet in the hastilude. It’d be next to impossible to lose against a pathetic-looking specimen like him. Sir Baldwin was the archetypal farmer-warrior. Just enough money from his manor to justify the retention of his titles and keep him in good clothes, if Sir John’s guess was accurate. Probably as bound up with financial troubles as he was himself. Certainly not Sir John’s ideal companion. A good, sound man-at-arms was more to his taste; someone with whom he could drink his fill of strong ales or wines, then gamble on a horse or a knight in lance-play, not some straight-faced old fast like Sir Baldwin. However, any man was better company than no one. And anyone at all was better than his son William at present. He was going about the place like a bear in the pit.
Seeing an attractive woman at Sir Baldwin’s side, Sir John’s smile grew. At least he had a pleasing decoration. ‘Sir Baldwin, how go things in Furnshill?’
‘Well, I thank you,’ Baldwin answered, fitting a dishonestly welcoming smile to his face.
Margaret hoisted her child higher on her breast as she gave the knight a polite greeting.
‘I was just thinking I will have to enter the tournament,’ Sir John told Baldwin. ‘Take a look at the youngsters here. Any one of them could be thrashed with one hand bound behind me. A man could make a fortune.’
‘Surely you aren’t thinking only of mo
ney, Sir John?’ Margaret exclaimed. ‘Not when you could win renown for your courage and deeds in the tournament?’
Sir John smiled patronisingly. ‘Lady, a man might easily win honours for his prowess, but when all is said and done, a purseful of coins speaks loudest. A knight wins no praise if he never wins at a fight, and the natural accompaniment to success is wealth. Besides,’ he added, glancing at the milling squires and servants, ‘look at the fools here. Many of them should be grateful for a good lesson taught at the hands of a practised knight.’
‘They should be grateful for being beaten about the head?’ she enquired, and Baldwin nearly laughed out loud.
‘Lady, the lessons learned here on a field with bated weapons will stand many a fellow in good stead upon a field in which the weapons are all sharp. And anyway, there is nothing wrong with a man winning money from his captives.’
‘Combatants can die even with bated weapons,’ Baldwin observed.
‘Of course. How else do you teach a man chivalry if he won’t risk his own life?’
‘Have you killed many in the lists?’ Margaret asked.
‘Not many. A few.’
Baldwin looked at him. The lists were supposed to be for practice, not to kill. ‘I heard that you fought Sir Richard’s father in the lists.’
‘Godwin? Yes. He was a popular fellow, but not much good as a fighter. A splinter of steel from his helmet cut his throat while he fought me, and he died.’
‘Was that at Exeter?’ Baldwin enquired, recalling Hal’s words. ‘Didn’t a stand give way?’
‘Yes. Rot the bastards! The crowd was furious to see their darling little Godwin fall! They surged forward in the stands and people at the sides of the ber frois moved forward, all howling like wolves. I’ve never seen a mob like it! And then someone fell, or a rope gave way – I don’t know – and a mass of folks tumbled down. Several died.’
The Tournament of Blood Page 21