Roaring, ‘No!’ Baldwin sprang forward the remaining thirty yards. Simon, he saw, jumped back as the blade danced in the sunlight; he heard Edith give a short shriek, her hand going to her mouth, while William took her shoulder and pulled her towards him. Simon made as if to reach for his daughter, but William’s knife was already there and Simon almost grazed his forearm on the wicked steel.
Baldwin darted to William’s side, and the boy saw his movement and shot a glance at him. As Baldwin saw William’s eyes take him in, he kept going until he was almost behind the lad. Simon made a grab for his daughter and William’s attention was diverted. He turned to face Simon and instantly Baldwin was in close, one foot lashing out to catch William behind the knees. The youth’s legs collapsed and he fell like an arrow plummeting into water, his wrist gripped in Baldwin’s hand. Simon took Edith’s arm and pulled her away.
William reached for his knife, which he had dropped, but Baldwin stepped upon it and put a hand on the lad’s shoulder. ‘Enough!’ he cried heartily. ‘There is no blood spilt, no harm done. I think we should forget that this ever happened.’
He held William’s gaze as he spoke, and although his tone was genial and pleasant, there was nothing amiable in his face. William could see cold contempt there, and glittering anger in his brown eyes.
‘I’d give a shilling on the Bailiff,’ one voice called. Another drily observed, ‘You think so? I’d give the boy my shilling. The Bailiff needed a friend to beat one boy.’
‘There will be no more fighting,’ Baldwin stated. ‘No, and if you want to see fighting, go and watch the jousts. That is where the action is. The squire here won’t fight with the Bailiff, after all. The Bailiff can’t be seen to be squabbling with a squire, and no squire who expects to be dubbed knight would want his honour stained by picking a quarrel with the father of his maid, would he?’ Baldwin smiled, still staring, unblinking, at William. ‘Not unless he wanted his lord to stop his promotion. A squire who fights Lord Hugh’s Bailiff can scarcely expect him to be impressed. Lord Hugh is more likely to refuse to knight a man who insults his officers like that.’
Squire William nodded in good part. ‘You are right, Sir Baldwin, and I am impressed with your skills. I’d like to pit myself against you in the tournament.’
‘I fear my own days as a jouster are far gone,’ Baldwin said untruthfully. If he never had to joust again, he would be content.
‘Perhaps we could test our relative prowess?’
‘There would be little merit in a fight between a youth full in his prime and an old fool like me,’ Baldwin countered politely. ‘I am sure your better training and the strength of your youth would show.’
He bent and offered William his hand. The squire grunted with pain and winced as he clambered to his feet. Baldwin motioned towards the knife. ‘Do not leave it or it might rust,’ he said.
‘Bailiff, my Lady Edith,’ William said, and gave them his courtliest bow. ‘I look forward to meeting you again soon. Sir Baldwin, good day.’
Baldwin watched him go with a small smile. ‘I used to be much like that,’ he said.
‘Thank God you’ve learned to be more respectful to your betters,’ Simon grated.
‘He was perfectly respectful until you insulted him!’ Edith burst out. ‘Why did you have to be so rude to me?’
‘You deliberately misled me and your mother,’ Simon rasped. ‘Don’t now try to blame us for your own failings.’
‘I did not lie,’ she equivocated.
‘When we asked you about your neck-scarf, you changed the subject, didn’t you?’
‘That has nothing to do with . . .’
‘Come back now. I can’t trust you alone.’
She stamped her foot with a quick fury. ‘You can’t expect me to leave the field just because you want to go to the castle! I won’t!’
Simon stepped closer, and the light of battle was in his eye. ‘You can come back with me willingly or not, but by God’s cods, you are coming back right now. I will not leave your mother thinking you could be in danger, no matter how badly you behave.’
Edith drew in a breath, meeting his angry stare with a gaze quite as unflinching. ‘I won’t.’
‘Then I’ll carry you.’
‘You wouldn’t dare!’
Baldwin groaned. ‘May I interrupt? Edith, I think you should assume your father will dare do exactly that, so please do not tempt him. And Simon, Edith is prepared to fight you, so may I suggest that Edith comes back with me? If you would care to follow, Simon? There is no need to create even more of a spectacle than we already have, is there?’
His suggestion was followed, to Baldwin’s gratification, although some of his pleasure was dulled as he led the way to the castle when he heard a voice declare:
‘Wot, won’t there be a fight, then? I was going to bet tuppence on the squire.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Philip Tyrel contemplated the field as the last of the squires handed his reins to a friend and dropped from the saddle with relief. It was a long way down, sitting up there, with the high seating position inches above the mount’s back. Once there, leaning back into the cantle that surrounded a man’s body, curving around his kidneys, one realised how far it was to fall.
He had witnessed the tilt between William and Geoffrey, but he had seen many such collisions in the lists – some fatal and others in which, miraculously, both seemed unhurt – and now his interest was taken by the direction in which William was going, back towards the pavilions.
The lad was nothing to him. Nothing at all . . . he was the bait, the lure to the father, that was all. And yet in some ways, he was the embodiment of the crime.
It was strange. At first Philip had not expected to get further than Benjamin, but then when he arrived here at this tournament, he realised that he could make Hal Sachevyll and Wymond Carpenter pay for their part in the crime. Now there remained only the last of the four, the man whose greed had directly led to the deaths. The man who had ended Philip’s marriage by seeing to it that his beloved wife was killed. And his two young children.
It was a curious fact that William happened to be around the same age as his children would have been now, had they lived; it almost made the next stage feel like a divine form of retribution, as if God Himself had willed that Sir John should pay for his offence with the blood of his own son.
He followed William to the tents with a feeling of calmness and ease. All of a sudden, his pain and grief were eradicated. He felt better each morning when he awoke, soothed by the death of the men who had ruined his life. Their destruction was balm to his soul.
This boy was different, though. He was not directly responsible for anything. He was merely the tool of vengeance. Nothing more.
While Philip watched, William ducked into his tent and the murderer heard his father’s rumbling tones. Philip dared not approach too close, but from the other side of the lane between the tents, he could hear Sir John enquire after his son.
‘I know a knock like that can shake a man.’
‘I’m fine. I lost a tooth, got some bruises but that’s all.’
‘How about Geoffrey?’
‘What do I care? The fool lost.’
‘And a fortunate thing. He may die and leave you a safe tilt at the girl.’
‘She will do as you tell her.’
‘You think so? Did you hear what she said? That she was already married to Geoffrey?’
‘Deny it. You are her guardian and you never gave her permission. A clandestine marriage cannot be proved. Anyway, if she is married, she will soon be a widow.’
There was a pause, then, ‘Don’t you care if she has lost her virginity?’ Sir John’s tone expressed disbelief.
‘Father, I have slept with many women. Few of them were virgins. Why should I care if this one is or is not?’
‘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.
The Tournament of Blood Page 27