by Mike Ashley
Inside the pavilion retainers were already laying out and dressing the corpse of the dead knight, who would have looked as peaceful and composed as an effigy in a church, except for the awful ragged gash in his chest. Cranston looked around; the retainers he dismissed but went direct as an arrow to Eustace Howard, Woodville’s principal squire in the recent deadly joust. Eustace, round-faced, with a scrub of ginger hair, fearful green eyes and a petulant mouth, was loud in condemnation of what had happened. He nervously fingered a rosary as Cranston questioned him. The squire was about to launch into a further litany of protest when Sir Michael Lyons, the Master Herald, swaggered into the tent. He was a magnificent fellow: a broad, rubicund face and a leonine head, his grey hair swept back over his forehead. His martial appearance was made all the more threatening by watery blue eyes and a long drooping moustache. Sir Michael greeted Cranston warmly but dismissed Eustace and myself with a look of disdain.
“Cranston,” he rasped. “I know why you are here but I am Master Herald and chief steward of the tournament. Woodville,” he nodded at the corpse, “was murdered.”
“By whom, Sir Michael?”
“God’s teeth, Cranston!” Lyons snarled. “By Le Marche of course. His lance should have been blunted but the pointed steel cap had been replaced. We have found two of his other lances similarly armed. If Woodville had not been killed on the second run course, it would have undoubtedly happened later.”
“And does that make Le Marche a murderer?” Cranston asked.
Lyons stared at Cranston so hard his blue eyes seemed to pop out of his rubicund face whilst his white goatee beard bristled with anger.
“I mean,” Cranston smiled, “Le Marche should have used a blunted lance but did not. I concede that but I cannot see how that makes him a murderer.”
Howard bleated like a sheep whilst Lyons stroked his beard.
“Oh, come, Sir John!”
“Oh, come, Sir Michael!” Cranston mildly interrupted. “We are old soldiers. Let us not charge the first enemy in sight but, as Vegetius maintains in his manual of war, let us be patient. First, why should the noble Le Marche kill Woodville? Secondly, if he did, his method bordered on madness. He used a pointed lance, he must have known this would be discovered and the blame fall on him.”
Cranston stared at the Master Herald.
“There is one other perplexing problem. Would you say Le Marche and Woodville were equally matched?”
“Yes,” the Master Herald grunted.
“So,” Cranston continued, “how did Le Marche, even with his lethal lance, know he would be successful? Remember history, Sir Michael, the great Richard the Lionheart was killed by a man with a broken crossbow and a frying pan to protect himself. Come, Sir Michael,” he flattered soothingly, “you are an old warhorse like me, in battle nothing is predictable.”
The Master Herald allowed himself a small smirk of self-satisfaction.
“As always, Sir John, you are correct.” He took a deep breath and looked round the pavilion. “This morning,” he continued, “I thought how fortunate I was, my beautiful Isabella, queen of the tournament, the lady love of the two greatest champions in the kingdom. Now both are gone. Sir Robert lies dead and Sir Oliver is disgraced. I thought one of them, for they were both poor men, would have won the one hundred pounds prize and my daughter’s affection.”
Cranston whistled.
“So great a prize!” he said.
“God’s teeth!” Sir Michael snarled. “Now all is gone!”
He looked scathingly at Eustace, who surprisingly stood his ground.
“Do not blame me, Sir Michael!” he cried.
“Who said he was?” Cranston asked.
“Someone will pay,” Sir Michael replied. “Something is rotten here.”
He looked at me, for the first time bothering to acknowledge my presence.
“I inspected everything according to the rules of the tournament. Their horses, their armour.”
“And their lances?” I added.
“Yes, each knight lays them out on the grass before they are taken and put in the racks.” He shook his head. “Sir Oliver must have known the lance was tipped.”
“We will see Sir Oliver,” Cranston soothingly interrupted. “Come, Brother!”
“Pompous fool!” Cranston muttered after we had left the tent. “He is the reason Gaunt told me to intervene in this matter. A good warrior, Sir Michael,” he added, “but a greedy climber. A courtier with great ambitions, without the talent to match. Mind you,” he looked sideways at me, “we all have our failures, don’t we, Brother?”
The sun had slipped behind a cloud, I felt tired and unable to deal with Sir John’s teasing. The tournament field was now empty. All the glory was gone. The banners had lost their gloss and finery. The tilt barrier was damaged, the ground on either side pounded to a dust which whirled in small clouds as a cold breeze blew in. Only the pavilions remained, each ringed by men-at-arms and a few ostlers and grooms looking after the horses. I dare not look across at Benedicta and I cursed myself for being a love-lorn idiot but, I suppose, love makes fools of us all. I trailed along beside Cranston, through the ring of armed men into Le Marche’s pavilion. The young knight, his blood-red hair cropped to a stubble, was calm enough in the circumstances. I was surprised how young he was, though his eyes wore that aged look you often see in men steeped in the blood of others. “Men of contrasts” I call these knights with their courtly ways, silken clothes and lust for killing and war. Sir Oliver gazed stonily at both of us before returning to glare at his squire who was polishing his armour with a greasy rag. The squire kept his back to us, head bowed and I gathered there had been harsh words between master and servant before we entered. Cranston waddled across, barking at the lazing men-at-arms to get out.
“You are Sir Oliver Le Marche?”
“Of course,” Le Marche replied. “And you, because of your weight and wine-drenched breath, must be Sir John Cranston!”
“King’s Coroner!” Cranston tartly retorted.
“Of course,” Le Marche replied and swung slightly to one side to look at me. “And, of course, the faithful Brother Athelstan. That,” he indicated with his hand towards the squire, “is my ever devoted servant Giles Le Strange.” Le Marche stood up. “Now the courtesies are over, let’s be blunt. I did not kill Woodville. I did not know my lance was tipped with a metal point. You know, Sir John, how easy it is to slip the metal point onto a blunted lance. Anyone could have done it.”
Cranston pursed his lips.
“Yes, I do,” he said. “So what did happen?”
Sir Oliver sighed.
“Well, you saw the racks beside my pavilion at the end of the tilt barrier? I ran the first course, the lance was shattered. I returned to my position and my squire gave me a fresh one. I did not know the lance was pointed. I believed all of them were blunted, the metal points taken off.” He shrugged. “Anyway, it was not my fault.”
“Then whose was it, Sir?” Cranston barked.
Le Marche squared his shoulders.
“I could say, ask Woodville. All I remember is cantering towards him. My horse broke into a gallop, I lowered my lance. Only then did I notice something wrong.”
“What?”
“Woodville seemed to sway in his saddle, his shield lowered, his lance askew. I could not have stopped even if I had wanted to.” Le Marche bit his lip. “My lance was aimed for his shield; when that dropped, I took him full on the chest.”
He looked at me for pity.
“Even then I thought all would be well. Perhaps Woodville would be a little bruised, nothing else. I am as distressed as anyone that he is dead.”
“Surely,” I queried, “as you lowered your lance, you would have seen the metal point sheathed on the tip?”
Cranston guffawed.
“No, Brother.” Le Marche smiled. “Remember, I was helmeted, my visor down and the first rule of a jouster is never to watch your lance but your opponent.”
“No, I did not.”
“Why?”
“He belonged to the faction of John of Gaunt, the King’s uncle. I am a retainer of Gaunt’s younger brother, Thomas of Gloucester. You know, as the whole kingdom does, there is little liking between the brothers and the same goes for their retainers. I am a loyal man. What Lord Thomas dislikes I dislike. He disliked Gaunt. He disliked Woodville and so do I!”
“Was there more?” I asked. “I mean, the lady?”
“Yes, there was more,” Le Marche retorted bitterly. “Lady Isabella. I had asked for her hand in marriage but Gaunt refused because she is a royal ward. Woodville, too, had asked. She’s a fair lady.”
“And owns even fairer lands?” Cranston commented.
Le Marche’s eyes snapped up.
“Yes, she owns lands. Woodville was a suitor, a rival for her hand. For that I could have killed him but in fair combat. I did not murder him in the tournament.”
“And the prize,” I queried, “you wanted that?”
“Of course,” Le Marche retorted. “Now, if I am found guilty of foul play, I forfeit that as well as my honour!”
Cranston looked at the squire.
“And you, Giles. Surely you inspected the lances?”
The squire turned, a dour, whey-faced lad, though his eyes were anger-bright. If looks were arrows, Le Marche would have dropped dead on the spot.
“Why should I?” he answered, throwing the rag to the ground. “Yes, I put the lances in the rack but have you ever carried a lance, Sir John? You never think of looking at the tip, fourteen feet high, well over twice your height. The lances are in the rack, your master comes galloping back, you take one, you put it in his hand and the noble knight,” his eyes flickered up to his master, “charges on for greater honour and the favour of his lady.”
Le Marche smiled sourly at his squire’s attempt to be sardonic.
“My squire, Giles,” Le Marche interrupted, “does not like me and does not like tournaments. In fact, you’ve recently quarrelled with me, haven’t you, Giles?” Le Marche looked at me. “Do you know, Brother, Giles here wants to be a priest. He wants to leave the military life, believes he is not fitted for it.”
“Is that true, Giles?” I asked.
I looked at his thin face and large eyes. For all his bluster, the squire seemed a gentle man, more suited to study and prayer than hacking at his fellow man, be it on the tournament field or in the real, bloody business of war.
“Yes,” the squire murmured. “I have a vocation, Brother, but I also have an indenture,” he glared at his master, “with Sir Oliver Le Marche; it has another six months to run. When it is finished, so am I. I intend to return to my own village in Northampton, seek an audience with the bishop and ask to be ordained as a priest.”
“Some people,” I said slowly, “might say that you, Giles, disliked your master so much you were prepared to take your revenge by depicting him as a knight who cheated in a tournament. After all, two men touched those lances. You and your master. Or,” I turned, ignoring the squire’s look of fury, “they might say, Sir Oliver, that you hated Woodville so much, you thought it was worth killing him to win the hand of the fair Isabella.”
“That’s a lie!” the knight snapped, his hand falling to his belt where his sword should have been.
“Brother Athelstan,” Cranston tactfully interrupted, “is not accusing either of you. He is just repeating what other people might say.”
“Some people,” I continued, “might even allege that it was a conspiracy between you, Sir Oliver and your squire, to kill Sir Robert Woodville. I am only repeating, Sir Oliver,” I concluded, “what other people might say. Woodville was killed by your lance.”
“My master is a knight banneret,” the squire protested. “Yes, I dislike serving him but would a knight break his honour and would I, called to the priesthood, commit such a dreadful act?”
Cranston made a rude noise with his lips and looked around the tent. I knew what he was searching for. No drink can be hidden from Sir John for long and he’d glimpsed the earthenware jug full of coarse wine on a tray in the corner of the tent. He went across and picked it up. Le Marche sauntered over with a pewter cup he took from a chest.
“Sir John, you are thirsty? Be my guest.”
Cranston filled the cup to the brim until it spilt over, the red wine dripping to the ground like drops of blood and, in one great gulp, drank and immediately refilled it. He looked at me and rolled his eyes heavenwards.
“So,” he said expansively, “what we have here is one knight, you, Sir Oliver with an intense dislike for your opponent. A dislike which has its roots in the rivalry between both your royal masters as well as rivalry for the fair hand of Lady Isabella. Secondly, we have your squire, Giles, who has little love for you. Thirdly, the tournament is ready, the lances are inspected by Sir Michael earlier in the day though you, Sir Oliver, never touched a lance until you ran the first course.”
Le Marche nodded, filled a wine cup and drank greedily from it.
“Yes,” he said, smacking his lips as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “That’s how it was and, if any man believes, alleges or even thinks I am responsible for Woodville’s death he should produce the proof before King’s Bench or answer to me on the field of combat, and that includes you, Sir John, even though you are the King’s Coroner. As for you, Brother,” Le Marche grinned across at me, “you can say what you like. I am used to your type.” He nodded to his squire. “I have him preaching to me every second of the waking day. However, I repeat, I did not kill Woodville.”
“But someone did!”
We all turned as Sir Michael Lyons, the Master Herald, strode into the tent.
“I, too, am concerned, Sir Oliver, by what many people saw: as Woodville charged he lost control of his horse, his lance slipped, his shield went down. Now I have just examined his destrier, there is a cut on its hindquarters.”
Le Marche’s face went hard.
“So, it was the horse which jolted him.”
“Yes and Eustace, Woodville’s squire, must be the culprit. Just before the trumpet blast for the second charge, the squire would have held Woodville’s horse by its bridle. The trumpet rang out, the horse gathered itself for the charge, Eustace stepped back and with a dagger concealed in his other hand, cut the horse as it burst forward.”
The Master Herald paused.
“The rest you know.” He nodded at the tent entrance behind him. “We have the squire outside. He claims he knows nothing of this.”
I could see from Cranston’s close face and hooded eyes, the way he cocked his head slightly to one side that he did not fully accept the Master Herald’s story.
“Bring Eustace in!” the coroner snapped.
The Master Herald went back to the doorway of the tent and shouted. Two men-at-arms entered, the hapless Eustace struggling and squirming between them. His face was grey and drawn, his mouth sagging open in disbelief at the accusations which had been levelled against him. Cranston, without a word, refilled his wine cup and offered it to the squire.
“Drink, man,” he murmured. “Gather your wits for God’s sake! All that has happened is an allegation laid against you, no real proof.”
“There is proof,” the Master Herald interrupted. “Come outside!”
Cranston followed Lyons out. I trailed behind, quite bemused. (When Sir John exercises his authority, he is like a hunting dog; he seeks out his prey, not letting go, not giving up the scent, not even for a bucket of wine or a flagon of beer.) The unfortunate war horse, still coated in a white, sweaty foam but now unsaddled, stood waiting patiently; two pages either side of its head, held it quiet and docile. Sir Michael took Sir John to the left side of the horse where Eustace would have stood, one hand on his master’s bridle. True enough, Sir Michael was right; along the sweat soaked hindquarters there was a long ugly cut; no casualty of the tournament; the horse had been deliberately
gashed. Sir John studied this carefully, licked his lips, shook his head and went back inside.
“Sir Oliver,” he said. “You knew Woodville?”
“Of course. I have admitted as much.”
“He was a good jouster?”
Le Marche pursed his lips.
“Yes,” he replied slowly. “Probably one of the best in the kingdom.”
“So, did you expect to win today?” Sir John added.
Le Marche looked away.
“Sir Oliver,” Cranston repeated, “I asked you an honest question! As one knight to another, did you expect to win today?”
Le Marche shook his head.
“No,” he replied softly. “I expected to lose. Woodville was an excellent jouster and horseman.”
“Do you think,” Cranston persisted, “that if his horse was hurt as he gathered to charge, it would have alarmed him?”
Le Marche laughed drily.
“I doubt it. Sir Robert was an excellent horseman. Any knight has to face such a danger in battle whether it be an arrow, flaming torch or a man-at-arms springing up suddenly in ambuscade. Remember, Sir John, a knight does not control his horse with his hands but with his knees. If there had been such an accident or an attempt to damage the horse, I believe Sir Robert would have controlled it.”
“But not,” the Master Herald interrupted, “if he was not expecting it. Remember, Woodville was at full charge, lance lowered, shield up, suddenly his horse shies. I still believe,” he pointed to where Eustace stood gibbering with fright, his moans peppered with pleas for mercy, “that he could have damaged the horse and for those few seconds Sir Robert lost his concentration.”
Cranston pursed his lips and nodded. He turned to me.
“What do you think, Brother?”
I thought of Benedicta and Cranston’s wife still being entertained by the ever so courteous gallant.
“I think, Sir John, we cannot stay here all day. There is a tavern nearby, ‘The Swooping Eagle’. Perhaps, Sir Michael, you could have it cleared and we can use it to continue our questioning there. Sir John, if you would come with me?”