The Tournament of Blood (10 page)

‘Simon!’

On hearing his name called, Simon Puttock turned, wearing a scowl which only faded when he recognised Baldwin. He was standing by a lance-rack at the side of a
ber frois
, talking to a
sandy-haired man with a sallow, pinched face. At the lance-rack itself leaned a short, squat, truculent Celt with near-black hair and blue eyes, who wore a leather apron. From the adze thrust into
the apron string, Baldwin assumed he was a carpenter.

‘Baldwin – thank God! I thought it was more problems! How are you, old friend? I was beginning to wonder whether you’d plead fatherhood to avoid the event. How are
they?’

Baldwin noticed that the other two men appeared irritable, but he saw no sign that Simon wanted to return to his discussion with them. ‘Jeanne is fine, but very tired,’ he replied.
‘Our daughter Richalda is keeping her and Petronilla awake through the night.’

‘Not you?’

‘Yes, she keeps me up as well,’ Baldwin admitted. There was no surprise to it. His manor house was a good size, but the solar block was not vast and Baldwin was learning that one
baby girl could make more noise than any animal of the same size when desiring attention.

‘Is Jeanne coping?’

‘She fluctuates between weeping from sheer frustration and tiredness, and laughing with delight when she sees what she calls a smile on the baby’s face.’

‘You don’t see it?’ Simon asked.

‘There is nothing
to
see,’ Baldwin said severely. ‘The child is a mass of bawling noise, nothing more.’

Simon made no comment, there was no need. Baldwin’s words might have been harsh but his tone, when he spoke of his daughter, was gentle and proud.

‘And how are Margaret and Peterkin?’

‘They are fine. Meg’s perfectly used to podding. I left her to it,’ Simon said absently, then he appeared to recall the man at his side. ‘Oh, Sir Baldwin, this is Hal
Sachevyll, who is designing the
ber frois
and setting out the space for fighting.’

Baldwin gazed at him blankly. ‘The
ber frois
aren’t ready?’

‘No,’ Sachevyll snapped. ‘It’s ridiculous. We’ve got the main frames up in place, but we need fresh timber for the flooring. The stuff we’ve been given is
useless. Soggy, rotten and feeble.’

‘The wood’s shite,’ the carpenter asserted. ‘
I
wouldn’t stand on those planks. They’re rotten.’

‘It’s an outrage, Bailiff,’ Hal Sachevyll declared passionately. ‘All the timbers are of poor quality and there’s scarcely enough, in any case. I demand that the
town provides more.’

‘We’ve been through this already, Hal,’ Simon said shortly. ‘If you want more timber, you’ll have to pay for it.’

‘I
have
paid! The stuff delivered is just not good enough, is it, Wymond?’ He appealed to the carpenter, who spat at Simon’s feet.

Simon looked at him coldly. ‘Then buy more. You have been given a good sum of money to make the tournament work, haven’t you? Use it.’

‘What, waste more of Lord Hugh’s money? It may be loaned by a money-lender, but Lord Hugh will have to pay it all back sooner or la—’

‘You have enough to build,’ Simon said impatiently. ‘You suggested a budget, I daresay. Stick to it.’

Hal sighed. ‘Look, Lord Hugh told me how much he wanted to pay. He agreed a budget with my banker, and Lord Hugh will settle up later. But that doesn’t mean I can go willy-nilly
ordering fresh wood and—’

‘I repeat: you have enough funds. Use them!’

‘Our banker is dead, Bailiff. Murdered some weeks ago. I would pawn my own few belongings, but since you have plenty of wood here, why not give me some? It’s all Lord Hugh’s.
And it’s his own villeins who shortchanged me, supplying rotten timbers when I ordered the best. You should command them to give us more for their lord’s honour.’

‘For the last time, I’m not going to steal from the townsfolk,’ Simon said sharply. ‘Why don’t you make the stands smaller, or have lower rails at the front? I
can’t believe you really need so much wood.’

‘You’ve never built stands, have you, Bailiff ?’ Wymond the carpenter interrupted. ‘Maybe you’d like to take my fucking hammer and show me how to do it?’

Simon’s patience was frayed. Unused to such rudeness, he was close to losing his own temper. His features hardened, but after a moment’s effort he composed himself. ‘Well,
perhaps you can show me what I fail to comprehend, Wymond.’

‘Yes, I too should like to see these
bers frois
,’ Baldwin said.

With Wymond following, swearing, Sachevyll led them to the high walls of the stands enclosing the lists.

Baldwin left Simon and the other two as they argued, the carpenter pointing to weaknesses and the dearth of wood while Simon shook his head and declared himself satisfied with the preparations.
Instead Baldwin went to look at the layout. He was grateful that a small team of workmen were sawing and hammering because their row smothered the noise of the bickering between Simon and
Sachevyll.

The area was large. There would be space for at least fifty knights to contest within its fencing, first with horses, then on foot. Baldwin had seen many tournaments, and this seemed to have
been set out with skill. The space between the
ber frois
was adequate, there was plentiful land for the horses to build up their speed, and the stands were a good size for all the men and
women who would want to come and watch the spectacle.

It would be interesting to see a tournament again, he thought. He had practised regularly while a Knight Templar and had fought in the lists, both in individual clashes with lance on shields,
and in the
mêlée
where everyone wielded their favourite weapon after the initial brutal, thundering collision, but now he was approaching fifty years of age he was happy that
younger bones and muscles should have their turn.

He heard the voices behind him as the others approached. Hal was talking. ‘And just look at this! I’ve never
seen
such shoddy lumber! My heavens, I shudder to think what
Lord Hugh will think when
he
sees it. It’s an embarrassment, that’s what it is.’

‘If it’s the best—’

‘Don’t fucking tell
me
it’s the best they can do,’ Wymond rasped. When Baldwin turned to glance at them, he saw that the carpenter was right before Simon and
pointing with a furious finger.

The Bailiff’s voice was curt but controlled. ‘Perhaps it would be better if you could get on with the
ber frois
.’

‘I don’t want to be associated with—’

‘You already are, Master Carpenter, so I suggest you get on with it.’

‘
Not without better wood
.’

‘Christ Jesus, give me strength!’ Simon cried heavenwards. ‘Wymond, get back to your work, and if you need more, petition your friend Hal here.’

‘You’ll have a disaster. It’s happened before, a long time ago, at Exeter,’ Sachevyll said, panicking. ‘You’ll have a collapse and then where will we all
be?’

‘In the shit,’ Wymond spat.

‘What happened at Exeter?’ Baldwin asked.

‘A knight was killed and the crowd was angry. He was a well-liked fellow and the mob wanted the blood of his killer. They all moved forward, and the barrier gave way before the press,
letting people tumble out. Women were smothered beneath the bodies, Sir Baldwin. Women and children, all crushed. It’ll happen here if the Bailiff remains obdurate. I warn you now: if you
don’t get me new wood, I won’t be responsible.’

‘Lord Hugh advanced you sufficient funds to buy decent wood. If you skimped in order to line your own pockets, you’ll have to buy more. No matter what, the safety aspect is entirely
your responsibility
!’

‘If anything goes wrong, I’ll blame you,’ the carpenter stated. ‘It’s not my fault if the thing’s unsafe.’

‘Yes, it is,’ Simon insisted. ‘It’s the responsibility of you both to make the stands safe.’

‘I don’t see what I’m supposed to do with this crap. If there was some decent timber it’d be different, but—’

Simon cut through the carpenter’s grumbling monotone. ‘God’s teeth! Just get back to your work, you lazy, whining whoreson, or I’ll have the Lord Hugh’s Bailiff
arrest you as soon as he arrives.’

‘You can’t do that without a reason,’ the carpenter sneered and was about to add something to his words when Simon took a short step forward. Immediately Wymond drew his hammer
and hefted it menacingly. ‘You want to attack me, eh? You want some of this?’

‘Put that thing down, you misbegotten shit of a Plymouth alewife!’ Simon roared.

‘Make me!’

Baldwin stepped between the two. ‘Simon, there is no point in fighting. He’s beneath you.’

‘Oh, yes?’ the carpenter screeched, enraged. ‘I’ll have his fucking head off, and we’ll see who’s beneath who, then, eh?’

Baldwin said nothing, but his hand went to his sword.

Hal put a hand on the carpenter’s arm. ‘Come on, dear,’ he soothed. ‘He’s not worth it.’

‘Try anything and you will be arrested,’ Baldwin said flatly.

‘Come now, Bailiff – squabbling with the hired help?’

Hearing the amused, laconic tone, Simon tensed. While they had been arguing, the King Herald, Mark Tyler, had lounged over. He stood watching their argument with ill-concealed distaste, like a
nobleman who was above any such grubby disputes. Two heralds stood with him, both looking on with frank interest. Baldwin recognised one as Odo, the messenger who had given him his invitation. Odo
was wincing as though pained by the King Herald’s tone.

Simon privately considered Lord Hugh’s King Herald to be a fat, obnoxious fool. Tyler had an easy time of it; he took over when all the hard work was done. And what then? Maybe he’d
adjudicate occasionally, sing a few songs, praise some knights for their courage, and then retire to a tavern or Lord Hugh’s bar with some cronies while other men did all the serious
work.

The dark-haired man, with the double chin and expanding paunch beneath his multi-coloured tabard covered with Lord Hugh’s insignia, wore an expression of resignation, as if he had expected
no better of Simon than that he should quarrel publicly with a carpenter. It made Simon realise what a spectacle he was making of himself and the thought that he had done so before the King Herald
made him recover his poise instantly.

‘Touch me, and you’ll be arrested or dead in a moment,’ he said to the carpenter. ‘Get back to your work or I shall demand the King Herald arrests you in Lord
Hugh’s name.’

Seeing a mutinous light in the carpenter’s eyes, Baldwin pulled an inch or two of his sword blade from the scabbard, but Wymond had stood his ground long enough. He hawked and spat and
lumbered away.

Sachevyll threw his hands in the air.

‘This is wonderful!
Quite
astonishing! You realise you’re going to ruin the whole show? Now you’ve upset my friend, what’s next? I ask you, can we possibly get
things completed if you molest my people? What Lord Hugh will have to say when he sees all this mess, I shudder to think. You need to find more wood, Bailiff, because otherwise I refuse to accept
any responsibility. I’ll tell Lord Hugh whose fault it was when he comes storming over the place. And I’ll tell him I warned you the stands are dangerous, that they might collapse. The
ber frois
could be filled with his friends and their women – you want to see Lord Hugh’s friends falling and breaking their legs and arms, even dying?’

‘Master Sachevyll,’ Simon said with an icy calmness, ‘you are quite right to be concerned.
You
are Lord Hugh’s servant, while I, a humble bailiff, am a servant
of Abbot Champeaux. I have nothing to answer to Lord Hugh about. I owe him no homage, I seek no patronage.’

‘You are as much Lord Hugh’s man as I am, myself. We both take his money to make this tournament work.’

‘No, I do
not
take his money. I am no mercenary. I repeat, I am Bailiff to Abbot Champeaux, an officer. I take nothing from Lord Hugh. If you have concerns, raise them with your
lord. For my part, I have other business to attend to.’

‘You can’t leave me here! You have to help me find more wood!’

‘Get your own damned wood, you feeble-minded sodomite! I’ve been trying to help you all this long day, but now I’ve had enough. You were given the money to buy whatever you
needed, but you’ve bought rubbish. Either buy more or make do. Either way, leave me in peace. I have a tournament to organise.’

‘Where can I go?’ Sachevyll wailed.

‘To hell and back – I don’t give a shit, so long as it’s far from me,’ Simon ground out unsympathetically and turned on his heel.

Sachevyll was close to tears as the Bailiff walked away. He could have screamed with frustration, but that wouldn’t get things sorted, and that was what Hal Sachevyll was
going to do: get this event successfully completed in the manner which Lord Hugh would expect.

But he couldn’t achieve anything in this mood. First he must calm down. That was what dear Wymond had told him, that he must calm down. He’d be no use to man nor beast if he
didn’t, and there was so much to plan, so much to organise still. Hal had every intention of succeeding – with or without the Bailiff’s assistance. And afterwards he could point
out to the Lord just how unhelpful – indeed obstructive – this nasty fellow Puttock had been. That thought was soothing. It needed to be developed. The idea of shaming the Bailiff
before Lord Hugh was most attractive, but Hal hankered after more dramatic detail: perhaps the Bailiff would beg him for forgiveness, and Hal would spurn him, averting his head from the pitiful
creature even as Lord Hugh demanded an explanation and apology for his rudeness and lack of respect to Hal.

Feeling much better now, Hal set off towards the tented market and bought himself a pint of good quality red wine. About to sit down, he changed his mind as a boisterous tipsy youth joined him
on his bench. Instead Hal took his wine and walked to the riverside, where he sat on a fallen trunk.

Coming from a city (he had been born in London) Sachevyll viewed these rustic villeins with contempt and mistrust. Peasants were all the same. The Bailiff was clearly of the same stock:
untutored, no doubt, mean and unpleasant. A man of taste and courtesy would have treated Hal with more respect. After all, he was the leading designer of lists and stands in the country, not some
peasant begging alms at a lord’s door.