The Tournament of Blood (34 page)

‘You were right to stay with Meg,’ Simon said when he’d heard the story. As he spoke he was jostled by a burly fellow, who looked the Bailiff up and down insolently before
carrying on his way. If Simon had been less concerned about his daughter, he would have demanded an apology, but as it was, he let the incident pass. ‘Did either of you see where she
went?’

‘Couldn’t,’ Hugh mumbled. He was prone to sulkily muttering towards the ground when he wasn’t sure of his actions, and today his black countenance showed his concern.
‘Had to help the mistress from the stand.’

‘Was it bad in there?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Everyone looked at us,’ Margaret sobbed. ‘Someone said Simon had been responsible for a murder – that he killed the designer.’

‘News travels fast,’ Baldwin commented. He looked up to find himself being stared at by a man. Catching Baldwin’s eye, the stranger gave a brief shake of his head and a
grimace, then walked away.

It made Baldwin frown, and then he began to watch others about the place. With a chill he saw that many people in the immediate area were eyeing Simon, one or two fingering their belts as though
they regretted the fact that their knives had been left behind in accordance with the ordinance against carrying weapons to a tournament. Men became tribal in their support of their own champions
against others, and fights were all too common at such events, but never before had Baldwin felt so deeply grateful to the dead King Edward I for his far-sighted restrictions on the carrying of
weapons among the public. Only knights and squires could walk armed.

‘She could be anywhere, Simon,’ Margaret declared tearfully.

‘We’ll find her, Meg,’ he said reassuringly.

‘Of course we shall,’ Baldwin soothed. ‘But there is no point in waiting here, Margaret. You should return to the castle and we will contact you there. After all, she may have
returned there already.’

Simon gazed about him. ‘You think so? What if Edith should return here? Wouldn’t it be best for Meg to wait and—’

‘If she was to return here, she would surely have done so already. No! Far better that Margaret should wait in the castle,’ Baldwin said firmly, and Hugh nodded.

Simon was willing to be persuaded. ‘If you’re sure. Take her back, Hugh, and Baldwin and I’ll look for Edith. Silly imbecile!’ he added as the other two disappeared in
the direction of the castle’s entrance. ‘Where could she have run to?’

Baldwin rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder. He could hear the anxiety in Simon’s voice, and no words were necessary. ‘Come!’

They walked from the stands to the river, and while Simon stayed on the northern bank, Baldwin crossed at his ford and checked the farther side. He found three men with their women concealed in
the long grasses, and each time he hoped that one of them would be Edith – and each time he dreaded it. In the event he could not find her, and none of the boys or girls there could help. No
one had seen her.

Disappointed, Baldwin continued on his way while Simon kept pace on the other bank. It was as they passed by the line of stalls run by the armourers that Simon suddenly gave a hoarse cry.
Glancing towards him, Baldwin saw the direction of his gaze and, following it, found Edith. ‘Thank God,’ he breathed, for although he had not voiced his fear, he had been worried that
she might have been captured by an errant lad or a drunk, and perhaps raped or worse. Seeing her chattering delightedly with the well-formed and good-looking man at her side, at least he could be
sure that she was unharmed. If she had submitted to the fellow, it was not unwillingly. He eyed the water but decided against trying to cross it here. It was flowing too quickly for his taste, and
instead he hurried back to the ford.

‘Edith! Where in God’s name have you been? Your mother has been worrying herself frantic!’ Simon had just about had enough – of everything!

The girl broke away from her lover and joined him. ‘I left the
ber frois
, Father, as Mother told me, and then she didn’t come out,’ Edith said coolly. ‘Then some
men came over and would have molested me.’

Simon studied his daughter. She looked calm, if ratty at being accosted like this, but there was no trace of guilt on her countenance; no flush of shame. He was about to thank the lad at her
side when he saw that from his belt the squire carried a woman’s token, and at the same moment he recognised Edith’s neck-scarf.

‘Father, Squire William rescued me,’ she said. ‘Even with his wounds, he came to protect me.’

‘Yes, very good,’ Simon said coldly. ‘And now I shall take you to your mother so that she can see you’re well. She was petrified; didn’t know where you had got to
or whether you’d been captured by some felon.’

‘I shall come along shortly,’ Edith said distantly.

‘You will come now!’

‘I can look after her, Bailiff,’ William said.

‘I thank you, but I can protect her well enough,’ Simon said with poisonous gratitude.

William’s face coloured. ‘I think you should trust the man who has saved her already.’

‘Do you? I think I should
not
trust the boy she has been seeing behind her parents’ backs.’

‘I haven’t,’ Edith declared hotly.

‘No? You mean that he found that token lying in the road?’ Simon exclaimed angrily, pointing at William’s belt. ‘Don’t lie to me, Edith!’

‘Bailiff, there’s no need to raise your voice,’ William said.

‘I shall speak to my own daughter as I wish, and I would be grateful if you would not interrupt.’

‘Father, William simply happened to be there and saved me from the peasants behind the
ber frois
. I don’t see why you can’t be thankful that . . .’

‘Some puppy took you away from your mother? Or that he met you clandestinely and has been carrying your token? Or that in order to conceal it from your parents, you chose to
lie
to me?’

Edith froze at his furious outburst. ‘I didn’t lie to you.’

‘No, you were careful to deceive us more subtly, weren’t you?’

‘Bailiff,’ William tried again, but Simon made a gesture with his hand.

Approaching them, Baldwin saw Simon step forward. He saw him reach for Edith, but at the same time William retreated a pace, his hand whipping to the long-bladed dagger that hung at his
belt.

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.’

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?’