The Tournament of Blood (39 page)

‘Perhaps. You suggested that earlier.’

‘It would be justification for killing the men who profited by using rotten wood. There were three of them: the banker, Benjamin, the carpenter, Wymond, and the architect, Hal.’

‘I see what you mean.’

‘No – I must be wrong,’ Baldwin said. ‘If Hal’s body was going to be put into the tent as a message, surely the killer sought another victim?’

‘If he wanted to leave a message. But the placement could have been merely symbolic, to show that the killer had murdered again for a purpose, for revenge,’ Coroner Roger said.

Just then they heard the scream and all three men rose simultaneously. ‘What in God’s name . . .’ Coroner Roger began.

Simon had paled. ‘God’s bones! Please, not another murder!’

‘Come on, Hugh! Just a quick wander down into the arena. It can’t hurt.’

‘Your mother said no. She said to stay here in the castle.’

‘That’s so unfair! Why should she tell me what I can and can’t do? I’m not a silly little girl.’

‘Stamping your feet won’t make me change my mind. Your mother gave me orders and I won’t disobey her. Especially after the look of those men in the
ber frois
.
It’s too dangerous.’

‘That was
yesterday
!’ she said scathingly. ‘Just because that man was found dead. We’ll be all right today. They’ve had time to sleep on it.’

‘You think an English mob forgets after one night’s sleep?’

‘Hugh, don’t be sarcastic! No, but most of them don’t know who I am anyway. It won’t matter to them having a young girl walking in their midst.’

‘Mistress Edith, if only one of them takes it into his head that you are the daughter of the Bailiff, you could be in danger. It’s not right.’

‘I want to see my friend. He’s just been knighted –
knighted
! Can you understand what that means to me? I want to congratulate him.’

‘When Master Simon says so.’

‘I love him, Hugh.’

‘You only think you do.’

‘Don’t patronise me!’

‘Eh?’

‘I love him as surely as you love your wife.’

‘That’s different!’

‘You can deny it as hotly as you wish, Hugh, but I do.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘By the beating of my heart; by the lightheadedness when I see him; by the certainty that the sun is brighter when he is near; by the sense that I am languishing every moment that I am not
with him.’

‘You’ve got poetic.’

‘I
feel
poetic at the thought of him. Is it so wrong that I should love him? He would be a good husband, Hugh, a knight.’

‘Yes, well, I’ve known knights.’

‘But William is different. He’s strong and kindly and generous and honourable and courteous and . . .’

‘That’s what you think.’

‘Don’t be so short, Hugh. I still love you, too – I always will. You were my closest friend when I was young, but I am an adult now.’

‘Not what your mother says.’

‘She’s a crabbed old woman and jealous of me!’

‘You think so?’

‘Of course she is. She’s forgotten what it’s like to be in love.’

‘She loves your father.’

‘Oh, that’s different. That’s old love. It’s not young and fresh and full of life like mine. She’s too old to appreciate my sort of love. I feel I should burn if my
love were to touch me, Hugh. Do you think my mother feels that when Father touches
her
? Of course not! I would burst into flames if William should come too close to me, though. The sight
of him makes me tremble from head to foot. The thought of kissing him is . . . is . . .’

‘Your mother said no,’ Hugh said flatly.

They were standing on the wall above the chapel, Edith leaning out to try to catch a glimpse of the jousting field, but failing, Hugh standing, glowering, nearby. His voice, usually so full of
sullenness, was today filled with melancholy to Edith’s ear. Somehow she was sure that he was the unwilling servant of Margaret’s wishes. He himself had found love late in his life and
detested being gaoler to his favourite charge.

She sighed once more, giving up on the view (it was impossible to see through the trees and round the hill to the stands) and fixing him with her doleful expression. ‘So I am to be
restrained by you?’

‘I can’t ignore my Lady Margaret’s instructions,’ he said shiftily.

Edith screwed up all her determination, bringing to mind her favourite pony, who had been killed three months ago when he fell in a rabbit hole and broke his leg. Simon had taken one look and
had fetched a huge axe, taking off the pony’s head with one blow. The memory of the gout of blood brought a genuine tear to her eyes. Speaking huskily, she said, ‘So that is that,
then.’

He nodded glumly, but turned away to avoid catching her eye as the tears began to fall.

Instantly she whirled around and pelted across the wall to the door. Before Hugh fully appreciated what she was doing, she was through it, had hauled it shut, laughing quietly, and fled down the
stairs to the main yard. There was no one to stop her, and while the dismayed Hugh watched from above, she ran to the gates and out.

At the castle’s foot where the tented camp lay, knights were standing and swinging arms encased in bright steel, ensuring that their armour allowed full movement.

Edith had to slow her steps at the sight. It looked as though there were hundreds of men there, the knights in armour, their chainmail showing beneath their
gypons
, and plates of armour
of all sizes and colours gleaming in the sun. Some were grim, grey metals, but others were bright peacock-blue or silver; some even had dazzling, swirling patterns.

She recovered herself and hurried on along the road, lifting her skirts as she heard Hugh shout from the castle’s gate.

Filled with elation, knowing that she would be in severe trouble when the reckoning came, yet rashly not caring, she darted between men, women and animals. One old wife cursed her loudly, but a
man called, ‘Shut up, you old whore. She’s a lady, and don’t forget it!’

The thought that she would see her man was overwhelming. Edith had never felt like this before about anyone, but the way William smiled at her made her knees go wobbly; the way his nose moved as
he laughed made her want to kiss it. And his lips were a temptation in their own right. She longed for him to put his arms about her again, as he had yesterday after he rescued her at the stands.
Not that it was much of a rescue, really. Some fellow had made a coarse comment as she came down the steps, and William had told him sharply to be quiet. Then they had walked and chatted, through
the long grasses at the other side of the river. That was all. All innocent.

Not that Edith wanted that state of affairs to continue. She was done with innocence.

She had passed almost all the way through the market now, and came up against the gate to the jousting field. Risking a quick glance over her shoulder, she saw Hugh hurrying red-faced towards
her. With a small squeak of alarm at his speed, she took off towards the river, hoping to evade him.

There was a line of trees at the river’s edge, and she must avoid the thicker bushes of gorse and bramble which lay beneath, for they would catch at her and slow her down (and make a mess
of her clothes, which she could ill afford moments before seeing her lover). She saw a gap in the bushes and pelted towards it, even as she heard a man call out, asking whether she was in danger.
Another voice took up the cry and as Edith jumped over a small bank and landed on the shingle, she realised that Hugh was being accused of trying to molest her. Peeping up over a tuft of grass, she
saw him arguing with a group of belligerent-looking squires.

Edith had no wish to see Hugh in trouble, but this was her chance to escape. She had but two choices: go to Hugh’s aid, in which case he would no doubt take her straight back to the castle
and her mother, or disappear from this place as quickly as possible.

She made her choice. The river gave her an escape, but she must be careful and avoid getting her feet wet. If she were to turn westwards, she would follow the loop of the river around the back
of the jousting field away from most prying eyes, but surely that was the direction Hugh would expect her to take. No, she would go eastwards, back towards the market area.

Resolved, she lifted her skirts and went to the water’s edge. She removed her shoes and stepped reluctantly into the water. ‘Oh!’ It felt freezing. A few short feet away there
was a small island in the midst of the river, and she made for it, then crossed to the other side, where she put on her shoes once more and hurried from tree to tree, feeling more and more like a
felon avoiding the reeve’s men.

She had gone a matter of twenty yards when she came across a lad scowling over his shoulder at her. His shirt up over his naked buttocks, he was kneeling between the plump thighs of a grinning
girl whose skirts were thrown up over her breast.

‘Oh – I . . . I’m sorry,’ she said, flushing bright crimson.

‘Haven’t you seen a man and woman together before?’ the youth demanded scathingly.

Edith left them to their rutting, circling around them in a wide sweep, averting her eyes, but aware of a warm feeling of jealousy. She wanted to be the one lying there on her back, getting
leaves and brambles in her hair and clothing, while William knelt above her.

The thought held her spellbound, and she felt the familiar tremble of desire in her belly. Realising she had come far enough, she looked at the riverbank once more. There was a thick mess of
brambles, but a short distance from her was a gap. She pulled her skirts closer to her legs and trod carefully between the thorns, then stepped down into the shingle. Removing her shoes, she warily
crossed the river and stood slipping them on again before raising her eyes to the riverbank.

And screamed.

Simon had a premonition of disaster as the shrill cry broke out. He turned and his eyes met Baldwin’s, and then he was moving towards the river as fast as his legs would
take him, closely followed by Baldwin and Coroner Roger.

Edith’s scream had come from near the horse-lines, at the riverbank where the pavilion field met the market, and many squires and archers who were not needed by their knights, as well as
several knights who would not be jousting for some time, were also hurrying to see what was going on. Simon saw several faces he recognised, including Sir John, Odo the Herald, the King Herald Mark
Tyler, and Sir Peregrine.

Simon forced his way to the front of the crowds as the screams came with redoubled force, and then he saw her: Edith, her mouth wide with horror, her hands clenched at her sides as she stood,
petrified, uttering scream after scream.

His heart felt as though it would burst to see her so desolate – but he was also filled with dread. Whatever could have so terrified his daughter like this? Perhaps Hugh was hurt –
or Margaret?

He ran to her side, pulling her stiff body to him, murmuring soothing noises, patting her head and rocking her slightly from side to side. He felt her head gradually sink into the angle between
his shoulder and neck, until he could sense that she was relaxing, and could gently turn her away from the awful sight that had so shocked her.

Baldwin was already at the body, and he gave Simon a look of sympathy. Simon couldn’t understand what it meant, but then he saw the bloody face of Squire William lying among the grasses
and brambles.

‘Dead?’ he mouthed, although the question was unnecessary.

Baldwin nodded without speaking. The Coroner was already standing over the corpse while bystanders shuffled and glared at Simon suspiciously.

‘Who is it this time?’ Mark Tyler demanded, swaggering over with his thumbs in his belt. ‘Another carpenter? Or is it someone more . . .’ He broke off as he took in the
face. ‘Gracious God in heaven, Sir William of Crukerne!’

Sir John had followed in the King Herald’s wake and now he stood dumbly staring down at his dead son. He gave a single choking sob, sinking to his knees, his features twisting in despair
and desolation.

Baldwin put a hand to his shoulder, but the knight shrugged it away. ‘Who did this?’

Nobody answered him. Coroner Roger cleared his throat, then bellowed, ‘Back, you whoresons! Stand back, in Christ’s name! Jesus, God and Holy Mother Mary, if you don’t give me
room I’ll have Lord Hugh find space for you in his worst dungeons. Back, you misbegotten sons of a worm-infested mongrel!’

He stood a while staring down and Simon could see that he was reluctant to get between Sir John and the corpse. ‘Sir John, you recognise this boy?’

‘It’s my son,’ the man said dully.

‘I know who killed him!’

‘Who was that?’ Sir Roger called, scanning the crowd which stood so thickly at the bankside. ‘Who can tell us who the murderer was?’

Simon too was staring at the figures on the bank. Edith was quivering and sobbing in his arms, and he was trying to pull her away from the scene when the voice called out again.

‘It was the Bailiff ! He was arguing with the lad yester’ even, because young William fancied his daughter. That’s who killed your boy – it was Bailiff
Puttock!’

Sir John slowly turned to face Simon. ‘Is this true?’

Edith suddenly went rigid in his arms. She pulled away, her eyes staring into his with an expression of revulsion. ‘Did you, Father?’ she said brokenly. ‘Did you kill him to
keep him from me?’

Simon felt his heart shrivel within him at her accusation. ‘By Christ’s bones, by the life I hope to win in heaven: NO!’ he declared, but even as he said the words he heard
Tyler’s snide voice.

‘I said he was the murderer, didn’t I? I accused him only yesterday, because he murdered Hal and Wymond. Now he’s slaughtered this honourable lad as well. Is there no end to
his lust for blood?’

Sir John stood and walked to Simon. Baldwin automatically stepped between them. ‘Sir John, this is only an unsubstantiated accusation, nothing more. I do not believe it, and you
shouldn’t either.’

‘Bailiff, I accuse you of the murder of my son and I demand trial by battle to prove your guilt or innocence.’