The Tournament of Blood (47 page)

Baldwin grinned. ‘I’ll do my best.’

He stood at the back of the stand while Hugh came down the steps, and then Baldwin led the way out to the river. He sat on a fallen tree-trunk and motioned to Hugh to sit. There was a jug of ale
and one of watered wine waiting and Baldwin passed Hugh the ale.

‘The murderer was not Sir Walter, Hugh. Sir Walter was a lunatic who decided to kill himself because he was consumed by jealousy, but he had no need to kill Sir William.’

‘Maybe he heard what I saw – Sir William with his wife?’ Hugh tried hopefully.

‘Do you think so?’ Baldwin asked pointedly.

Hugh stared morosely at the ground and said nothing.

Eyeing him, Baldwin took a deep swig of wine and swilled it about his mouth. ‘The man who killed William was more likely someone who wanted to protect somebody. Now who could that be? I
consider it from this way. If someone was to threaten to hurt my daughter, I would stop them. If they tried to molest or rape her, I would kill them and I would have no compunction whatsoever about
doing so. Any father who would
not
kill to protect his daughter would be no father. And if I was not there, Edgar would do so in my place, and I would protect him in the courts and
elsewhere if he was put to trial because he would be looking after my family as my servant should. Any servant who loves his master would do the same.’

Hugh looked up. For once he met Baldwin’s gaze. ‘You know?’

‘That the fellow threatened to ruin Edith, threatened to make her unmarriageable, and you heard it? Yes. I think you sought to protect her the only way you knew.’

‘Not only that. I saw him pawing that Lady Helen, too. I thought of my wife.
She
was messed about by her man. If I hadn’t been there, what might have become of her? I
couldn’t let that happen to Edith, oh no – but here he was, making her go all wobbly over him while he was planning to marry one woman and then trying it on with another.’

‘I understand,’ Baldwin nodded. ‘It was as I thought.’

Hugh sank his head lower. ‘What will you do?’

‘Me? There have been enough deaths already, Hugh. I shall do nothing.’

‘You mean it, sir?’

‘Finish your ale, Master Hugh. You are a good, loyal servant. My own concern is, should I tell Simon? You risked your life for his daughter. He would be grateful.’

Hugh considered. ‘Be best if you didn’t, I reckon. He’d have to keep it from Edith. She’d be terrible upset to find out. Probably hate me, too. My master, he’s not
good at keeping secrets from her.’

‘Then I shall not tell him.’

They sat companionably for a while. Soon Hugh gruffly announced that he should return to his work and drained his jug. He gave a grunt of gratitude, opened his mouth as if he had more to say,
but then thought better of it and shook his head.

Baldwin watched him slouch away, then put his hands behind his head and stared down at the water.

He was sad that the tournament had been so dismal an event for Simon; he would have wished that his friend could look back on it with pride, but that was impossible. At least he could keep the
truth about Sir William’s death secret. It would be unfair to expect Simon to conceal it from his daughter, and revealing the facts could only result in great upset for everyone.

If it was him in Simon’s position, he wondered, would he have preferred to know? He had a daughter now, a young child who would perhaps grow to be as difficult a teenager as Edith. Would
he want to be secured from the truth about Edgar, should Edgar kill a man to protect her?

There were times when ignorance was preferable to knowledge, he decided.

From the tilt-area there came a raucous shout and a clattering of iron. A man had been thrust from his horse. Baldwin glanced back. It was tempting to return and witness the end of the displays,
but he was overcome with a lassitude that prevented his rising.

No, he thought. The
hastilude
was for younger men. It was no place for an old knight like him.

Perhaps his own time was past. Younger fellows like Sir William seemed to hold little regard for the female sex. They bragged about their conquests (whether real or imagined), they boasted and
insulted women to their face. Women of all ages and classes – even ladies – were violated to satisfy their lusts. Was this a country in which to raise a young daughter? Could his own
little girl be raped before she was yet twenty by some callow fool like William?

Perhaps, he allowed.

But not while he or his own servant Edgar had breath in their bodies.

Sir Baldwin rode along the deeply rutted roadway from Crediton to Cadbury with a feeling of growing pleasure. As they came to the top of the hill before his home, he left his
men with the carts and clapped spurs to his mount, cantering down the hillside, then turning off the road to gallop along the meadows.

The sun was high overhead and it was a pleasure to feel the warmth on his back as the wind whistled in his ears. His horse cantered sure-footedly down through the long grasses, and Baldwin could
see all about him that nothing had changed. His peasants worked in the fields, amid long rows of crops, while others watched geese or lambs in meadows.

Somehow Baldwin felt that the scene should have changed. So much had happened since his departure to go to the jousting, so many deaths, that Baldwin thought his own home might have been
altered.

When he left Lord Hugh, Baldwin had seen much that he could be glad about. After admitting to his offences with the lances, Mark Tyler had departed to travel over Europe, leaving Odo as the new
King Herald in Lord Hugh’s household. Baldwin was sure that the quiet, contemplative herald would be a better man than Tyler at the job. Also, just before leaving Oakhampton, Baldwin had
watched as Lord Hugh sought to replenish his forces, making good the loss of Sir John and his son. Baldwin had spoken to Sir Peregrine about the matter, and had been pleased to witness both Sir
Edmund and Andrew kneeling before Lord Hugh and holding up their hands, palms together, while he placed his own about them and took their oaths of service. Sir Edmund was safe for now, and Squire
Andrew was created Sir Andrew, a knight in his own right, with a small manor granted to him.

Baldwin was pleased for Andrew. The squire had lived in fear and obscurity for too long: Pope Clement V and the French King Philip IV were both dead now, but together had seen to the destruction
of the Knights Templar purely to satisfy their own greed. But even after death both had long arms, and their legacy remained. After the absurd accusations of sodomy and cannibalism, to be known as
a Templar was still to risk imprisonment or worse.

That was the cause of Andrew’s suspicion of strangers, the reason why he avoided those whom he did not know. He was in constant fear of his life.

It was good to see that he was at last brought back into the fold, that he could become a knight within Lord Hugh’s host. Baldwin was convinced that he would prove to be a worthwhile
servant. Certainly his fighting skills were beyond reproach – he had not forgotten the techniques learned with the Templars.

And Baldwin was glad to see that Andrew had been gently, almost shyly, paying court to Alice. She was still terribly affected by Geoffrey’s death, but she appeared to take some comfort in
Andrew’s obvious sympathy and compassion, and Baldwin hoped she might soon get over the loss of her husband and pay attention to Andrew – once a suitable period of mourning had passed,
of course.

But then Baldwin smiled. He could never believe that a Templar could make a bad husband, friend or ally. To him, all Templars were perfect.

He was almost at the door, and reined in to slow his horse. All about him, birds called and trilled, there was the noise of animals from the yards, pastures and from the stables behind the
house. Barking showed that his hounds and guard-dogs had heard his approach. Baldwin smiled to himself as the door opened to display a wary eye. An older servant had been instructed to protect Lady
Jeanne with his life and Baldwin was pleased to see that the fellow obeyed so well.

And then Jeanne herself came bursting from the house.

Baldwin swung himself from his saddle and grasped her, kissing her and feeling once more that he was the luckiest man on earth to have been able to marry her.

Yet he was still aware of the sense that something was different.
He
felt different. His house, his home, might be unchanged to the naked eye, but there was something that was
profoundly altered.

He realised what it was as his daughter began a loud crying from inside the house. That shrill mewling made Jeanne wince but it only made him smile and grip her in a tight embrace.

Suddenly he realised that he was coming home not only to a wife, but to a family.

His
family. And he would protect it as selflessly as ever Odo had.

Sir Edmund sat before the fire at Oakhampton Castle and drained his cup.

He was grateful to Lord Hugh for taking him on, although he knew it was a matter of simple necessity. Lord Hugh needed all the loyal vassals he could gain in these uncertain times. War was near,
if the rumours were true. Many magnates were appalled at the execution of Earl Thomas after Boroughbridge, and still more horrified by the encroaching greed of the Despensers.

Yet his life felt empty. Warfare and chivalry were not enough. He craved the companionship of a woman.

It was hard to believe that she was gone. All through the years he had thought that he might somehow be able to win her back. After the disaster at the hands of Sir John he had thought that she
would wait for him, but she hadn’t. And then he had learned that she had married that oaf. The murderous bastard.

Reaching for the jug, Sir Edmund poured a fresh cup of wine and sipped.

Sir Walter had been an evil brute – and yet he must have had some feelings for his wife. He didn’t go and murder her straight after hearing the Bailiff question the groom, but
instead he walked to a tavern and sat drinking in melancholy mood. Andrew had asked about the town afterwards and spoke to the host of the inn where Sir Walter drank. It appeared that the knight
had remained there until long after dusk.

Of course Sir Edmund knew what had happened afterwards. Lady Helen returned to her tent to find her husband in a furious temper, inflamed with wine. He accused her of infidelity, then rushed at
her and slaughtered her in a frenzy.

Sir Edmund flinched as he recalled the sound of the sword striking her body. He had been standing outside, having just bidden her farewell, and was feeling lost, wondering how he could live
knowing that his Helen was married to another man, that she did not love him any more, when he heard the hissed curse and screams, the damp slap of sword cleaving flesh. When he realised what it
meant, and without pausing to draw his own sword, he rushed inside, concerned only for Helen.

His beautiful Helen lay slumped, dead on her bed – and without a moment’s hesitation, Edmund snatched the sword from Sir Walter and thrust it up deep into the man’s chest. Sir
Walter fell and, sobbing harshly, Sir Edmund dropped to Helen’s side, kissing her, trying to bring her back, but she was gone. He stayed there until the middle of the night, but as her body
cooled, Squire Andrew found him and persuaded him to leave that slaughterhouse. There was no point calling attention to the bodies: that could have led to suspicion falling on Sir Edmund. They left
the tent, Sir Edmund walking dazedly with his despair, back to their own pavilion, only realising when they arrived that Sir Edmund was splattered all over with Helen’s blood. It was Andrew
who gently washed his master’s face and hands, tearing off the hideously stained tunic and setting it aside to be burned.

Yet even as Andrew rinsed away her blood with the chill water of the river, Sir Edmund had seen with his mind’s eye not the corpse of his lover, but the curious dullness in the eyes of Sir
Walter as Edmund shoved the blade into his chest. It was as though Sir Walter was already in Hell, as if he was grateful for the final blow.

Perhaps he truly had loved her in his own way.