‘Anyway,’ Odo continued, moving uneasily in his seat as he felt the force of Baldwin’s gaze, ‘not long afterwards I met an English lord who accepted me into his retinue, for he missed English songs and tunes. With my flute-playing and my experiences on the battlefield, it was easy to win a post as herald. Who better could a lord gain than someone like me?’
‘Who was that?’
‘Hugh Despenser the Elder,’ Odo said, and then chuckled at Baldwin’s startled expression. ‘I know – many don’t like the man, but I found him a good master.’
‘Perhaps, but he is no friend of Lord de Courtenay.’
‘No. That is why I told Lord de Courtenay right away about my service to Lord Despenser,’ Odo grinned. ‘I came clean about it – yet there is no trouble. Lord de Courtenay is now my lord.’ He paused. ‘A herald must tread a difficult path sometimes. When my lord Hugh returned to England this year, I came with him. I had witnessed enough death and fighting abroad. It seemed like a good time to return and share my knowledge.’
Baldwin was curious. ‘And what sort of knowledge would that be?’
‘Ah well, have you seen the new craze for weapons in Europe? And mercenaries from Germany now wear plate armour.’
‘Like an English coat of plates?’
‘No. Where we use interlocking plates to cover our chests, the Germans use one plate alone. I have heard that in Benevento some years ago the Germans charged a stronger force of Provençals and were winning the day because their armour was so strong it was proof against all their weapons. It was only when some sharper-eyed Provençal saw a gap beneath the armpit of these knights that the Provençals could turn their enemies aside. There was a great cry of “À l’estoc!”, “At the point!”, and they began to sweep through the enemy.’
‘A hole under the arms?’ Baldwin enquired doubtfully.
‘Yes. Where the breast- and back-plates met there was a gap, and there a man might stab a sword. Bear it in mind, should a heavily armoured German ever attack you!’
‘Interesting. Still, it will make you a much sought-after herald. A man with knowledge of foreign customs and weapons is always attractive. You are happy to be home?’
Odo pulled a face. ‘Well, you know, I sat upon my horse on the way here today and stared about me at the countryside, and do you know what I saw?’
Baldwin shook his head.
‘Green. Everywhere I looked, the land was green. Verdant, healthful, with glorious and riotous plantlife on every side. Where there weren’t trees, there was grass – all over the place. And do you know what struck me?’
‘No.’
‘For all this grass to have grown, for all these trees, for all the flowers, there must have been plenty of sodding rain! Yes, it pisses down all the time here!’
The planning for the tournament at Oakhampton had been set in train weeks before the event was due to start. Messengers had to reach all the wide domains of Lord de Courtenay: knights from Cornwall to Carlisle received invitations and either groaned because of the journey they must undertake or crowed with delight at the thought of the money and renown they could win.
At his castle in Gidleigh, Sir Richard Prouse took the note and gave it to his priest, listening with a set face to the cleric’s slow reading. When he had finished, the priest gave him a sympathetic glance over the top of the sheet, but Sir Richard ignored him, turning his back while he considered. He had no desire to take the man into his confidence. He didn’t trust the feeble, weak-minded fool enough to enlighten him about his own innermost feelings. Dismissing the messenger and curtly telling his priest to seek out food and ale for the fellow, Sir Richard limped slowly to his upstairs chamber.
A tournament; another damned tournament, and he was invited to witness the ‘festivities’.
It was because of tournaments that the castle was built upon debts and mortgages. That was his father’s legacy: a place without the finance to support it. All he could have used was bound up under other people’s control, like that whore’s cub Benjamin, the money-lender who had fleeced his estates after his father died. If it wasn’t for him, Sir Richard could have come into his estates with some dignity, but no! Benjamin had been determined to take all he could. He had an English name, but in terms of his business dealings he was as much a thief as a Venetian!
That was the trouble with jousting. If a man became hooked on the thrill he could gamble away his entire inheritance. Many a man depended upon his wife’s financial acumen to protect lands and property. A knight was no use if his sword and charger were in pawn to a usurer. And Sir Richard’s father had been completely hooked on the sports.
Whereas Sir Richard perpetually wore a strained, anxious expression and with his deepset eyes under his dark hair looked older than his almost thirty years, his father had appeared much younger than his thirty-four years merited when he died; he was a cheery, pleasant, open-faced man who accepted the blows fate dealt him with a calm resignation or charming self-effacement but, like any gambler, believed that the next joust would recoup his losses. In part it was his very assurance and easy manner that had attracted so many women to him. Sir Richard knew all too well how other men’s wives would look to Sir Godwin and invite him to their beds. Especially at tournaments when they could be bowled over by the handsome knight’s easy flattery. Courtesy, Sir Richard sneered to himself. That was what they called it, those self-righteous arses in the nobility; if not they called it chivalry, as if that excused a man who persuaded a woman to ignore her marriage vows and lie with him. Sir Richard himself could exercise all the courtesy in the world and never win a woman’s heart. Not with his disabilities.
If his father hadn’t died, maybe he could have grown to respect him. He often wondered about that – whether if he had come to know Sir Godwin a little better he could have learned even to love him. Instead all he could see was the gross foolishness of his rumbustious lifestyle, the drinking and whoring, the madness of a man who lost so much money he couldn’t afford the best arms to protect himself, and who died for the lack.
Sir Richard had witnessed his father’s death at Exeter. It was an unfortunate mace blow – misaimed, it didn’t strike Sir Godwin a ringing buffet on the centre of his helmet as intended, but glanced down the side until it caught his shoulder. It was the kind of blow that all knights were used to, one which would bruise but shouldn’t incapacitate a man with full armour, yet all could see at once that Sir Godwin was badly wounded. He fell back as if stunned, then stumbled. The spectators saw him put down his sword as if he wished to surrender, then let his blade fall to the ground, grabbing for his helm. He tripped, still desperately clawing at the steel of the helmet, and then there was a shout from the crowds as someone saw the blood seeping from beneath his helm.
Soon everyone could see that the fallen knight was dying. Squires and heralds ran to him from all over the field while Sir Godwin’s opponent let his mace fall and lifted off his own helmet, gazing at the dying man with bemusement, wiping his hair from his brow. Then someone managed to remove Sir Godwin’s helmet and all could see the bright blood pumping.