In front of the keep was an almost triangular bailey, holding the hall, kitchens and chapel and main accommodation for Sir Hugh’s men. A square barbican faced the bridge, and it was connected to the main gatehouse some 100 feet behind it by a high-walled corridor which extended like a long finger of moorstone pointing at the bridge. Any attacker who succeeded in breaking down the door to the barbican would run the gauntlet of concentrated fire from above all the way along that length before he could attempt to storm the gatehouse – a suicidal mission if ever there was one, Baldwin acknowledged.
Above the roadway the ground rose steeply to the curtain walls bounding the castle itself, and when Baldwin continued with the flow of people to the southern side of the place, he saw that the walls here were set as high above the meadow. The castle loomed above the people meandering from tents to stalls as they surveyed the goods on display.
Usually Oakhampton was a tranquil castle. Far enough from the town, which was itself remote at the best of times, the castle saw only occasional travellers passing along the road. From the dung that lay about so liberally, this field was normally pasture for sheep, horses and cattle. With the river flowing around in a great loop, the soil must have produced good grass for the animals even in the driest summer, and this would commonly be a pleasant, out-of-the-way place where a man could sit on a stone at the water’s edge and contemplate his life while the sunlight danced over the waters. Or so Baldwin assumed, for today it was a scene of lunatic mayhem.
Men milled about and bellowed at each other. Here, at the foot of the barbican, nearer the river, there was a set of horse-lines, but the main part of the field was now a tended area with gaily coloured pavilions, flags fluttering in the breeze. Squires and heralds set out the carefully painted shields of their masters so that others could challenge them, while spectators strolled idly by, confirming who was present. The sight made Baldwin want to groan. He knew that his own tent would soon be erected, a damp and chill home for a week.
Eventually he came to a second field which was dedicated to a market. It was filled with small sheds and wagons where local folk had set up stalls. Food, ale and wine were in plentiful supply, but so were bolts of cloth, jewels and trinkets, because wherever knights met to tourney, their women would be close at hand to egg them on, and even if they weren’t, knights were among the vainest of men, forever seeking fashionable or expensive cloth to proclaim their richness. It was natural for merchants to try to sell gold, silver and silks at a tournament, just as it was natural that the usurers and money-lenders would also be on hand. They too had their place.
Beyond this was a third field, and it was here that Baldwin saw his friend.
‘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.