Chapter Seven
Sachevyll was close to tears as the Bailiff walked away. He could have screamed with frustration, but that wouldn’t get things sorted, and that was what Hal Sachevyll was going to do: get this event successfully completed in the manner which Lord Hugh would expect.
But he couldn’t achieve anything in this mood. First he must calm down. That was what dear Wymond had told him, that he must calm down. He’d be no use to man nor beast if he didn’t, and there was so much to plan, so much to organise still. Hal had every intention of succeeding – with or without the Bailiff’s assistance. And afterwards he could point out to the Lord just how unhelpful – indeed obstructive – this nasty fellow Puttock had been. That thought was soothing. It needed to be developed. The idea of shaming the Bailiff before Lord Hugh was most attractive, but Hal hankered after more dramatic detaiclass="underline" perhaps the Bailiff would beg him for forgiveness, and Hal would spurn him, averting his head from the pitiful creature even as Lord Hugh demanded an explanation and apology for his rudeness and lack of respect to Hal.
Feeling much better now, Hal set off towards the tented market and bought himself a pint of good quality red wine. About to sit down, he changed his mind as a boisterous tipsy youth joined him on his bench. Instead Hal took his wine and walked to the riverside, where he sat on a fallen trunk.
Coming from a city (he had been born in London) Sachevyll viewed these rustic villeins with contempt and mistrust. Peasants were all the same. The Bailiff was clearly of the same stock: untutored, no doubt, mean and unpleasant. A man of taste and courtesy would have treated Hal with more respect. After all, he was the leading designer of lists and stands in the country, not some peasant begging alms at a lord’s door.
He would have to acquire more wood. The stuff he had bought was not up to the standard, and he’d have to get more. That would cut into his profits, and his master carpenter’s, too. Silly Wymond, making the Bailiff angry like that when there was still a chance he might agree to let them have wood from the castle’s own stocks or something. That had been their plan – to buy cheaper quality in the expectation that Simon would cave in and give them better material. It had worked before. But Wymond had seen how annoyed Hal was growing. Heyho! Now they’d had to buy more themselves with the money they had saved from the job. There were few enough perks to jobs like this one, but taking the money and buying fewer planks or beams than necessary, or getting only cheap stuff which wasn’t worth half the amount paid, was one way of making profit. It was all accepted and understood, a means by which talent could be rewarded, like the dairyman who carefully warmed cream and took off a few clotted lumps for his own breakfast; except now it looked as though Hal was going to have to use the money he had skimmed from the deal.
Still, if he could find a cheap supplier, he could come out of it all right – and meanwhile make sure that Lord Hugh knew exactly how unpleasant that Bailiff had been.
Hal was still nervous that the project might be late. The job had progressed alarmingly sluggishly. It was his duty to see to the layout and design of the field, but also to ensure that everything happened on time. Of course his budget was nowhere near adequate. If only he had been given more money to play with, he could have worked wonders.
Sipping his wine, Sachevyll allowed himself to daydream, recalling the plans he had formed when Lord Hugh first asked him to help. In his mind it would have been a gorgeous display: red silks forming a canopy over the Lord’s own grandstand, with a throne of wood upholstered with crimson velvet and cushions. Sachevyll had thought instantly of the chivalrous stories of Arthur when Lord Hugh suggested that he might like to help. He envisioned his employer dressing as a king, perhaps wearing cloth of gold and an ermine-trimmed robe, while his knights took on the rôles of Arthurian characters, acting out their parts at the Round Table before all joined in a splendid clash of steel.
That Bailiff could be the evil Mordred, he snickered, his eye drawn once more to the stands.
But no. The King had banned all showy tournaments since the alliance formed to destroy his favourite Piers Gaveston in 1312, and it would be tempting fate, let alone the King’s patience, to pretend to be Arthur, to wear a crown and show off his knights as men from the legends. The King would turn a blind eye to a simple tournament with few knights and no other magnates, intended purely to exercise steeds and men together in order to ensure their skill for the better defence of the realm, but it would be very different were Lord Hugh to put himself forward as a king – and not just any king, but England’s greatest. People might consider that Lord Hugh was getting ideas above his station, and if other magnates were invited, King Edward II would be a fool not to wonder whether plots against him were being hatched. It had happened before.
No, the tournament must have the workaday appearance of simple martial practice. It was terrible, of course, for the spectacle was all there, ready, in Hal Sachevyll’s mind, but at least he was working on a tournament again, and that was all that really mattered. He loved them, even after the disaster at Exeter so many years ago.
He hadn’t been entirely responsible, of course. There was little doubt in his mind that the crowds moving forward had brought about the stand’s collapse, and many of the furious people were crushed by the weight of bodies behind them before the wood had given that appalling, groaning crack and shuddered. There was a kind of silence, then. A pause. Hal had stopped and gaped. He had never heard such a sound before. From somewhere a bird called. And then the dust was hurled into the air as the wood gave way and the screams began.
The memory still made him feel queasy. After that he had travelled, providing smaller stages for other lords, going wherever his master had commanded. One always obeyed one’s master, Hal reminded himself. Especially when your master was the King himself.
Recollecting that, Hal stood, fastidiously brushing lichen and mud from his hose. His master would want him listening, watching and learning, not sitting back and whining. He drained his cup and returned it to the wine-seller before squaring his shoulders, putting that scene from his mind; he gave a prim sniff and considered his next move. Perhaps he could ask the wine-seller where he might acquire some wood inexpensively.
He was about to do so when he caught sight of Sir John of Crukerne striding through the crowds.
‘Oh my God!’ he squeaked, and involuntarily ducked behind the wine barrel. He didn’t want to be seen by the Butcher of Crukerne. As soon as he could, he scurried away back to Wymond and safety.
Walking past the smugly grinning King Herald, Simon stormed away from the tournament field. He marched quickly, seething with anger at the carpenter and builder. Baldwin walked a little more slowly in his wake, leaving Simon to work off his ire.
It was not until Simon had reached the entrance to the tented field, near the river, that he realised that his friend had lagged behind. He stopped and waited for Baldwin. ‘My apologies, that was an unnecessary outburst.’
Baldwin shrugged. ‘The carpenter deserved worse for his lack of respect to an official. What of it?’
‘I’ll explain more when we find a moment’s peace,’ Simon said, his face hardening.
Following his gaze, Baldwin saw the King Herald approaching, Odo behind him. Odo gave Baldwin a nod of recognition before going to his pavilion, a small tent near the river. He pulled off his garish tabard, marked with the symbols of Lord Hugh’s family and lineage, and Baldwin had to restrain a smile when he saw that beneath it, Odo wore a threadbare linen shirt and a pair of faded hose. Finery could conceal utter poverty, he thought.