The King Herald mockingly bowed to Simon, and although Baldwin saw that his shirt and boots were of the first quality, he was sure that Mark Tyler also used his tabard to hide poverty, although in the King Herald’s case it was the poorness of his character rather than of his clothing.
Simon barely acknowledged the King Herald, but instead led Baldwin to the castle, avoiding anyone who wanted to speak to him. ‘I would have procured a room for you in the castle,’ he told him confidentially, ‘except I recall how badly you got on with Sir Peregrine last time you met him at Tiverton. He’ll be taking the chamber above the gatehouse and will live there while the Lord Hugh is in residence.’
‘That dreary, mendacious lob!’ Baldwin said without rancour. ‘No, I am happier with the cheery company of the field.’
‘Like friend Hal, I suppose?’
Baldwin then said, in earnest now: ‘Aren’t you worried that the stands may not be strong enough? What if one collapses?’
‘If they do, it’ll be Hal’s fault,’ Simon said. ‘He’s creamed off a load of Lord Hugh’s money for his own pocket and he’s trying to keep it. He can afford the best. Lord Hugh is generous, especially when he’s trying to impress his own knights. No, don’t worry, old friend. Hal isn’t stupid enough to let anyone get hurt at this tournament.’
At Oakhampton Castle, the two men had to walk around the barbican to enter its north-facing doorway and then Simon took Baldwin up the long cobbled corridor that ended at the gatehouse itself.
Looking up at the walkways inside the battlements, Baldwin voiced his earlier thoughts. ‘Only a brave man or a fool would attempt this to enter the castle.’
It was easy to envisage a group storming this narrow, deadly killing ground and being crushed by missiles raining down from above. The two crossed the bridge and entered the court beyond. The spur on which the castle was built was shaped roughly like a shield, and here at the entrance Baldwin saw they were at the narrow point at the base. Before them a broad yard fanned out with high walls enclosing a number of buildings, while in the background ahead was the looming grey shape of the keep on its high motte. Baldwin had little time to study the place because Simon strode off to their right, to a long, high hall. Soon they were sitting at a table with jugs of ale.
Simon wiped a hand over his face. ‘God’s bones! I begin to wish I had never agreed to help with this. If I hear one more complaint from that cretin of a carpenter or his girlfriend Hal, I swear I’ll reach for my knife and gut them!’
‘It is mayhem down there, isn’t it?’ Baldwin said, comfortable in the knowledge that his servants would have seen to his belongings and that he need do nothing but idle away the day.
Simon grunted nastily, ‘I hope you realise you’ll be trying to sleep in the midst of that row.’
He had a point. Since the tournament was viewed by townspeople as a cross between a fair and a market, with the money-making potential of a saint’s day feast, there was plenty of raucous entertainment. Outside in the fields they could hear stall-keepers and men-at-arms singing lustily, drinking noisily and behaving as badly as young men would. Even here in the castle’s hall there was horseplay. Two lads were involved in a drinking bout that involved one placing a funnel in his mouth while his companion filled it with ale. Apparently the drinker intended swallowing faster than his friend could pour. Baldwin was confident that neither would be able to wake him later with singing or gaming. Their only means of disrupting his sleep would be by their snoring… or vomiting.
‘What is the plan for the event?’ Baldwin asked.
Simon drained his cup and refilled it. ‘Tomorrow Lord Hugh will arrive with the last of his household. He’s planning a quiet night with a vigil in the chapel to pray for God’s blessing, and the day after tomorrow will begin with a procession to the church in Oakhampton, after which the games will start. There’s to be a béhourd for squires and knights in training, and Lord Hugh will want to reward the best of the lads; some will be given their spurs. Then we’ll have two days of individual jousting to keep the men busy and the young girls in a state of feverish excitement before no doubt some of them hie to the woods and offer each other insincere vows of eternal fidelity in exchange for a crafty grope.’
‘You sound bitter,’ Baldwin observed.
‘Bitter?’ The other man looked up and gave a feeble grin. ‘Aye, well, wait until your daughter is a little older. Don’t get me on to the subject of Edith.’
‘I see.’
‘Not yet you don’t, but you will! Finally there’ll be a grand mêlée for all the knights to show their magnificence and prowess.’
‘Wonderful!’ Baldwin said drily. ‘So all those who haven’t already been battered to Banbury and back can have their brains mashed on the last day!’
‘Oh, it shouldn’t be too bad. At least it’s to be fought à plaisance, not à outrance.’
‘Thanks to God for that!’ Baldwin said with feeling.
‘You don’t like to face weapons of war?’ Simon asked with a grin. ‘I’ve seen you with weapons in your hands before now.’
‘I’ve fought often enough, and I’ve killed many men as you know,’ Baldwin agreed, ‘but this is supposed to be a demonstration of valour and chivalry. Sharpened lances and swords have no place here. It is one thing to be deafened from two days of having a mace or sword clattering against your helm, but quite another to have to avoid some enraged cretin trying to slice through your guts with an upwards stab underneath your plate. There are too many risks with weapons à outrance. Better that men should fight with blunted swords and joust with a coronal on their lances.’
‘Would you prefer to see everyone wearing toughened leather and fighting with whalebone swords?’
‘Ha! There’s always likely to be one fool who forgets and turns up with a real sword, or someone who loses his temper and grabs a bill. No, for my money I’ll take all the protection I can!’
Simon eyed him. ‘I forgot you’re nearly fifty,’ he said with a faint hint of surprise in his voice. There was enough grey in Baldwin’s hair and beard, he could see, but somehow he had never before considered how old his friend was. In the six years since they had first met, Baldwin had remained a solid, dependable factor in his life. Now he realised with a slight shock that his companion was an old man.
‘I am not quite ready for a winding-sheet yet,’ Baldwin said sharply, reading his mind. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like I am about to drop dead at your feet!’
Baldwin was not alone in viewing tournaments with concern.
In the small tent erected for her alongside Sir John’s and Squire William’s, Alice Lavandar, Sir John de Crukerne’s ward, slept badly. She tossed and writhed on her hard mattress, but sleep eluded her although she was exhausted after the journey. Then, at last, she felt herself drifting off.
But not to peace. It was the old dream. She was back in the tournament ground of Exeter, and before her were two knights, both sitting high on their horses in their war-saddles with the enveloping cantles and high pommels, both wearing full battle-armour, with helmets. They lowered the points of their massive lances to her in salute, and she watched as the protective coronals were fitted, the metal crowns which blunted the points. But then, as the two turned and rode off, she saw the coronals falling from their points. She wanted to scream at them to stop, but her voice was gone; she couldn’t speak, she could only observe.