The two men cantered to opposite ends of the field, wheeling so that their horses faced each other. There they stood, their mounts breathing out a fine mist from their nostrils, stepping heavily on the grass, eager to hurtle towards each other.
Alice watched with horror, and now, at last, she recognised the heraldic symbols on both kite-shaped shields: one was her long-dead father, the other, her husband Squire Geoffrey.
In the dream, her feet were rooted to the woodwork of the stand; she couldn’t move as she became aware of another man on the staging with her. It was Squire William, Sir John de Crukerne’s son, and he leered at her as he walked in front of her. Leaning over the rails, he gazed contemplatively at first one man then the other before facing Alice.
In her hand was a white cloth. She knew that dropping it would be the signal for the two men to gallop at each other, but she couldn’t, wouldn’t let it fall. She refused to make them die. She clung to the small square of gauze, but William reached forward and took her hand. Although she desperately tried to clench her fist about the cloth, although she tried to withdraw her hand from William’s, she couldn’t. It was as if she was bound with invisible cords that prevented any limb or muscle obeying her panicked, desperate will. She could only watch as William grinned, then held the shred of cloth high over his head.
She wanted to promise him anything – swear that she would marry him, swear that she would for ever give up her love for Geoffrey, anything! – but she couldn’t; she could only watch with horror as he dangled the cloth over the edge of the stand, and let it fall.
Her eyes were taken by the fluttering cloth as it opened into a regular square, falling gradually to the grass, but then her attention was grabbed by the horses.
The riders saw the cloth at the same time and spurred their mounts. Both leaped forward as if on massive springs. The horses cantered, then galloped, and the pounding hoofbeats were deafening. All she knew was terror as she saw the two charging ever nearer. Then the points of the lances dropped inch by inch until the heavy wooden poles shod with bright steel, uncapped by coronals, were pointing at each other.
There was a crash, a shattering explosion, and a thick smoke rose from the ground to save Alice from the hideous sight. Then it cleared, and she saw that the horses had collided even as the two men were spitted on each other’s lance. She could see the four bodies, the horses strangely peaceful, but the two knights thrashing in their agony, and now both had lost their helms and she could see their anguished death throes, as they looked to her for aid.
Sir John appeared and turned her from the hideous sight, and she took his solace gratefully, thinking he was protecting her; but then she was turned to face William once more, and he gripped in either hand the decapitated heads of her father and her lover.
Her own scream woke her. Drenched in sweat, shivering with horror, she leaned over the edge of her mattress and vomited on the grass before collapsing into sobs.
She had to rise. Even as Helewisia, her maid, wiped the sleep from her eyes and gazed uncomprehendingly at her, Alice pulled a shift over her head to cover her nakedness and went to a stool, pouring herself wine with a hand that shook uncontrollably.
‘Mistress? Are you sickening?’
‘No, it was just a mare, that’s all,’ Alice said.
The maid nodded and sat back, her eyes flitting about the darkened tent. The small cresset with its tiny flame lit the place dimly but she knew she would be able to see the goblin if he was still there. Mares were nasty creatures that sat on your chest and sent you evil dreams. Not that anyone believed in such things, of course. It was a story for children, she thought as she suspiciously stared at a fold of cloth that could have concealed a small figure.
Alice ignored her. She sat down on her mattress again and held her head in her hands. The nightmare had shown her an appalling scene. Her father was already dead – killed in the tournament many years before at Exeter. Would Geoffrey die as well?
It was an awful thought. She must let him know how much she thought of him, let him know of her hideous dream, so that he could protect himself from danger. Perhaps that was what the dream was for; maybe God was sending her a vision in order that she might save her Geoffrey. At least at a place like this there were conventions. Heralds were known to be safe messengers for lovers; it was looked upon as part of their duty to aid and abet courtly lovers. She didn’t like the look of that greasy man Tyler, but the older, skinny fellow, Odo, he looked all right. She could speak to him and see whether she could entrust him with her message.
To save Geoffrey, she would offer herself as a sacrifice, giving herself adulterously to Squire William in order to save Geoffrey’s life. The thought made her want to vomit again, but she recalled the picture she had seen in her mind, of Geoffrey with a lance thrust through his belly, his eyes begging for help as he died…
If it would save his life she would marry William.
Or kill him.
Chapter Eight
The law can move at a snail’s pace when no one wants to be involved. And no one wanted to report discovering a dead body when the result was that the finder would be attached, held in custody, and amerced – forced to pay a surety to guarantee attendance at the next court when the justices arrived.
Sitting in a tavern early that morning, Philip sipped his wine thoughtfully. The revulsion he had experienced while killing Benjamin was gone, this second time. Perhaps because the victim was loathsome – certainly he had caused Philip’s ruin still more directly even than Benjamin. Or perhaps killing became easier with experience.
It was certainly easy enough when he thought of his wife’s crushed and ruined body or his son’s and daughter’s tiny broken corpses.
In a just world, this victim would have been outlawed as a felon, could have been legally executed by any man. Philip had visited justice upon him. Like Benjamin, he had taken men’s money to ensure that others died. Philip was satisfied that condign punishment had been visited upon a murderer, and that reflection pleased him.
He surveyed the field before him. At this time of day there was a gentleness to the general noise. Smoke drifted from a dozen cooking fires – they weren’t permitted within the stalled area, but cooks were allowed their own fires for preparing food, and pies were already being heated, fowls roasting, wine and ale was being warmed with hot, sweetened and spiced water. Over all came the odour of freshly baked bread, attacking the nostrils with the fragrant guarantee of repletion. Philip promised himself a loaf, drained his pot and went to seek a hawker.
As he walked, he glanced about him. Someone had surely seen the body by now, he reckoned, but no one had reported it. The camp was peaceful. Men emerged from their tents and scratched in the chilly early morning air, others rose from the ground, shaking the cloaks and blankets which had been their bedding. To his left were horses, and here grooms were already seeing to their masters’ mounts, whistling under their breath or chatting idly. No, the body couldn’t have been reported yet. If it had, these unruly youths would have been all a-twitter with the news, scampering about to tell everyone of the discovery.
He walked over to the cooks and bought a small capon. With his knife he split it down the middle then into quarters before wrapping three parts in a scrap of linen. He chewed on a thigh while he sought a bread vendor. With a good rye loaf in his hand, he returned to his own pavilion, where he sat on a stool, set his booted feet on a chest and leaned back against his tentpole while he drank wine from his skin.
Soon, he reminded himself, soon there would come a shriek from the tilting field. A man would run in from the woods, and Philip knew perfectly well who that would be.
It would have to be Hal Sachevyll, the sodomite and lover of Wymond.