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.
Baldwin had agreed to meet Simon near the tented field and the knight was waiting patiently when Simon left the barbican and made his way towards him.
‘Your face would look well on a stormcloud,’ Baldwin commented happily.
‘I’d be better pleased if I’d stayed outside the castle, like you did last night,’ Simon grunted.
‘It was noisy?’
Simon shot him a darkly meaningful glance. ‘This castle is too small to house a host of ants. There’s no space anywhere. If you want to sleep, you have to share the hall with all the servants and guests – and that odious cretin Hal Sachevyll comes whining and pleading every five minutes for more money or wood or nails or cloth or something similar. Christ’s bones, but I only slept a scant hour. No more. There was a knight from Taunton next to me snoring the night away. And when he was done I’d just got to sleep when some drunken oaf tripped over my feet and woke me.’
‘I slept well,’ Baldwin lied cheerfully, recalling the singing and shouting from tents all about him as revellers celebrated the tournament to come. One was singing the praises of his hero, Sir Walter Basset, the wild man of Cornwall, while another told him he was a fool, that Sir John from Crukerne would be sure to win.
‘Wait till you see ’un in the medley, mate. That’s when you can tell their mettle,’ he asserted.
‘Nah! I’ve seen ’em both and my money’s on Sir Walter. He’s got the speed and the strength, as well as bein’ younger by ten year or more. He’ll carve his initials in your man’s helm.’
‘You reckon, Bob Miller? There’s something your ’un ain’t got – and that’s experience. Sir John is skilled, he is. He’s killed plenty o’ men in his time.’
‘Who hasn’t? Sir Walter has too. In the joust, as well.’
‘So’s Sir John. I remember him slaughtering that cocksure fool Godwin of Gidleigh.’
‘Godwin? Oh, I remember him. He was shafting Sir John’s wife, if the stories are true.’
‘Really? You reckon?’
‘That’s what they say.’
‘That’s bollocks, that is!’ The man spat. ‘That were a bad do, that were. Exeter. The whole Tyrel family died, all except the father, Philip. Big man, he was, powerful, bearded, strong, but his family got flattened when the stand fell. Pretty wife, two nippers. Philip himself pulled the boards off them. Poor bugger.’
‘Folks moved?’
‘Yeah, they were furious because their favourite got killed by Sir John. They all moved forward and the stand collapsed. Several got flattened, like this Tyrel family.’
‘That’s because John Crukerne is a murderous bastard.’
‘Don’t you take that attitude wi’ me, Bob Miller, or I’ll push that quart pot down your throat so far you’ll have to drink it out your arse.’
There was a loud crash at this point, which Baldwin suspected, correctly, was due to a man tripping and taking a table with him, but it was closely followed by guffaws of laughter and Baldwin was inclined to the view that the two had settled their differences in the easiest manner, by sharing another pot of ale.
In the end he and his servant Edgar had exchanged a long-suffering look before rising. They had travelled many thousands of miles in each other’s company, both having served together as Knights Templar in God’s service, and each was used to lack of sleep due to noise. They had whiled away the night playing dice while the arguments outside continued at a muted level, not finishing until a little before dawn.
Simon would usually have noticed the knight’s red-rimmed eyes and yawns, but today he was more taken up with his own concerns. ‘Lord Hugh arrives today, and God only knows what that gibbering fool Hal Sachevyll has managed to do. He’ll complain, of course. At least,’ he added, brightening, ‘Meg and Edith will arrive as well.’
‘I had not realised they would attend,’ Baldwin said with genuine pleasure.
‘Try to keep them away! I shall be tied up with Sachevyll and others… could you look after them?’
‘I should be glad to. It is months since I saw either of them.’
‘I’m afraid neither of them thought of you when they asked to come here,’ Simon said frankly. ‘All they had on their minds was seeing lunatic deeds of courage – and the cloths on sale too, of course.’
‘You mean that they would not expect to see courage on my part?’
Simon laughed at his mock-offended expression. ‘Let’s just say, Baldwin, that both know exactly what to expect of you.’
‘And I have to remain contented with that, do I?’ Baldwin said. He glanced over his shoulder on hearing hooves approaching.
‘The King Herald, Mark Tyler,’ Simon muttered.
‘I recognised his chins,’ Baldwin agreed affably.
It was true; he recognised Tyler from the day before. As Baldwin watched, the herald rode past Baldwin’s own tent. Edgar was outside, and as the herald passed by, he and Baldwin’s armour were spattered with mud. Baldwin saw Edgar look at the man’s back long and hard, but then he shrugged. Such accidents could happen even when a man took great care. However, that didn’t prevent Edgar feeling resentment at the extra work. He bent and set about cleaning Sir Baldwin’s shield again.
The herald cantered on, his nose in the air as if he was trying to keep it away from the smell of the common folk all about him. He was a proud man, very self-important. Not a youngster, Baldwin noted: the fellow was almost Baldwin’s own age, certainly over forty. Yet for all his apparent haughtiness, his eyes looked anxious, like a man fearful for his future. Interesting, Baldwin thought.
‘Bloody Tyler,’ fumed Simon at his side. ‘He’ll be looking for Hal Sachevyll to pester. He’ll want confirmation that all is ready.’
‘He was there yesterday.’
‘I know, but if he sees more of a mess today he’ll not be impressed. I should go straight there and find out what that ninny-hammer managed to screw up after I left last night.’
‘There is little enough to do here. Let us both go and see.’
They walked slowly, for Simon was unenthusiastic about seeing Sachevyll. He meandered, buying a cup of ale and draining it before continuing. At the gate they saw the herald again. He was staring about him in a peevish manner, as if he had been expecting to be met by someone of rank.
When Simon and Baldwin came nearer he recognised them, snapping rudely, ‘Bailiff Puttock, where have you been? How are things progressing? It is crucial that we have the whole field prepared well in advance. Lord Hugh will not want excuses when he arrives.’
‘I’m sure that the builder will have it all in hand,’ Simon said soothingly. As he looked about him he could see that things were well advanced and suddenly he was conscious of a sense of relief. The show would be a success, a huge success, and he would be well rewarded by Lord Hugh for his efforts.
Mark Tyler met the sights about him with a grimace of discontent. ‘That mincing fool Sachevyll, you mean? I’d be surprised if he has everything ready. Never has before, to my knowledge. The silly arse was almost a day late with the final details at Crukerne six years ago. Christ, but we had to scare the idle bugger to get things done!’
Simon was about to speak when they all heard a scream. Hal Sachevyll burst from the stands, his face white, and tripped, falling in the mud and dung. He wailed, scrabbling as if panicked, trying to lever himself up to escape something.
‘You seriously believe that cretin can have all ready on time?’ the herald asked scathingly. ‘Look at him! I daresay he’s hit his thumbkin with a hammer – if he was stupid enough to try to use a real tool.’