Chapter Eleven
Baldwin walked thoughtfully back to his tent and told Edgar to make sure that all his armour was in good condition, his mail undamaged, his undergarments well padded and comfortable to wear. A knight must always see that his equipment was gleaming, for the knight reflected his Lord’s importance. Shabbiness was shameful. And one never knew whether Baldwin would have to put it on at some stage of the tournament. Meanwhile, he would go among the workers at the stands to ask whether any had seen or heard any strange noises during the night; after that, he would consider which knights and servants should be questioned.
He spoke to many with singularly little result until he found a thin, tired-looking man near the main arena, who shook his head in response to Baldwin’s enquiries but then looked carefully about him and led the way behind a stand where they could speak without being observed.
‘Look, I don’t know who killed him or why, but I’ll tell you this: that Carpenter fellow was a nasty piece of work, he was. Always handy with his fists when he thought someone was slacking, but he never did much himself. Him and Sachevyll used Lord Hugh’s money, but kept back as much as they could, always buying cheap odds and sods. I’d bet Wymond was killed by someone he’d threatened, or beaten up or someone he’d stolen from.’
‘He wasn’t stabbed. Why smash his head in?’
‘One way of making sure the bastard was dead, wasn’t it?’ The man spat.
‘Did he have any friends here?’
‘You must be joking. Only Sachevyll. They’ve been going about together for some years, from what I’ve heard. Bloody queens! Makes you sick, doesn’t it?’
‘I don’t care about that. What of their work?’
‘Sachevyll designed layouts and decoration while Wymond put it all together. All the bigger tournaments, Sachevyll and Wymond were there. To be fair they could be good at their job.’
‘When did you last see the dead man?’
‘Wymond? After we’d knocked off work last night. It was evening time. I saw him talking to someone down near the river behind his tent – a slim fellow, taller than Wymond.’
‘You didn’t recognise him?’
‘No. It was late and I wasn’t that interested. I’d seen enough of Wymond for one day. The only reason I was out and about was because I’d left a wineskin and gone back to fetch it. You know what thieving bastards the watchmen are – I didn’t want one of them drinking it. The pair of ’em were standing under the trees. Couldn’t see the other one’s face.’
‘But you are sure he was with Wymond?’
‘Yes – I’d swear to it.’
‘What then?’
‘They walked off together.’ He snorted disgustedly. ‘Going for a shag, for all I know, dirty buggers! Then I left for my bed.’
‘What of Hal?’
‘He’d gone. I saw him enter his tent. Waiting for Lover-boy.’
As he spoke, Sachevyll himself appeared around the side of the stand and stared at them. He looked gaunt and pinched, and Baldwin felt a pang of sympathy for him: he had lost his lover, perhaps his only friend and also his companion in business. What future could he expect now?
Sachevyll screeched at the workman, ‘What are you doing? Don’t you want to keep your job?’ Facing Baldwin, he pleaded: ‘Leave them alone, can’t you? Holy Mother, send me patience! With Wymond dead, I have enough to do without worrying that you’ll stop the men from their work.’
‘You should be gratefuclass="underline" he has confirmed your story. You say you had been in business with Wymond for some years?’ Baldwin asked as the man hurried away.
‘Yes,’ Hal Sachevyll sighed. ‘God! What of it?’
Baldwin was tempted to ask whether they had embezzled money from Lord Hugh, but Sachevyll would guess that the worker would have tipped him off. It appeared unlikely, but if Sachevyll had killed Wymond, he would make short work of the builder. Baldwin held his peace; instead he asked, ‘What interests did you have in common?’
‘We enjoyed making tournaments, that’s all,’ Hal Sachevyll snapped.
‘Can’t you tell me anything that could help me find his killer?’
‘I don’t know anything!’ The man was wringing his hands.
‘Did you see anyone with him yesterday? Someone you didn’t recognise?’
‘No! When I saw him it was only to talk about the timbers. Why the men used them to erect the stands baffles me. A complete waste of time. They will all have to come down. Wymond was supposed to be keeping an eye on all that. The wood is useless. As it is, I have been forced to go and buy more, and you’ll never guess how much I–’
‘I have no wish to know,’ Baldwin interrupted smoothly, ‘but I am glad to hear that you can guarantee the safety of the stands.’
He left Sachevyll and wandered pensively back to the river near the architect’s tent, looking down into the water again, contemplating the tranquil scene. A little further on the river curved back towards the hill on which the castle stood. Baldwin strolled along the bank. There was a thick muddy patch where cattle came to drink at the far bank, and a corresponding mess on his side. It was a pleasant, shaded spot, with the sun dappling the waters, and the river gave a pleasant, gurgling chuckle as it rippled past. Baldwin stood and rested a hip against a low branch, turning back to face the field.
Baldwin considered Wymond perfectly capable of viciousness; he could well have committed some foul act in the past which was deserving of retribution. His appearance went against him, but so did his quick temper. Baldwin, a man who had seen men-at-arms who raped, slaughtered and tortured, saw in Wymond someone who could have been guilty of the same kind of behaviour. Not, he sighed to himself, that that was in any way an excuse for what had happened to Wymond.
How did the murderer actually commit the crime? Where was Wymond caught, where was he bound, where was he hammered to unconsciousness and murdered?
Before him, in between himself and the wooden stands of the ber frois was the tent where Wymond had been found. The stands blocked the view to the fairground scene beyond. Right was the sweep of the river, curving around the whole area. Baldwin was sure that someone who wanted to kill a man would have taken the victim to a quiet area so he couldn’t be interrupted. His eyes were drawn back to the hill on his left, behind the castle. Up there the trees might smother a little of the noise, a man’s screams or shouts – but a killer would surely want somewhere safer, where he couldn’t be seen or heard. The hill was too close to the market and stands for that.
A murderer would want a more private place. Perhaps he found it by crossing the river.
The man they were seeking was not some reckless, random killer. And this was no spur-of-the-moment deed. A man with a grudge was the most likely candidate – but who?
He turned and stared out over the river. The water looked deep, but then he noticed that a causeway lay just beneath the surface. Ah, well! he thought resignedly, and stepped boldly into it, trying to ignore the water which lapped over the tops of his boots.
Sir Edmund of Gloucester rode his horse at a fast gallop into the tented area, guiding his mount with an automatic tweak of the reins and subtle shift of his weight. The great charger turned, avoiding a small child by inches, and Sir Edmund laughed to see the brat caught up by an outraged mother.