It was forbidden to ride fast in this area, but he didn’t care. Not now. There was nothing anyone could do to him that could affect him. After his last English tournament he had been ruined, a knight without horse, without armour, a wandering, lordless knight, a nothing, and he would never forget the horror of that time. He had been forced to leave his home and seek fame abroad. Tournaments in France and Germany had helped hone his skills and had given him a focus, and after his successes, he had returned, laden now with plate and gold.
While abroad he had met Andrew. The older man was experienced, a dutiful servant and reliable squire in the hastilude. Together the two had slowly built up their fortunes, assisted by the patronage of a powerful banneret at Bordeaux who was a vassal of Thomas of Lancaster, and it was Earl Thomas who had rescued Sir Edmund from his wanderings and gave him back his pride.
He leaped from his mount at the entrance to his tent and stood patting the great horse’s neck while he glanced about him superciliously. The people repelled him: dull, stupid folk who had no idea what life was really about. They none of them had a clue about the meaning of chivalry.
Pulling his horse behind him, he walked to the river and let his beast drink. It was the most important rule for any fighting man: the horse always came first. A knight depended upon his mount before any servant, woman or companion.
He passed his horse to a groom and wandered back to his tent, a brightly coloured pavilion with his shield prominently displayed outside. The thick canvas was painted and stained in strips to match the colours of his shield: red and white vertical bars. He had discarded the marks of his Lord.
The thought was bitter. He was constantly aware of it. His master was dead, murdered by the Butcher of Boroughbridge: King Edward II.
Neither he nor any of the other men in Earl Thomas’s host had believed that the man who so completely failed at Bannockburn and during the Despenser war last year would actually fight Earl Thomas. It had seemed ludicrous to think that so pathetic a King, who preferred swimming and play-acting with peasants to hunting or taking part in honourable pursuits, would dare confront a proven warrior like Earl Thomas. Edward had even banned tournaments; and only a man who was fearful of his own warriors would stop Englishmen from their practice.
When the King rode north with his host, Earl Thomas knew he must protect himself and moved south to block his advance and force a negotiation, but all went wrong. The King avoided direct contact, and instead looped around behind the Earl’s forces, threatening to cut him off and forcing the Earl to retreat.
That was the reason for the disaster. During the long march northwards, trying to outmanoeuvre the King’s forces, several of Earl Thomas’s allies proved their dishonour. They simply faded away as the line of march extended; not only peasants fearing for their lives, either, but magnates like Sir Robert Holland, who rode off with all his retainers, the foresworn coward!
The final disaster came at the river. Sir Andrew Harclay stood on the bridge with only a small force, but they were resolute, a band of veterans from the Scottish wars. Earl Thomas rode to a ford to take Harclay in flank, while his friends held Harclay at the bridge, but the attacks failed. Harclay had mingled archers with dismounted men-at-arms, and the Earl could make no impression on them. At night the fight was halted, and it was then that Earl Thomas told his companions to ride away if they would save themselves.
Sir Edmund refused to desert his master, but Earl Thomas took his sword and cut the trailing tail from his banner. ‘There, Sir Edmund. Now you are a knight banneret.’
‘My Lord, I don’t have the income to justify… ’
‘Never mind that,’ Earl Thomas said, beckoning a clerk. He took a heavy purse and pressed it into the younger man’s hand. ‘Take this and save yourself. I will grant you a manor near Exeter. Make yourself known to Hugh de Courtenay and he may accept you into his household. If the King is merciful, you may be permitted to remain there.’
‘What of you?’
‘There is nothing I can do. I am advising all my friends to save themselves,’ he said heavily.
‘I should remain at your side, my Lord.’
‘You should obey my commands, Sir Edmund!’ Earl Thomas had snapped, and that was that. A matter of days later, he was executed on the orders of the King, in the most demeaning manner possible for someone who was himself of royal blood.
Sir Edmund had obeyed his last wish, and now he owned a pleasant manor east of Exeter near Honiton, high on a hill from which he could see for miles. It gave him a sense of security knowing that he could see an enemy’s approach, for he was convinced that the King himself would want to persecute him for his support of Thomas; if the King did not, then the Despensers would see to his destruction, for in their greed they sought always to ruin their enemies and steal any lands they might for their own enrichment.
That was why Sir Edmund was here, at the tournament. To be safe he needed a new lord, a master who could protect him against the most powerful men in the realm after the King. The alternative was to go into exile again. Lord Hugh was not the wealthiest baron, but he was no threat to the King or Despensers either. If Sir Edmund could join his host, he might be safe. The Despensers had bigger fish to catch.
A tournament offered a unique opportunity to shine before a lord. Other knights had won patronage from new lords after demonstrating their valour and prowess in the tourney, and there was no reason why Sir Edmund shouldn’t as well.
His squire, Andrew, was not in the tent. His Welsh archer, Dewi, sat on a stool stropping his long-bladed knife.
‘Where’s Andrew?’ Edmund demanded.
‘There’s been a dead man found. He’s gone to watch.’
‘Morbid bugger! Tell him I’ve gone to the tilt-yard. Men will be practising and it’ll be useful to assess their skill.’
He left his archer and made for the tilt-yard, but before he passed through the main field, he suddenly saw a face he recognised.
‘Sir John!’ he breathed.
Sir John of Crukerne heard his name and glanced about. Seeing Sir Edmund, he stared hard a moment, but then slowly his face broke into a grin. ‘Ah! Edmund of Gloucester. I am pleased to see you, Sir Knight. I shall look for your shield, I promise; after all, you will need an opportunity to regain the wealth you lost six years ago!’
With a sudden roar of laughter he slapped his thigh with delight and walked away, leaving Sir Edmund frozen, his face set into a mask of rage and disgust.
Sir John was the man who had ruined him in 1316; the man who had caused Sir Edmund’s flight.
The knight was gripped with a loathing that tightened his chest until he found it hard to breathe. He watched, his features twisted, as the tall figure of Sir John marched away, and then his expression changed into one of longing and sadness as he caught sight of Lady Helen Basset.
The woman who had promised herself to him. Before she married Sir Walter.
It was peaceful at the other side of the river. A small stand of trees blocked this part of the stream from the noise and bustle of the stalls nearer the castle, and no one had advanced over the water to this meadow – possibly because they didn’t want to get their feet soaked, Baldwin considered as he pulled his boots off and upended them. The squelching had become all too noticeable as he walked in the meadowland.
There were cattle standing in a wary huddle and Baldwin avoided them, walking instead along the bank near the fast-flowing water. The sunlight filtered through the branches to spot the ground and the river was a constant chuckling companion. Even bearing in mind the serious nature of his investigation, he felt his mood lighten.