However, if he were to find another Sir Edmund, life would become a great deal easier.
The thought was an idle one, but it was enough to bring a beaming smile to his face. Then he caught sight of Sir Baldwin. There was a man he’d like to meet in the hastilude. It’d be next to impossible to lose against a pathetic-looking specimen like him. Sir Baldwin was the archetypal farmer-warrior. Just enough money from his manor to justify the retention of his titles and keep him in good clothes, if Sir John’s guess was accurate. Probably as bound up with financial troubles as he was himself. Certainly not Sir John’s ideal companion. A good, sound man-at-arms was more to his taste; someone with whom he could drink his fill of strong ales or wines, then gamble on a horse or a knight in lance-play, not some straight-faced old fast like Sir Baldwin. However, any man was better company than no one. And anyone at all was better than his son William at present. He was going about the place like a bear in the pit.
Seeing an attractive woman at Sir Baldwin’s side, Sir John’s smile grew. At least he had a pleasing decoration. ‘Sir Baldwin, how go things in Furnshill?’
‘Well, I thank you,’ Baldwin answered, fitting a dishonestly welcoming smile to his face.
Margaret hoisted her child higher on her breast as she gave the knight a polite greeting.
‘I was just thinking I will have to enter the tournament,’ Sir John told Baldwin. ‘Take a look at the youngsters here. Any one of them could be thrashed with one hand bound behind me. A man could make a fortune.’
‘Surely you aren’t thinking only of money, Sir John?’ Margaret exclaimed. ‘Not when you could win renown for your courage and deeds in the tournament?’
Sir John smiled patronisingly. ‘Lady, a man might easily win honours for his prowess, but when all is said and done, a purseful of coins speaks loudest. A knight wins no praise if he never wins at a fight, and the natural accompaniment to success is wealth. Besides,’ he added, glancing at the milling squires and servants, ‘look at the fools here. Many of them should be grateful for a good lesson taught at the hands of a practised knight.’
‘They should be grateful for being beaten about the head?’ she enquired, and Baldwin nearly laughed out loud.
‘Lady, the lessons learned here on a field with bated weapons will stand many a fellow in good stead upon a field in which the weapons are all sharp. And anyway, there is nothing wrong with a man winning money from his captives.’
‘Combatants can die even with bated weapons,’ Baldwin observed.
‘Of course. How else do you teach a man chivalry if he won’t risk his own life?’
‘Have you killed many in the lists?’ Margaret asked.
‘Not many. A few.’
Baldwin looked at him. The lists were supposed to be for practice, not to kill. ‘I heard that you fought Sir Richard’s father in the lists.’
‘Godwin? Yes. He was a popular fellow, but not much good as a fighter. A splinter of steel from his helmet cut his throat while he fought me, and he died.’
‘Was that at Exeter?’ Baldwin enquired, recalling Hal’s words. ‘Didn’t a stand give way?’
‘Yes. Rot the bastards! The crowd was furious to see their darling little Godwin fall! They surged forward in the stands and people at the sides of the ber frois moved forward, all howling like wolves. I’ve never seen a mob like it! And then someone fell, or a rope gave way – I don’t know – and a mass of folks tumbled down. Several died.’
‘But you escaped.’
‘Yes, Sir Baldwin. When those people were turned off the stand like so many felons pushed off a cart, others ran to help them. I managed to get to my horse and leave the field.’
Margaret was smiling in a brittle, insincere manner. ‘You must have been terribly upset. To have killed a popular knight and thus cause the death of innocents… ’
‘I was pleased, Lady. Pleased! Godwin had cuckolded me!’ Sir John burst out. He was suddenly silent, staring away into the distance. ‘Godwin was known for it. He was useless as a fighter, but he loved to dally with women. Well, I heard he’d been dallying with mine. She’s long dead now, I fear, but then I wouldn’t have it! If I’d had the chance, I’d have challenged him formally and killed him in legal combat before God, damn him!’
The rush of words was embarrassing. Baldwin met Margaret’s eye. Sir John saw their look and quickly changed the subject.
‘It is rare to kill men now. And one shouldn’t wish to. Not with the rewards of ransom. In Crukerne in 1316 I captured several.’
‘Any we know?’ Margaret asked brightly.
‘You may know some. One was Sir Edmund – I think he hales from Gloucester. I was not actually a combatant at the time of the mêlée, but I was watching from an inn, and disgusted with most of what I saw. Youths who hardly knew how to hold a blade were trying their luck against older, more honourable fellows and beating them through sheer strength of numbers.’
‘Isn’t that always the way?’ Baldwin asked with some surprise.
‘I suppose it is sometimes, but it’s hardly right, is it? One of the only decent fighters was Sir Walter Basset. Now there was a man who could fight! Stormed from one combat to another, winning horses and armour on all sides. Wonderful work! He pushed Sir Richard Prouse through a wall.’
He smiled at the memory. The sight of the clumsy fool tottering sideways through the wooden stand had been hilarious.
‘And this arrogant young puppy Sir Edmund stormed in to attack Sir Walter. Christ! Oh, forgive me, my apologies, my Lady, but what can you say about a fool like that? What did he think he was doing? Sir Walter is trained and experienced, as well as having a very short temper. It was predictable. Sir Edmund tried to fight, but kept being pressed back, his horse suffering as many buffets as Sir Edmund himself, until he had to break and ride off. Sir Walter had the choice of chasing him or returning to his already fallen prey and like a cat he went back to Sir Richard, except now his blood was well and truly up, which is how he came to half kill poor old Prouse.
‘I was drinking ale and saw all this. As it happened, my horse was saddled, and I was armoured. I thought, Well, here’s an opportunity for some money! I climbed up into the saddle, took a lance, and hurtled off after Sir Edmund. I caught him completely unawares, the damned fool, and in a moment he was out of the saddle and sprawling in the dirt. So, I captured him and took him back to the diseur who confirmed I had won him legally.’
‘Did no one try to stop you?’ Margaret asked.
‘No, the other folks had seen how badly hurt Sir Richard was, so they were all busy fetching leeches and suchlike. No, no one tried to stop me. They were making sure that Sir Walter escaped the mob. So many of the folks grow angry to see a man win his bout; they try to catch the man who stopped their own favourite win. I recall Benjamin was happy to see me – he had a large bet on Sir Edmund losing his armour and I helped him win the gamble.’
‘What happened to Sir Richard?’ Margaret enquired. ‘He didn’t die, did he?’
‘He lives yet,’ Sir John said thoughtfully. The thought of living like that, unable to walk or run, without the use of an arm or the sight in one eye, and with those scars! Terrible! Every fighter’s nightmare. ‘Better perhaps that he had died,’ he said heavily, with the faintest touch of compassion. ‘He was badly crushed when the ber frois collapsed on him. And not only him. Several people were killed when he fell, especially since his horse was flailing about with its hooves and killed some folks before it, too, died. It’s unfair, of course, but some bystanders blamed Sir Walter at the time.’