The lad was nothing to him. Nothing at all… he was the bait, the lure to the father, that was all. And yet in some ways, he was the embodiment of the crime.
It was strange. At first Philip had not expected to get further than Benjamin, but then when he arrived here at this tournament, he realised that he could make Hal Sachevyll and Wymond Carpenter pay for their part in the crime. Now there remained only the last of the four, the man whose greed had directly led to the deaths. The man who had ended Philip’s marriage by seeing to it that his beloved wife was killed. And his two young children.
It was a curious fact that William happened to be around the same age as his children would have been now, had they lived; it almost made the next stage feel like a divine form of retribution, as if God Himself had willed that Sir John should pay for his offence with the blood of his own son.
He followed William to the tents with a feeling of calmness and ease. All of a sudden, his pain and grief were eradicated. He felt better each morning when he awoke, soothed by the death of the men who had ruined his life. Their destruction was balm to his soul.
This boy was different, though. He was not directly responsible for anything. He was merely the tool of vengeance. Nothing more.
While Philip watched, William ducked into his tent and the murderer heard his father’s rumbling tones. Philip dared not approach too close, but from the other side of the lane between the tents, he could hear Sir John enquire after his son.
‘I know a knock like that can shake a man.’
‘I’m fine. I lost a tooth, got some bruises but that’s all.’
‘How about Geoffrey?’
‘What do I care? The fool lost.’
‘And a fortunate thing. He may die and leave you a safe tilt at the girl.’
‘She will do as you tell her.’
‘You think so? Did you hear what she said? That she was already married to Geoffrey?’
‘Deny it. You are her guardian and you never gave her permission. A clandestine marriage cannot be proved. Anyway, if she is married, she will soon be a widow.’
There was a pause, then, ‘Don’t you care if she has lost her virginity?’ Sir John’s tone expressed disbelief.
‘Father, I have slept with many women. Few of them were virgins. Why should I care if this one is or is not?’
‘You should treat things more seriously! This woman is to be your wife – what if she’s poxed, eh? If she’s been incontinent in lust, what then? She may give birth to half-wits or lepers. Do you want a leper for a son? And what if she’s over-sexed? She may search about for other men.’
‘Oh, if she’s experienced, she’ll be more enjoyable.’
Philip could almost hear Sir John forcing the angry response down. ‘You enjoy taunting me. So be it. But it’s your future we’re discussing.’
That was the start of a list of recriminations for William’s loose lifestyle. Sir John remonstrated with his son, reminding him of the sacred nature of knighthood. It made Philip smile. That an avaricious, murdering swine like Sir John of Crukerne should try to instil honour and decency in his son was laughable. What of his own failings? Were they to be eradicated with absolution on his deathbed? Philip couldn’t help but grimace as he walked away. There was no need to remain. He knew where he must go.
With a hand resting at his knife-hilt, he strolled to the castle and waited outside the chapel, leaning negligently at the wall. It wasn’t long before he saw the burly figure of William, freshly dressed in clean tunic and hose, walking with his father to the chapel.
He hated Sir John. Once again, Philip was struck with the conviction that there was something wrong about executing the lad. He was so young, so full of life, and now he was about to be made a knight, an honourable and chivalrous position for a man entering adulthood.
Philip watched as the two men halted near the door, Sir John instructing his son with a pointing finger, Squire William listening with a serious frown before nodding.
The two looked like a picture of the courtly ideal. Sir John, tall, grizzled, powerful and experienced, his son slimmer, a little shorter, but handsome with his perfect features and hair moving in the wind. He could have been a saint if looks were all, and the sight of the two of them talking in a low undertone, clearly in accord, gave the killer a pang. Tears threatened his eyes, blurring his vision, and he groaned quietly. A passing servant gave him a curious look, but he waved his hand and the fellow carried on his way.
It was that scene: the two men so content in each other’s company. Their happiness was almost tangible, like an enveloping halo that protected them from the world and suffering. The bond which forged the love of a father for his son and a son for his father was so powerful that no man should destroy it, Philip thought. No man had the right. It was foul to contemplate it.
But what of his own little boy, destroyed by Sir John’s greed? Sir John had wrecked many other lives. Wasn’t it justice to see him pay for his crimes? He deserved to be punished – and yet by taking the action he planned, Philip would punish the son as well as the guilty man.
Wiping at his eyes, he glanced back at the two men. Squire William stepped forward and the murderer could see his face distinctly. Calm, unworried, handsome and haughty, aware of his rank and the coming celebration in his honour, it was the face of a lad any man could be proud of. Philip himself would have been pleased if his own son had grown like this.
The two men nodded to the murderer standing by the chapel, and then entered, and as they walked in, William’s voice carried on the clear evening air.
‘I know, Father. As far as I am concerned, as soon as I have taken Mass and been dubbed knight, I will become renewed – reborn. I intend to take my vows seriously. Before God, I promise you that I shall uphold the knightly virtues of courtesy, honour and prowess. What is chivalry, if a knight behaves no better than a drunken churl? No, a knight should be beyond reproach, should be clean-living and uphold the law. I certainly intend to be exemplary. You’ll be proud of me, and so will Alice. As you wish, I shall marry her.’
The killer closed his eyes while his heart pounded and his resolve fell from him like filth sloughed away in the rain. With those words Squire William had saved his life. Philip couldn’t kill a lad who professed such integrity. If he was serious about upholding the law and behaving as a perfect husband, he was so far removed from his father as to be inviolate. Philip couldn’t kill someone like that. It would be a genuine crime.
No, his wife and children must be satisfied with the revenge he had already exacted. Surely three dead men was sufficient.
His heart was heavy; he was not sure that he was doing the right thing. He gazed up at the heavens, praying for an answer, but there was none.
‘Sir? Sir? Are you all right?’
Opening his eyes, he found himself staring into the morose features of Hugh, Simon’s servant.
‘Could you fetch me a jug of wine?’ he asked shakily.
It was a slow service, William thought. Slow and dull. He must kneel devoutly for God was watching, if the priest could be believed – not that this fool cleric seemed to have much idea – but in Christ’s name, it was hard. All his muscles complained, his back was aching from his tumble, and his head hurt abominably. It was the normal result of a tilt, but that was no comfort.
Yet over it all, William was aware of a thrilling eagerness. It was a curious sensation, this. A sort of glow emanated from his belly and warmed his heart at the thought that he would soon become a knight as he had always wanted. A knight, a full chivalrous member of Lord Hugh’s host!