since the alliance formed to destroy his favourite Piers Gaveston in 1312, and it would be tempting fate, let alone the King’s patience,
to pretend to be Arthur, to wear a crown and show off his knights as men from the legends. The King would turn a blind eye to a simple tournament with few knights and no other magnates, intended
purely to exercise steeds and men together in order to ensure their skill for the better defence of the realm, but it would be very different were Lord Hugh to put himself forward as a king –
and not just
any
king, but England’s greatest. People might consider that Lord Hugh was getting ideas above his station, and if other magnates were invited, King Edward II would be a
fool not to wonder whether plots against him were being hatched. It had happened before.
No, the tournament must have the workaday appearance of simple martial practice. It was terrible, of course, for the spectacle was all there, ready, in Hal Sachevyll’s mind, but at least
he was working on a tournament again, and that was all that really mattered. He loved them, even after the disaster at Exeter so many years ago.
He hadn’t been entirely responsible, of course. There was little doubt in his mind that the crowds moving forward had brought about the stand’s collapse, and many of the furious
people were crushed by the weight of bodies behind them before the wood had given that appalling, groaning crack and shuddered. There was a kind of silence, then. A pause. Hal had stopped and
gaped. He had never heard such a sound before. From somewhere a bird called. And then the dust was hurled into the air as the wood gave way and the screams began.
The memory still made him feel queasy. After that he had travelled, providing smaller stages for other lords, going wherever his master had commanded. One always obeyed one’s master, Hal
reminded himself. Especially when your master was the King himself.
Recollecting that, Hal stood, fastidiously brushing lichen and mud from his hose. His master would want him listening, watching and learning, not sitting back and whining. He drained his cup and
returned it to the wine-seller before squaring his shoulders, putting that scene from his mind; he gave a prim sniff and considered his next move. Perhaps he could ask the wine-seller where he
might acquire some wood inexpensively.
He was about to do so when he caught sight of Sir John of Crukerne striding through the crowds.
‘Oh my God!’ he squeaked, and involuntarily ducked behind the wine barrel. He didn’t want to be seen by the Butcher of Crukerne. As soon as he could, he scurried away back to
Wymond and safety.
Walking past the smugly grinning King Herald, Simon stormed away from the tournament field. He marched quickly, seething with anger at the carpenter and builder. Baldwin walked
a little more slowly in his wake, leaving Simon to work off his ire.
It was not until Simon had reached the entrance to the tented field, near the river, that he realised that his friend had lagged behind. He stopped and waited for Baldwin. ‘My apologies,
that was an unnecessary outburst.’
Baldwin shrugged. ‘The carpenter deserved worse for his lack of respect to an official. What of it?’
‘I’ll explain more when we find a moment’s peace,’ Simon said, his face hardening.
Following his gaze, Baldwin saw the King Herald approaching, Odo behind him. Odo gave Baldwin a nod of recognition before going to his pavilion, a small tent near the river. He pulled off his
garish tabard, marked with the symbols of Lord Hugh’s family and lineage, and Baldwin had to restrain a smile when he saw that beneath it, Odo wore a threadbare linen shirt and a pair of
faded hose. Finery could conceal utter poverty, he thought.
The King Herald mockingly bowed to Simon, and although Baldwin saw that his shirt and boots were of the first quality, he was sure that Mark Tyler also used his tabard to hide poverty, although
in the King
to pretend to be Arthur, to wear a crown and show off his knights as men from the legends. The King would turn a blind eye to a simple tournament with few knights and no other magnates, intended
purely to exercise steeds and men together in order to ensure their skill for the better defence of the realm, but it would be very different were Lord Hugh to put himself forward as a king –
and not just
any
king, but England’s greatest. People might consider that Lord Hugh was getting ideas above his station, and if other magnates were invited, King Edward II would be a
fool not to wonder whether plots against him were being hatched. It had happened before.
No, the tournament must have the workaday appearance of simple martial practice. It was terrible, of course, for the spectacle was all there, ready, in Hal Sachevyll’s mind, but at least
he was working on a tournament again, and that was all that really mattered. He loved them, even after the disaster at Exeter so many years ago.
He hadn’t been entirely responsible, of course. There was little doubt in his mind that the crowds moving forward had brought about the stand’s collapse, and many of the furious
people were crushed by the weight of bodies behind them before the wood had given that appalling, groaning crack and shuddered. There was a kind of silence, then. A pause. Hal had stopped and
gaped. He had never heard such a sound before. From somewhere a bird called. And then the dust was hurled into the air as the wood gave way and the screams began.
The memory still made him feel queasy. After that he had travelled, providing smaller stages for other lords, going wherever his master had commanded. One always obeyed one’s master, Hal
reminded himself. Especially when your master was the King himself.
Recollecting that, Hal stood, fastidiously brushing lichen and mud from his hose. His master would want him listening, watching and learning, not sitting back and whining. He drained his cup and
returned it to the wine-seller before squaring his shoulders, putting that scene from his mind; he gave a prim sniff and considered his next move. Perhaps he could ask the wine-seller where he
might acquire some wood inexpensively.
He was about to do so when he caught sight of Sir John of Crukerne striding through the crowds.
‘Oh my God!’ he squeaked, and involuntarily ducked behind the wine barrel. He didn’t want to be seen by the Butcher of Crukerne. As soon as he could, he scurried away back to
Wymond and safety.
Walking past the smugly grinning King Herald, Simon stormed away from the tournament field. He marched quickly, seething with anger at the carpenter and builder. Baldwin walked
a little more slowly in his wake, leaving Simon to work off his ire.
It was not until Simon had reached the entrance to the tented field, near the river, that he realised that his friend had lagged behind. He stopped and waited for Baldwin. ‘My apologies,
that was an unnecessary outburst.’
Baldwin shrugged. ‘The carpenter deserved worse for his lack of respect to an official. What of it?’
‘I’ll explain more when we find a moment’s peace,’ Simon said, his face hardening.
Following his gaze, Baldwin saw the King Herald approaching, Odo behind him. Odo gave Baldwin a nod of recognition before going to his pavilion, a small tent near the river. He pulled off his
garish tabard, marked with the symbols of Lord Hugh’s family and lineage, and Baldwin had to restrain a smile when he saw that beneath it, Odo wore a threadbare linen shirt and a pair of
faded hose. Finery could conceal utter poverty, he thought.
The King Herald mockingly bowed to Simon, and although Baldwin saw that his shirt and boots were of the first quality, he was sure that Mark Tyler also used his tabard to hide poverty, although
in the King
Similar Books
