The Tournament of Blood by Michael Jecks Read Free Book Online Page B

sheet, but Sir Richard ignored him, turning his back while he considered. He had no desire to take the man into his confidence. He didn’t trust the
feeble, weak-minded fool enough to enlighten him about his own innermost feelings. Dismissing the messenger and curtly telling his priest to seek out food and ale for the fellow, Sir Richard limped
slowly to his upstairs chamber.
    A tournament; another
damned
tournament, and he was invited to witness the ‘festivities’.
    It was because of tournaments that the castle was built upon debts and mortgages. That was his father’s legacy: a place without the finance to support it. All he could have used was bound
up under other people’s control, like that whore’s cub Benjamin, the money-lender who had fleeced his estates after his father died. If it wasn’t for him, Sir Richard could have
come into his estates with some dignity, but no! Benjamin had been determined to take all he could. He had an English name, but in terms of his business dealings he was as much a thief as a
Venetian!
    That was the trouble with jousting. If a man became hooked on the thrill he could gamble away his entire inheritance. Many a man depended upon his wife’s financial acumen to protect lands
and property. A knight was no use if his sword and charger were in pawn to a usurer. And Sir Richard’s father had been completely hooked on the sports.
    Whereas Sir Richard perpetually wore a strained, anxious expression and with his deepset eyes under his dark hair looked older than his almost thirty years, his father had appeared much younger
than his thirty-four years merited when he died; he was a cheery, pleasant, open-faced man who accepted the blows fate dealt him with a calm resignation or charming self-effacement but, like any
gambler, believed that the next joust would recoup his losses. In part it was his very assurance and easy manner that had attracted so many women to him. Sir Richard knew all too well how other
men’s wives would look to Sir Godwin and invite him to their beds. Especially at tournaments when they could be bowled over by the handsome knight’s easy flattery.
Courtesy
,
Sir Richard sneered to himself. That was what they called it, those self-righteous arses in the nobility; if not they called it
chivalry
, as if that excused a man who persuaded a woman to
ignore her marriage vows and lie with him. Sir Richard himself could exercise all the courtesy in the world and never win a woman’s heart. Not with his disabilities.
    If his father hadn’t died, maybe he could have grown to respect him. He often wondered about that – whether if he had come to know Sir Godwin a little better he could have learned
even to
love
him. Instead all he could see was the gross foolishness of his rumbustious lifestyle, the drinking and whoring, the madness of a man who lost so much money he couldn’t
afford the best arms to protect himself, and who died for the lack.
    Sir Richard had witnessed his father’s death at Exeter. It was an unfortunate mace blow – misaimed, it didn’t strike Sir Godwin a ringing buffet on the centre of his helmet as
intended, but glanced down the side until it caught his shoulder. It was the kind of blow that all knights were used to, one which would bruise but shouldn’t incapacitate a man with full
armour, yet all could see at once that Sir Godwin was badly wounded. He fell back as if stunned, then stumbled. The spectators saw him put down his sword as if he wished to surrender, then let his
blade fall to the ground, grabbing for his helm. He tripped, still desperately clawing at the steel of the helmet, and then there was a shout from the crowds as someone saw the blood seeping from
beneath his helm.
    Soon everyone could see that the fallen knight was dying. Squires and heralds ran to him from all over the field while Sir Godwin’s opponent let his mace fall and lifted off his own
helmet, gazing at the dying man with bemusement, wiping his