‘I could be killed every day of my life, Nesta. A fall from a horse, a sudden ambush by a dozen outlaws – even stabbed by a jealous husband!’
She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. ‘Stop it, John! But be serious. Though you’ve been a fighting man for twenty years, this de Braose is young and fast. And what about Gwyn? He’s not so nimble as he was – and getting too fat.’
De Wolfe shook his head. ‘Gwyn’s not fighting Fulford. They are to be our squires, looking after the arrangements – and picking up the dead bodies.’
‘What happens to Fulford if de Braose is defeated?’
‘It means that they were guilty, so he’ll hang.’
Nesta sighed. These violent Norman traditions were so different from the Welsh laws, where restitution was the object, not revenge and death. ‘I won’t sleep until all this is over, John. When and where will it happen?’
‘Three days from now, at the tourney ground on Bull Mead. De Braose will be given a chance to ride his horse and get familiar with the lists on the day before. It wouldn’t be fair to take him stiff and cramped from a cell and put him straight on the back of his steed without some loosening up.’
Nesta shook her head wonderingly at the madness of men. ‘You look on this as some kind of game! I can’t understand you, playing with death as if it were some kind of entertainment.’
He looked grim. ‘We can’t take the chance of seeing these two go free again. I still can’t trust the sheriff – but apart from him, there are so many ways of evading justice, especially when months may go by until the king’s judges come.’
She brooded for a while, staring into the fire and imagining life without her man. ‘Did de Revelle agree to this?’
‘He’s in no position to deny it. He put up only a token opposition to my proposal.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He objected that for trial by battle there are supposed to be five summonses in the county court before combat can be accepted. That would take weeks, so I told him I was using my powers as a king’s coroner to abrogate this rule.’
‘Can you do that?’
‘No, not as far as I know! But no one here knows any different, without getting a ruling from the king’s judges – and that can’t happen in time. Anyway, the sheriff has no power to reject an Appeal – and I brought a letter written by Robert Fitzhamon’s priest confirming that the boy wishes to Appeal de Braose and appoint me as his champion due to his minority.’
The inn-keeper clung more tightly to his arm. ‘I fear for you, John, I really do! What about Bran? That great horse is getting old like you. Can he be relied upon?’
‘As long as he can still run in a straight line, that’s all I ask of him.’
With misgivings mounting with every passing moment, Nesta resigned herself to three days and nights of constant worry over this great beanpole of a man, with the black hair and dark jowls, whom she loved so much and was now afraid of losing because of some stupid masculine ritual.
John de Wolfe lost no sleep over the coming joust. Though he was optimistic about winning, he was not complacent about his survival, for the loser would die, that was for sure. He was fatalistic about his chances, as he had learned to be over a score of years when Irish, French, Moorish and even English adversaries had brought him near to death on many occasions.
He made sensible preparations for the event, but did not let them interfere with his daily duties. Indeed, a whole day was occupied with riding to Okehampton and back to inspect and hold an inquest on the body of the victim of a violent robbery on the highway. However, he made time to get to the livery stables to check Bran’s shoes and to purge him of worms with an extract of male fern. Gwyn sharpened all their weapons with a whetstone and checked over the chain-links on John’s hauberk. Then they went down to the tilting-ground at Magdalen Street to watch Jocelin de Braose and his squire practise. True to his word, the coroner had arranged with Ralph Morin to allow the two men several hours’ freedom, under guard, to practise at Bull Mead with their own horses, which had been stabled near the Saracen. He had even sent palatable food to the gaol, in place of the muck that Stigand provided, as he wanted no complaint that he had fought a malnourished, prison-sick opponent.
For an hour, Gwyn and he sat on the two ranks of benches that were fixtures on Bull Mead for the upper-class spectators on tournament days. They watched de Braose as he charged at the quintain, a post carrying a horizontal swivelling arm with a fixed shield hanging from one arm and a heavy bag of sand dangling from a rope on the other. The attacker would ride his horse at the device and strike the shield with his lance, dodging the violent swing of the bag, which could knock him off his horse if he was too slow.
Then Jocelin and Fulford made mock charges at each other down each side of the tilt, a long barrier of hurdles made of woven hazel-withies stretching across the field, the ground on each side beaten into bare earth by the pounding hoofs of the heavy destriers. At practice, they carried the usual flat-topped shields, but only leather armour as they were using long wooden poles with flat ends rather than real lances. After a dozen passes, the clash of pole on leather-covered wood led to two successful unhorsings, both by de Braose against his squire, who picked himself up bruised but unbroken.
A number of spectators watched, including Morin’s guards, some old men dreaming of battles gone by, a few women with urchins running around with toy swords, and several cripples and beggars with nothing better to do. They were silent most of the time, knowing that the two combatants were criminals who would be fighting for their lives in a day or two – though each time Fulford crashed from his mare, there was a low murmur of anticipation of a broken neck or back.
After the quintain and the tilting, the two men practised sword-play for half an hour, until the men-at-arms hustled them off the field and marched them back to Rougemont, past the drying racks for serge cloth that stood in almost every empty space around the city walls.
‘That de Braose is good with a lance. You’ll have to watch him,’ admitted Gwyn grudgingly, as they walked back to the South Gate. ‘And he’s got a powerful swing with a broadsword. I thought they might have tried to escape when they had horses under them.’
‘Ralph had that in mind – that’s why he had twenty soldiers there, half a dozen of them mounted. But they could hardly fight through them with only a long broom-handle for a lance and deliberately blunted swords.’
‘A pity they didn’t try, then maybe you wouldn’t have this risky business to contend with,’ grunted Gwyn, who was secretly worried about the coroner’s chances in the coming combat.
De Wolfe slapped his massive back cheerfully. ‘Come on, Gwyn! We’ve beaten much better men than these many a time in the past. I’m not ready to hang up my arms and sit by the fire yet.’
The day of the trial began wet with a fine drizzle, but by mid-morning it had stopped, though it was misty and miserable. ‘At least the ground will be soft, for those who fall from their mounts,’ said John. ‘Hitting frozen mud can kill you, without needing a lance in your guts.’
He and Gwyn were at the tourney ground in one of the arming chambers, a grand name for two rickety thatched sheds that were built at each end of the double tier of viewing benches. Thomas de Peyne was lurking nervously in the background, frequently making the sign of the Cross and saying prayers for the preservation of his master’s life – and for his soul, if he lost. Jocelin de Braose and Giles Fulford were under guard in the other shelter, going through the same routine as John and his officer. The constable of Rougemont had sent down a couple of soldiers with a handcart to carry the armour and weapons for the two combatants. De Wolfe, of course, was using his own, tried and tested in many a conflict, while de Braose had been loaned accoutrements from the castle armoury, his own being in Berry Pomeroy.