Free The Tournament of Blood by Michael Jecks

what looked like a pair of
longbows well-wrapped in waxed cloth. A thick bundle of arrows was securely strapped alongside. Behind him came a blue-clad man, who trotted quickly under the castle’s entrance leading his
own sumpter horse. It was heavily laden, rattling and clanking, apparently with armour, and lances projected forwards and backwards.
    Although he didn’t look above medium height, the squire gave Sir Peregrine the impression of wary power restrained only with conscious effort, just like his knight. His eyes moved over the
whole yard, taking in the hogs in the corner, chickens scrabbling among the dirt and twigs, the lounging guards. Sir Peregrine thought a smile of disdain twisted his face at the sight, as if he was
amused by the quaintness of the place.
    If anything, he felt that the squire deserved more careful watching than the knight. The squire was older; he looked a formidable fellow and Sir Peregrine’s attention remained upon him as
he rode to a stable and sprang down as agile as a cat, and gave the reins to a young boy.
    As the three visitors were welcomed into the castle, Sir Peregrine experienced a feeling of unease. This fighting trio looked like a good team – possibly one of the best, and he
wasn’t used to feeling outclassed.

Chapter Five
    A week had passed since Jeanne’s false labour, which had subsided as suddenly as it began. A good night’s sleep, and the pains had been put down to a bad bout of
wind. Now, however, there could be no mistake and Baldwin watched his wife with rising anxiety. Jeanne knelt on a cushion on the floor and gripped her maid Petronilla’s arm, eyes squeezed
tight shut as the contractions ground into her belly.
    He knew perfectly well that women were built for this, that their bodies had been given to them by God to produce children. He also knew that Jeanne was being supported by a woman who had
experience herself of childbirth – and yet the knowledge was no help. Watching his wife, he knew only panic that she might not endure.
    Poor Jeanne looked so tired as she waited for the next clenching; her eyes scarcely noticed him or the room, but instead were turned in upon herself. Baldwin wished he could comprehend what she
was going through – but he couldn’t.
    He had appealed to Simon Puttock many months ago now, asking how the Bailiff coped with
his
wife’s childbirth, and Simon had merely laughed, saying, ‘It’s a
woman’s thing. You don’t go and help your shepherds in lambing, do you? No – so why on earth sit in with your wife? You can’t help because you don’t know how –
all you can do is unsettle her. Women know what to expect and all that, so I leave them to it and find someone to share a glass of wine or ale with me. So will you, if you have any
sense!’
    ‘Let them get on with it,’ Baldwin repeated to himself, watching as Jeanne’s maid gently wiped her brow with a cloth dipped in rose-water. It was definitely a tempting thought,
running outside to escape, but he felt his departure would be pure cowardice in the face of his wife’s suffering.
    ‘Could you fetch some wine?’ Jeanne gasped after a moment.
    Petronilla nodded and rose, walking quickly from the room.
    ‘Water, too!’ Jeanne called after her.
    ‘How are you?’ Baldwin enquired tentatively.
    She looked up at him. The dampness on her forehead made her look pale and ill in the candlelight, as though she was perspiring from a fever. ‘I’m not in pain, Baldwin, it’s not
like that, it’s just that it’s so
relentless
! I know it won’t end until the baby is ready, but I wish it would hurry!’ She stopped suddenly, closing her eyes, her
head falling forwards, a hand resting on her belly. ‘Here it is again – come here. Quick!’
    He went and crouched at her side as she stiffened, her arm gripping his, eyes tight shut, a sighing gasp breaking from her as the ripples cramped through her womb. It lasted but a few moments,
but to Baldwin it was an