Figure of Hate

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The tournament was in its second day when tragedy first struck.

It was not that such accidents were all that uncommon. The war-games that were so beloved of knights were intentionally dangerous affairs — if it had been otherwise, they would soon have lost I their appeal. The previous day, a blustery Monday in early April, a Warwickshire baron had been unhorsed and had fractured his thigh. With the broken bone protruding through the skin, everyone knew that he as sure to die once it became purulent. Another combatant was in his tent, anxiously tended by his squire as he vomited dark blood, after a blunted lance had caught him in the stomach. Otherwise the day had been fairly benign, apart from the numerous bruises and gashes that were too common to be noticed by the jousting fraternity.

It was the next day of this three-day mêlée that claimed the first life.

Sir William Peverel, manor-lord of Sampford Peverel in east Devon, was one of the hundred and twenty knights taking part in this escapade — and he was the first to perish. Some would say that at fifty-five, older than most of the participants, he should have been wise enough to stay at home, rather than rampaging about the countryside like someone thirty years his junior. But William had been competing in tournaments for most of his adult life and owed some of his fortune to the spoils he had won in this dangerous pastime. He saw no reason to give up now, having a wealth of experience to add to his still-brawny arms and his excellent eyesight.

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