Death by Misadventure

by Steven Kuehn

Gilbert de Bereham, issued a pardon for the death of Richard de Tapinton whom he killed by misadventure with a lance in jousting; on condition that he make his peace with the relatives and stand his trial if anyone will proceed against him. Mandate to the sheriff of Kent to permit Sir Gilbert to remain in his bailiwick, and to restore to him any goods that the sheriff may have taken. [Account taken from the Calendar of Patent Rolls of King Henry III, November 26, 1243, Westminster.]

The sound of thundering hooves resounded across the tournament field in Kent, muted only by the cheers and roars of the assembled crowd. The autumn sky was clear on this uncommonly warm day, the third and final of the tournament. The first day featured archery contests and the practice tournament, as knights young and old demonstrated their skill against quintains and rings. On the morning of the second day, a small mêlée was held in which a trio of allied men-at-arms won the field. The individual jousts began that afternoon, with the inexperienced knights and squires soon eliminated.

On the third day, the contests grew fierce as seasoned knights battled for supremacy. Injured men were carted from the field and plied with wine, as they waited for overworked surgeons to mend cuts and broken bones.

On the jousting field, a page scrambled to remove a dented shield before the next tilt. Sir Gilbert de Bereham nudged his chestnut gelding forward, adjusted his shield, and leveled the weighty lance brought to him by his squire, Edward Channey. On the opposite side, Sir Richard de Tapinton guided his mare into position before nodding his helm to demonstrate his readiness. A pennant dropped, and the two knights spurred their mounts forward. As the distance between them closed rapidly, Sir Gilbert aimed his lance at the rounded boss of Sir Richard’s shield and leaned forward in his stirrups to absorb the shock of the oncoming collision. Splinters of wood exploded around the riders as their lances crashed against the hard wood and iron shields. Sir Gilbert’s lance struck just above the boss of Sir Richard’s shield and slid upwards, glancing off his opponent’s breastplate and striking squarely on the gorget.

The crowd gasped in shock as Sir Richard flew from the back of his horse, landing hard upon the muddy ground. One of the favorites to carry the day after his showing yesterday, Richard had been heavily wagered upon.

At the far end of the lists, Sir Gilbert yanked the reins and wheeled his horse around to survey the field. Tossing aside his damaged shield and the broken handle of his lance, he trotted back to the center of the field where his opponent lay motionless. His own squire knelt beside the fallen knight.

Reaching the scene, Gilbert pushed up his visor. “Edward, how fares Sir Richard?”

“Why, he’s dead, m’lord!”

* * *

Several weeks later, four knights arrived in Canterbury to determine a preliminary judgment on the death of Sir Richard at the hands of Sir Gilbert. After several hours of lengthy testimony, the court of inquiry members were decidedly bored. The eldest, Sir Bors de Molis, led the proceedings. Sir Hugh de Dursley, Sir Bors’s former squire, accompanied him, still tending to the old man’s needs. The ranking peer, Sir Thomas, Baron of Berkeley, slouched in his seat and spent most of his time appraising the comely ladies in the gallery. At his left sat his boon companion Sir Humphrey, dressed in his customary silver and black surcoat.

The droning of the present witness came to a close. “And it was for those reasons, my lords, that I did seize said property of Sir Gilbert de Bereham.”

“Yes, yes. Thank you, Bertram,” said Sir Bors, tugging absently at his drooping grey mustache. “All your actions were consistent with your duties as Sheriff of Kent.”

Bertram of Cryall gave a short bow, before resuming his seat on a bench in the gallery. Several dozen local lords and ladies crowded the castle hall, along with their servants and curious villagers. As the afternoon wore on, pages lit additional candles to ward off the shadows that filled the room.

Sir Gilbert stood off to one side, resplendently dressed in a white surcoat emblazoned with three golden bears on a red field, the heraldic badge of his house. His brow furrowed, he appeared troubled but remained hopeful as no contrary testimony was raised against his claims.

Sir Hugh called the final witness. “Edward Channey, you are called to give forth. Speak naught but the truth in the manner before us. This do you swear by His Majesty King Henry the Third, and our Lord God in the Heavens?”

“Aye, m’lord. I do swear,” said Edward solemnly.

Sir Bors resumed the questioning. “You are Sir Gilbert’s squire?”

“Yes, m’lord, for the past five years now.”

“And you came upon Sir Richard after he was thrown in the tourney? How did you find him?”

“Well, he was dead, m’lord.”

Sir Humphrey bowed his head with an audible sigh. He gestured to a nearby servant, who hurried to refill his goblet once again.

“Where was Richard’s squire during all this?” said Bors.

“Sir Richard’s squire dashed off in pursuit of his steed, m’lord,” replied Edward.

“And what of his horse?” asked Sir Thomas, tearing his gaze from a buxom young lass in the back of the hall.

“His horse? Unharmed, m’lord.”

“Well, thank the heavens for that,” said Sir Humphrey, grinning. Sir Bors gave him a withering look. “What? Fine horseflesh is rare in England. A good mare is as uncommon as a maiden in a London brothel!”

Baron Thomas laughed heartily, and titters were heard around the room. The priests and monks shook their tonsured heads disapprovingly. Young Sir Hugh looked to Sir Bors for guidance. The elder knight did not look pleased.

“Need I remind you that Lady Eleanor, newly a widow, sits here before us?” Bors pointed to the comely blond woman in the front row of benches, dressed in black but revealing a considerable amount of cleavage. Humphrey raised his goblet in salute, seemingly in apology. The rakish wink he gave her, and the blushing smile he received in return, however, suggested his tribute was more in favor of her beauty and décolletage.

“Are any of Richard’s other relations present today?” said Thomas, circumventing any further bickering.

“His son and heir, Sir Richard the Younger, is off with the Earl of Gloucester, fighting the damned Welsh again,” replied Bors, turning his stern glare away from Humphrey.

“M’lords?” said Edward. “If it pleases, I’ve brought forth Sir Gilbert’s lance tip from the day of … the tragedy.” He reached into the leather bag at his side and removed a foot-long ash pole, splintered at one end but roundly blunted at the other. Smears of blood caked the surface.

The clergymen crossed themselves vigorously, and a highborn lady’s maid swooned. Otherwise, the hall was silent as the court inspected the grisly item.

“Definitely a tournament lance,” declared Sir Thomas as he leaned back in his chair. “It would seem that Sir Richard’s death was merely an accident, with no ill intent on the part of good Sir Gilbert.”

“Aye, I would concur, Thomas,” said Bors. “Scribe, make note that a tournament lance was used, as provided by Squire Edward.”

Edward placed the lance tip back in his bag as the scribe scratched quill and ink on parchment. The mood in the hall lightened notably, with relaxed chatter in the gallery as pages and servants moved about. Even Sir Gilbert sported a grim smile.

* * *

The court stood adjourned shortly thereafter, with the great hall emptied of all but the four inquisitors and servants cleaning.

“Have the stable boys prepare our mounts,” Sir Thomas ordered a page, as the quartet gathered up their belongings.

“Unhappy business, this, to lose yet another fine man in a tournament,” mused Sir Bors. “Perhaps the Holy Church is right, and stricter rules should be in place to prevent such tragedies.”

“Wise counsel, m’lord,” offered Hugh as he assisted the older knight with his cloak. “Any loss of life is regrettable, but the training affords much for our younger knights and squires.”

“Richard had more than enough seasons of battle behind him, Hugh,” chided Thomas. “Methinks he was more interested in the prize money, or the enjoyment of thrashing young upstarts such as yourself. As I recall, Richard killed a man himself in a tourney years ago.”

“‘Tis rumored that Richard had ill-treated his young new wife,” said Sir Humphrey quietly.

Sir Bors exploded. “Enough, good sir knight! ‘Tis unseemly to slander the honored dead, especially one of his majesty’s noble knights.”

“Be at peace, Bors,” replied Sir Thomas. “I’m sure Humphrey was only repeating harmless castle gossip. Right, Humphrey?”

Sir Humphrey raised his hands in mock innocence as Bors strode from the room, shadowed by Hugh. “Perhaps, Thomas, you and I should remain in Canterbury tonight, and visit with the beauteous widow upon the morrow?”

Sir Thomas returned his wicked grin with one of his own and nodded.

* * *

Bidding farewell to his squire in the buttery, Sir Gilbert turned and found himself face to face with Lady Eleanor and her retinue.

“Good Sir Gilbert, please know that I hold no grudge against you,” said Eleanor, waving away her companions. “As the Lord doth command, I forgive you fully for the accidental loss of my beloved husband,” she continued in a loud voice, before dropping to a whisper. She gave him a wicked grin. “After all, you did it for me, did you not, my love?”

“Hush, woman!” hissed Sir Gilbert, glancing around for eavesdropping ears. He pushed away her outstretched hands. “It was but an unfortunate accident, nothing more. Best if we are not seen together outside the public arena, for now.”

She looked up at him coquettishly but nodded solemnly as he took his leave.

* * *

That evening in her bower, Lady Eleanor brushed the tangles from her long blond locks, immensely pleased with her new station. With her stepson away, all of Tapinton Manor was hers to command.

“M’lady?” said her maid. “Will you require a sleeping draught tonight?”

“Hmm? What? Oh, no. Those weren’t for me, Lucy. I had them prepared for my late husband, so he might slumber soundly through the night.”

The maid bowed and left the bower for the adjacent solar.

“And they worked wonders when placed in his morning wine, too,” whispered Eleanor. “Especially on tournament days.”

* * *

At the edge of town, Edward Channey rapped softly on the timber doorframe of one of the smaller wattle and daub huts inhabited by the poor freedmen of Canterbury. A bolt slid back, and a doe-eyed young woman cautiously opened the door. Wiping her nose with the back of her flour-dusted hand, she stepped aside to let him enter.

“Greetings, sister,” he said flatly, taking a seat at the rickety bench by the table. “Sir Gilbert has given me two days leave.”

She nodded, filling a wooden cup with ale from a barrel near the fire and placing it in front of him. Wordlessly, she returned to kneading the coarse dough on the tabletop.

Edward sipped the bitter brown drink and stared into the stone fireplace that dominated the tiny room. He reached into his leather pouch and withdrew the broken, blunted lance tip that he had shown to the knights’ court. His hand returned to the bag, and this time he pulled forth a second lance tip, jaggedly splintered below the wicked steel point. Bits of thin wood, caked with dried blood, still covered parts of the hidden metal tip.

The girl glanced at them and shuddered. “Was it wise, brother, to keep the real lance after the joust?”

“’Near at hand, far from harm’, as the saying goes,” said Edward, tossing both items into the fire. “Tis of no matter, now. Sir Richard is no more. Our father’s death has been avenged.”

About the author

Steven Kuehn is a professional archaeologist working in the Midwestern United States. After thirty years of preparing technical reports and scholarly articles, the call of mystery fiction grew irresistible and Steve began chronicling the adventures of Professor Jacob Caine, archaeologist and reluctant sleuth. His first novel, Sunken Dreams, was published in 2016 and is now available as a Kindle eBook. The next Jacob Caine novel, Ghost Bog, is currently in preparation for publication.

In addition to the Jacob Caine series, Steve is developing a historical mystery series set in 17^th century New France, based on information collected during his genealogical research. More information can be found at www.stevenkuehn.com.

About the artwork

The illustration is High Jousting by Jörg Breu the Younger, illustration in De arte athletica II ca. 1545. In the collection of the Bavarian State Library, Germany. In the public domain.