The Tournament of Blood (18 page)

‘No. I’ve reached a dead end on that investigation. Naturally the first thing I did was go to his home and look at his books.

‘Apparently he was owed money by several people. Squire William and his father Sir John of Crukerne both owed him a fortune; so did Sir Richard Prouse and another man . . . Sir Walter
Basset.’

Simon considered. ‘Let’s ask the other usurers here whether they can help.’

The usurers tended to keep together. Since they could pay well for their privileges, they took seats up close to the entertainments. That was also where they were needed, so that a knight who
lost his bout could speedily pawn his goods to pay his ransom.

Simon walked with Sir Roger along the outer line of the tents, past the knights and squires, past the hucksters and on to the edge of the third field. There Simon stood and surveyed the bankers
and merchants with a suspicious eye. There were times when a man needed to make use of their services, he knew, but that didn’t stop him feeling doubtful about them. It seemed as dishonest a
way to make money as he could conceive, lending it out in return for interest. It was deeply immoral; not like a man with an honourable trade, like a glovemaker or saddlemaker or a mercenary
man-at-arms.

Near the entrance to the usurers’ section was an empty table, and next to it sat a wizened old man with a narrow, hatchet face and a pale shock of fair hair. He sipped from a large mazer
of wine while a clerk sat at his side making marks on a long scroll with a reed.

‘That’s the one to ask,’ Sir Roger murmured. ‘Always scared and confused. Rarely knows whether he needs a piss or a shit.’

Hiding a smile, Simon followed in his wake as he strode to the trestle. Once before it, the clerk and the old man eyed Sir Roger with respect. The Coroner was familiar to all who traded in
Exeter.

‘Master . . .?’ Simon enquired. The man had a small board with the picture of a star and a cock painted roughly in yellow.

‘I am called Alan of Exeter. Do you have a need of some ready cash? I—’

‘No,’ Sir Roger said flatly. ‘We want to know how closely Benjamin Dudenay worked with Wymond the Carpenter. What do you know about them?’

Alan’s eyes were suddenly hooded. ‘Why should I know anything, Coroner? What business could I have with such as them?’

‘Enough, Alan, or I’ll tell Lord Hugh about your wine imports.’

The old fellow paled. ‘If I could help, I’d be pleased to, sir, but how I can serve you, when I know nothing?’

‘You know already that Dudenay is dead. Now Wymond has been murdered and I seek the murderer before someone else is killed.’

Alan fiddled with a reed. ‘I can tell you this much: Benjamin used to work closely with Hal and the carpenter. He funded their more magnificent builds, charging interest when the Lords
paid for the work, and in return he would get a good profit from the knights who attended. It was easy business for him. It made many of my friends and companions here’, he waved a hand to
encompass the other money-lenders in the field, ‘very jealous – although not me, of course.’

‘Why not you?’

In a reversal of his previous nervousness, Alan playfully tapped the side of his nose. ‘Benjamin always made a load of profit from tournaments.’

‘I don’t follow you.’

‘Come, Coroner! Benjamin made his living by lending money to knights and noblemen of all sorts and charging them large sums in interest. And then he also gambled heavily on them, too. He
would take bets from anyone. Who would win a tilt, how many courses he would take, whether a rider would be knocked from his horse . . .. He was bound to make enemies – he was fleecing men
trained in killing and earning money from their misery. Me, I take less interest and never bet. That way I can seem more sympathetic.’

Simon tried to prevent his revulsion from showing in his voice as he asked, ‘Did he share any enemies with Wymond? Could they have been killed by the same man?’

‘Perhaps. Hal and Wymond both helped Benjamin. They built the stands, and then they’d help during the jousts by passing lances to fighting knights as well, so they both got good
positions to watch everything. As did Benjamin.’

‘You think their only shared business venture was tournaments?’ Sir Roger asked suddenly.

Alan agreed, but he looked shifty and his smile had gone.

‘Not necessarily always in Devon?’ Simon pressed him.

‘No. Wymond and Hal have travelled all over the country,’ Alan agreed reluctantly. He cast about quickly to see that no one else observed them, then hissed, ‘Coroner, it
doesn’t do to enquire too closely into their business.’

‘Eh? What do you mean?’

Alan leaned forward. ‘Because Benjamin and his friends were
spies
, that’s why. They listened to all the conversations between knights and reported the lot back to
Despenser.’

‘Oh, Christ’s bones!’ Simon murmured, recalling how he had coldly insulted Hal about his building expertise.

‘Yes, Bailiff. I have seen Wymond myself, eavesdropping around knights and squires, then going back to report to Benjamin. What else would he be doing but spying for the King? It’s
said he was up with Earl Thomas before Boroughbridge. Perhaps someone from the losing side saw them here and took revenge.’

Simon groaned inwardly. The very last thing he wanted was to discover that Wymond was a spy for the King. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Well, they haven’t been here recently. Last time I saw them in these parts was during the tournament at Crukerne – oh, a good few years ago now.’

‘How long ago?’ Sir Roger insisted.

Alan frowned at the ground. ‘I suppose five or six years back – yes, 1316.’

‘Have there been any tournaments since then?’

‘Coroner, there have been pageants of all sorts since then! I have helped at small tournaments, at markets and at saints’ days. All exactly the sort of events where you’d
expect to find Hal and Wymond. Yet they weren’t there and I know that Hal was seen in France with Despenser the Older.’

‘That’s all I need,’ Simon said glumly. Then a thought struck him. ‘How is Hal getting the money together to pay for the show now his banker is dead?’

Alan tapped his nose again. ‘He has some good friends, Bailiff. I have always been a loyal vassal of Lord Hugh, and when Hal approached me to help our Lord by advancing money, I was happy
to assist. I have already given Hal money to buy more timber. I understand he wasn’t happy with the wood supplied.’

‘So it will be added to the bill for Lord Hugh?’ Simon said. ‘You can tell Hal from me that I will be advising Lord Hugh not to pay any more for wood. I know how Hal was trying
to save money by risking the use of inferior stuff.’

Soon Simon and Sir Roger had left the old money-leader and were wending their way towards a wine-seller. Both men were more than ready for a refreshing draught.

‘What do you think of that, then?’ Sir Roger asked.

Simon didn’t answer at first. ‘What was that about his wine and telling Lord Hugh?’

‘Hah! Topsham has to unload all the ships which want to deal with Exeter, but one third of customs are due to Lord Hugh and Alan has been avoiding paying that. He’s paid the City,
but if Lord Hugh should find out, Alan would regret his actions.’ His expression hardened. ‘As to his information . . .’

Simon nodded dismally. ‘Yes. What the devil do we do if Benjamin
was
a spy for the King?’

Sir Walter walked to a pie-seller and bought a lark in pastry for his wife, selecting a roasted partridge for himself, washing it down with a cup of strong wine.

Helen had calmed him already. It never took her long. With her ready wit and willing smile, let alone the promise of her superb body under that light tunic, she always made his anger
dissolve.

And it was fortunate she did, because although he adored his wife, when the red mist came down over him, the desire to kill was uncontrollable.

Sir Walter was the son of a squire who had died in a fight with outlaws many years before. It was because of the way he had tracked down the murderers that the Earl of Cornwall had knighted him,
as a reward for his dedication. Not that Sir Walter had done it to gain recognition. He’d done it because he wasn’t going to let them get away with it.

So he had trailed after them for more than ten leagues, on foot, until he found the six in a clearing near the Devon border. And filled with a righteous anger, he had drawn sword and dagger and
run into the midst of them.

It was like entering the lists. At first he was cautious and fought with science, aiming his first blow at the largest man. When he went down, Walter had time to smash his fist into the face of
a second man before sweeping off the head of a third with a single vicious swipe of his sword. Kicking, hacking, thrusting and butting, he soon found himself beset by four men, but then someone got
under his defence and marked his shoulder. That was when the red rage overwhelmed him.

Afterwards, all he could recall was a blur of fury, of intense energy and passion that seared him like demons whipping him on with white-hot metal flails. He shrieked, then hurled himself
against them, his blades moving as fast as serpents, his mind cleared of all but the desire to maim, to hack and thrust and stab, to
kill
.

And then it was over. He came to, blood dripping from arms and fingers, from his breast and belly, and about him lay the dismembered bodies of his foes, the men who had killed his father. He had
taken a great breath and bellowed to the sky in a long paean of glory and brute delight. He couldn’t even feel the pain from his wounds.

That was the first time he had killed in anger, but it was not the last. Since being knighted, he had deliberately sought out battles and tournaments. He loved warfare as others enjoyed their
women. The sight of a man spitted on a lance filled him with pure delight. To Walter there could be no greater pleasure than seeing a man demand peace and agreeing to be ransomed. Nothing could
equal the glory of winning.

Helen’s arm was through his and she gave him a squeeze as if affectionately reminding him of her presence. He smiled down at her. Yes, Helen was a worthwhile mate. She was soothing and
sweet, and her lovemaking was reason in itself to want to keep her. And yet even with these attributes, if Sir Walter ever found that she had been disloyal, he would kill her like a rat.

He thought of the pipsqueak squire who had paid court to her, and snorted contemptuously. Then he recalled the face of the knight from Gloucester upon catching sight of her. Sir Edmund –
the man from whom Sir Walter had taken her.

‘Well, one thing is certain, and that is that I will have to hold a formal inquest into Wymond’s death.’

Simon glanced at Sir Roger. The Coroner was staring thoughtfully into his wine bowl. ‘So you think there
is
a connection between the two deaths?’

‘Benjamin and Wymond? Yes, there can’t be much doubt. I started thinking that it was a simple crime, committed by someone determined to avoid repaying his debts, but now it seems
that Dudenay was a spy, it is a different matter.’

Simon nodded. ‘Yet it could be that the two are unrelated. Or perhaps they died for a different reason.’

‘Such as what?’

‘I don’t know – just as I don’t understand why spies should suddenly be killed here. There is nothing to suggest
why
.’

‘No doubt we’ll learn that in good time,’ Sir Roger said. He noticed that Simon was gazing ahead blankly. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘No, I was just looking at that scruffy devil,’ Simon said. ‘He seems to be wearing a sword.’

‘Gracious God, anyone would think he was the lowliest villein, wouldn’t they?’

‘Who is he? Is he allowed to carry a weapon at the tournament?’

‘That fellow, Bailiff, is Sir Walter Basset. He dresses like a slovenly cur, but don’t for God’s sake mention the fact to him or gaze lasciviously at his wife, Lady Helen. He
has killed men for less, if the stories be true.’

‘You expect to see a knight in his finery.’

‘Yes. But Sir Walter appears to take a pride in going about dressed worse than the meanest peasant on his lands.’

‘It is curious that a man in the wrong dress can appear so utterly different,’ Simon shrugged, then put the disreputable-looking knight from his mind.

Soon afterwards the Coroner left him, and went off to make his arrangements for the inquest.

Simon had been about to stroll towards the combat field, intending to see how the works were progressing, when he passed a group of lads leaning nonchalantly against a fence, one sitting astride
it as if to gain a better view of the people before him. He was apparently ogling a young woman, puffing out his cheeks in pretended admiration and feigning despair when she tilted her head and
turned from him.

‘Just look at the arse on that,’ one of the boys said, and belched loudly.

Simon gave a wintry smile. Youths were the same the world over. Randy sods! Give them a female to gawp at, and they’d pant like hounds after a bitch. From the wafts of beery breath
reaching his nostrils, the four here had been drinking. Simon could remember behaving much the same way when he was younger, especially after drinking. It was good to be distracted for a moment
from his anxieties about the murder and the effect it would have on the tournament.

He idly paused to listen.

The lad on the fence gave a low whistle. ‘She is beautiful! I saw her before, and I thought then I had never seen such perfection, but now I am certain.’

One of his companions clutched at his breast and turned soulful eyes heavenwards. ‘Oh, for a touch of her hand, for a lick of her shoe, for a kiss from her lips, or a fondle of her tits .
. .’ The others laughed loudly.

‘Shut up, you prating cretin,’ Simon heard the boy on the fence say. He was only listening with half an ear, because he had just spotted his daughter. He hadn’t thought that
Edith would be here already! She and her mother must have arrived while he was seeing to Wymond’s corpse. Where was Meg? he wondered, peering at the crowd.

‘Shut up yourself, William!’

‘Look at her legs,’ The blond boy said dreamily. ‘They are the length of a . . .’