The Tournament of Blood Read online

  ‘Did your husband have any enemies?’

  ‘None that I know of. He was a banker, but no one appeared to want his death.’

  ‘What of the men who owed him money?’

  She turned her face and called over her shoulder. A white-haired clerk appeared in the doorway. She sent him away to fetch her husband’s papers and soon he was back, arms filled.

  Mistress Dudenay gave a fluttering gesture with her hand. ‘My late husband’s accounts. If there is anything, it will be in there.’

  She lapsed into silence as Sir Roger followed the clerk to a table at the wall. The Coroner was grateful for her composure. He was all too used to having to deal with the screaming bereaved, but somehow this woman’s quiet desperation was more unsettling. The clerk carefully laid the sheets down, apparently in some logical order, although Sir Roger could make no sense of it. He had never learned to read. Waving a hand at them, he asked, ‘What does all this mean?’

  The clerk sighed. ‘These are my master’s accounts. They show all his income.’

  ‘He loaned money in return for interest?’

  ‘There are always some men who need money. If they require it, why shouldn’t a man with money charge them for the use of it?’

  ‘If that’s so, some of those to whom he had lent money would benefit from his death.’

  ‘They might consider so,’ the clerk acknowledged. ‘Although I think Mistress Dudenay is capable of securing the return of any funds my master loaned.’

  ‘With interest, no doubt,’ Sir Roger grunted.

  ‘As you say,’ the clerk agreed inperturbably. He was used to people complaining about his master’s methods of earning a living. The Church taught that it was wrong to make money from money – that men should create things and sell them on was natural, but to demand interest from wealth which they themselves had no need of was profiteering from God’s plenty. If a man had so much money he could lend it, he should do so without asking for more.

  ‘As it happens, my master owed money himself,’ the clerk said, and pointed to the names of three prominent citizens of Exeter.

  He read them out to Sir Roger, who responded, ‘None of these are murderers! Now, what of the names of those who owed him money? Who are they – and how much did they owe?’

  ‘There are many names. From farmers to knights, although smaller debts surely don’t matter.’

  ‘You think so? A villein owing a shilling might feel it worthwhile to remove the debt by removing the man to whom it was owed. In the same way a squire who owed a pound might feel the debt to be insupportable,’ Sir Roger said. He had seen enough murders committed for a penny. ‘You have such men?’

  The clerk gave him a sad smile. ‘Whenever there is a battle or hastilude men will need money to pay ransoms or replace their equipment. Squire William of Crukerne was at Boroughbridge and only recently borrowed two pounds for a new axe and mace. Squire Geoffrey here owes another pound and a few shillings.’

  ‘More than a pound for a squire must be a heavy debt.’

  ‘Yes. And then there are the knights. They have expensive tastes. A good warhorse will cost over a hundred pounds. Here we have Sir Richard Prouse. He owes a matter of forty pounds, two shillings and fourpence.’

  Sir Roger whistled. ‘So much?’

  ‘He had need of it. His villeins are poor, working on scrubby lands, and his cattle have suffered a murrain. He lost half his herds last year.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘This is the amount owed by Sir Walter Basset. Seventy-three pounds and—’

  ‘God’s mercy!’ Sir Roger expostulated. He didn’t hear the remainder. ‘You’re telling me that a knight owes him . . . By the Virgin!’

  ‘He has only recently come back from Bordeaux. He came here and asked for money as soon as he returned. And then we have Sir John of Crukerne.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘One hundred and thirty pounds, less fifteen pennies.’

  Sir Roger gaped.

  ‘He had to buy a new warhorse.’

  ‘You see?’ Mistress Dudenay had been silent but now she stood and fastened a black cloak at her throat. ‘You see which men had a reason to kill my man? One of them sought to avoid repaying his debts.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  ‘Sure?’ she sneered. ‘They have all been in the city recently. My husband saw them.’

  The clerk bobbed his head. ‘They were here for the court.’

  Sir Roger could remember seeing them. All the knights had appeared to sit as a jury or watch justice take its course when the King’s Justices arrived. ‘Did any of them threaten your husband?’

  ‘Not that he told me,’ she admitted grudgingly, ‘but he was asking for his money back from all of them.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Lord Hugh de Courtenay is to hold a hastilude at Oakhampton and Benjamin was funding the building works. He needed all his debts to be repaid.’

  Sir Roger cocked an eye at her. ‘If Lord Hugh is to hold the show, why did your husband need to get involved?’

  She gave him a blank look. ‘Lord Hugh doesn’t carry vast fortunes with him in his purse, Coroner! How would the timber be bought, the cloth and decorations purchased, unless someone was to pay? And who better than a man of business? When Lord Hugh’s men arrive, they will reimburse those like my husband who have used their own funds to make sure that the tournament has gone forward successfully. If Lord Hugh needs more, he will pawn his plate.’

  Sir Roger nodded and cast an eye over the incomprehensible papers. Still, ‘Over a hundred pounds,’ he breathed. Even he could be tempted to kill a man to escape that sort of debt.

  It was almost a month later, in late April 1322, that Sir John of Crukerne himself heard of the coming festivities. Slapping his thigh, he gave a grunt of pleasure at the news. At last he could complete his son’s education.

  Sir John had a large manor high in the hills, a green place with many woods and good pastures, a place which kept him in good funds. His villeins were a miserable, froward group, but with a little effort he ensured that they produced enough for him. It was a tough calling, that of knighthood: a man had duties and responsibilities, most of which were expensive, and he must depend upon this bunch of dim-witted serfs! Whoresons, most of ’em.

  Leaving the messenger swigging from a jug of ale, he strode out and shouted for his horse. It was time for some exercise – for man and horse. Standing and inhaling the air, he waited for the great destrier to be saddled.

  The grooms were terrified of the stallion, as well they might be. Pomers could be vicious for no reason. Only a few weeks ago he had kicked out at a peasant girl and it had been necessary to pay the child’s father a shilling to compensate for the scar where the horseshoe had slashed like a sword, but that was what a destrier was for; it was trained to bite and kick, and Pomers was very well trained. Sir John had paid twenty-two pounds just to have the horse properly broken, and the money was well spent.

  With a discordant clatter of metal on cobbles, the great dappled creature appeared, two grooms holding his bridle.

  Sir John took the reins and climbed into the saddle while Pomers side-stepped furiously, then turned and tried to bite his thigh. ‘Get off, you bastard!’ he spat and yanked at the reins, jerking Pomers’s head away. He raked his spurs up the horse’s flanks and the destrier took the hint, tossing his head angrily once, as if to register a resentful protest, but then darting forward.

  The horse was wilful, but Sir John was an experienced rider and refused to give the beast his head. Pomers needed a careful hand and swift retribution. Sir John was capable of both. He kicked Pomers into a sharp gallop as he approached a straight lane, only checking his headlong rush when he saw a wagon in the distance. Yes, the destrier was perfect – quick, easy to instruct once you had his measure, and strong. With his size and stamina, he would easily carry Sir John with all his armour. The knight was ready for a tournament, especially since he might win a good ransom
or two. He certainly needed it.

  It was annoying that he would have to find a new money-lender now that Benjamin had died. Sir John had need of funds to pay for a new suit of armour for his son, William – and he still owed the usurer’s widow a fortune. The thought of the vast sum brought a shudder to his frame. He had needed to buy Pomers because his last mount had died, but the debt was crushing. Especially when that bastard Dudenay had suddenly asked for his money back. In full. Well, his bitch of a wife could whistle for it.

  He rode back to his courtyard and bellowed for his grooms. Carefully climbing down – he knew too many people who’d been caught by a temperamental toss of the horse’s head as they dismounted – he passed the reins to the groom and strode indoors, finding his son talking to the messenger.

  ‘Father! A tournament!’ The boy was obviously excited.

  ‘I know, I know. Yes, you’ll be coming too.’

  ‘Thank you, Father. I won’t let you down.’

  ‘You’d better not,’ Sir John said curtly. Squire William, his son, was seventeen years old. Strong of limb, fair-haired and with the blue eyes of a Saxon, his boy had grown into a handsome man who was ready to take the last honour of manhood now he was of an age.

  The trouble was, his head was filled with trumpets and glory now he had returned from his first battle at Boroughbridge, where the King’s men destroyed the forces of his rebellious uncle, Thomas of Lancaster. William had served well in combat, and had taken his own prisoners, making some money, but not enough to replace the horse he had ridden and which had died. The nag he had taken from those captured was on its last legs, too.

  More expense, Sir John groaned inwardly. For now his son could make do, borrowing Pomers. Squire William had no idea what risks Sir John ran on his behalf !

  Chapter Three

  Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Simon Puttock’s friend of the past six years, was interested to see that the good Bailiff had sent him a note. He took the wafer of paper from the herald and walked to the window to examine the seal before opening it. Puttock’s mark was easy to recognise – a buzzard’s head impressed into the wax – and Baldwin smiled before he pulled the seal from the paper.

  ‘I am grateful for this,’ he said. ‘Are you hungry or thirsty? I have some good ale ready and there is always a pie in my kitchen for a man who has travelled far and fast.’

  Odo the herald smiled weakly and motioned to a stool. ‘For now, my Lord, I would be grateful merely for a seat that doesn’t rock beneath me. It is many years since I have been a messenger. It doesn’t suit me so well as heraldry.’

  Baldwin grinned understandingly. Heralds were the eyes and ears of their masters, pointing out which men had displayed the greater prowess or courtesy in the tournament, or espying the insignia of the enemy in battle, and guiding their masters away from dangerous opponents; in peacetime they were musicians and entertainers. Prolonged journeys were not sought by men who enjoyed a more contemplative lifestyle, and although this Odo had a certain wiriness about him, he was bent, like a man who has travelled too much in his time.

  ‘Where do you go after this?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘Back to Tiverton, where I can pick up my flute and practise again. With fortune, I may win the heart of a woman visiting the tournament. I’ve always found that a ready wit, a tune, a rehashing of another man’s poetry and a purse full of golden coins will win companionship.’

  ‘Many would say that showing prowess with a sword would be a better way to win the heart of a lady.’

  ‘So they might, my Lord, but they would be fools. What sort of woman wishes to see her man risking his life on a field of battle? No, give me a buxom wench with a sparkle in her eye and a ready laugh, one who will keep your bed warm, but who will still mull your ale and cook your breakfast in the morning. You can keep all the tarts who hanker after a man’s hose because he’s knocked five or six others on the head!’ Odo said sagely, adding, ‘On the other hand, I have learned some new stories from France which should please – although no doubt Lord Hugh’s fellows would prefer tales of their own valour. I’d better study his knights. It wouldn’t be sensible to forget the deeds of men who might decide to cut my hair with a battle-axe!’

  Baldwin chuckled. He found the herald highly entertaining. ‘I’m sure you’d be safe from any number of axes, Odo.’

  ‘Perhaps. A fellow learns to duck, doesn’t he?’ Odo agreed. ‘But I prefer an easy life. Let me escape from danger and I’ll be happy.’

  He was a slender man in his forties, with an intelligent ruddy-coloured face and mild grey eyes. In some ways he reminded Baldwin of a slimmer, shorter version of his friend Simon Puttock. Near-white hair framed a gleaming pate, and his head was thrust forward, giving him a permanent stoop. He wasn’t a true hunchback, but somehow gave the impression that he carried a weight upon his shoulders, a suggestion which was given the lie by his cheerful visage.

  ‘Have you often been in danger?’ Baldwin asked.

  A serious set came to Odo’s face. ‘I have avoided it wherever I could, Sir Baldwin, but I have committed my sins like all us poor folk.’

  ‘I am sure you could find a Pardoner willing to forgive them in exchange for money,’ Baldwin said lightly.

  ‘I have no doubt. There are always thieves prepared to gull the gormless,’ Odo said. ‘But for my part, I doubt whether God would be impressed. No, I’ll make my own peace with God, if He wills it, without the intervention of a conman.’

  ‘How did you come to be in Devonshire?’

  Odo shrugged. ‘I have no home. I’ve wandered widely all my life, about the continent, travelling from Guyenne to Paris, for a herald must learn new songs – what is he without his songs of chivalry? – but I grew to miss my own language.’

  ‘I suppose a herald can travel easily. He will be welcomed in any great household.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Odo smiled. ‘Although sometimes I wonder whether lords should enquire more carefully about some of their newer staff. Even I have committed my sins.’

  ‘So you said,’ Baldwin nodded, glancing at him. ‘But you wouldn’t hurt my lord Hugh?’

  ‘Ah no! My most heinous crime I still feel was venial. I found a man who was hiding from justice, a man with fear stamped upon his face. I have no idea what made me do it, probably mere sympathy, but I gave him food and helped him escape.’

  ‘Was he a felon, then?’

  ‘He was a renegade, Sir Baldwin – a sergeant from the Knights Templar.’

  ‘How did you find him?’ Baldwin asked sharply.

  ‘I was at a town with my master when we heard the Hue and Cry and were told that a fugitive had been seen, a fellow who had been born in the town but who had joined the Templars. You know what happened to them. All the knights were imprisoned and tortured. Many were executed. A terrible injustice, I always felt. Well, we set off with hounds and men-at-arms to seek this fellow and a short way from the town, I twisted my ankle and had to return. And when I got there, I saw a fellow with stubble, a filthy tunic with a faded mark like a Templar cross on his breast, and a pronounced limp. He didn’t even deny it; he told me he was so tired I could kill him on the spot as far as he was concerned.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  Odo gratefully took the large pot of ale proffered by Baldwin’s grim-faced servant Edgar and said with quiet conviction, ‘Do? Nothing! He seemed to me to be a fair, reasonable man, a fellow of integrity and honour, who had been betrayed or lied about. And I don’t believe all this bollocks about the Templars being evil. They were the Pope’s own army, and protected pilgrims all over the world. How could they be evil? No, I think they were destroyed for other reasons. Anyway, I wouldn’t willingly see him killed, so I gave him food and showed him a path which should avoid the men seeking him.’

  ‘Did you learn his name?’

  Odo grinned. ‘If I had learned it, I ensured that I speedily forgot it, Sir Baldwin. The man was a renegade. It could do me no good to remember him.’

 
Baldwin eased his grip on his cup. He had tensed to hear the name Knight Templar, for although this Odo obviously had no idea, Baldwin had been a ‘Poor Fellow Soldier of Christ and the Temple of Solomon’, a Templar, and he too had survived only because of the help of others, although survival had been hard. It had left him with deep tracks raked into his forehead and at either side of his mouth, and while his melancholy had left him since his marriage, and crows’ feet at his eyes proved that his nature now tended to be more cheerful, there was a steady intensity in his eyes that many distrusted. Beyond the curious fixity of his stare, the only visible proof of his past lay in the scar at his cheek which twisted the line of the neat beard growing along the edge of his jaw.

  ‘Anyway,’ Odo continued, moving uneasily in his seat as he felt the force of Baldwin’s gaze, ‘not long afterwards I met an English lord who accepted me into his retinue, for he missed English songs and tunes. With my flute-playing and my experiences on the battlefield, it was easy to win a post as herald. Who better could a lord gain than someone like me?’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Hugh Despenser the Elder,’ Odo said, and then chuckled at Baldwin’s startled expression. ‘I know – many don’t like the man, but I found him a good master.’

  ‘Perhaps, but he is no friend of Lord de Courtenay.’

  ‘No. That is why I told Lord de Courtenay right away about my service to Lord Despenser,’ Odo grinned. ‘I came clean about it – yet there is no trouble. Lord de Courtenay is now my lord.’ He paused. ‘A herald must tread a difficult path sometimes. When my lord Hugh returned to England this year, I came with him. I had witnessed enough death and fighting abroad. It seemed like a good time to return and share my knowledge.’

  Baldwin was curious. ‘And what sort of knowledge would that be?’

  ‘Ah well, have you seen the new craze for weapons in Europe? And mercenaries from Germany now wear plate armour.’

  ‘Like an English coat of plates?’

  ‘No. Where we use interlocking plates to cover our chests, the Germans use one plate alone. I have heard that in Benevento some years ago the Germans charged a stronger force of Provençals and were winning the day because their armour was so strong it was proof against all their weapons. It was only when some sharper-eyed Provençal saw a gap beneath the armpit of these knights that the Provençals could turn their enemies aside. There was a great cry of “À l’estoc!”, “At the point!”, and they began to sweep through the enemy.’