The Tournament of Blood

Chapter Two

Walking up the road towards his home, Bailiff Simon Puttock cocked an ear, listening intently. As soon as he heard the dismal wailing scream, he sighed happily and his stern features relaxed.

From here, the road which led up from Lydford cleave, the cleft at the bottom of which the fast-flowing river hissed and swore, he could often hear the bellowing of prisoners in the stannary gaol declaring their innocence and demanding release, but today all was silent, the gaol empty for once, and there were no screams from the great square blockhouse. Instead it was the shriller cries issuing from his own house that made him smile because Simon, after many long years of trying, was once more a father. In January his wife Margaret had given birth to a son whom they had christened Peterkin after their dead firstborn boy.

Only two and a half months old, yet the boy had disrupted their home. Simon paused at his door, hearing the howls of desolation, confident that the boy was even now being cradled by his wife and rocked in an attempt to lull his tiny, indignant frame to sleep. ‘Some hope!’ his father muttered wryly after too many broken nights.

His house was less than half a mile from Lydford Castle. Limewashed walls and thatch made for a warm and pleasant dwelling. From the rear he could see the peasants working in the fields. Each field consisted of a narrow strip of land, and Simon could look along his own from the yard behind his house to see how the young crops were faring. In and among them men and women wandered, tending the plants to ensure that there would be plenty to eat over the coming summer and winter.

It was hard for farmers. They never saw the end to their labours, not until they died. Each year was simply a fresh round of back-breaking jobs. At least his own villeins wouldn’t have the extra worry of the poor devils around Oakhampton, he reflected. The planned tournament up there would have them running around like blue-arsed flies.

He entered his house and peered in at his hall. There was no one there, so he walked through to the garden, cocking an ear upstairs. His son’s complaints had died away, and he could hear nothing from the small chamber which he proudly thought of as his solar. Instead he heard calling from his yard, and walked out to seek his wife.

As soon as he left the hall, he was struck in the midriff by a short figure pelting along at full speed. Sitting abruptly, winded, Simon struggled for air while his assailant plonked down in front of him, laughing.

‘Father, what were you doing there?’

‘You stupid, clumsy, misbeg–’

‘Simon!’

As his eyes regained their focus and he could take in his surroundings, he recognised his wife. ‘Meg, can’t you keep the child under control?’

‘Child?’ Edith demanded, her smile instantly replaced by a black frown. ‘I’m nearly fourteen.’

Simon ignored his daughter, clambering to his feet and rubbing his belly ruefully. He was a tall man, with thick, dark brown hair frosted at the temples. With his face ruddy from the wind and rain, he scarcely looked his age, almost thirty-six.

His wife, Margaret, a tall, slender woman whose blonde hair was turning grey, smiled serenely. Over the years since their marriage she had seen him change considerably, but now she was delighted to see that he was losing the thinness about his cheeks and at the edges of his mouth. They had been caused, she knew, by her failure. It was easy to remind herself that many women couldn’t give their husbands the sons that they craved, but in Margaret’s case there was an intense guilt because she had regularly conceived but then miscarried since poor Peterkin died. She felt as though her womb had shrivelled inside her, was incapable of supporting another child.

After Peterkin’s death, Margaret had blamed herself for the way that her man shrank in upon himself. He withdrew, his hair greying and his complexion growing sallow. Each time she conceived she was aware of his solicitousness, which only served to make her feel still more wretched as each time she failed to give him another son.

Not now. Simon could hold his head high once more, and the light of contentment filled his eyes, making them gleam with an inner fire. Right now he was eyeing his daughter with orbs that appeared to shoot fire – and Margaret was convinced that their incendiary impact would soon make itself felt.

‘Well, Dad? You could have hurt me!’ Edith declared, hands on her hips. ‘You should have looked where you were going.’

‘You dare try to blame me?’ Simon thundered.

‘Edith, fetch wine! Go!’ Margaret ordered and, hearing the sharp tone of her voice, Edith shot her a glance, giggled, and sprang away. ‘You appeared in the doorway so swiftly you made me jump,’ she said reprovingly. ‘I could have dropped Peterkin.’

She saw his gaze flit down to the bundle in her arms and his fury cooled immediately.

‘I thought he was upstairs. Is he all right?’ Simon asked.

‘I think so, yes, but really, husband, in future, please be more careful.’

‘Careful?’ he repeated with a sarcastic lifting of his brows. ‘And pray how should one be careful about a daughter running into one’s stomach? She was like a whirlwind at full-pelt, the little heathen.’

‘Please don’t swear about your daughter,’ Margaret said distantly. ‘She is upset enough as it is. She has a brother – not something she had expected – and her nose is out of joint.’

‘Ah, you think so?’ Simon asked. ‘Jealous, is she?’

‘Just a little. And confused.’ Margaret looked down as Peterkin gave a short gasp and snuffle. ‘She is at an age when she will notice boys – and some have noticed her, too.’

‘Dirty little sods, the lot of them! Let me catch them sniffing about my daughter and–’

‘It’s only natural, my love.’

‘Many things are natural, but that doesn’t mean I have to condone them,’ he grunted. ‘The thought of some idle whoreson mounting my girl… ’

‘It will happen. Edith is a young woman,’ Margaret said softly. ‘She will be thinking of a husband soon.’

‘Humph.’ Simon knew she was right, but the idea that his little Edith was almost an adult, ready to breed and raise her own family, was hurtful – as if the girl had acted treacherously towards him and his wife.

‘Shush!’

He looked over his shoulder to see his daughter appear carrying a jug and mazer for him, walking slowly and carefully with a small towel over her left arm and shoulder like a steward. ‘Thank you, Edith.’

She passed him the cup and wine, watching with her head set to one side as he drank and replenished his cup. ‘That’s better!’ he sighed appreciatively.

Edith walked to her mother’s side and both women stood eyeing him narrowly.

Aha! he thought. This is it. ‘Is something the matter?’

‘We both saw him,’ Edith said accusingly. ‘Who was it?’

Simon gave her a serious look. ‘When a messenger is sent to me, little girls shouldn’t worry themselves about the messages. After all, they might be secret.’

‘Will you have to travel away?’ Margaret asked, frowning. ‘He wasn’t wearing the insignia of the Abbot.’

‘No, it wasn’t one of the good Abbot’s men,’ Simon confirmed. As Bailiff, he reported to the Warden of the Stannaries, who was presently Abbot Champeaux of Tavistock. ‘Although he came from the Abbot.’

‘Well?’ Edith demanded impatiently. ‘What did he want? He was in too much of a hurry to have been here to pass the day in chat with you.’

‘What if I was to say that he carried private and secret news for me alone?’ Simon asked aloofly.

‘I’d say you were lying,’ Edith said confidently.

Simon gave her a stern look.

‘I asked the stableboy after the messenger had gone in to see you,’ she explained with delight, her dimples flashing momentarily.

‘And what did he say?’

‘That the messenger was called Odo, that he’s a Herald for Lord Hugh, and that you have been asked to help organise a tournament. Oh, Daddy, is it true? Are we going to have one here?’ she begged, her pose of disinterest falling away like tresses under the scissors.

‘No, we are not,’ he said severely. And then his face broke into a smile. ‘It’ll be in Oakhampton.’

Sir Roger stood at the door to Benjamin’s hall and allowed his gaze to rise from the door to the jettied upper stories and windows – properly glazed with real glass, too – which looked out over the street.

His expression was grumpy. It often was, but today, standing here and staring at this magnificent house, he felt bitter. Never a man who had appreciated usurers and bankers, he found this place with its extensive undercroft, wide shopfront and large hall with solars and other chambers, an insult. ‘More rooms here than five houses,’ he muttered. Such conspicuous flaunting of a man’s wealth was obscene.

The door was opened by a maid. ‘Your mistress here?’ he grunted.

‘In the hall, sir.’

‘Show me to her.’

Mistress Mand Dudenay didn’t rise. Her hall was a long, broad room, its timbers darkened from the fumes of the fire which crackled in the hearth in the middle of the floor, and the high windows illuminated the space with a meagre light, the dirty glass letting in little compared with Sir Roger’s own unglazed holes.

The atmosphere suited the situation; it was dim and gloomy.

‘Madam, I’m sorry to be forced to ask you these questions.’

‘Then don’t. I’m in mourning, Coroner.’

‘I have a duty, as you know. I must discover, if I may, who killed your husband and where the murder weapon is.’

She was a short, dumpy woman and now she lifted a hand as if in surrender, not meeting his eyes. ‘What do you want?’

‘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!