The Tournament of Blood aktm-11

by Michael Jecks

  Simon looked up at the youth on the fence. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Me? I am Squire William, son to Sir John of Crukerne. Why?’ William asked and lightly swung down from the fence. ‘You have a problem? You aren’t a knight, so you can’t command us, and you’re surely no squire, so what’s your difficulty?’

  Nick, the barrel-chested youth, circled slowly around Simon. ‘I think he’s a merchant, Will. Not successful, though. Look at the hose, and that tatty tunic. Surely a mean little peasant man should be punished for speaking insultingly to a group of squires. What should his punishment be, d’you reckon? A ducking in the river?’

  Simon ignored him. William appeared to be the ringleader and Simon concentrated on him with a steady, unsmiling stare. ‘I am Bailiff Puttock and I’m here to organise the tournament. And I don’t like to hear women slandered. Nor would Lord Hugh be pleased to hear that the fairest ladies of his household could be insulted by a mess of youths who had hoped to win the favour of the collée from him.’

  The gang’s expressions altered subtly. They had been expecting to have some fun tweaking the nose of this grim-faced man, but none wanted to risk the wrath of Lord Hugh. Especially since his Bailiff might be able to put in a bad word about them to the heralds, a bad word which could take many years to clear. No one wanted their character stained.

  Squire William recovered his aplomb first. He smiled and allowed his head to tilt to the side as he shrugged apologetically. ‘Sir, I am deeply sorry if we appeared to be disrespectful, but we were only admiring a woman.’

  ‘She was beautiful,’ the one called Nick said unwisely. ‘Built like the prettiest wagtail the King himself could afford! To see her wriggle her arse under that tight skirt… it was like watching a pair of cats fighting in a sack. Tee hee! You should have seen her figure, sir. Any man would fall in love with her for the opportunity of seeing her remove her skirts and tunic. I’ll bet even you’d give your soul for the chance of mounting her, Sir Bailiff. Tee, hee!’

  Simon hissed, ‘Shut your face, you poxed son of a whore and an idiot! She’s my daughter! If I see you sniffing about her, I’ll cut off your balls and feed them to the pigs. Understand?’

  William put a hand on his friend’s arm. He was reluctant to back down before any man, even an enraged Bailiff like this one. ‘Your language is intemperate.’

  ‘My language, you puppy?’ Simon roared. ‘Your words would offend a Breton pirate! You’re no knight, and I can well understand why. A whippersnapper like you doesn’t deserve preferment. A Bristol shit-collector’d be more courteous!’

  ‘You are intentionally insulting me, Bailiff. I won’t stand for it.’

  ‘You think you can demean a lady and still win your spurs? I’ll show you different, you ignorant–’

  ‘Bailiff! I’m glad to have found you,’ came a smooth voice.

  Simon turned to find himself gazing at the King Herald. ‘And you have met the son of Sir John Crukerne, I see. How fortunate. I’m sure you’d both like to continue your… conversation… but I think Lord Hugh would be perturbed if his Bailiff and one of his most valued squires, a young man who could have anticipated a reward for years of honourable and loyal service to one of Lord Hugh’s knights, should become fractious.’

  ‘I’ll not apologise to a… ’

  ‘Neither will I, Bailiff,’ William said hurriedly. ‘But neither will I brawl vulgarly in the field like a common man – a man who is not of the knightly class. Come, Nick.’

  ‘Leave my daughter alone. If I find you’ve been trailing around after her, I’ll–’

  ‘Bailiff,’ William said, eyeing him gravely, ‘if I wish to see your daughter, I shall. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.’

  ‘Leave him, Bailiff,’ the King Herald advised. ‘His father’s powerful enough to harm even you. I wouldn’t want our lord to be shamed because of a silly quarrel.’

  ‘He’s not my lord,’ Simon muttered as he shrugged his arm away, but he was relieved that the Herald had been there. He had been close to drawing his knife, and he was sure that it would have been a mistake. There was no point orphaning Edith to protect her honour.

  ‘Thank you,’ he added ungraciously.

  William gave a faint grin and was about to walk away when a thought struck Simon. ‘Wait one moment, Squire. Where were you after dark last night?’

  ‘Me? I left the hall quite late and joined my friends here at a tavern. Why?’

  ‘Which of your friends here will confirm on oath that you were with them?’ Simon asked curtly.

  ‘Any of them will, but why?’

  ‘How well did you know Wymond Carpenter?’

  ‘That shite? Well enough to avoid him.’

  ‘What was wrong with him?’

  ‘What is this?’

  Simon smiled. ‘Answer the question and I’ll tell you.’

  ‘You enjoy your mystery, do you, Bailiff? Very well. The trouble with Wymond is that his work was poor. Piss-poor. In Exeter he caused the deaths of many when the stand he had built collapsed.’

  ‘I believe you owed money to Benajmin Dudenay?’

  ‘What if I did?’ The youth was startled at the change of subject.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I am a warrior,’ William said with withering contempt. ‘I had to join our King’s host at Boroughbridge and I needed new mail. I borrowed money from Benjamin to buy it.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘I don’t keep track of such things. Now, if that is all, I have other… ’

  ‘Were you in Exeter to attend the court this year?’

  William glanced at the King Herald and made a show of shrugging. ‘I was there with many other honourable men.’

  ‘Such as your father.’

  ‘Yes. What is all this about?’

  Simon studied the lad pensively without answering. He had no reason to suspect that William could have had a motive to kill Wymond, other than his instinctive dislike for a boy who had leched after his daughter, and he was fair enough to know that his feelings had nothing to do with justice, only with a father’s righteous anger.

  ‘Come, Bailiff, explain yourself.’

  ‘Because Dudenay was killed in Exeter and Wymond was murdered last night.’

  ‘It looks as if I cannot be suspected, then, doesn’t it?’ William said lightly.

  ‘Did you see anyone else about last night after dark?’ Simon asked.

  ‘There was that old cripple, Sir Richard,’ William said with the brutal callousness of the young and healthy. ‘And some new fellow – Sir Edmund, I think his name is. He was walking about the place with his squire.’

  Simon watched him arrogantly swagger off to rejoin his friends at a wine-seller’s bench.

  ‘What now, Bailiff? A brawl with a pot boy? Or a wench in a tavern?’ Mark Tyler asked sarcastically. ‘Christ! The way you question people, anyone would think you were determined to take on the Coroner’s job for him. Have you a genuine suspect? Or are you insulting people for personal enjoyment?’

  Simon wasn’t in the mood for his hectoring. ‘Have you ever used the merchant and usurer Benjamin Dudenay?’

  The herald’s face suddenly went still. ‘I have heard of him.’

  Simon had seen his expression change. ‘Did you owe him money?’

  ‘A little, perhaps.’

  ‘Enough to want to kill him?’

  ‘The only man who seems to have the temper to kill is yourself,’ Tyler said neatly, recovering himself. ‘Two fights in as many days, Bailiff. Scarcely the sort of record Lord Hugh would expect, is it?’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Baldwin carried the hammer with him as he investigated the area, but there seemed nothing more to be found and soon he set off back towards the castle, swinging the murder weapon with a speculative air. It was heavy – weighed at least four pounds. Enough to crush a skull.

  When he came to the gap in the hedge, he tried to guess the direction that the killer would have t
aken to get back to the jousting field. There was no sign of dragging grass, so he assumed that the body had been carried down towards the river.

  He was beginning to feel a reluctant admiration for the murderer: a man who could persuade Wymond to walk all the way up here to look at a tree for timber, perhaps proposing a share in the profit; a man who could strike down even so ferocious a foe as Wymond, and drag or carry him back to his own bed and brazenly tuck him in. That spoke of someone with courage, mental resources and physical strength. Wymond was not tall, but he was solid.

  Why put him back in his bed? Most people would surely have left the corpse up in the woods to be eaten by wild animals, concealing the evidence. Baldwin was convinced that the deed was done so as to leave a message. But was it for Hal – or someone else? And if so, who?

  Baldwin set to wondering how the murderer had returned to the camp. He might have turned right, following the line of the old hedge. Working on this conviction that no sensible man would walk in the open carrying a dead body, Baldwin strolled near the trees, his eyes fixed upon the ground. It took little time to find tracks: boots sunk deep into the ground.

  He walked faster now. The trail took him down to the ford where he himself had earlier crossed the river, and he nodded to himself with satisfaction. His guesswork had proved to be accurate.

  But now he was unsure what to do. He still carried the hammer, and that would have to be given to the Coroner when he arrived; he could pass it to Simon for safekeeping in the meantime. Baldwin felt a pang at his belly and realised it was time he ate. He walked thoughtfully to the stalls and drank a pint of watered wine. At another stall he bought a pie and munched on it, sitting on a bench with a fresh pint of wine before him while he contemplated the people passing, wondering whether one of them was the killer. It was an unsettling thought.

  He found his attention caught by a large knight.

  Tall, strong, and with an expression that could melt moorstone, Baldwin thought that the stranger was an ideal suspect. If he was inclined to arresting people on sight based solely on their manner, this man would be the perfect candidate for a cell. Before long the knight looked about him and noticed Baldwin watching him. Baldwin found himself being surveyed with minute detail. He motioned to the jug of wine and the stranger gave a shrug and joined him.

  ‘Please allow me to serve you, sir,’ Baldwin said respectfully.

  ‘I am grateful.’

  Both raised their pots and drank. There was a ritual to their slow introductions, for knights meeting at a tournament could well find themselves fighting and perhaps even dying at the other’s hand in a few hours.

  Baldwin bowed his head and introduced himself. ‘Sir Baldwin de Furnshill.’

  ‘I am Sir Edmund of Gloucester. You will be challenging?’

  ‘I fear I am too old to be a tenant or venant,’ Baldwin chuckled. ‘No, I am here to watch.’

  ‘I see.’ Sir Edmund appeared to lose interest in Baldwin, his attention flying back to the people walking by. He was still furious at Sir John’s slighting words to him about winning back his wealth, and confused by the sight of Lady Helen.

  ‘I do not remember seeing you at other tournaments,’ Baldwin said, breaking into his thoughts.

  ‘I have been abroad.’

  ‘Ah.’ It was not easy to talk to this man, Baldwin considered. He caught sight of Odo and waved a hand in recognition. The herald inclined his head, but hurried on his way.

  ‘Was that Odo?’ Sir Edmund asked.

  ‘Yes. You know him?’

  ‘I have met him in Exeter – and France.’

  Baldwin saw how his mouth snapped shut after saying that, as though Sir Edmund regretted saying so much, and Baldwin suddenly remembered the herald’s tale of his saving a Templar. Sir Edmund was not familiar to him, but it was possible that he had been a Knight Templar. He was old enough.

  ‘I scarcely know Odo. He is Lord Hugh’s man and I don’t see much of our lord, I am afraid.’

  ‘He is a good man,’ Sir Edmund said. ‘Have you heard about the murder?’

  Baldwin, who had been hoping to bring their conversation round to Wymond, settled back more easily in his seat. ‘You mean the carpenter?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know anything about his death?’

  ‘A little,’ Baldwin admitted. ‘He was found in his own tent.’

  ‘I see. And is anyone suspected?’

  ‘We shall have to wait until the Coroner completes his inquest. Were you up last night?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘It seems that the murder happened after the curfew. The only people who should have been about were knights or squires. I merely wondered if you might have seen anyone.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. After eating I walked a little to clear my lungs. The room was very smoky and I felt the need for some fresh air. My squire was with me.’

  ‘But you saw no one?’

  ‘No. There were some servants about, but only few.’

  ‘Did you and your squire return to your tent together?’

  ‘No, he came after me. Why? You seem very interested.’

  ‘I am a Keeper of the King’s Peace and I like to solve little problems like this.’

  ‘Well, I am afraid I can’t help you,’ Sir Edmund said, standing abruptly. ‘My thanks for the wine, but I must go.’

  ‘Of course,’ Baldwin murmured graciously. ‘It was pleasant to meet you,’ he added as Sir Edmund stalked away.

  Seeing a watchman, Baldwin stood and spoke to him. He gave the man the hammer, telling him to take it to Simon in the castle because it might be the murder weapon. Then, before he could buy another drink, he heard his name called. Turning, he saw a tall, slim woman with fair features, holding a swaddled child in her arms.

  ‘Margaret! It is good to see you again! And how is young Peterkin?’ He tentatively prised a scrap of material away from an ancient-looking face, which blinked and glared at him.

  ‘Careful, don’t put your finger too close; he’s teething,’ Margaret laughed. ‘Baldwin, it is good to see you too. Peterkin is fine, he’s growing heavier daily and occasionally, just occasionally, he allows me to sleep through the night. How is Jeanne – is she here with you? I hope you are enjoying fatherhood.’ She cast a quizzical look up at him. ‘Are you quite well? You haven’t had bad news?’

  ‘No, I have been considering a murder, that is all,’ he laughed. ‘Jeanne is fine, if tired, and young Richalda is loud. Good lungs! How is Edith?’

  Hugh stood at Margaret’s shoulder. Taciturn, narrow-featured, and with the slim build of a moorman, his gaze remained fixed upon the ground, his thin mouth drawn into a prim line. ‘Edith’s fine,’ he said sulkily.

  As he spoke, Edith herself appeared from behind him and pushed past him to Baldwin. ‘Out of the way, Hugh. Just because you’ve been enjoying yourself lazing about in the north is no reason to hide me. Hello, Sir Baldwin,’ she said, and curtseyed graciously. ‘I am well, I thank you.’

  He eyed her with amusement. She might only be thirteen or fourteen years old but she already had the carriage of a lady. Like her mother her hair was of fine gold and she had been graced by Margaret Puttock’s expression of gentle calmness. Baldwin thought her features would not have looked out of place on an angel, but having heard so many stories of her disruptive behaviour from Simon over the last years, he knew that appearances could be deceptive.

  ‘I hear you’re setting the hearts of all the young men about Lydford and Tavistock a-flutter.’

  ‘Me?’ she enquired as if startled, her blue eyes widening. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so. They must all think me very dull. A young maid who isn’t allowed to visit or ride with her friends or–’

  Margaret hurriedly cleared her throat and put a hand in front of her daughter. ‘I am sure she is setting as many hearts alight as she could wish, Sir Baldwin. Sadly she has no desire to do so with her own parents.’

  ‘That’s not fair!’ Edith declared and in a moment her gentle ex
pression became a glower. ‘If only you were reasonable, I’d not have to complain and–’

  ‘I am sure the good knight has many other things to consider without listening to your ranting, Edith,’ Margaret said tiredly.

  ‘I think he would be more interested to hear how my mother treats me than listen to your tales of sowing seeds and lambing,’ Edith said scornfully. ‘Your conversation is, I fear, rather dull to educated people, Mother.’

  Baldwin glanced away. He couldn’t bear the look of hurt and sadness that sprang into Margaret’s eyes.

  Simon breathed a sigh of relief. It was good to be at a loose end for a few moments. Now, he reckoned, was as good a time as any to find himself a pot of ale and swill the grit from his mouth.

  Accordingly he steered his path to the market area. There was a brewer there who was known to him, and he grudgingly passed Simon a quart of ale free. Simon leaned against a post while he drank. It tasted good; very good.

  The show had taken weeks to prepare and Simon would be pleased when it was all over. He dreaded telling Lord Hugh about the carpenter’s murder, although he was glad that Sir Roger was there to take responsibility for the investigation. Lord Hugh would arrive later that day, but there was nothing Simon could do to make the news any more palatable and he was essentially a pragmatist. If something couldn’t be changed, he wouldn’t keep fretting about it.

  He had come to the conclusion that since the first quart had gone down so well a second might be an improvement, and had turned to ask for another pot, when a large man appeared at his side.

  ‘Are you the Bailiff?’

  Simon groaned inwardly, but nodded.

  ‘I am Sir John of Crukerne. My son tells me you questioned him about where he was last night. Well, he was with other squires. All right? There are plenty of people to confirm his alibi.’

  ‘And if I need more, you will pay for extra witnesses, eh?’

  ‘You catch on quickly. I congratulate you.’