The Tournament of Blood (4 page)

Sir Roger of Gidleigh, a thickset man with heavy shoulders and shrewd dark eyes, approached the alley with a scowling visage, regretting the merry gathering he had been forced
to leave in order to perform his legal duties. As Coroner in the busy and prosperous city of Exeter, he must often desert his friends during their drinking parties, but he had been looking forward
to this session, and learning that a corpse had been found was a source of grave irritation. Why did people choose such damnably inconvenient times to be killed?

‘In here, Sir Roger.’

Following the watchman, he ducked beneath the lintel into the small chamber. It was lighted by a smoking tallow candle that gave off a thick and noisome stench, as if a pig was being slowly
burned in the room. At least it provided enough light for him to see the body.

The corpse was lying face uppermost, his hands at his side, and the head appeared to be lying on a shining halo. In the candlelight it looked like a sheet of bronze, and Sir Roger grimaced.
‘Bloody hell!’

‘A right evil bastard did this, sir,’ the watchman wheezed. He was an old man, much older than Sir Roger, and he had to lean upon his staff as he surveyed the body.
‘Stabbed?’

‘No. Beaten till his head was a pulp.’

‘Jesus save us!’ Sir Roger squatted. ‘Any weapon?’

‘Nothing. I suppose the killer took it with him.’

Sir Roger reached out and prodded at the skull, thickly crusted with blood. ‘Christ, what a mess.’ Standing, he eyed the corpse thoughtfully. There was something about the brutality
of this murder that gave him pause.

Then he shrugged. He’d think about that later. ‘Gather the neighbours and we’ll hold the inquest immediately.’ The people who lived nearest to this place had to be fined
to guarantee that they would appear at the next session of the court and present their evidence. He shook his head as the old man limped outside to begin gathering the jury and muttered to the
corpse: ‘So who the hell killed you, Dudenay? And
why
, in God’s name?’

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 imperturbably. 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?’