The Tournament of Blood (17 page)

When the King rode north with his host, Earl Thomas knew he must protect himself and moved south to block his advance and force a negotiation, but all went wrong. The King avoided direct
contact, and instead looped around behind the Earl’s forces, threatening to cut him off and forcing the Earl to retreat.

That was the reason for the disaster. During the long march northwards, trying to outmanoeuvre the King’s forces, several of Earl Thomas’s allies proved their dishonour. They simply
faded away as the line of march extended; not only peasants fearing for their lives, either, but magnates like Sir Robert Holland, who rode off with all his retainers, the foresworn coward!

The final disaster came at the river. Sir Andrew Harclay stood on the bridge with only a small force, but they were resolute, a band of veterans from the Scottish wars. Earl Thomas rode to a
ford to take Harclay in flank, while his friends held Harclay at the bridge, but the attacks failed. Harclay had mingled archers with dismounted men-at-arms, and the Earl could make no impression
on them. At night the fight was halted, and it was then that Earl Thomas told his companions to ride away if they would save themselves.

Sir Edmund refused to desert his master, but Earl Thomas took his sword and cut the trailing tail from his banner. ‘There, Sir Edmund. Now you are a knight banneret.’

‘My Lord, I don’t have the income to justify . . .’

‘Never mind that,’ Earl Thomas said, beckoning a clerk. He took a heavy purse and pressed it into the younger man’s hand. ‘Take this and save yourself. I will grant you a
manor near Exeter. Make yourself known to Hugh de Courtenay and he may accept you into his household. If the King is merciful, you may be permitted to remain there.’

‘What of you?’

‘There is nothing I can do. I am advising all my friends to save themselves,’ he said heavily.

‘I should remain at your side, my Lord.’

‘You should obey my commands, Sir Edmund!’ Earl Thomas had snapped, and that was that. A matter of days later, he was executed on the orders of the King, in the most demeaning manner
possible for someone who was himself of royal blood.

Sir Edmund had obeyed his last wish, and now he owned a pleasant manor east of Exeter near Honiton, high on a hill from which he could see for miles. It gave him a sense of security knowing that
he could see an enemy’s approach, for he was convinced that the King himself would want to persecute him for his support of Thomas; if the King did not, then the Despensers would see to his
destruction, for in their greed they sought always to ruin their enemies and steal any lands they might for their own enrichment.

That was why Sir Edmund was here, at the tournament. To be safe he needed a new lord, a master who could protect him against the most powerful men in the realm after the King. The alternative
was to go into exile again. Lord Hugh was not the wealthiest baron, but he was no threat to the King or Despensers either. If Sir Edmund could join his host, he might be safe. The Despensers had
bigger fish to catch.

A tournament offered a unique opportunity to shine before a lord. Other knights had won patronage from new lords after demonstrating their valour and prowess in the tourney, and there was no
reason why Sir Edmund shouldn’t as well.

His squire, Andrew, was not in the tent. His Welsh archer, Dewi, sat on a stool stropping his long-bladed knife.

‘Where’s Andrew?’ Edmund demanded.

‘There’s been a dead man found. He’s gone to watch.’

‘Morbid bugger! Tell him I’ve gone to the tilt-yard. Men will be practising and it’ll be useful to assess their skill.’

He left his archer and made for the tilt-yard, but before he passed through the main field, he suddenly saw a face he recognised.

‘Sir John!’ he breathed.

Sir John of Crukerne heard his name and glanced about. Seeing Sir Edmund, he stared hard a moment, but then slowly his face broke into a grin. ‘Ah! Edmund of Gloucester. I am pleased to
see you, Sir Knight. I shall look for your shield, I promise; after all, you will need an opportunity to regain the wealth you lost six years ago!’

With a sudden roar of laughter he slapped his thigh with delight and walked away, leaving Sir Edmund frozen, his face set into a mask of rage and disgust.

Sir John was the man who had ruined him in 1316; the man who had caused Sir Edmund’s flight.

The knight was gripped with a loathing that tightened his chest until he found it hard to breathe. He watched, his features twisted, as the tall figure of Sir John marched away, and then his
expression changed into one of longing and sadness as he caught sight of Lady Helen Basset.

The woman who had promised herself to him. Before she married Sir Walter.

It was peaceful at the other side of the river. A small stand of trees blocked this part of the stream from the noise and bustle of the stalls nearer the castle, and no one had
advanced over the water to this meadow – possibly because they didn’t want to get their feet soaked, Baldwin considered as he pulled his boots off and upended them. The squelching had
become all too noticeable as he walked in the meadowland.

There were cattle standing in a wary huddle and Baldwin avoided them, walking instead along the bank near the fast-flowing water. The sunlight filtered through the branches to spot the ground
and the river was a constant chuckling companion. Even bearing in mind the serious nature of his investigation, he felt his mood lighten.

However, the good weather had one negative aspect: it had been so dry that the soil was dusty and, although he looked for signs that Wymond could have come this way, the ground was too hard to
show footprints.

If Wymond
had
come here with another man, was it, as the workman suggested, for sexual favours, Baldwin wondered. What other reason could the killer have given for bringing Wymond to
this deserted place? There was no proof that the carpenter had, in fact, come here.

He strolled further along the bank, until he arrived at the far corner of the meadow. The cattle had remained in the middle, regarding him suspiciously. Usually he found them astonishingly
inquisitive: only worried animals huddled together. And the scent of blood unsettled them.

There was no obvious sign of a scuffle or murder at the riverside. Baldwin surveyed the view back to the castle. Through the trees he could see the vibrant colours of the pavilions, the darker
russets and ochres of the market’s tents, but the rowdy noise of Oakhampton’s population enjoying themselves was stilled by distance and the trees.

Trees
! Baldwin gave an involuntary start. The one thing that Hal and Wymond wanted was
wood
. Could someone have brought him here to show him trees or branches which he could
buy or thieve?

The idea caught his fancy. He looked all about him, trying to see where a man might go. It would be better for the killer’s security not to kill Wymond too close to the river, for there he
would run the risk of lovers wandering at the waterside hearing him. No, if Baldwin were to commit such a crime, he would do so up nearer the treeline above the meadow.

Setting off away from the river, he crossed the field and was soon climbing a reasonably steep incline until he came to the trees.

They rose from what looked like an ancient hedge which had been left to its own devices. Where the straggling branches should have been cut back and new branches threaded in among the others to
form a solid barrier against wolves, sheep and cattle, the limbs had been left in place to grow. This place was so badly looked after that many of the bushes had over time grown into trees and now
the old line of the hedge could be seen as a row of boughs straggling slightly along the edge of the pasture. Between the trees there was a thick line of smaller bushes and brambles, impenetrable
for Baldwin since he was wearing one of his better tunics and he knew what his wife would say were he to attempt to force his way through. Instead he moved slowly along the line until he came to a
gap.

Kneeling, he studied the place with a frown. The brambles and young twigs had been pulled aside, dragged into the field as if a cow had pushed her way through – but there were no
hoof-prints.

Baldwin had investigated enough crimes to know that there were always little signs, if you knew how to spot them, which would tell you how a man had been killed and by whom; and he never lost
this special frisson of excitement as his investigation suddenly took off. He felt much like a harrier which had detected the scent of a fox or rabbit and was circling to find out which direction
the quarry had taken before howling to attract the attention of the rest of the pack.

The gap was mucky where the branches had been trodden underfoot, and there must be a spring hereabouts since the soil was extremely damp, but although Baldwin searched for footprints there was
nothing to be seen even after a careful study. Where the twigs and stems had been pressed into the mud, they had sprung back, destroying any tracks. Even if there had been a print, the mud was so
liquid that it would have been erased, so Baldwin turned his attention to the sides of the opening.

Immediately he could see that the gap was not caused by a large animal. Some of the brambles had lost all their thorns and had the bark stripped away as though hauled from the hedge, not slashed
by a sharp billhook or knife. If a man had used a hammerhead to scrape the stems away it would leave a mark a bit like this, he thought, before clambering through the gap into the woods.

A blackbird flew away along the line of the hedge uttering its raucous, chattering call, and there was a rustling from among the leaves not far from him. He stood stock-still and stared until
the colours and shades resolved themselves into the figure of a large feral cat which stared unblinkingly back at him before padding off on silent feet.

It was the cat that drew Baldwin’s attention to the line in the leaves a few feet to his side. There was a sweep in the litter at the foot of the trees, as if a gigantic snake had made a
casual path through the detritus. His breath quickening, Baldwin followed the track, which led a short way among the trees, and he stooped to pick up a heavy hammer. Weighing it in his hand, he
glanced back towards the castle. The top of the keep showed above the treetops, but the thick foliage of plants lower on the hill concealed all signs of the pavilions, tents and stalls in the
meadow at the castle’s feet; the noise of the building of the stands, of the chattering, shouting and laughing people, was all a dim, distant murmur from here.

A hammer was as important to a carpenter as a great sword to a knight. Wymond would have taken this tool with him everywhere. It defined him. Yet it had fallen here.

‘So this is where you died, Wymond,’ Baldwin murmured, gazing about him. ‘And no one heard you, not this far from the camp. But who did this thing – and
why
?’

Simon left the body after he had seen to the official reporting of the wounds before the local jury. It took some time and might well prove pointless, since the Coroner would
want to conduct his own inquest in order to record the facts, but at least Simon was content to have confirmed the main details before witnesses. No one could accuse him of not being thorough.

Although Hugh de Courtenay was not due to arrive until later, much of his household was already in the castle. His harbingers had arrived the day before: one yeoman of the chamber, one clerk of
the kitchen, a groom of the chamber, a cook, a sumpterman with the clothsack for the bed, servants to look after all the clothing, as well as an usher for the hall.

It was to the clerk of the kitchen, Paul, that Simon turned for recording the wounds and once he had finished, Paul carefully rolled up his parchment and stoppered his inkhorn, secreting all his
reeds and knives away in his little scrip before glancing one last time at the body. ‘A nasty business,’ he said as he left the room. ‘But a nasty man. It’s no surprise he
came to this sort of an end.’

Simon had to agree as he stood staring down at the body. ‘Out!’ he snarled when someone entered behind him. ‘This room is not to be used until—’

‘You don’t want my help? Fine. I’ll say goodbye then.’

Simon whipped his head round and smiled in relief. ‘Coroner Roger! It’s a delight to see you!’

‘Hmm. Sounded like it,’ Sir Roger of Gidleigh said, peering down at the body. ‘Here I am, visiting a pleasant little tournament in the hope of some relaxation, and what do you
do? Present me with a stiff. How did it happen?’

Simon passed him Paul’s report and leaned back on a table. ‘Well, it’s like this,’ he began. It didn’t take long to tell Sir Roger all he knew, finishing with,
‘And the worst of it all is, he was such an unpopular bastard that almost anyone in the town could have wanted to see him die. He even picked a fight with
me
yesterday.’

‘You should control your temper, or you may find yourself accused,’ Roger joked.

‘
I
did. It was him who didn’t.’

‘Never mind. Have you begun to question people?’

‘Baldwin was about to start while I saw to the body.’

‘Then let’s see if he has enjoyed any success. He can’t have done worse than I have recently.’

Simon asked politely, ‘How is your good Lady?’

‘My wife? She is well.’

His unenthusiastic tone amused Simon. Although he had never met Sir Roger’s wife, gossip had it that she ruled her household with a rod of iron.

As they reached the tilt-yard field, Sir Roger glanced at Simon. ‘What is it? You look as glum as a whore in a nunnery.’

‘Lord Hugh won’t be very impressed when he hears there’s been a murder. He wanted a quiet tournament. God knows what he’ll have to say to me.’

‘Quiet, eh?’ Sir Roger chuckled. He glanced at the paper on which Paul had noted the injuries, then whistled quietly. ‘Well, that’s a coincidence. Dudenay, a man who was
bludgeoned to death in Exeter recently – his head was beaten savagely, too.’

‘The dead man back there – Wymond Carpenter – he used to work with a fellow named Dudenay,’ Simon told the Coroner. ‘He was their banker. Did you find his
murderer?’