The Tournament of Blood (19 page)

‘A good mare’s?’ his friend on the ground interrupted with glee.

Another broke in; ‘It’s not the meat on the legs, it’s where the legs meet!’

Simon felt his mouth fall slackly open. These ugly, poxed, inane brats weren’t ogling a woman! Their target was Edith!

Feeling his blood stir, Simon would have walked away, but then one of the lads at the fence made a filthy sign at Edith, a lewd beckoning, as if he were calling over a whore.

Luckily, Edith didn’t see her father, but she saw the youth’s signal. She haughtily raised her chin and slipped among the crush of people. Try as he might, Simon could not see where
she had gone. He hoped – he prayed – that his servant Hugh was nearby to protect her from the two-legged wolves who were parading themselves about the area.

‘Did you see the tits on that?’

It was the boy who had made the sign. Simon walked over to him. Although a part of his brain took careful note of the position of each lad, his rage was fanned by the careless attitude of the
fellow who had insulted his daughter. ‘Are you talking about the lady who was over there?’ he asked coldly.

‘Yeah.’ The boy was too drunk to sense danger. He sniggered. ‘Wouldn’t mind stumbling over that in the dark!’

‘You’d never find her in the dark, Nick,’ said the lad on the fence. ‘You’re always too bloody pissed.’

‘Speak for yourself !
I’d
find her, I’ll bet!’ The lad was shorter than Simon by a head, a barrel-chested youth of maybe twenty, with thick, short fingers, and a
dull expression. Large brown eyes slowly swept around the crowd, seeking a new target. ‘Mmm! Sweet, she’d be, like a taste of sugar syrup.’

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?’

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 taken 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?’