Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

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?’

‘No. I’ve reached a dead end on that investigation. Naturally the first thing I did was go to his home and look at his books.

‘Apparently he was owed money by several people. Squire William and his father Sir John of Crukerne both owed him a fortune; so did Sir Richard Prouse and another man… Sir Walter Basset.’

Simon considered. ‘Let’s ask the other usurers here whether they can help.’

The usurers tended to keep together. Since they could pay well for their privileges, they took seats up close to the entertainments. That was also where they were needed, so that a knight who lost his bout could speedily pawn his goods to pay his ransom.

Simon walked with Sir Roger along the outer line of the tents, past the knights and squires, past the hucksters and on to the edge of the third field. There Simon stood and surveyed the bankers and merchants with a suspicious eye. There were times when a man needed to make use of their services, he knew, but that didn’t stop him feeling doubtful about them. It seemed as dishonest a way to make money as he could conceive, lending it out in return for interest. It was deeply immoral; not like a man with an honourable trade, like a glovemaker or saddlemaker or a mercenary man-at-arms.

Near the entrance to the usurers’ section was an empty table, and next to it sat a wizened old man with a narrow, hatchet face and a pale shock of fair hair. He sipped from a large mazer of wine while a clerk sat at his side making marks on a long scroll with a reed.

‘That’s the one to ask,’ Sir Roger murmured. ‘Always scared and confused. Rarely knows whether he needs a piss or a shit.’

Hiding a smile, Simon followed in his wake as he strode to the trestle. Once before it, the clerk and the old man eyed Sir Roger with respect. The Coroner was familiar to all who traded in Exeter.

‘Master… ?’ Simon enquired. The man had a small board with the picture of a star and a cock painted roughly in yellow.

‘I am called Alan of Exeter. Do you have a need of some ready cash? I–’

‘No,’ Sir Roger said flatly. ‘We want to know how closely Benjamin Dudenay worked with Wymond the Carpenter. What do you know about them?’