Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

Alan’s eyes were suddenly hooded. ‘Why should I know anything, Coroner? What business could I have with such as them?’

‘Enough, Alan, or I’ll tell Lord Hugh about your wine imports.’

The old fellow paled. ‘If I could help, I’d be pleased to, sir, but how I can serve you, when I know nothing?’

‘You know already that Dudenay is dead. Now Wymond has been murdered and I seek the murderer before someone else is killed.’

Alan fiddled with a reed. ‘I can tell you this much: Benjamin used to work closely with Hal and the carpenter. He funded their more magnificent builds, charging interest when the Lords paid for the work, and in return he would get a good profit from the knights who attended. It was easy business for him. It made many of my friends and companions here’, he waved a hand to encompass the other money-lenders in the field, ‘very jealous – although not me, of course.’

‘Why not you?’

In a reversal of his previous nervousness, Alan playfully tapped the side of his nose. ‘Benjamin always made a load of profit from tournaments.’

‘I don’t follow you.’

‘Come, Coroner! Benjamin made his living by lending money to knights and noblemen of all sorts and charging them large sums in interest. And then he also gambled heavily on them, too. He would take bets from anyone. Who would win a tilt, how many courses he would take, whether a rider would be knocked from his horse… He was bound to make enemies – he was fleecing men trained in killing and earning money from their misery. Me, I take less interest and never bet. That way I can seem more sympathetic.’

Simon tried to prevent his revulsion from showing in his voice as he asked, ‘Did he share any enemies with Wymond? Could they have been killed by the same man?’

‘Perhaps. Hal and Wymond both helped Benjamin. They built the stands, and then they’d help during the jousts by passing lances to fighting knights as well, so they both got good positions to watch everything. As did Benjamin.’

‘You think their only shared business venture was tournaments?’ Sir Roger asked suddenly.

Alan agreed, but he looked shifty and his smile had gone.

‘Not necessarily always in Devon?’ Simon pressed him.

‘No. Wymond and Hal have travelled all over the country,’ Alan agreed reluctantly. He cast about quickly to see that no one else observed them, then hissed, ‘Coroner, it doesn’t do to enquire too closely into their business.’

‘Eh? What do you mean?’

Alan leaned forward. ‘Because Benjamin and his friends were spies , that’s why. They listened to all the conversations between knights and reported the lot back to Despenser.’

‘Oh, Christ’s bones!’ Simon murmured, recalling how he had coldly insulted Hal about his building expertise.

‘Yes, Bailiff. I have seen Wymond myself, eavesdropping around knights and squires, then going back to report to Benjamin. What else would he be doing but spying for the King? It’s said he was up with Earl Thomas before Boroughbridge. Perhaps someone from the losing side saw them here and took revenge.’

Simon groaned inwardly. The very last thing he wanted was to discover that Wymond was a spy for the King. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Well, they haven’t been here recently. Last time I saw them in these parts was during the tournament at Crukerne – oh, a good few years ago now.’

‘How long ago?’ Sir Roger insisted.

Alan frowned at the ground. ‘I suppose five or six years back – yes, 1316.’

‘Have there been any tournaments since then?’

‘Coroner, there have been pageants of all sorts since then! I have helped at small tournaments, at markets and at saints’ days. All exactly the sort of events where you’d expect to find Hal and Wymond. Yet they weren’t there and I know that Hal was seen in France with Despenser the Older.’

‘That’s all I need,’ Simon said glumly. Then a thought struck him. ‘How is Hal getting the money together to pay for the show now his banker is dead?’

Alan tapped his nose again. ‘He has some good friends, Bailiff. I have always been a loyal vassal of Lord Hugh, and when Hal approached me to help our Lord by advancing money, I was happy to assist. I have already given Hal money to buy more timber. I understand he wasn’t happy with the wood supplied.’

‘So it will be added to the bill for Lord Hugh?’ Simon said. ‘You can tell Hal from me that I will be advising Lord Hugh not to pay any more for wood. I know how Hal was trying to save money by risking the use of inferior stuff.’

Soon Simon and Sir Roger had left the old money-leader and were wending their way towards a wine-seller. Both men were more than ready for a refreshing draught.

‘What do you think of that, then?’ Sir Roger asked.

Simon didn’t answer at first. ‘What was that about his wine and telling Lord Hugh?’

‘Hah! Topsham has to unload all the ships which want to deal with Exeter, but one third of customs are due to Lord Hugh and Alan has been avoiding paying that. He’s paid the City, but if Lord Hugh should find out, Alan would regret his actions.’ His expression hardened. ‘As to his information… ’

Simon nodded dismally. ‘Yes. What the devil do we do if Benjamin was a spy for the King?’

Sir Walter walked to a pie-seller and bought a lark in pastry for his wife, selecting a roasted partridge for himself, washing it down with a cup of strong wine.

Helen had calmed him already. It never took her long. With her ready wit and willing smile, let alone the promise of her superb body under that light tunic, she always made his anger dissolve.

And it was fortunate she did, because although he adored his wife, when the red mist came down over him, the desire to kill was uncontrollable.

Sir Walter was the son of a squire who had died in a fight with outlaws many years before. It was because of the way he had tracked down the murderers that the Earl of Cornwall had knighted him, as a reward for his dedication. Not that Sir Walter had done it to gain recognition. He’d done it because he wasn’t going to let them get away with it.

So he had trailed after them for more than ten leagues, on foot, until he found the six in a clearing near the Devon border. And filled with a righteous anger, he had drawn sword and dagger and run into the midst of them.

It was like entering the lists. At first he was cautious and fought with science, aiming his first blow at the largest man. When he went down, Walter had time to smash his fist into the face of a second man before sweeping off the head of a third with a single vicious swipe of his sword. Kicking, hacking, thrusting and butting, he soon found himself beset by four men, but then someone got under his defence and marked his shoulder. That was when the red rage overwhelmed him.

Afterwards, all he could recall was a blur of fury, of intense energy and passion that seared him like demons whipping him on with white-hot metal flails. He shrieked, then hurled himself against them, his blades moving as fast as serpents, his mind cleared of all but the desire to maim, to hack and thrust and stab, to kill .

And then it was over. He came to, blood dripping from arms and fingers, from his breast and belly, and about him lay the dismembered bodies of his foes, the men who had killed his father. He had taken a great breath and bellowed to the sky in a long paean of glory and brute delight. He couldn’t even feel the pain from his wounds.

That was the first time he had killed in anger, but it was not the last. Since being knighted, he had deliberately sought out battles and tournaments. He loved warfare as others enjoyed their women. The sight of a man spitted on a lance filled him with pure delight. To Walter there could be no greater pleasure than seeing a man demand peace and agreeing to be ransomed. Nothing could equal the glory of winning.