Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

‘More than a pound for a squire must be a heavy debt.’

‘Yes. And then there are the knights. They have expensive tastes. A good warhorse will cost over a hundred pounds. Here we have Sir Richard Prouse. He owes a matter of forty pounds, two shillings and fourpence.’

Sir Roger whistled. ‘So much?’

‘He had need of it. His villeins are poor, working on scrubby lands, and his cattle have suffered a murrain. He lost half his herds last year.’

‘Who else?’

‘This is the amount owed by Sir Walter Basset. Seventy-three pounds and–’

‘God’s mercy!’ Sir Roger expostulated. He didn’t hear the remainder. ‘You’re telling me that a knight owes him… By the Virgin!’

‘He has only recently come back from Bordeaux. He came here and asked for money as soon as he returned. And then we have Sir John of Crukerne.’

‘How much?’

‘One hundred and thirty pounds, less fifteen pennies.’

Sir Roger gaped.

‘He had to buy a new warhorse.’

‘You see?’ Mistress Dudenay had been silent but now she stood and fastened a black cloak at her throat. ‘You see which men had a reason to kill my man? One of them sought to avoid repaying his debts.’

‘Are you sure of that?’

‘Sure?’ she sneered. ‘They have all been in the city recently. My husband saw them.’

The clerk bobbed his head. ‘They were here for the court.’

Sir Roger could remember seeing them. All the knights had appeared to sit as a jury or watch justice take its course when the King’s Justices arrived. ‘Did any of them threaten your husband?’

‘Not that he told me,’ she admitted grudgingly, ‘but he was asking for his money back from all of them.’

‘Why?’

‘Lord Hugh de Courtenay is to hold a hastilude at Oakhampton and Benjamin was funding the building works. He needed all his debts to be repaid.’

Sir Roger cocked an eye at her. ‘If Lord Hugh is to hold the show, why did your husband need to get involved?’

She gave him a blank look. ‘Lord Hugh doesn’t carry vast fortunes with him in his purse, Coroner! How would the timber be bought, the cloth and decorations purchased, unless someone was to pay? And who better than a man of business? When Lord Hugh’s men arrive, they will reimburse those like my husband who have used their own funds to make sure that the tournament has gone forward successfully. If Lord Hugh needs more, he will pawn his plate.’

Sir Roger nodded and cast an eye over the incomprehensible papers. Still, ‘Over a hundred pounds,’ he breathed. Even he could be tempted to kill a man to escape that sort of debt.

It was almost a month later, in late April 1322, that Sir John of Crukerne himself heard of the coming festivities. Slapping his thigh, he gave a grunt of pleasure at the news. At last he could complete his son’s education.

Sir John had a large manor high in the hills, a green place with many woods and good pastures, a place which kept him in good funds. His villeins were a miserable, froward group, but with a little effort he ensured that they produced enough for him. It was a tough calling, that of knighthood: a man had duties and responsibilities, most of which were expensive, and he must depend upon this bunch of dim-witted serfs! Whoresons, most of ’em.

Leaving the messenger swigging from a jug of ale, he strode out and shouted for his horse. It was time for some exercise – for man and horse. Standing and inhaling the air, he waited for the great destrier to be saddled.

The grooms were terrified of the stallion, as well they might be. Pomers could be vicious for no reason. Only a few weeks ago he had kicked out at a peasant girl and it had been necessary to pay the child’s father a shilling to compensate for the scar where the horseshoe had slashed like a sword, but that was what a destrier was for; it was trained to bite and kick, and Pomers was very well trained. Sir John had paid twenty-two pounds just to have the horse properly broken, and the money was well spent.

With a discordant clatter of metal on cobbles, the great dappled creature appeared, two grooms holding his bridle.

Sir John took the reins and climbed into the saddle while Pomers side-stepped furiously, then turned and tried to bite his thigh. ‘Get off, you bastard!’ he spat and yanked at the reins, jerking Pomers’s head away. He raked his spurs up the horse’s flanks and the destrier took the hint, tossing his head angrily once, as if to register a resentful protest, but then darting forward.

The horse was wilful, but Sir John was an experienced rider and refused to give the beast his head. Pomers needed a careful hand and swift retribution. Sir John was capable of both. He kicked Pomers into a sharp gallop as he approached a straight lane, only checking his headlong rush when he saw a wagon in the distance. Yes, the destrier was perfect – quick, easy to instruct once you had his measure, and strong. With his size and stamina, he would easily carry Sir John with all his armour. The knight was ready for a tournament, especially since he might win a good ransom or two. He certainly needed it.

It was annoying that he would have to find a new money-lender now that Benjamin had died. Sir John had need of funds to pay for a new suit of armour for his son, William – and he still owed the usurer’s widow a fortune. The thought of the vast sum brought a shudder to his frame. He had needed to buy Pomers because his last mount had died, but the debt was crushing. Especially when that bastard Dudenay had suddenly asked for his money back. In full. Well, his bitch of a wife could whistle for it.

He rode back to his courtyard and bellowed for his grooms. Carefully climbing down – he knew too many people who’d been caught by a temperamental toss of the horse’s head as they dismounted – he passed the reins to the groom and strode indoors, finding his son talking to the messenger.

‘Father! A tournament!’ The boy was obviously excited.

‘I know, I know. Yes, you’ll be coming too.’

‘Thank you, Father. I won’t let you down.’

‘You’d better not,’ Sir John said curtly. Squire William, his son, was seventeen years old. Strong of limb, fair-haired and with the blue eyes of a Saxon, his boy had grown into a handsome man who was ready to take the last honour of manhood now he was of an age.

The trouble was, his head was filled with trumpets and glory now he had returned from his first battle at Boroughbridge, where the King’s men destroyed the forces of his rebellious uncle, Thomas of Lancaster. William had served well in combat, and had taken his own prisoners, making some money, but not enough to replace the horse he had ridden and which had died. The nag he had taken from those captured was on its last legs, too.

More expense, Sir John groaned inwardly. For now his son could make do, borrowing Pomers. Squire William had no idea what risks Sir John ran on his behalf!

Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Simon Puttock’s friend of the past six years, was interested to see that the good Bailiff had sent him a note. He took the wafer of paper from the herald and walked to the window to examine the seal before opening it. Puttock’s mark was easy to recognise – a buzzard’s head impressed into the wax – and Baldwin smiled before he pulled the seal from the paper.

‘I am grateful for this,’ he said. ‘Are you hungry or thirsty? I have some good ale ready and there is always a pie in my kitchen for a man who has travelled far and fast.’

Odo the herald smiled weakly and motioned to a stool. ‘For now, my Lord, I would be grateful merely for a seat that doesn’t rock beneath me. It is many years since I have been a messenger. It doesn’t suit me so well as heraldry.’