‘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.
Helen’s arm was through his and she gave him a squeeze as if affectionately reminding him of her presence. He smiled down at her. Yes, Helen was a worthwhile mate. She was soothing and sweet, and her lovemaking was reason in itself to want to keep her. And yet even with these attributes, if Sir Walter ever found that she had been disloyal, he would kill her like a rat.
He thought of the pipsqueak squire who had paid court to her, and snorted contemptuously. Then he recalled the face of the knight from Gloucester upon catching sight of her. Sir Edmund – the man from whom Sir Walter had taken her.
‘Well, one thing is certain, and that is that I will have to hold a formal inquest into Wymond’s death.’
Simon glanced at Sir Roger. The Coroner was staring thoughtfully into his wine bowl. ‘So you think there is a connection between the two deaths?’
‘Benjamin and Wymond? Yes, there can’t be much doubt. I started thinking that it was a simple crime, committed by someone determined to avoid repaying his debts, but now it seems that Dudenay was a spy, it is a different matter.’
Simon nodded. ‘Yet it could be that the two are unrelated. Or perhaps they died for a different reason.’
‘Such as what?’
‘I don’t know – just as I don’t understand why spies should suddenly be killed here. There is nothing to suggest why.’
‘No doubt we’ll learn that in good time,’ Sir Roger said. He noticed that Simon was gazing ahead blankly. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘No, I was just looking at that scruffy devil,’ Simon said. ‘He seems to be wearing a sword.’
‘Gracious God, anyone would think he was the lowliest villein, wouldn’t they?’
‘Who is he? Is he allowed to carry a weapon at the tournament?’
‘That fellow, Bailiff, is Sir Walter Basset. He dresses like a slovenly cur, but don’t for God’s sake mention the fact to him or gaze lasciviously at his wife, Lady Helen. He has killed men for less, if the stories be true.’
‘You expect to see a knight in his finery.’
‘Yes. But Sir Walter appears to take a pride in going about dressed worse than the meanest peasant on his lands.’
‘It is curious that a man in the wrong dress can appear so utterly different,’ Simon shrugged, then put the disreputable-looking knight from his mind.
Soon afterwards the Coroner left him, and went off to make his arrangements for the inquest.
Simon had been about to stroll towards the combat field, intending to see how the works were progressing, when he passed a group of lads leaning nonchalantly against a fence, one sitting astride it as if to gain a better view of the people before him. He was apparently ogling a young woman, puffing out his cheeks in pretended admiration and feigning despair when she tilted her head and turned from him.
‘Just look at the arse on that,’ one of the boys said, and belched loudly.
Simon gave a wintry smile. Youths were the same the world over. Randy sods! Give them a female to gawp at, and they’d pant like hounds after a bitch. From the wafts of beery breath reaching his nostrils, the four here had been drinking. Simon could remember behaving much the same way when he was younger, especially after drinking. It was good to be distracted for a moment from his anxieties about the murder and the effect it would have on the tournament.
He idly paused to listen.
The lad on the fence gave a low whistle. ‘She is beautiful! I saw her before, and I thought then I had never seen such perfection, but now I am certain.’
One of his companions clutched at his breast and turned soulful eyes heavenwards. ‘Oh, for a touch of her hand, for a lick of her shoe, for a kiss from her lips, or a fondle of her tits… ’ The others laughed loudly.
‘Shut up, you prating cretin,’ Simon heard the boy on the fence say. He was only listening with half an ear, because he had just spotted his daughter. He hadn’t thought that Edith would be here already! She and her mother must have arrived while he was seeing to Wymond’s corpse. Where was Meg? he wondered, peering at the crowd.
‘Shut up yourself, William!’
‘Look at her legs,’ The blond boy said dreamly. ‘They are the length of a… ’
‘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.