‘He brought it down two-handed,’ Sir Richard said softly, adding, ‘I felt every moment as it passed through my bones and skin.’
‘It must have been terrible,’ Simon said with an awed hush.
Sir Richard stared over Simon’s shoulder as his hand rose to the dreadful scar. A forefinger traced the line of rippling and badly mended flesh, following it from his ruined eye down to his cloven jaw. He looked like a man who lived in a permanent nightmare, a man pursued by his own terrors.
‘Terrible, Bailiff? You could not possibly imagine. At the time I thought it was going to kill me. It never sprang to my mind that I would soon wish it had.
‘It almost split my head in two. And then Sir Walter, brave Sir Walter, would have gone to find another victim, but the people were so furious that they ran forward to attack him.’ His good eye hardened. ‘They chased him from the field. That bold, proud man fled before the rabble of Crukerne. But gentle, kindly hands came and collected me and took me to a convent where I was gradually healed. Although then I was ruined financially instead by the usurers.’
‘Because you had lost?’
‘Yes. I was captured by Sir Walter, so I had no escape. He demanded my money since I had yielded to him, and would give no quarter when it came to his cash. What would he care? He had destroyed my life, so he might as well have my money as well. And he had a willing accomplice. Benjamin the Bastard came to me and said that he had settled on my behalf. I demurred, said I hadn’t agreed to any funds, but Benjamin had a clerk with him, and they showed me a document I had signed and sealed. It confirmed I had asked him to settle with Sir Walter.’
‘And you hadn’t?’
‘How could I?’ Sir Richard demanded sadly, his anger fading as swiftly as it had flared.
‘How could I have managed such an agreement while my face was being stitched or when the flesh had caught afire with agony as the fever gripped me? No, Bailiff. I knew nothing of this. Benjamin came to me in the convent while I suffered, pretending to be a friend and counsellor, but in reality he was a thief. And I could not even prove it. All I can say is, the bargain was less costly than my father’s.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘My father Godwin was a knight in the great tournament in Exeter of 1306, but he died when a mace caught his neck. At least I have my life, even if I’ve lost my leg and my arm,’ he said, gesturing with his left arm towards his useless right arm and leg.
‘I’ve heard of that one,’ Simon said. ‘There was a whole family killed.’
‘Yes. So I seem to recall,’ Sir Richard frowned. ‘Tyrel, that was their name. The father was there. Poor devil saw the stand collapse and tried to rescue his children and wife, but it was no good, of course.’
‘Christ Jesus! You mean that he was there and saw his family die?’ Simon winced.
‘Yes. Poor fellow. Philip Tyrel. I was only a child, of course, but I remember him.’
‘What was he like?’ Simon asked.
‘Tyrel? A large man, big-chested and with a great belly, if not very tall. He had a strutting arrogance, and he was always wary of insults. He took his own importance very seriously.’
‘He sounds like Tyler,’ Simon said half jokingly.
‘Hmm. If Tyler wore a beard, I would almost say they were brothers. Certainly not dissimilar.’
‘Really?’ Simon was interested. ‘Did this Tyrel survive?’
‘He disappeared soon after the disaster. His heart was broken, I think. Whose wouldn’t have been?’
Simon tried to imagine how he would have felt if he had seen his own wife and children killed. ‘Have you seen him since then?’ he asked absently, and then his head shot up. ‘Christ Jesus! You haven’t spotted him here, have you?’
‘Who, Tyrel? No, I’d have noticed someone like him. Tall, strong, dark of hair and bearded, he wasn’t the sort of man you’d miss. No, he’s not here. Poor devil has probably died.’
‘Yes. Perhaps,’ Simon said, unconvinced. ‘But if he did return here, it would explain much.’
‘His seeking revenge on the men who destroyed his family, you mean?’
‘Yes, and all because of money. At least Benjamin won’t fleece anyone else now,’ Simon said soberly ‘He’s dead.’
‘Yes. The devil’s gone, thank God. May he rot in eternal fire. He almost cost me my castle.’
‘Do you know how he died?’
‘Beaten, I heard. So what? Many a cut-throat will execute a victim with a club.’
‘True. Where did you hear of his death?’
‘Do you think me guilty of his murder? Oh Bailiff, you should arrest me at once! Do you know, I can’t remember who told me about him. Perhaps it was an itinerant carter passing by my castle.’
Simon gave a faint grin in apology. ‘I am too used to suspecting everyone.’
‘Perhaps you should.’
‘Do you think he helped finance the ber frois that collapsed at Crukerne?’
Sir Richard gave him an intent stare. There was no shame or fear in his eye, only an increased sharpness. ‘You do think I killed him? Perhaps I did, Bailiff. But if I did, it was because he funded a cheap piece of work which indirectly led to this damage. That is all. Surely if I wanted revenge, I’d have killed Sir Walter?’
‘Perhaps you thought that would be more difficult?’
‘Aye. Perhaps I would,’ said Sir Richard with a twisted smile, glancing at his feeble leg. He opened his mouth but, as he did so, his expression hardened and a shiver of revulsion made him tremble like a willow in a gale.
Turning, Simon saw that he was staring at the figure of Sir Walter Basset.
Chapter Eighteen
Sir John had left his son to go and talk to a couple of armourers. Having settled with them for a new sword and matching dagger, he left the rattle and hammer of their anvils, and strode along their lines to the usurers’ discreet section of tents and tables.
It was hard to keep his features under control. Useless swine, the lot of them! All of them of low birth; not one nobleman in the country would want to be accused of money-lending: it was a source of shame. Worse than entering into mercantile ventures.
The pity of it was that men had to make use of them occasionally. He had himself been forced to go to the usurers: for arms, for Pomers – even for sheep, because he’d never have restocked his flocks else. After the famine, his sheep had died almost to a ewe from a murrain that struck down not only his own flocks but also all the others in the country.
He cheered up a little as he recalled the hatred on Sir Edmund’s face. It was refreshing to see that a man whom he had beaten so many years before still felt the humiliation of his conquest.
Sir John marched along the money-lenders’ tables, his mind on the difficulty of replacing that shit Benjamin. But he had to, somehow. With so much of his property already in pawn, it was going to be much harder to borrow. He could almost believe that Benjamin had warned everyone not to take any debts from him, from the reception he was getting. At least he didn’t need to repay his old debts now Benjamin was gone. Widow Dudenay could whistle for it. She could threaten all she wanted, Sir John would never return the money her husband had lent him. He cast a speculative eye towards the arena. That was the best way to win more money.
Not that he needed cash for long. Surely his flocks would soon recover, now that he had brought in rams and ewes, and then he could look to redeem the plate and gold he had left in pawn.