The clerk sighed. ‘These are my master’s accounts. They show all his income.’
‘He loaned money in return for interest?’
‘There are always some men who need money. If they require it, why shouldn’t a man with money charge them for the use of it?’
‘If that’s so, some of those to whom he had lent money would benefit from his death.’
‘They might consider so,’ the clerk acknowledged. ‘Although I think Mistress Dudenay is capable of securing the return of any funds my master loaned.’
‘With interest, no doubt,’ Sir Roger grunted.
‘As you say,’ the clerk agreed inperturbably. He was used to people complaining about his master’s methods of earning a living. The Church taught that it was wrong to make money from money – that men should create things and sell them on was natural, but to demand interest from wealth which they themselves had no need of was profiteering from God’s plenty. If a man had so much money he could lend it, he should do so without asking for more.
‘As it happens, my master owed money himself,’ the clerk said, and pointed to the names of three prominent citizens of Exeter.
He read them out to Sir Roger, who responded, ‘None of these are murderers! Now, what of the names of those who owed him money? Who are they – and how much did they owe?’
‘There are many names. From farmers to knights, although smaller debts surely don’t matter.’
‘You think so? A villein owing a shilling might feel it worthwhile to remove the debt by removing the man to whom it was owed. In the same way a squire who owed a pound might feel the debt to be insupportable,’ Sir Roger said. He had seen enough murders committed for a penny. ‘You have such men?’
The clerk gave him a sad smile. ‘Whenever there is a battle or hastilude men will need money to pay ransoms or replace their equipment. Squire William of Crukerne was at Boroughbridge and only recently borrowed two pounds for a new axe and mace. Squire Geoffrey here owes another pound and a few shillings.’
‘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.