The Tournament of Blood Read Online Free PDF Page A

that gave off a thick and noisome stench, as if a pig was being slowly
burned in the room. At least it provided enough light for him to see the body.
    The corpse was lying face uppermost, his hands at his side, and the head appeared to be lying on a shining halo. In the candlelight it looked like a sheet of bronze, and Sir Roger grimaced.
‘Bloody hell!’
    ‘A right evil bastard did this, sir,’ the watchman wheezed. He was an old man, much older than Sir Roger, and he had to lean upon his staff as he surveyed the body.
‘Stabbed?’
    ‘No. Beaten till his head was a pulp.’
    ‘Jesus save us!’ Sir Roger squatted. ‘Any weapon?’
    ‘Nothing. I suppose the killer took it with him.’
    Sir Roger reached out and prodded at the skull, thickly crusted with blood. ‘Christ, what a mess.’ Standing, he eyed the corpse thoughtfully. There was something about the brutality
of this murder that gave him pause.
    Then he shrugged. He’d think about that later. ‘Gather the neighbours and we’ll hold the inquest immediately.’ The people who lived nearest to this place had to be fined
to guarantee that they would appear at the next session of the court and present their evidence. He shook his head as the old man limped outside to begin gathering the jury and muttered to the
corpse: ‘So who the hell killed you, Dudenay? And
why
, in God’s name?’

Chapter Two
    Walking up the road towards his home, Bailiff Simon Puttock cocked an ear, listening intently. As soon as he heard the dismal wailing scream, he sighed happily and his stern
features relaxed.
    From here, the road which led up from Lydford cleave, the cleft at the bottom of which the fast-flowing river hissed and swore, he could often hear the bellowing of prisoners in the stannary
gaol declaring their innocence and demanding release, but today all was silent, the gaol empty for once, and there were no screams from the great square blockhouse. Instead it was the shriller
cries issuing from his own house that made him smile because Simon, after many long years of trying, was once more a father. In January his wife Margaret had given birth to a son whom they had
christened Peterkin after their dead firstborn boy.
    Only two and a half months old, yet the boy had disrupted their home. Simon paused at his door, hearing the howls of desolation, confident that the boy was even now being cradled by his wife and
rocked in an attempt to lull his tiny, indignant frame to sleep. ‘Some hope!’ his father muttered wryly after too many broken nights.
    His house was less than half a mile from Lydford Castle. Limewashed walls and thatch made for a warm and pleasant dwelling. From the rear he could see the peasants working in the fields. Each
field consisted of a narrow strip of land, and Simon could look along his own from the yard behind his house to see how the young crops were faring. In and among them men and women wandered,
tending the plants to ensure that there would be plenty to eat over the coming summer and winter.
    It was hard for farmers. They never saw the end to their labours, not until they died. Each year was simply a fresh round of back-breaking jobs. At least his own villeins wouldn’t have the
extra worry of the poor devils around Oakhampton, he reflected. The planned tournament up there would have them running around like blue-arsed flies.
    He entered his house and peered in at his hall. There was no one there, so he walked through to the garden, cocking an ear upstairs. His son’s complaints had died away, and he could hear
nothing from the small chamber which he proudly thought of as his solar. Instead he heard calling from his yard, and walked out to seek his wife.
    As soon as he left the hall, he was struck in the midriff by a short figure pelting along at full speed. Sitting abruptly, winded, Simon struggled for air while his assailant plonked down in
front of him, laughing.
    ‘Father, what were you doing there?’
    ‘You stupid,