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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