A Moorland Hanging (13 page)

Alone once more, Sir Ralph gazed out to the south. Whether it was guesswork or not was irrelevant to him—all that mattered was that Sir Baldwin evidently knew about his past. How he had found out was unimportant. The fact was, he
did
know. And that could mean the bailiff knew as well…

That thought made him shudder.

–10–

S
imon groaned as he hauled himself upward from the bench which had been his bed for the night. In the past, when he was younger and had not qualified for the privilege of sleeping in a hall, he had often spent nights in barns while travelling. It was preferable to this, he thought. In a barn or stable there was hay and straw to make a comfortable bed, but now he was a bailiff, his hosts always seemed to think he deserved a chance to sleep on one of the family’s best wooden benches in the main hall. Probably, he winced, because of a general dislike for bailiffs.

It would not be surprising if it was some kind of punishment. Though he himself tried to behave honorably, there were many bailiffs in the land who were known to be corrupt and dishonest. Even among the bailiffs responsible for the moors, there were some whose actions were, at best, dubious. The chief warden regularly received complaints from people claiming that bailiffs captured men of the county and held them in jail until ransoms were paid, or that juries were coerced into giving bad decisions in court in return for money. Few trusted the moor’s bailiffs.

Stretching, he glanced around. True to form, Hugh was still snoring gently in the corner by the wall. It always took the equivalent of a charge of warhorses to wake him in the mornings, no matter where he rested. There was no sign of Edgar or Baldwin. Their benches were empty.

He stood, yawned, and wandered to the fire. The large blocks of wood which had fed it the night before were almost burned through, and he had to push some glowing embers together and blow at them to restart the flames. It took some time, and he was still crouching there when he heard the door crash open. Startled, he looked round to see Baldwin stamping in, Edgar hurrying along in his wake.

“Quick, Simon, get ready to leave. I’ve ordered your horse to be saddled, and food to be prepared. There’s no telling how long this will take.” He kicked Hugh’s bench. “Damn them!”

“What in the good Lord’s name is the matter with you?” Simon asked reasonably, grinning maliciously at the sight of Hugh who, shocked into wakefulness in an instant, tried to leap up, forgetting where he was. Arms flailing, he slipped backward and disappeared.

“What’s the matter? War, bailiff. That’s what’s the matter! Those mad fools have gone to the mining camp with some men-at-arms!”

“What? Who?”

“Wake up, Simon. Hell’s teeth, you’d try the patience of a saint when you’re half-asleep! Robert and John, of course. They’ve got it into their heads that Peter Bruther’s murderers are in Thomas Smyth’s camp, and they’ve ridden there to catch them.”

Hugh’s face reappeared over his bench, his eyes massive in his alarm, though whether at falling or at the thought of a fight, Simon was in no mood to guess. “Hugh! Stop staring and get ready.”

They were on their way in a matter of minutes. Their horses were ready and waiting and it took only a moment to clamber up, snatch the reins from the ostlers, and whip their mounts through the gates, passing rapidly over the moors to the miners’ camp.

The sun was well into the sky when they approached, and Simon was reflecting with longing on the breakfast he should have been eating, had it not been for the stupid actions of the two brothers. At the Manor, he thought dreamily, there would have been cold cuts of the calf they had eaten the night before, and his belly rumbled at the memory. When Baldwin came alongside, he contemplated him sourly.

The knight ignored the bailiff’s look; he was frowning seriously. “What’s that—can you hear it?” He cocked his head, and Simon followed suit. Dimly, over the thudding of hooves and squeaking of harnesses they could make out a crashing and clanging, like an army of blacksmiths. Baldwin cursed through gritted teeth. “God! We’re too late!”

Kicking his horse to greater urgency, Baldwin fumbled for his sword hilt. Now that they were almost there, he was beginning to wonder whether it was such a good idea to have chased after the two brothers and their men. There were only the four of them, and if it came to a battle their force would be inadequate to keep the two sides apart. His sword was loose in its sheath, and he had just taken fresh hold of the reins when they came over the brow of the hill and could see down into the valley of the miners.

“Thank God!” he heard Simon say, and nodded to himself. There were no bodies on the ground, and the sides were not closed yet. They charged forward.

The crowd was thickest at the blowing-house, and it was here that Baldwin aimed his mount, thundering down the shallow incline, through the stream, the water leaping up on both sides, and then on to the yelling and swearing men.

Bellowing
“Stop!”
at the top of his voice, Baldwin drew his sword and pounded toward the miners. Now he could see what had created the harsh metallic ringing. It was not sword on armor, it was rocks raining down on the brothers’ shields. They were standing before the doorway to the blowing-house with three men-at-arms at their sides, while the tin workers hurled rocks, going to the stream’s banks to use its plentiful supply of moorstone. At the front Baldwin could see the sandy hair of George Harang. He appeared to be directing the attack, yelling to urge the tinners on.

A man hurled a stone which bounced from John’s shield, making him curse and stagger, but that was the last one. Even as it struck, Baldwin arrived between the two groups. He screamed at the miner who had thrown it, pointing with his sword: “I said
stop
! If I see another missile I’ll have your head—
do you understand?
” The man nodded dumbly, aghast to find a knight suddenly appear in front of him. When Baldwin was sure he would obey, he whirled his horse round to face the Beauscyrs, and found Simon was already with him, Edgar and Hugh to either side. The bailiff’s horse was pawing at the ground, as he stared at the men, his rage clear for all to see.

“Well? What excuse do you have for this trespass?” Simon said, his voice as cold as a moorland stream.

“You are guilty of invading the King’s forest, of armed attack and threatening men of the King’s demesne—what excuse can you give? Robert? Speak!”

“We wanted to come and catch the gang who killed Peter Bruther.”

“Oh? You know who it was now, do you?”

John came forward, a bemused frown on his face.

“Bailiff, it had to be the miners. They were threatening us, as you know. It’s only a small step from extortion to murder.”

“Rubbish!”

“It’s true. And this same gang has been beating up outlying miners. What about Henry Smalhobbe? Doesn’t he deserve protection from these moor-based thugs? Or don’t you care about them, bailiff?”

Simon, white with fury, was about to kick his horse forward when Baldwin’s hand gripped his arm. The knight’s voice was calm. “John Beauscyr, you are a fool. Be silent. The bailiff is right to protect all miners, not one or another but
all.
You are at fault in being here, let alone in drawing weapons against those who have a legal right to be here. We will deal with you later. For now, you will come with us.”

“And what of our prisoners?” the youth sneered.

“What prisoners?” asked Simon.

John disappeared into the blowing-house, and they heard a shout, then a curse. In a moment, three men came out, all with their hands bound, blinking in the sunlight and stopping uncertainly at the sight of the four large horses blocking their path. Following, John nonchalantly waved his sword in their direction. “Just for you, bailiff, I am pleased to present some men you wanted to meet: Stephen the Crocker, Harold Magge and Thomas Horsho. Aren’t you going to thank us for finding them for you?”

“You,
bailiff,
are supposed to be the protector of the rights of the miners here,” Thomas Smyth roared.

“You’re not here to disrupt our work and support foreigners who decide to molest my men!”

Baldwin and Simon had ridden to his house after Hugh and Edgar had escorted the Beauscyrs and their man back to the Manor, leaving the three gang members behind. It was going to be impossible for them to be made prisoner and taken away, that was plain from the angry mutterings of the crowd of miners, but Simon had spoken to George Harang, and he had agreed, after some show of reluctance, to keep the three under guard until they had all spoken to Thomas Smyth. The bailiff had persuaded him that he would be held personally responsible to the chief warden of Lydford for them. If they escaped, he would answer for them.

The bailiff and his friend sat quietly while the master of the house thundered, stamping like a bear waiting for the baiting. Simon’s eyes followed the miner, but inwardly he was seething. It was one thing to take advantage of the Beauscyrs, but quite another to lie to the chief warden’s bailiff, and he was wary of speaking until he could control his anger. Unaffected by any legal implications, Baldwin was in a position to enjoy the encounter, and he did so, watching Thomas Smyth’s ranting with open amusement. Seeing his evident pleasure did nothing for Smyth’s temper. His face was as black as the sky in a storm, glaring at the two men. George Harang stood before them, his eyes reflecting his open contempt.

“How can we work the King’s tin if we’re to be obstructed? And if this isn’t an obstruction, God Himself only knows what is! It was madness to let them come to the mining vill. If I’d been there, the bastards wouldn’t have left alive, I promise you that. And you let them go! They should’ve been arrested immediately—by
you,
bailiff. It’s why you’re here, it’s your job, and if you won’t do it, someone else’ll have to. The impudence of them! They force their way into my blowing-house, beat two of my workers like a gang of outlaws, and then you let them
get away
! They should’ve been held—yes! Sent to Lydford Jail and held for the next stannary court, that would’ve cooled their ambitions! Two of them with men-at-arms! God in Heaven!”

Baldwin thought he was running out of invective. Smyth stopped beside George Harang, surveying the seated men, but then caught sight of the expression on his servant’s face. If anything, it only served to heighten his fury. “And you…you can stop looking like a lawyer with a new client, you bastard! If you’d done your job properly that camp would have been better defended. How did the Beauscyr whelps manage to get into the compound? Hey? They should’ve been seen from miles off and stopped. How can we protect our tin if the miners don’t look after the blowing-house and storerooms?”

George quailed. He had suffered the rough edge of his master’s tongue before now, but this time it was worse. He had never seen Thomas look so angry, not even at those times when a lot of it was for show and he was browbeating one of the men for an infringement of his rules. This was no acting, though, this was the raw, fierce rage of a man who was close to the end of his tether. “Sir, I did what I—”

“Shut up!” Thomas turned back to Simon. “So, then, bailiff. What are you going to do about it? I want them arrested.”

“No.”

“What do you mean,
‘No’
? Have you no idea what your—”

Simon cut across the fresh tirade. “I will not arrest the Beauscyrs, or
your
three men. I’ll question them all, but until I know what’s really been going on down here, I’ll not take any more action. There’s been too much latitude taken by your people, as well as the Beauscyrs, and it’ll stop now. You will immediately halt your attempts to bully people away from the moors.”

“You dare to tell me—
me
—what I must do?” His voice was lower now, and his face was quite pale, as if the blood was draining from it. “You dare tell me you’ll question
my
men? I shall say this to you, bailiff: no one has ever had the arrogance to threaten me in my own home, and if you think—”

“Thomas Smyth, I am the bailiff of Lydford, as you have pointed out. I am here on the orders of the chief warden. If you presume once more to interrupt me, I will arrest you and have
you
thrown into the jail. Do I make myself clear?”

Although Simon’s tone was deceptively soft, Thomas was aware of the iron beneath it. He bit his lip and glowered, but then stamped to a chair and stood by it tensely, ordering his man to fetch wine and staring at Simon.

Staring back at him unblinkingly, the bailiff continued. “Good. I have had evidence of your men beating up legitimate miners on the moors, of your charging money from landowners to stay off their lands, and now I find that you have lied to me. When I asked you about these men, you told me that they were not here anymore, that they had disappeared from the mining camp. Now I find that the Beauscyrs were quite correct to assume that you had lied, and that you were, in fact, hiding them in the storeroom of your blowing-house. Under the King’s forest laws
or
the stannary laws, you’re guilty. However, before I sort out the mess you have created, I intend to discover what happened to Peter Bruther, and I expect your complete cooperation. If I do not feel I am receiving it, I will have you arrested. I trust that is clear?”

“You’re in the pay of the Beauscyrs,” the miner jeered. “That’s why you won’t do your duty.”

Angered by the accusation, Baldwin made a move as if to stand, but Simon’s hand caught his arm and he subsided, saying, “This is getting intolerable! My friend here is trying to unravel a murder, and all you and the others who live here want to do is argue about ancient privileges.”

“Ancient enough, sir knight, but important,” Thomas spat, but then he collapsed in his chair. He had seen the knight’s anger, and it made him hold his tongue. George had returned with the bottler, a thin gray-faced man, who carried a goblet and jug. Sighing, Smyth took the proffered wine, then realized that there was none for his visitors. “What of them, you fool! Do you expect them to drink from the jug?” he snapped, glaring after the bottler, who quickly ran from the room. Sighing, he could not help a faint, disgusted smile. “It seems my world is falling apart,” he muttered. “Very well, bailiff, I believe you. You have my apologies. You’ll do your duty. What d’you want from me?”