A Moorland Hanging (14 page)

Simon surveyed him woodenly. He had been close to losing his own temper when Baldwin had leapt to his defense, and was glad now that he had managed to keep it on a close rein. More could be achieved with the miner on his side than against him. But he was sure that something was wrong.

“First, I want your permission to speak to whomsoever I wish in your camp, whenever I want, and without interference from your men.” He glanced up as he said this. George Harang and the bottler had returned with two more goblets and a jug.

“Very well. If it will help to find Peter Bruther’s killer, I agree.”

“And I may want to speak to others. Your daughter…”

“Alicia? But why? She was—”

“She knows Robert Beauscyr, that’s all.”

“Very well, but I’m sure she’ll be of little help. Anyway, I’ll not let her see the whelp in future.”

“And last, I want to know at what time you saw Sir William on the night Bruther died.”

“He was here when we arrived back,” Smyth said, glancing at the bottler. “You! When did he get here?”

The bottler’s head snapped round. He was an old man, too thin to be healthy, his sandy hair going pale as it grayed. “He arrived here in daylight, sir. I brought him in here to wait and he stood in the middle of the room, shouting every few minutes for more wine. I had to keep coming back with fresh jugs for him.”

Smyth nodded contemptuously. “He looked drunk when we returned.”

“Where were you earlier?” Simon asked.

“We had spent most of the day with our men, checking on their work and how well the blowing-house was working. It’s very new still, and I’ve been worried that it might not be functioning properly, so we were there for much of the time. We got back after Sir William and sat to eat immediately—though he was not hungry. I think the thought of sharing our food would have hurt his pride too much.”

“I know what he was doing here.”

“He told you?” Smyth was surprised.

“He didn’t like it, but yes. I assume he agreed to your terms?”

“Yes,” Thomas said tightly, “although he wanted to pay less than I asked and I was forced to point out how much trouble it would save him. In the end he accepted.”

“And when he left, what sort of mood was he in?”

“I won’t pretend that he was happy, bailiff. But he seemed to realize that he had little choice.”

“I see.” Sipping his wine, Simon said, “What do you think of Robert Beauscyr?”

“A hothead. He’s so keen on his studies, he never thinks about his actions,” said Thomas dismissively.

“Today shows that. Any other man would have thought through the attack better and been gone before the men there were awake, but oh no, he had to ride in noisily and make such a row that they all awoke. And then it had to go to a fight if he wanted to get away. Sheer stupidity.”

“Would you have said that of him before today?”

“How do you mean? Oh, I suppose…” The miner reflected a moment. “No, probably not. I’d have thought he would be one of the more sensible of the landowners in the area because of his learning. No, you’re right. He acted out of character today. Usually he’s happy enough to accommodate the miners.”

“What about John?”

“Ah, bailiff. Now you are asking me about someone I cannot understand. Young John is a hard man, I’m sure of that. I don’t like or trust him, he always looks like something else is going on in his head when he speaks. He resents his brother as the heir to the estate. Not just from jealousy—I think he honestly believes he would be the better master. He might have been, too. When he has a mind, he can charm the larks from the skies, and he certainly has the diplomatist’s skill of lying while seeming to be honest.”

“Robert Beauscyr could have wanted to capture Bruther and take him back to the estate; if the man refused, he could have killed him. He had a motive to murder, to remove an embarrassment to his Manor and punish someone he saw as merely a runaway, but I know of no motive for John to kill. Do you?”

“John?” Frowning with concentration, Thomas looked deep into the fire. “No, there’s none I can see. He’s been away too long to have been insulted by Bruther, and he doesn’t strike me as the sort of lad to want to help his brother overmuch.”

“Who else could have wanted to see Peter Bruther dead, do you think?”

The old man gave him a helpless glance. “I don’t know, bailiff. There’s nobody could have wanted to hurt him, as far as I know.”

“What do you know of Bruther?” Simon was beginning to feel desperate. “Where did he come from?”

“He was son to Martha Bruther, a widow in Shallow Barton, a small vill out on the outskirts of Widecombe. Her husband was old Arthur Bruther, who had died before Peter was born, and she brought the lad up on her own.” He hesitated. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to kill him.”

There was a quietness about him which Simon found curious. For a powerful man, who must surely have been a hard taskmaster to so many of his miners, to feel so sympathetic to the dead man was unusual, especially when Bruther was living out on a parcel of land in which Smyth had an interest. The bailiff found himself wondering whether this was a show put on for his benefit. Thomas Smyth was more than capable of acting sadness, he was sure. The miner silently refilled his goblet and drank deeply, staring into the distance.

Baldwin leaned forward. “Do you think he was involved in something illegal? Stealing cattle, for example? Could he have been killed for a theft?”

“No!” The emphatic denial made the knight’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “I would have heard about it if he was, I’m sure. I look after a lot of men out here, and I try to make sure they all keep to the law. Otherwise I’d have the bailiff visiting me every other week.”

The knight nodded, but his eyes remained fixed on the miner as Simon said, “I don’t think there’s anything else we need to know from you. If you do think of anything, I want to hear it as soon as possible. Now, I need to see your daughter. I must ask her about that night as well.”

“But she won’t have seen or heard anything—she was here all the time.”

“Maybe, but anything is possible. And I want to know more about Robert Beauscyr. She can help me there too.”

With a bad grace, Thomas Smyth motioned tersely to George Harang, who left the room and came back very quickly with the girl. Baldwin smiled. The speed of her entry and her red face made it clear that she had been listening at the door.

Studying Alicia, Baldwin found it easy to understand why Robert Beauscyr could be interested in her. She had breeding—from her mother, no doubt. It showed in the way she walked. Her face, without the heaviness which showed in Christine’s features, was high-browed and smooth-skinned, while her eyes were large and wide-spaced. Alicia moved slowly to her father’s side once more and stood defiantly with her chin up as if expecting judgment.

Simon began to question her. He had no wish to cause her upset. His own daughter would someday be like this girl, teetering on the edge of adulthood—and hoping to fall over the brink very soon. “On the night that Peter Bruther died, my dear, we know your father had Sir William Beauscyr come to visit. Where were you that afternoon and evening?”

Glancing quickly at her father, Alicia said, “I went out with Mother to Chagford in the morning, but we were back here by mid-afternoon. When my father sat down in the hall with Sir William, we left the men and went to the solar.”

“And you stayed there all night? You saw no one?”

“No.”

“I see. In that case, we can move on. Robert Beauscyr: he’s a friend of yours?”

She stood a little straighter now, like a haughty queen. “He and I have known each other since we were born.”

“Tell me, then: how would you describe his temper?”

“Robert’s temper? Oh, mild. He is always calm and polite. It’s rare for him to raise his voice, and when he does it’s only after a lot of provocation. Of course, he’s very brave as well. He may not have spent his strength in wars far away that mean little to us down here, but he would always defend anyone who needed help.”

Baldwin rubbed at his brow as he listened, sighing inwardly. That was the trouble with asking young people about their peers, he thought. Either they were the embodiment of all evil or perfect heroes. There hardly ever seemed to be a middle ground. If one thing could be gleaned from her answers to Simon’s careful questions, it was that she was fond of the youth. He exchanged a swift glance with the bailiff, who gave a nod.

“That’s very good, Alicia. Thank you for that, it’s been very useful. Now,” he stood, “I think we should go. We have many other people to see and speak to.”

Thanking Thomas Smyth and his daughter, the bailiff and his friend went out to their horses. “And now, Baldwin,” said Simon with a wolfish smile, “I think we ought to have a brief look at the Fighting Cock, don’t you?”

–11–

T
he inn was a pleasant surprise when it came into view. A large central block stood a little apart from storerooms, stables and kitchens, all made from stone. But while other buildings seemed depressing and gray, this place sparkled in the sunlight. It was trading well, too, judging from the number of horses which waited outside.

They left their horses tied to rings in the inn’s walls and entered. It was a large hall, the ceiling supported by huge pillars which rose up like the masts of great ships. In the middle was a fireplace, and the rushes on the floor smelled fresh and fragrant, almost overcoming the sour stench of spilled ale. The windows were tall and narrow but lighted the room well.

As they had expected, the place was full. Baldwin saw craggy-featured miners in one corner, a foppishly dressed merchant with four servants holding court near the fire, a knight with two men-at-arms standing and leaning against a wall and watching the others with a mocking smile, a laughing group of farmers at a table, two older men with rosy cheeks sitting primly as if with distaste at such noisy displays, and in and among them moved three serving girls, daintily circling round the men with pots and jugs in their hands.

Striding to a table which was for the present deserted, Baldwin beckoned to a pretty, pale young girl, whose auburn hair was loose and flowing. She smiled at him and nodded, soon making her way to them between the tables.

“So, Simon. We need to find out whether Sir Ralph was here like young John said, don’t we?” the knight said as he sat.

“Sirs?”

Baldwin glanced up to find the girl at his side. He returned her smile, ordered for them, and she disappeared into the throng once more. Before long she was back, carrying full earthenware pots of ale. When she had set them down, Baldwin asked if she could wait for a minute.

“Oh no, sir. Not while there are so many to be served. I have to keep working, or I might lose my job here…”

“This won’t take long,” Baldwin promised. “It’s just that my friend and I know the Beauscyrs, and John told us that his knight and he were here the other day.”

“Yes, sir. They came in an hour or so before dark. We know John here.” Dimples deepened and the light beamed like flakes of gold in her hazel eyes. Happily she said, “But I can’t stop now. Anyway, that was Molly, if he recommended one of us, not me. I’m Alison. But I can get her to come to you later, if you want.”

The knight stared at her. “Oh! I…”

Seeing his friend’s embarrassment, Simon began to shake with laughter. Baldwin himself was incapable of speech. While the girl stared from one to the other, Simon struggled to bring his humor under control. At last he managed to say, “Alison, there’s just one thing, if you could: if John was with Molly, where was his friend?” “His friend? Oh, no! You misunderstand me—Molly was
with
his friend. John wasn’t in the mood at the time.”

“I see. And his friend was here for how long?” Simon asked while Baldwin coughed and leaned forward attentively.

“Most of the night, sir.” Her eyes went to the knight with a faint nervousness. She knew the Beauscyr family was wealthy and powerful, and she did not like being questioned about them.

“So John and his friend were here until late, then?” Simon asked.

“No.”

“What?”

“John wasn’t here for long. After Molly took his friend away, he went out—for a ride, I daresay!” she giggled. “He didn’t come back till later.” Seeing a man wave urgently, she left them, steering a course back through the people.

“Bugger!” Simon swore, and up-ended his pot.

“Yes, that does change matters a little, doesn’t it? If she’s right, both brothers were out and about that night.”

“Yes, and it would have been easy for either to have got Bruther and killed him.”

“I wonder…Although the two brothers show every sign of hating each other, perhaps
both
were out there trying to kill Bruther…”

“You mean they might have formed an alliance?”

“Well, it is possible. Obviously Sir Robert wished to see the villein returned or be punished, and it is not impossible that he could have persuaded his brother to help him—by pointing out that their mother depended on the stability of the Manor, for example.”

“I suppose so, but having seen how the two of them react to each other I would have thought it was unlikely. Maybe John himself had his own reasons to want Bruther dead?”

“Yes…” Baldwin’s expression betrayed his doubt.

“But it seems a little far-fetched to think that both wanted the man dead and coincidentally happened to be out looking for their victim on the same night. I find that too unlikely. There must be a more simple explanation; we just do not have all the facts yet. Come, let’s be off. I want to hear what these three miners have to say for themselves.”

At the miners’ camp they found a short but well-muscled guard standing before the blowing-house with his sword drawn. He watched the two men suspiciously as they approached, and seemed unwilling to stand aside until Baldwin rested his hand on his own sword and stared at him unblinkingly. After a moment the guard shrugged ungraciously and let them pass.

The three miners were back in the storeroom where they had been hidden, sitting sullen and uncommunicative. Though they glanced up as Simon and Baldwin walked in, none made any move to show that they recognized their questioners.

It made little difference, for there was no point in trying to talk. The waterwheel rumbled and clattered, and men added to the din, pounding chunks of ore with iron-shod clubs on moorstone mortars, reducing the stones for the furnace, and there was a continual hiss and suck as the great bellows worked. The room was stuffy, and acrid with a stench that Simon was coming to recognize: the metallic tang of tin, the smell of money. Motioning to Baldwin, he invited the three to follow them outside, where the air was cleaner and they could speak free of the clamor of the machines and hammers.

Blinking and wincing after the darkness, the three men followed Simon and Baldwin to the stream’s bank, the guard trailing along in their wake, unsure whether he should allow his prisoners to move from their jail but unwilling to force the issue with a knight.

When they were all seated some distance from the slowly revolving wheel, Simon surveyed the men. “Which of you is Magge?” he asked. There was no point in scaring these men further, he saw. Their fear was all too evident. They knew their lives were at risk. From their shuffling and limping, they must have suffered a beating; Simon would raise this with the Beauscyr brothers when he next saw them. In his opinion there was no excuse for torturing a prisoner.

Harold Magge lifted his head as though it weighed as heavily as a rock on his shoulders. Bloodshot blue eyes gazed back at the bailiff with immense weariness from a face tanned brown as the dark soil all round. In a happier time, Simon thought, and with a tankard of cider in his fist, this man could have looked as cheerful as a free-born farmer with his roughly cut hair and the thick gray bristle on his square jaw. Now a dark bruise showed on one cheek, the edges an unhealthy yellow, and there were scratches on his face where the skin had been scraped. He gave the impression of great sadness and near despair.

“You know that you’re all suspected of murder?”

Nodding slowly, Magge said caustically, “Yes. Our master has betrayed us.”

“You are not from these parts?” asked Simon.

“No, I come from the east, from Kent. I have been here for fifteen years, working the mines. I have been loyal to my master all that time.”

“We don’t doubt you, but we must know all that happened on the night Peter Bruther died. We already know that you attacked another miner. Why?”

Sighing, Magge picked up a pebble, then tossed it up and caught it, tossed it up and caught it. He carried on flicking and catching it as he spoke, his eyes on the stone and never meeting the bailiff’s. “It was some days ago now. Thomas Smyth came out and spoke to me, asking me to meet him with these men at Longaford Tor.”

“Was he there alone?”

“George Harang was with him.”

“Does he always go abroad with George?” Simon asked.

The eyes remained on the rising and falling stone. “Yes. George has worked for him for more than seventeen years, or so they say—a little before my time, anyway. Well, he asked us to help him get rid of the miners up on the moors—all the ones who didn’t work for him.”

“Like Henry Smalhobbe and Peter Bruther?”

“Like them,” he agreed, but then caught the stone and stared at Simon. “But he didn’t ask us to do anything to Bruther. He told us to leave him alone.”

“He told you to leave Bruther alone?” repeated Simon sarcastically. “I suppose he wanted to make himself feel good, leaving one man free on the moors while he got rid of all the others.”

The irony of the comment seemed to elude the miner. Still gripping the pebble in his fist he said, “All I know is what I say. He told us to leave Bruther alone. He wanted all the others to be scared off, but not Bruther.” “Very well. What then?”

“We’d spent some time trying to scare them already, but they’re a strange lot, these squatters and foreigners.” His voice was disdainful. “None of them would go. That was the problem. Thomas wanted them gone, so he told us to beat them. So we did.”

“Henry Smalhobbe. You were there.” It was not a question, and Magge gave a short nod before tossing the stone once more, apparently calmed by the monotonous rhythm of throwing and catching. Simon found it irritating, and longed to snatch the pebble from the man, but intuition made him sit still and silent, waiting for the man to continue. It was not long before his patience was rewarded.

“We were there. I was out on the path, waiting for him, when his wife called from the hut.” He spoke without expression as he described the short ambush, how Smalhobbe had almost caught his attackers but had been betrayed by his wife’s anxious call, how they had wrestled him to the ground and then begun to beat him. “He was game, I’ll say that,” he said at last, his tone meditative. “If we hadn’t been three, if we’d only been two, he might have been able to keep us off. As it was he had little chance; we came at him from all sides.”

Nodding, Simon was half-amused at the grudging respect the miner held for the man he had beaten so viciously. Catching sight of his friend, he was surprised to see an intense concentration, and then realized what had caught Baldwin’s interest. It was strange that Henry Smalhobbe could have displayed such a skill for hunting his attacker. “He fought that well?” he said thoughtfully.

“Yes.” There was no doubt in his mind. “Like a trained man-at-arms.”

“And then you went on to Peter Bruther’s place?”

The bloodshot eyes looked at him with a flare of anger. “No! I told you, we never went there. Thomas told us to leave him alone and we did.”

Beside him, one of the other prisoners, a thin, ill-favored man with sparse gray hair and pale almond eyes, looked up and spoke peevishly. “Why don’t you believe us? Why would we go and kill him? We had no reason to.”

“Shut up, Stephen.” Magge’s terse command, made the other silent, and Baldwin studied him with a frown. That Crocker was a weak and ineffectual man who would obey orders Baldwin did not doubt, but there was a sense of whining injustice about him that indicated he felt genuinely hard done by.

“Very well,” Simon said at last. “So you absolutely deny having anything to do with the murder of Peter Bruther. Did you see anybody else on the moors that day—either before or after your attack on Smalhobbe?”

The stone was caught once more, and remained in his hand while Magge drew his brows down in concentration. “There were a couple of men, I’ve seen them before at the Beauscyrs’ Manor. They went off up to Wistman’s Wood.”

“You saw no others?”

His bloodshot eyes wavered. “No,” he muttered, and Baldwin and Simon could both see he was lying.

“Why would
we
hurt Bruther, anyway?” Stephen the Crocker’s voice was a miserable wheedle. “Ask Smalhobbe—he could kill! He probably wanted Bruther’s land, and he used to be an outlaw, so—”

“What’s that?” Simon’s head snapped round to stare at the man and he gestured curtly to Harold Magge to be silent. Magge glared at his companion, but held his tongue. “How do you know?”

“I saw him.” There was an underlying satisfaction in Crocker’s voice at the reaction to his words. “He was in a band that robbed a merchant up north, over a year ago. I saw him. That’s where he learned to fight, with a gang of killers.”

When they finally got back to the Manor, they did not have to seek out Sir Ralph. Hardly had they reached the hall and seated themselves before the knight came in.

“Where is everyone?” asked Simon, vaguely waving a hand at the empty room.

“Lady Beauscyr has gone to the solar to rest, and Sir William is out hunting. He was not best pleased with his sons, as you may well imagine. Robert has gone out, and John was down at the stables when last I saw him,” Sir Ralph said with his eyes on Baldwin. It appeared that the northern knight wanted to speak to him alone, but Baldwin was not prepared to permit that. He motioned to a bench, resting his chin in a hand.

“It was only a few days ago, Sir Ralph, that I was telling my friend here about some news I had received from a traveller. He had just come from the north, from the armies protecting Tynemouth, and had some interesting stories to tell about the events up there.”

To Simon it was as if the man suddenly lost all energy. He fell on to the bench and stared at Baldwin with the eyes of a hare frozen to immobility as it watched a hunter creep close.

“He told me of groups of men up there, knights and soldiers who were taking advantage of the Scottish troubles to make their own mischief, robbing and pillaging over a wide area while the King is absorbed with other matters. A disgraceful state.”

“Yes,” Sir Ralph whispered distractedly, but then sat up, as if finding a new source of strength and courage, meeting Baldwin’s serious gaze with resolution.

“I understand that they are called ‘shavaldores,’ and they ride out over the land like soldiers,” Baldwin said, and seeing the tight nod carried on. “And two men led them, Sir Gilbert of Middleton and Sir Walter of Selby. They attacked two cardinals, Luke of Fieschi and John of Offa, who had been sent to negotiate with the Scottish King. They didn’t harm them, did they? But they did take their horses and money and everything else, so it was a grave insult to the Pope. And a slight to the King, of course.”