A Moorland Hanging (15 page)

Now Sir Ralph’s face was as gray as the ashes in the hearth. Simon felt no sympathy. There were too many supposedly honorable men up and down the country who had resorted to violence in the last few years for him to have any feelings other than disgust.

“That was last year, of course—1317. Since then, all of Sir Gilbert’s neighbors have been persuaded by his actions that he must be stopped. I understand that they were to attack his castle at Mitford. I merely wondered whether you knew of this affair, Sir Ralph? No? There was a knight with Sir Gilbert, too, I recall.” The vagueness of Baldwin’s voice was deceptive; there was no loss of concentration in his eyes as he stared at the man before him. “His name was Sir Ralph, I think. Sir Ralph of Oxham. Have you heard of him, I wonder?” Without giving the other man time to respond, he immediately moved on. “Of course, it doesn’t matter to us down here. It’s irrelevant. If a knight swears fealty to a more powerful knight, he should be honored for keeping to his vows. It is hard to condemn a man for holding to his oath if his master then decides to become, for example, a shavaldore. In any case, we have enough trouble keeping the peace in this county without worrying about the affairs of others many hundreds of miles away. After all, there’s this murder to think about, even if it was only the killing of a villein.”

Sir Ralph breathed out slowly, the exhalation whistling through his pursed lips. “Yes,” he said raggedly. “Murder is a more serious crime, isn’t it?”

“Tell me, Sir Ralph. On the night that Peter Bruther died, you went to an inn with John, didn’t you? We have been to that same inn today, and a girl there told us that you spent the evening with one of them, but that John was out riding.”

“Out riding? No, he told me he was there all night. He was certainly there when I returned to the room.”

“Asleep?”

“No, he was already awake, sitting by the fire.”

“Was this in daylight?”

“It was still dark. The cocks hadn’t crowed yet.” There was little doubt in Simon or Baldwin’s mind of Sir Ralph’s sincerity. “He was there all night, I thought,” he continued. “Or at least, that was what he told me. I mean, where else could he have been?” His face went white as he suddenly realized what he had said.

“Sir Ralph, we would be very grateful if you did not mention anything about this conversation to John or his family,” said Baldwin quietly. “You are not a fool, so I won’t explain why.” The knight nodded again, slowly, his mind dwelling on the surprise revelation about his squire. “And now, could you tell us what he was like while he was with you in the north?”

“Very good,” said Sir Ralph shortly. “He always appeared brave, prepared to put himself at the front of any raiding party, whatever the risk. And he was bright, too—not a mindless thug like some: he could think an attack through. When it came to a defensive action, he was very quick to see the lie of the land and use it to best advantage, siting archers and men-at-arms effectively. I have to say, there was no better squire while I was in…the north.”

“Was he honest? Would you call him honorable?”

“Honorable, yes. He would make sure that a captive was well looked after until a ransom could be sought, and what more can a soldier do? I’m not aware that he ever mishandled a prisoner; he always looked after them.”

“You didn’t answer the first question: was he honest?”

Sir Ralph thought back to the raids, the times when his leader, Gilbert, had led them out to the villages, to the churches and the priory. The clashing of the arms, the arguments over the spoils, the looting, women weeping at the sight of their dead men, and the inevitable, cynical smile on his squire’s face as he looked to their portion of the profits, playing at dice with other soldiers and always winning their loot, secretly finding food while those same men starved, and his ability to lie to them, saying he was as hungry as they.

“No,” Sir Ralph said sadly. “No, I do not think he was very honest. Not now I think back.”

Baldwin nodded slowly. From the expression on Sir Ralph’s face, it was clear that the knight was seeing his squire in a new light. “I think,” he said, “we should see this other man-at-arms who was with Samuel Hankyn when he found the body, so that we can check his story.”

“Yes,” said Simon, his eyes still on the knight.

“What was his name?”

“Ronald Taverner.”

The start was unmistakable. Sir Ralph had been reaching for a pot of wine when Baldwin spoke, and on hearing the name, his hand almost knocked the drink from the table. He remained there, fixed, contemplating the pot in his hand as if to avoid meeting the gaze of the bailiff, then carefully set it back down.

“What is it, Sir Ralph?” asked Simon, his voice betraying his frank surprise.

The knight’s face turned to him. He looked tragic, but without speaking he rose and strode quickly from the room, and Simon and Baldwin could only stare at each other in amazement.

George Harang walked carefully into the hall. He had managed to avoid his master for some hours by riding to the camp on the pretext of checking on the blowing-house, but the messenger had not left any room for doubt. “Master Thomas wants you, George, and he wants you now. I don’t think he’s of a mind to wait,” the boy had said, and his eyes told of the urgency of his mission.

Questioning him on the way back, George found that Smyth had hardly moved from his seat at the fire since the bailiff and his friend had left. When the bottler had gone in to speak to him, he had been bellowed at, and since then all had left him alone. Then, after some hours, he had suddenly come back to life, roaring for wine and demanding George.

As he crossed the floor to where Smyth sat contemplating the small fire, chin cupped in one hand, the other resting idly on a hound’s flank, George felt his anger mounting. This shrivelled old man was not his master. Thomas Smyth was a strong and courageous man known throughout the moors. The figure before him was that of a huddled old man, tired and weak after a lifetime of struggling.

“Master? I heard you wanted me,” George said tentatively, and the black eyes fixed on him.

“Wanted you?” Smyth sounded pensive, as if his mind was elsewhere, but then he stood, and George saw that he was not humbled, but consumed with rage. “Of course I want you. Who else? That bailiff and his friend—what do you think of them?”

“I don’t like the knight. The bailiff seems straightforward enough.”

“Oh, yes. Straightforward, certainly. But can we trust him? I don’t think so. For a start, how well does he know this area? Not as well as us, George. And all the time he’s here, he’s staying with the Beauscyrs, listening to their poison about the miners and
me
! I don’t like him and I don’t trust him, and I think the Beauscyrs can wind him round their fingers like a ring. All that family wants is to see us off the moors, and while they’ve got the King’s own man living with them, they can get him to think their way. In any case, I doubt he’d cost much to buy—most bailiffs are cheap enough.”

“Do you think he’ll take their side, then?”

“I think we have to make sure he isn’t going to. You’ll need to keep an eye on them, George. Keep an eye on where they go and who they meet, and then we’ll see, won’t we?” His gaze turned away, and he stared once more at the fire. “I think that bailiff could be a great danger to us, a real threat. And I want to make sure we’re safe…”

–12–

R
onald Taverner was lying on a palliasse below the hall, in a quiet room where he could rest. Samuel Hankyn knelt by his side, feeding him sips of hot sweetened ale. He watched his friend with concern. Gone was the cheerful lad he had known for so long. Now Ronald was pale and nervous, starting at the slightest noise. Chewing his lip, Samuel was angry to see how his friend had changed. As Simon and Baldwin entered, Samuel stepped back to the wall, throwing them a suspicious glare.

Simon felt claustrophobic in the small room. Only a little light crept through the narrow slit window in the wall and the open doorway. Apart from a bench, well chewed by woodworm and rats, there was nowhere else to sit. The bailiff tried it tentatively. It appeared able to support him, but after giving it a cursory glance, Baldwin preferred to stand. Testing it with two bodies, he reasoned, could prove to be too dangerous.

Though he was used to seeing wounded men, the sight of this latest victim made the bailiff scowl with compassion. Taverner was little more than a boy from the look of him, a slight man in his late teens with an unruly shock of mousy hair above a narrow face with a high brow. Dark eyes met his with a look of trepidation and slender fingers plucked at the frayed edge of the worn blanket. Ronald Taverner was unused to meeting officials.

“What has happened to you?” asked Baldwin, and Simon could hear from his voice that the knight was as struck by the lad’s condition as he.

“I got hurt in practice, sir.”

“How?” Baldwin could see no visible sign of a wound, but the stillness of the form under the blanket showed the degree of his suffering.

“Sir, it was while I was with John, sir. We were practicing with blunted swords, and he caught my neck.”

“An accident, then.”

The quick glance shot at Samuel was seen by the bailiff and his friend. Simon leaned forward. “Was it an accident?”

“Oh, yes, sir!” The boy’s voice was emphatic, but his friend snorted in disgust.

“Samuel?” Simon said, looking up.

He needed no further prompting. The injustice of the attack had at first shocked him, but then his anger had been ignited, and through all the hours of looking after his companion he had found it growing. “No, sir, it wasn’t an accident. It was a warning,” he said bitterly.

“A warning?” His tone made Simon raise his brows.

“What do you mean? A warning about what?”

“Go on, Ronald, tell them. Tell them how that mad bastard nearly killed you. You might as well, you owe him nothing.”

Faltering, with many a glance at his friend, Ronald told of the match between himself and the younger of the two brothers, how he had tried to get his strike, how John had stumbled, then whipped his sword round hard. It was easy to recall. The memory of the sparkling agony in his head, the intolerable pain, was too vivid. He shuddered. “It was just to teach me, he said, sir,” he finished miserably.

“Let me see,” demanded Baldwin, walking to the rough bed and kneeling. He examined the swollen and bruised neck for a moment before gently helping the white-faced boy to lie back again. Glancing at Simon, his eyes glittered with cold fury. “This is ridiculous! His wound is far too heavy for a training session—that damned fool John must have tried to inflict as much pain as possible. This lad could have been killed.”

“What was he trying to teach you, Ronald?” said Simon, leaning forward.

“I…”

“Tell them, Ronald. There’s no point keeping it back now. If they throw us out, at least we’ll still be alive. If he does this to you again, like Sir Baldwin says, he might kill you. You don’t want to end up like poor Peter, do you?” Samuel’s voice betrayed his frustration.

“Well, sirs. It was to stop me telling anyone about me and Sir Ralph meeting Peter Bruther on the moors a little while before he was killed.”

Listening to the story, Simon felt his face creasing into a perplexed frown. When the boy finished, sinking back on his pillow with a slight gasp then wincing as he tried to wriggle into a more comfortable position, Baldwin and the bailiff exchanged a baffled glance.

“Tell me, Ronald,” said Simon after a minute or two of reflection, “do you have any idea why what you have just told us should have led to your beating?”

“No, sir. I mean, unless—”

“Because John and his friend killed Bruther,” said Samuel flatly.

Simon considered him. “John and Sir Ralph?”

“We saw them riding off together and they came back here together. It must have been them who killed Bruther, and John hurt Ronald here to stop him talking—maybe even meant to kill him.”

“Oh, come on, that’s—”

“Why else? They wanted him to keep his mouth shut.”

“It would seem that Sir Ralph was with a woman all night at the tavern,” Baldwin said mildly. “He could not have killed Bruther.”

“A slut from the tavern? If she was paid enough she’d probably say she was with him all year,” sneered Samuel. “Those tavern tarts only want money. Are you saying you think she’s honest?”

“But if you’re right,” said Simon patiently, “I don’t understand why you think they would kill Bruther.”

With a quick movement Samuel pushed himself away from the wall. He found it hard to believe that the bailiff could be so naive. “It’s obvious! This Sir Ralph couldn’t take the insult from a runaway villein, and he went back there with his squire to murder Bruther because of Bruther’s rudeness. They didn’t want anyone to hear about the affair. They tried to avoid having anything to connect Bruther to them. That’s why they had to have any rumor about the meeting on the moors quashed, because it shows why Sir Ralph wanted Bruther dead! A noble knight turning tail like a cur! What more reason do you need?”

“But that can’t be it!” Ronald protested, gesturing weakly with a flapping hand. “He’s always been good to me, and generous, not like others. And after all…”

“I know all that,” said Samuel quickly, and Baldwin glanced keenly at him. The interruption was too hasty, he felt, but the man-at-arms met his questioning gaze unflinchingly. “There was no one else out there, so who else could it have been? If you’re right and this woman is telling the truth, maybe the knight
did
stay in the tavern that night—but was John there? He’d think an insult to his master was an insult to him too.”

Simon and Baldwin left the room shortly afterward. There was nothing more to learn—or, as Baldwin ruefully admitted to himself, there was nothing more that the two men were prepared to divulge. When he spoke, his voice low and guarded against the servants running to and fro around them, the bailiff was deep in thought, and had to ask him to repeat his question.

“I said, ‘What do you think, Simon?’”

“It would make sense, wouldn’t it?” Simon mused.

“If we didn’t know Sir Ralph was at the tavern that night, the two of them would be perfect suspects—
if
what Ronald said was true. There’s little I
wouldn’t
think the Beauscyr sons capable of,” he added darkly.

“Simon, Simon, Simon!” Baldwin laughed. “You mean John killed Bruther for the insult offered to his master? Do you not think that it would show a little too much loyalty? From what I have seen of John, I would hardly expect him to be
that
devoted to anyone.”

“No. You’re right. He’s too self-confident to care what might be said about his master. And he cares nothing for the estate or his brother.”

“Did you notice how Samuel silenced his friend? Just when Ronald was saying how Sir Ralph was better than others, Samuel shut him up.”

“Yes. But I’ve no idea what the lad was going to say. Maybe we can question Taverner alone.”

Baldwin shook his head. “Too late. From the way those two behaved in there, I would say that Samuel was the stronger—and he wanted whatever it was kept quiet. I expect Ronald will already have been persuaded to hold his tongue. He will do Samuel’s bidding—who else will he feel he can trust here at the Manor after his injury?”

“Could it be that they saw John, do you think? Is that what Samuel was hiding?”

Shrugging, the knight’s mouth drew into a doubtful crescent. “I have no idea. At present we seem to have no lack of people who disliked Bruther, but nobody at whom we can point a finger. Unless Samuel decides we deserve to be let into his confidence, I begin to wonder whether we will ever learn more.” He frowned. “Let us look at it the other way: who
was
on the moors that night and had reason to want Bruther dead?”

“We know from the serving girl that John left the inn. He could have joined his brother on the moors and committed the murder then.”

“It would have been possible. But the two of them hardly speak to each other without having a row.”

“That could be to hide their act! And it would fit in with John’s attempt to conceal the meeting between Bruther and his knight, too!” He slapped his thigh in a brief display of delighted incisiveness.

“Wait!” said Baldwin, and put a hand to his friend’s shoulder. “Why would John have attacked Taverner?”

“To put suspicion on to Sir Ralph. He didn’t try very hard to silence Taverner, did he? Just enough to anger the boy and his friend. If he was serious about it he’d have paid them money, not threatened and beaten him up. It almost guaranteed that the story would come out, treating the lad like that.”

Baldwin frowned and sighed. “I’m not certain. From what I’ve seen, John may well feel that the only way to keep a man quiet is by fear. No, I think he probably did try to keep the story secret in the only way he knew how, and had no idea that it would all come out like this. He is a soldier, Simon, don’t forget that. He was a shavaldore with Sir Ralph. They lived by robbing and extortion in all likelihood. It probably would not occur to him that he could get what he wanted by more subtle means. No, I think we must try to find out a lot more before we accuse anyone of this murder.”

Simon stared, but gradually his enthusiasm faded to be replaced by a somber reflection. “Very well, Baldwin. But I think I may be right.”

“You may well be. But for now we are living in the Manor of the boys’ father, and you should be careful how you proceed. We have no proof of anything, only guesses. All we really know is that there were two strange characters on the moors that night and no one seems to know who they were. Apart from that it is all conjecture.”

“In that case we must get some proof.” Simon began to walk to the hall, but then suddenly stopped dead.

“What is it, Simon?”

“Baldwin! Bruther: he had a group of miners with him, according to Ronald Taverner! Why…come!”

He led the way to the stairs and climbed them swiftly. At the top, Baldwin followed him along the line of the wall to where Sir Ralph stood peering out, his hands on the battlements. Hearing their approach, he turned slowly, then sighed.

“Sir Ralph, we have heard about your meeting with Peter Bruther out on the moors,” Simon said as they drew near.

“I guessed you would.” His lip curled bitterly. “It’s the sort of thing a man-at-arms would not forget, a knight running from a rabble.”

“We must know exactly what happened. It could have a bearing on the murder.”

“You mean, you think I might have killed the fellow.” His eyes searched their faces for a moment. Their doubts were all too obvious, and he knew he would be suspicious if he was in their position. “It is true that I was humiliated,” he admitted, “but that’s no reason to kill!”

“You should’ve told us before, Sir Ralph,” said Simon shortly. “It would’ve saved us time, and stopped us having to wonder about you. As it is, you can make up for your mistake now. We understand you met Bruther and tried to bring him back?”

“Yes. He was digging among the rocks when we saw him and I wanted to get a closer look. Then he insulted me, and I was going to punish him for it. And it would have helped my host, of course, to have his runaway brought back. I thought Sir William would be grateful. But it was impossible.”

“Of course. You were thwarted by the men with him?”

“Yes.” The knight’s face twisted into a grimace of self-reproach. “I should have ignored them, but…”

“How many men were there?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Seven, maybe eight.”

“And how were
they
with
him
?” Simon asked, frowning.

“What do you mean?”

Baldwin interrupted. “What were they like with him? Was he scared of them, do you think? Could they have been his friends? Were they guards holding him—or were they protecting him?”

Blank amazement stole over the features of the knight. “I have no idea. I…They seemed well-enough disposed toward him, that much I know. They didn’t strike me as being his enemies.”

“So you would not say that he was being held by them against his will?” Baldwin persisted.

“If he were, he would hardly have been so rude to me, would he? He would have tried to come away with me. Anyway, why on earth should he have been held by his own kind?”

“You felt that? That they were his own kind?”

“God in Heaven!” Sir Ralph’s patience was running dry. “Of course they were! They were miners, weren’t they? So was he!”

“Think, Sir Ralph,” Baldwin said calmly. “Are you quite sure about it? You are sure they were his friends! Not just holding a man who happened to be a miner? How did they behave?”

Sir Ralph stared. “They…” He broke off. “Now I come to think about it, they
were
almost like a guard. They stood around, but none of them spoke, as if he was their leader. If they had all been equals, I suppose I would have expected more of them to speak, but only he did.”

“While you were with your woman, you said you did not know that John had left the inn,” Simon stated.

“That’s right. I had no idea he had left.”

“So you don’t know how long he might have been gone for? Or whether he could have made it to Bruther’s place?”

Throwing his hands in the air, Sir Ralph felt he was being tested beyond endurance. He stared at the bailiff in exasperation. “In God’s name! How could I know? Until you told me, I had no idea he had gone!”