A Moorland Hanging (3 page)

They were still chuckling at this as they rode down a shallow slope from which the sweep of the moors could be seen. For Baldwin, unused to the area, it was an awesome sight. Bright grass gleamed in the sun, some thin and cropped by cattle, some long and spindly like reeds, both sliced apart in places by silvery trails of glistening water trickling to blue pools. Their path was a dark slash meandering between softly molded hillocks surmounted with moorstones, a landscape which would have been bleak in winter, Baldwin felt, but which now seemed full of promise with the high singing of larks in the dear sky and the constant tinkling music of the water.

For several miles the knight and his friend saw no other person. The route was well-trodden, the grass flattened and in places worn away, but there was no sign of habitation. The ground became, if possible, even more profusely covered with the gray boulders. Their path took them into a low valley, and soon they were trailing around the fringes of a little wood on the steep hillside, where the trees grew among the litter of stones and boulders.

“God above! Simon, what’s happened here?”

The trees were unlike any the knight had seen before; it was as if each of the plants had been shrivelled. All were stunted, misshapen caricatures of the great boughs he knew from his own lands. None was more than twenty feet tall, and most were much shorter.

“I’m glad it’s a surprise to you,” Simon smirked.

“You’re always so pleased to amaze me with your tales of foreign countries, it’s pleasant to repay the debt, if only in part.”

“But what has happened to these trees? Why are they so…deformed is the only word I can think of. These
are
oaks, aren’t they?”

“I think so, yes,” said Simon, his voice thoughtful as he glanced at the trees near the track. “But they only grow so high out here, in Wistman’s Wood.”

“What about other parts of the moors?”

“I’ve heard there are some other places where the trees are similar, but I haven’t been to them yet. All the other trees I’ve seen are normal.”

“They are certainly very curious. All the branches point in the same direction—had you noticed that?”

“It’s as if they’re pointing to something, isn’t it? There are rumors I’ve heard…”

“Yes?”

“Well, you remember the stories, don’t you? About the Devil and his pack of wish-hounds baying after lost souls? This is where those stories come from, Baldwin, out here on the moors. They say that the wish-hounds are heard here when the winds blow hard.”

Baldwin gave him a sour stare. “I suppose you think the hounds come here to piss on the trees? Diabolical hounds peeing on the branches kill them off, and that makes the oaks die on one side? Really, Simon, I—”

“No, of course not,” said Simon, hastily holding up a hand to stem the knight’s ironic flow. ‘But I know
I
wouldn’t want to stay here after dark.”

“No, I can see why,” said Baldwin reflectively, gazing at the trees. The atmosphere was oppressive, he thought, and it was easy to understand how people could imagine the worst of such a place, especially if the wind howled among the boughs as night fell. Baldwin did not believe in old wives’ tales himself, but it was natural for anyone to be affected by the menacing power of a place like this.

“The people here think there’s some kind of strangeness about it,” Simon continued. “Maybe that’s where the name comes from. Round here, ‘wisht’ means uncanny, or weird. Certainly these trees look it.”

“Yes, they do. But I think these trees grow this way for some mundane reason. Wish-hounds!” His voice betrayed his amusement, and the bailiff shot him a suspicious glance.

Another mile southward, after they had breasted another hill, Baldwin at last understood why Simon had brought him this way. He reined in his horse and stared.

“This is what I wanted you to see, Baldwin. Welcome to the tin mines of Dartmoor!” Simon announced as they came to a halt.

Baldwin found himself staring at a wide encampment on a plain surrounded by low hills, the whole unmarked by wall or fence. Dotted here and there stood small, gray turf and stone cottages. One, larger than the others and set in their midst, gave off a thick plume of smoke which straggled in the slight breeze. The broad area was pitted and scarred with holes and trenches. Through the middle trailed a narrow but fast-flowing stream, from which sprang several man-made rivulets, and there was a large dam over to their right. Other leats were fed by this, tailing off into the distance, and Baldwin guessed that they led to other workings.

“With all these houses there must be many men here,” said Baldwin, eyeing the area speculatively.

“An army. Over a hundred in this camp alone,” Simon agreed, and kicked his horse on.

They had only travelled a short way when they saw a pair of men at the outskirts of the vill, and Simon smiled with sardonic amusement at their reaction—it was all too typical of the attitude of miners out here that they should be suspicious of strangers. One pointed in their direction before running off, while the other man grasped what looked like a pick and faced them resolutely. By the time the bailiff and his friend had come closer there was a group waiting for them, looking like trained soldiers to Baldwin’s military eye. The man who had run for help had returned, joined by a thickset character who looked as if he was in charge.

Simon rode up to him, smiling in a friendly manner until the tinner snapped: “Who’re you? What d’you want here?”

The bailiff sighed. It was infuriating that these miners should feel free to be so arrogantly discourteous—even more that they had the right and strength to behave so. He heard Baldwin’s intake of breath and could almost feel the waves of disapproval from the knight.

“Good day,” he replied pleasantly. “We’re on our way to visit a friend, to the east. My companion here hasn’t seen how tin is farmed, and—”

“He won’t find out today, either,” said the man firmly, and Baldwin moved his horse a little closer to Simon. The miner was short and sandy-haired, with skin tanned by the sun and wind to the color of old saddle leather. Though he looked quite old, Baldwin could not be sure whether that was a sign of the harshness of life on the moors or an indication of his age. If fitness was anything to go by, the man was not ancient. His belly was taut, the breadth of his shoulders was almost the same as his height, and the knight quickly came to the opinion that he would not want to fight such a man without a superiority in weapons. As it was, the man merely carried a long dagger at his waist, but Baldwin could see that he was wary in the way his hands rested close to its haft, his thumbs hooked into his thick leather belt.

“At least tell us how far it is to Sir William Beauscyr’s Manor,” Baldwin said sharply, and was pleased to see a quick flicker of doubt in the miner’s brown eyes.

“You’re friends of Sir William?”

“Not quite,” Baldwin said, then glanced at Simon.

“But the bailiff of Lydford and I are on our way to see him.”

“The bailiff?” His gaze moved suspiciously back to Simon.

“Yes, I’m the bailiff,” said Simon, exasperation beginning to take him over. “And yes, I’m on my way to see Sir William. Now answer my friend’s question and tell us how much farther it is to the Manor.”

Directions were grudgingly given while the other men watched, hands fiddling with mattocks and spades, and Baldwin was glad when they could finally set off once more and leave the tense little knot of miners behind. Once they had passed by the village and were making their way up the slope at the far side of the camp, he glanced back and was disturbed to see the sandy-haired man standing motionless in the same place, his eyes still fixed on them.

At a time when so many lords were finding difficulty in financing their country estates, Beauscyr Manor came as a surprise to Baldwin. The family was known to him, of course—they had rendered so many years of loyal service to the kings of England that it would have been hard
not
to be aware of them…yet he had not expected quite such a grand Manor. But then, as he reminded himself, Sir William Beauscyr had fought in Scotland and Wales, and spent time with the old King Edward in France. He must often have been in a position to profit, and after the manner of wealthy men who have made their own way in life, Sir William evidently enjoyed flaunting his riches.

The imposing fort lay some miles beyond the miners’ camp, out at the eastern edge of the moors toward Widecombe, on a small hillock formed in a loop of the East Dart such that the river swept around the rear of the buildings to form a narrow moat. Nearby were cottages for the servants of the household and a few of the villeins who labored in the fields, but these were dwarfed by the Manor itself. As they rode down a slight hill some way off, Baldwin could see the layout. Rectangular and built of local stone, the Manor held inside its walls all the essential buildings. One imposing section at the front, facing west, contained the main gate, behind which was a walled passage, barred with a second door to secure the compound behind. The hall was at the opposite side of the cobbled courtyard, standing high over its undercrofts, a massive structure with a solar block attached at one end where the family could retreat from their retainers. North stood the kitchen area, with what looked like rooms for the garrison, while the stables were at the south. Any attacker attempting to storm the place would have to run the gauntlet of missiles rained on them from the top of all the buildings. Even if both gates were breached, allowing access to the courtyard, the hall itself would withstand a sustained assault.

At the first gate the two men had to wait for a few minutes, but were soon admitted and gladly dropped from their saddles. The Manor was only some twelve miles from Lydford, but after all the hills on the way and the streams they had needed to ford, it felt much farther. Simon stood rubbing the small of his back, and Baldwin gave a pained grimace.

“I think I must be out of condition for journeys like that,” Baldwin admitted. “Ah, is that our host?”

At the top of the staircase to the hall a man had appeared. Seeing the two visitors, he made his way down the steps and marched over to them. Simon could see he was not the man who had sent the peremptory message demanding help in recovering his villein. Sir William was well into his fifties, while this man was only some twenty years old.

“My father asked me to greet you,” he announced.

“I’m his son, Sir Robert Beauscyr. You’re the bailiff? Come with me, and—”

“No,” Baldwin interrupted quickly as the man motioned. “
This
is the bailiff. I am merely a friend.”

Robert Beauscyr flushed angrily as he looked at Simon, as if the bailiff had deliberately misled him. Simon’s heart fell at his haughty and dismissive glance, and the thin, tightly-pursed lips. They showed how unlikely it was that there would be any calm and logical discussion. He sighed as, with a curt wave of his hand, Sir Robert Beauscyr motioned the two men to follow him and led the way to the hall. Here, Simon knew, he would be asked to explain himself, and it was bound to be an unpleasant experience.

–3–

A
t the top of the steps, they found themselves in the narrow screens passage. On the left was an open door, leading into a buttery filled with casks and boxes, where a man was filling a jug with ale—a welcome sight after their ride. Baldwin followed the others into the hall. Here a fire smoldered in a hearth in the middle of the floor, and benches and tables stood haphazardly on the dry rushes. Tapestries darkened by age and woodsmoke covered the walls, illuminated by shafts of light from the high windows. Before him was a dais on which, round a large table, sat three men and a woman. Simon was almost at the dais, Robert Beauscyr introducing him, and as the people were named for him, Baldwin studied them with interest.

“My father, Sir William Beauscyr.” A large man, and ungainly, was the knight’s first impression. The body was misproportioned for his short legs, and the arms swung, long and heavily-muscled as an ape’s, under the short-sleeved blue tunic. A large star-like scar marked both cheeks, as if from a lance-thrust. His brows were heavy and intimidating, while his thick mouth was a vivid pink, fleshy and sensuous in the pale-colored face. Although he had once been a fighter, it must have been many years ago. Sir William was no longer a man to instil fear, Baldwin decided, noting the heavy paunch spilling over the leather belt.

“My mother, Lady Matillida.”

Watching the elegant woman nod regally, Baldwin was impressed. She looked little older than her son, but must have been in her late thirties to have had a lad of his age. Tall, certainly not less than five feet six, and dark-eyed, she was slim and graceful, with movements as quick and assured as an eagle. She gave Baldwin the definite feeling that she had the bulk of the intelligence in her marriage.

“My brother, John.” This youth was clearly training to be a soldier. Well-formed, with lighter hair than the others in his family, he had surprisingly clear blue eyes for such a dark colored skin, which flitted over Simon and then passed on to Baldwin with an intensity the knight found curiously unsettling. Then there was one more.

“My brother’s master, Sir Ralph of Warton.” Slim and elegant in his flowing green tunic, he struck Baldwin as being a well-travelled man. It showed in his calm eyes, dark, hooded eyes under thin eyebrows. He had no visible scars, but Baldwin knew all too well that many men of war carried their battle honors under their clothes, at the points where their armor was weakest. As he studied the knight, Simon introduced them, and as his name and title were given, Baldwin was suddenly aware of his interest being reciprocated. Sir Ralph of Warton was plainly disconcerted by his presence, as if for some reason he had cause to fear Baldwin—or his position.

Food was brought, bread fresh from the ovens and cold meats, and Simon and Baldwin, as guests, were invited to join the family at their board. Gratefully they accepted, sitting together at the end of the table opposite Sir Ralph. By common consent all avoided mention of the reason for Simon’s visit until the meal was finished, then Matillida, her son John and Sir Ralph all rose and looked enquiringly at Sir Robert, expecting him to join them. He steadfastly refused to meet their eyes, staring instead at his father, who gave a petulant shrug of his shoulders in assent.

As soon as the other three had left them alone, it was the son who began to set out the case for the return of the wayward villein, his father toying with his empty pewter goblet.

“So what d’you intend to do, bailiff? We asked the chief warden of Lydford to come and investigate; instead he’s sent you, so what’re you going to do? This leaching away of our villeins must be halted or we’ll be ruined.”

“It’s difficult, of course,” said Simon soothingly.

“The chief warden asked me to come and talk it through with you. But you understand the difficulties. Your villein’s now a miner, a stanner, and—”

“We know all that! The question is, what’re you going to do to get him back? If the Manor can’t produce food, we’ll have no money: we’ll be unable to pay our taxes. Mark my words, if this miserable cur gets away with his disloyalty, others will soon follow his example.”

“Yes, but the stanners have ancient rights—” Simon sighed as he was interrupted again.

“You don’t need to tell me of them! I was born here, I know about the stannary privileges. This isn’t the same. Peter Bruther’s no tinner. He’s not digging for peat or tinning. He’s just sitting in his new cottage and enjoying doing nothing. Don’t take my word for it, go and see for yourself!”

Speaking patiently, Simon said, “Even if I did, what good would it do? It makes no difference whether I see him lazing around or not. As far as the law’s concerned, he’s no longer your responsibility now, so…”

“None of our responsibility?” The boy’s voice rose to a shout. “He’s our villein, and the law’s allowing him to run away! Just to satisfy a few thugs on the moors…”

“And the King,” Baldwin interjected mildly.

Sir Robert shot him a glance of loathing. His voice shook with contempt as he sneered: “The King? That runt! What—”

“Be silent, Robert.” His father leaned forward at last, resting his elbows on the table. Like others Baldwin had known with wounded cheeks, the old knight had a slight lisp as if his tongue was damaged. He looked tired, and Baldwin was sure that it was not his idea to send to the chief warden for help. “Now, bailiff, you know my son is right. Something has to be done; I cannot allow my villeins to fade from my lands. What will the position of the chief warden be if I go and fetch this man Bruther back?”

“You mustn’t,” Simon said bluntly. “If you do, the miners will be within their rights to prevent you, and the chief warden doesn’t want a fight.”

“You will do nothing to help us, then?”

Simon held up his hands in a gesture of despondency. “What do you want me to say, sir? Do you want me to lie? To promise something you know I can’t offer? I’ve got no massive force to call on, I’m merely the King’s man here—and I can’t sanction any breaking of the law. Bruther has the law on his side. If you try to get him back, I must tell you I’ll have to support the miners if they want to stop you. But you already know that. Look—if you wish, I can try to lend some support to your plight by writing…”

“So, after many years of looking after the King’s interests, I must now accept the loss of my principal wealth, is that it?”

“This man has gone. Forget him. He’s effectively a free man now, owning his own land for mining.”

“Bailiff.” Sir Robert Beauscyr leaned forward, and his voice hissed as he spoke. “As far as I’m concerned, that man’s still our villein, and
our
villeins own nothing! They’ve use of some of our property while we let them, and that’s all. If they own anything, it’s their bellies and their hunger. Nothing else.”

“Sir William.” Simon ignored his son’s outburst.

“There’s nothing I can say will change the facts.”

“No, there isn’t, is there?” said Sir Robert, and rising suddenly so that his chair slammed over, he glared at Simon. “But I’m not prepared to see my inheritance fail because of the stupidity of the law—and its officials! If you’ll not help us, we must sort out the issue ourselves!” And he swept from the room before Simon could answer.

For a moment, all three were silent. Baldwin’s eyes were on the curtain, still fluttering after Sir Robert’s angry passage, when he heard Sir William speak quietly, his tone thoughtful.

“He’s very worried, as we all are. Out here in the moors, it’s hard enough to keep the peasants working without losing the young ones who hope to gain their freedom and make a good quantity of money in the process.”

“Yes, I understand the problem, but what can I do? As bailiff, I must uphold the law.”

“And you think
this
is the way to do it? In God’s name!” He turned to Simon in despair. “I stopped my son from saying anything villainous about him, but—Christ Jesus!—the King cannot control the people. Look at affairs in Bristol—only two years ago, the city had to be assaulted with artillery because they refused to pay taxes due to the Crown. In the countryside, trailbaston is a growing problem, and outlaws are springing up everywhere. Villeins dare open rebellion. Nowhere do people want to obey the law; they all hold the King in contempt since Bannockburn. What’ll happen to us if this man is allowed to get away? We could have an uprising here, in my Manor. The villeins could decide to revolt—and what would you do then, bailiff? Would you come and apologize to my corpse? And to the bodies of my wife and sons?”

There was nothing Simon could say, and after a moment the old knight’s gaze dropped to his hands. He had hoped for some help, something constructive, but it was obvious that he would get nothing from the warden or his bailiff. As the miners well knew, they had power and the strength of the law behind them. There was nothing more he could do—all was now in God’s own hands. Slowly he stood and walked from the room, suddenly feeling his age. He must at the least stop his eldest son from behaving foolishly and provoking the miners.

When the curtain had fallen behind Sir William, Baldwin heard a heavy sigh. Glancing at the bailiff, the knight gave him a wry smile. “I think I begin to comprehend your trepidation about our visit here.”

Simon grunted. Then, looking quickly at the curtained doorway, he stood. “Let’s go and have a look round the Manor. This room makes me nervous. I feel like a prisoner waiting for the jailer to return.”

Once more in the courtyard, Simon took a deep breath of the warm, peat-tainted fresh air. He had expected the Beauscyrs to be angry, but that did not make it any easier. After all, he was in agreement with them, and he had no wish to be responsible for any harm to them should they be attacked by their villeins in an uprising. His friend’s sympathetic voice broke into his thoughts.

“Come now, Simon. There is nothing else you can do for them. As you said, Peter Bruther is legally entitled to stay there if he wants.”

“I know, I know, but that hardly helps. After all, like Sir William said, a Manor is only as good as its workforce, and if the villeins here find they can ignore their lord’s will, they’ll lose respect for him—and that can only lead to rebellion.”

Baldwin waved a hand at the buildings ringing the yard. “You need not fear for Beauscyr overmuch,” he said dryly. “Look at this place! It would take the posse of the county to break in here.”

Simon could see what his friend meant. From inside, the defenses could be better appreciated, and appeared even more impressive. Apart from the tall walls, the storehouses beneath the main hall looked full. Judging from the number of men bustling around, there was a fair complement of guards as well as the servants. Simon pointed with his chin at a couple standing idly near the gates. “Looks like the Beauscyrs can afford their own army.”

Following his gaze, Baldwin nodded slowly. “Yes, well, it’s no surprise. Sir William was a soldier with the King for a number of years. He was known to have captured several of Edward’s enemies, so he must have made a lot of money from ransoming them. And no doubt he won plenty of loot.”

There was a cynical note to his voice. “What is it?” Simon asked. “You used to fight—you must have taken captives and won your own loot. It’s the spoils of war which make it worthwhile, after all. No one would bother to join an army unless there was a reward.”

Baldwin smiled but said nothing. Because they rarely discussed his time as a Knight Templar it would be difficult for the bailiff, so strongly rooted in the secular world as he was, to understand that the Templars had fought not for profit but for God. When they gained wealth, it was not for an individual, but used to enrich the Order so that it could continue to perform its vital function of protecting pilgrims in the Holy Land. All else was unimportant compared with that holy task. But then, the Knights of the Order were not worldly soldiers fighting for their own profit; they were the vanguard of Christ, the warrior monks. Their chivalric code made the concept of mercenary soldiering distasteful to Baldwin.

“Come, my friend. Let’s go back inside,” he said quietly. “At least we will be returning to Lydford tomorrow.”

“Yes, but I’ll not be allowed to forget this issue, I’m sure. With a young man like Sir Robert Beauscyr involved, who feels his inheritance is threatened, this matter will be bound to come up again before long.”

Standing on the castle walls above the gate the following morning, watching the two men ride away, Sir Robert Beauscyr was filled with righteous indignation. He had always had faith in the rule of the law, had believed it gave protection to those who needed it, and was convinced his family had right on their side. It was not just unfair that Peter Bruther should be allowed to escape justice, it was
wrong.
Worse was the fact that any attempt to put things right would mean breaking the law.

“So, brother. No satisfaction there.”

John had stepped quietly to his side and was also staring at Baldwin and Simon as they cantered up the gentle slope. Sir Robert could not resist a scornful jibe.

“All alone for once, John? Where’s your master, Sir Ralph?”

“Oh, he wanted to go for a ride to see the moors.” He gave his brother a faintly amused, questioning look, but then half-shrugged as though Robert’s mood was to be expected, and was, in any case, of little consequence. “So, the bailiff will not help. That seems certain.”

His brother nodded angrily. “What’s the point of the law if it’ll not uphold what’s right and good?”

“Ah, but this time the law has to try to find a way between the interests of a small family in the moors and the King.”

His dry sarcasm made Sir Robert stare. “What do you mean? Our father, and his before him, have aided the kings of England in all the wars over the last fifty years. We’ve the same interests as the King. He must know that.”

“Are you certain about that?” Now John’s voice was scornful. “From what I hear, this King of ours is too weak to choose what tunic to wear of a morning. All he wants is money so he can show largesse to his friends—and the miners give him that money. What are we worth? And how much can he value our loyalty when he has the choice of great lords—the pick of men such as Aymer de Valence and Thomas of Lancaster? Does he need the Beauscyr family to protect him as well?”