Текст книги "A Moorland Hanging"

Автор книги: Michael Jecks

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

14

“Myths and superstitions!” Baldwin muttered frustratedly as the four left Coyt’s house and began to follow the road into the moors. If the man had only looked, they might now have a fresh witness, or at least the name of someone who could have seen who the two riders were. It was possible that this man could have been Bruther’s murderer, too.

“If men behaved normally and ignored the old wives’ tales,” he said bitterly, “not only would they be less scared all the time, they would probably manage to work better and be happier in their lives. Crockern and Old Nick!”

Simon smiled faintly at the knight’s disgust. “There’s not much else here for people, though, Baldwin. Anyway, the question is, who was on that horse?”

“If we take the word of that farmer, it was the Devil.”

Simon knew how little regard his friend had for the old stories – Baldwin had ridiculed them often enough before. The knight was a well-travelled man, with more experience of the world, and Simon found it hard to argue the case with him. Even so, he found the knight’s irascible outbursts against deeply held local beliefs very insulting.

“Simon?” Baldwin gave him a shame-faced grin. “I am sorry – but I have seen too many people harmed by rumors and stories to want to have any truck with them. You are right, old friend. We need to discover who the single rider was. It could have been one of the Beauscyr sons, of course. Robert can give us little account of where he went that night, and John was away from the inn, although he has not admitted this to us yet.”

The bailiff was mollified by his change in mood. “So now we must try to find out about three men, not two,” he mused. “The pair of riders seen by Samuel and Ronald, and the single one heard by Coyt.”

“Yes. It is odd, though.” Baldwin’s face was pensive. “After talking to Sir Robert, I could have sworn he was one of the two riders – he looked so guilty. Perhaps he was the lone rider who later overtook Coyt?”

“But if he was, did he kill Bruther? Or were Smyth and his man responsible? And if it was Smyth who killed Bruther, what was Sir Robert doing out there?”

“If it truly was him,” Baldwin murmured. “Anyway, the killer must belong to one of the two groups, surely? Miners or men of the Beauscyr demesne.”

“I think so, yes. Unless…” Baldwin glanced at him. Simon chewed his lip and shrugged. “There is another group, I suppose, Baldwin. Farmers, like Coyt himself, have been affected as well. Their moors are being dug, the water in their streams diverted, their pastures ruined.”

“Is that reason enough to kill?”

They had arrived at the clapper bridge again, and Simon let his horse pause to drink. “I don’t know. It depends on what people thought of Bruther, doesn’t it? What sort of person was he? From Sir Ralph’s story he would appear to have been a bold enough fellow, at least when he had other people with him he was. And he was rude to Robert, too, just before we first came here.”

“Yes. Most say he was a rash young man, always making enemies,” Baldwin admitted. “Though Smyth spoke well enough of him.”

“It’s not like olden times when villeins were always subservient. This man seems to have taken willfulness to an extreme. I mean, how many runaways would dare to insult two men like Sir Robert, his master until recently, and Sir Ralph, a man who is well-versed in battle and clearly prepared to defend his name?”

“He did not, though, did he?”

“No, but only because there were a number of miners there and it would have been foolish.”

“The same goes for when Sir Robert was insulted by Bruther. The fellow must have had a death-wish to have been so forthright.”

Simon stared at his friend. “Baldwin, how often have you seen people behave that way?”

“A villein, you mean? Never.”

“What about other men?”

Shrugging, Baldwin drew his mouth into a glum crescent. “For someone to be rude to a knight is mad, and…”

“You miss my point. The only time I’ve seen people intentionally demean a knight or a man-at-arms is when they knew themselves to be the more powerful!”

“Well, yes, but you are surely not suggesting that a mere serf could feel himself more powerful than, say, Sir Robert? One only has to look at them to see how different they are. One is poor and lives in a rude hovel, while the other is wealthy, the heir to a great hall and money, with a rich estate, and born into the King’s highest esteem. How on earth could a miserable peasant like Bruther think he was the equal of such a man – let alone superior.”

“But he did, didn’t he?” His horse was watered, and Simon kicked its flanks to cross the stream. “He did think he was at least equal, to have dared to speak so forwardly. He knew how he was considered by the Manor: as a runaway. And yet he faced them and bested them.”

“Only because of the men with him,” Baldwin protested.

“And why did he feel safe with them?”

“Well, because they were miners like himself, I would imagine. You yourself told me that the miners have their own laws and rules down here. No doubt he knew that with others of his kind he would be safe enough.”

“No, Baldwin. We know that Thomas Smyth is a harsh master, and he’s enforcing his will on the miners round here, that’s why Smalhobbe was beaten, wasn’t it?”

“Well, yes, but perhaps Bruther banded together with other small miners in the area for protection from Smyth?”

“If there was such a group, they failed pretty miserably, didn’t they? If you were going to organize men, and then insulted your enemies, would you leave the others and go home alone in the evenings? I doubt it! After making your mark with an enemy you’d all want to stick together for defense.”

“Yes, I suppose you are right,” said Baldwin musingly.

“So, if Bruther had so many men with him, why was he apparently alone and defenseless on the night he died? Where had the others gone, and why? Why had they left him there?”

“Perhaps they had a disagreement with him? Maybe they wanted to do something which he disapproved of, and…”

“No, no, no – do you remember how Sir Ralph described his meeting with Bruther? It was like the younger man was in charge, wasn’t it? He was the only one who spoke – none of the others did. And it was the same when he insulted Sir Robert. Bruther spoke, the others simply observed and fingered their weapons. No, I think he was in charge, but why was he left all alone? If a leader disagrees with his company, some may leave, but others will stay, even if it’s only a few.”

“Perhaps they did. There might have been others with him when Bruther was killed, but they escaped before they too could be hurt.”

“I don’t think so. Look at it like this: we are working on the assumption that there were three people on the moors nearby that night. If Bruther had even one other man there with him it would have been hard for three to take him on without one of them getting hurt or killed.”

“Well, then. Maybe they did. Maybe they killed the other and threw his body into a bog. And even if they didn’t, if it was one of the knights, they might have been happy to have simply got the man they hated and not cared about the others. You are building bricks without straw, old friend. All of this is guesswork, nothing more.”

Simon shook his head. “I don’t think so. Let’s visit Smalhobbe. Maybe he can shed some light.”

Following the trail, they were retracing the steps of Adam Coyt on the night of the murder, and Baldwin found himself glancing around with interest. The road ran reasonably straight, keeping to the lower ground. Stunted shrubs lined the roads, with occasional clumps of heather. After a short way, a small copse appeared, with hills rising on either side. When he asked, Simon told him that this area was called Believer. The main east-west road was only another mile away, and they should be able to quickly cover the ground beyond to where the outlying miners lived.

The Smalhobbes’ property looked more cheerful now. Smoke drifted idly from the roof, and the gray stone building set in the broad plain appealed to Baldwin. It was the picture of tranquillity, curiously at odds with the recent savage events.

Before the door was Sarah Smalhobbe, seated on a stool and plucking the feathers from a hen while others pecked madly and scratched at the ground. She gave them a slow smile of welcome and called for her husband. After a minute he joined them.

“Bailiff, Sir Baldwin,” he said, ducking his head to them respectfully.

“Henry, we’d like to speak with you for a little,” Simon said, climbing from his horse and passing the reins to Hugh. Smalhobbe looked very tired, he could see, but well enough apart from that. At least he could walk again. The miner was clad in a heavy leather jacket over a thin woollen shirt and short hose. A long knife was at his thick belt. His left arm was wrapped in cloth from the wrist to the elbow, and there was a bruise on one cheek and a cut over a blackened eye.

Smalhobbe sat on his wife’s stool and sighed. “It still hurts to move more than a few yards, sirs. My back is one mass of lumps and bumps where the whoresons laid into me.”

“They won’t be back,” said Simon shortly. “The men have been found, and they are being held at the miners’ camp.”

“What, by more of Thomas Smyth’s miners?” His face registered dismay. “But they were his men! You can’t trust him to keep them guarded, he’ll want them to get out and carry on.” He stared at them both, then at his wife, who stood a short way off, listening with an air of dejected concern.

“They will not, I think,” said Baldwin reassuringly. “They will have other things to occupy them. Thomas Smyth will not come out here again for quite some time, if he ever does.”

The miner did not look convinced. His eyes flitted over the horizon as if expecting to see bands of marauders approaching at any moment.

Simon tried to gain his attention. “Henry, we are finding it difficult to discover who could have killed Bruther. Who do you think might have done it? Do you think it was the same men who attacked you?”

“Harold Magge and the others, you mean?” The miner stared at him. “No, I doubt it. Beating someone up – they could do that… but killing Peter? I don’t think so.”

“You had seen no one else that night, until you were set upon?”

“No, nobody. I was at my works all day and it was quiet.”

“You never went near Wistman’s?”

“No.”

Baldwin interrupted. “You were late home. Why?”

“I was smelting,” he said simply. “It sometimes takes time.”

Simon nodded. “Do you know who Bruther’s friends were?”

“Friends?”

Squatting before him, Baldwin held his gaze. “We know he had several men with him in the days before his death. Sir Robert Beauscyr saw them with him, so did Sir Ralph of Warton – some seven or eight men who looked as if they were miners too. Do you have any idea who they were?”

The miner looked hopelessly at his wife. “No, I don’t know.”

Baldwin saw her quick glance, the pleading expression in her husband’s eyes, and knew the man was lying. “Very well,” he said quietly. “Perhaps you can tell us this, then. What sort of a man was Peter Bruther?”

“He was a miner,” Smalhobbe said off-handedly. “He had not been here for long, and he was learning how to get tin, the same as me.”

“Yes, but what was he like? If we know what sort of man he was, we may be able to guess why someone should want to murder him.”

“He was quick, and self-assured, I suppose. It was hard for him to make friends and trust people, but he seemed happy enough.”

“Was he by nature aggressive?”

“Not that I saw. I mean, he was capable of a fight when he had been drinking, but that’s all.”

“Did he often go drinking?”

“Once or twice a week. He used to go to the Fighting Cock over toward Chagford.”

Simon frowned. “How could he afford that? Paying for ale in an inn should have been impossible for a man like him, a runaway villein now working as a miner. Where did his money come from?”

Shrugging, Smalhobbe did not answer. It was confusing to the knight watching and listening. The miner clearly knew something he was not prepared to talk about. He had been attacked by miners, his neighbor had been murdered… and yet all he could do now was shrug sulkily. Sarah Smalhobbe’s big brown eyes were still glued on her husband. She too was anxious, Baldwin could see, but he had no idea why.

Meanwhile the bailiff had moved on. “So, you say he went to the inn a couple of times a week. Who did he mix with?”

“I never went with him, so I cannot say.”

“I see. But you heard of him getting into fights?”

“Yes. He once fought a merchant who he thought had insulted him, and then there was a moorman who he said was simple in the head.”

“Was it Adam Coyt?”

“I don’t know.”

His attitude was beginning to annoy Baldwin, who leaned forward now and said harshly, “There seems to be a lot you don’t know today, Smalhobbe. Your nearest neighbor was a closed book to you. You have no idea who his friends were, you cannot recall anything about his money, rights, enemies or anything. Do you want to protect his murderer?”

Henry Smalhobbe stared at him, and now Baldwin saw his mistake. The man was not scared; the defiance in his eyes contained slyness, which spoke of self-interest. Then something occurred to the knight. He studied the chickens, and the miner began to look nervous.

“So, Henry. Who have you been to see this week? Or when did he come to see you?”

To Simon’s amazement, the little man’s face fell, and he stammered: “Who, sir? I don’t know who you mean, I…”

Baldwin rose, standing menacingly over the miner with his hands on his hips. For a moment Sarah thought the knight was going to hit him. “Enough of this lying, Henry Smalhobbe!” he thundered. “You have been paid to keep your silence, haven’t you? When we first came to see you, you had no chickens. Where have these appeared from? Someone wishing you well, I have no doubt, for it is a goodly-sized little flock. Tell us who it was.”

“No, sir, honestly, they were…”

“Henry, we have to tell them the truth!” His wife dropped to her knees before him, her hands going to her husband’s like an oath-giver, and like a man taking the homage due to him, her husband put his hands around hers as he stared into her face. “Henry, tell them! They are trying to help people like us, who live out here on the moors,” she begged. “Please, tell them!”

Smalhobbe’s eyes rose to meet the bailiff’s, and he sighed. “Very well. I’ll tell what I know.”

“Thank you,” said Simon with relief. “The men with him. Who were they?”

“Miners from the camp. They work for Thomas Smyth. They used to stay out on the plain beyond Bruther’s cottage, and help him work his plot.”

Baldwin scowled. “You are telling me that Thomas Smyth would let his men go and help a man out on the moors?”

“I don’t know why, sir. All I can say is what I know. Those men were his, and yet they helped Bruther.”

“Are you sure that they weren’t miners from farther north?” Simon asked. “Couldn’t Bruther have associated with other small tinners for all of their defense?”

“No. You see, I knew some of the men from when we first came down here to the moors. We met them during our journey to Dartmoor, and they reappeared with Bruther.”

“What were they doing there?” said Simon, puzzled.

“Protecting him. It was known that he was a runaway – oh, there are probably plenty of villeins here in the moors, it’s the best place in the world to hide – but Bruther came from a Manor close by, so he could have been caught and taken back at any time. He needed men to look after him.”

“Why on earth should Thomas Smyth protect him?” Simon demanded. “He wanted people like you and Bruther off the moors, I thought.”

“He wanted me off,” admitted Smalhobbe. “But Bruther? I don’t know. His works were some way out, deep into the moors, away from the roads and so on. Maybe Smyth didn’t care about the land up there. I know the only reason he wanted my plot was because he thought it should be his, and it was that bit closer to his camp. Maybe Bruther’s place was just too far away for it to be worth scaring a man off.”

“But still, why would he send men to protect the man?”

“Smyth would want any miner to be safe from the attacks of a foreigner,” explained Smalhobbe. “Anyone who came here to take Bruther would be stating to the world that the miners were just ordinary people, without special rights. Smyth is a strong, bold man. He would not want to have others think him weak, or any other miner on the moors, either. How many of his own men are trying to lose their pasts by coming here? How many were draw-latches, robbersmen or outlaws? How many of his miners would Smyth lose if anyone could come to the moors and take their runaways back with them? He would not want that, it could disrupt all his workings. I think he felt he had to look after Bruther, to protect the other men in his camp.”

Simon took a few minutes to consider this. He saw the knight nod slowly in agreement: it made sense. Many barons would behave in the same way, putting men in to protect a neighboring small fort, not for profit, but just to deter a possible aggressor. “Very well,” he said eventually, “but why were these men not with him on the night he died?”

“That I do not know, sir.”

“Do you have any idea why he should have been at Wistman’s Wood?”

Shaking his head, the miner said, “No.”

Baldwin asked, “You said he used to go to the inn. Could he have been on his way there?”

Turning to him, Smalhobbe shook his head again. “No, if he had been going there, he would have gone straight east. He knew that way well enough. Wistman’s is south and west from his place; there’d be no reason for him to go down there.”

“And when he was drunk he often fought with others?”

Nodding glumly, Smalhobbe sighed. “Yes. Often. He never knew when to stop. I suppose at Beauscyr he never had an opportunity to drink too much, but here he started going to the Fighting Cock regularly, and would have fought every time if it wasn’t for the men he had with him. Others swallowed his insults and boasting while his guards were protecting him.”

“And Smyth allowed this? Surely he would not want to have the locals upset by one loudmouth whose only saving grace was that he was setting a precedent of safety for others? I cannot believe this!”

“I don’t know why it was, all I know is, that’s what happened.”

“I see. In that case, there’s only one other point: who bribed you to keep your silence about Bruther?”

“Sir, I…”

“His name, Smalhobbe! You have caused enough delay already. Who was it? ”

“I can’t tell you. He’d kill me!”

“So it was Thomas Smyth, then.”

The expression of shock on the miner’s face was almost comical. “But… How did you know that?” he gasped.

“You have spent the last few minutes telling us how he is the most powerful man here on the moors, and we know he has had you beaten to enforce that power. It is obvious. There is one thing, though,” Baldwin said, frowning and leaning forward. “Why did he pay you to keep silent about Bruther?”

This time the shrug was helpless, but Smalhobbe’s eyes were lidded with resentment and he refused to answer.

“Very well,” Baldwin continued at last. “But you can tell us this: is it true you used to be an outlaw?”

Sarah felt her breath catch. Henry’s truculence fell away, and she saw the outright panic in his eyes. After so long, she knew that their attempts to begin a new life were finally failing, and with that realization she could not help the thickening in her throat as the sobbing began. Her belly churned and she had to put both hands to the ground as she stared at the knight. “Sir, it’s not true,” she said, her voice broken with emotion.

Baldwin gave her a comforting smile as she knelt defenseless before him. “Tell us the truth, then. We care more for a murder than someone’s past misdeeds.”

Ignoring her husband’s desperate cry of “Sarah!” she said, “Sir, I trust you. Do you swear that we will be left alone if we had no part in Peter Bruther’s death?”

Throwing a quick glance at Simon for confirmation, Baldwin gave a slow nod. “Yes, unless your past includes other murders.”

“That’s fair. Well, then, sir. My husband used to work for a fair and decent master, a burgess in Bristol,” she began. “Henry was his bottler, and we lived with him happily until two years ago.”

“The Rebellion?” Baldwin prompted.

“Yes,” she nodded. “Our master was Robert Martyn. The King imposed huge taxes on Bristol in 1316, and ignored the city’s pleas to reduce them. We sent men all the way to London to explain how they were too high, but he wouldn’t listen. In the end he sent the Sheriff of Gloucester with the posse of the county, and laid siege. They drained the ditch, broke the castle mill and set up siege engines, hurling rocks at us until they took the city.”

“Robert Martyn was outlawed, wasn’t he?” asked Simon.

“Yes, sir. And he has left the realm. But what could we do? We had no home, no money, no master. We were thrown from the city at the height of the famine, and if it was not for some people we met…”

Henry spoke at last, his voice dull and heavy. “They were outlaws, but they took mercy on us and fed us. One man came from the moors here and we decided to see if his stories of tinning were true. He taught me how to hunt and fight, but on my word, I never robbed or stole anything, and I’ve never killed anyone.”

His eyes held Simon’s defiantly, and the bailiff believed him.