Текст книги "A Moorland Hanging"

Автор книги: Michael Jecks

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

As if on cue, a low howl shivered on the soft breeze and he glanced at the horizon. Wolves – but a long way off, from the sound. He strode a little faster.

It was almost dark, and he was relieved to see the flickering light of the fire in his hut’s doorway. He and Sarah had built their small cottage with regular-sized stones from what appeared to be an old wall a few yards away, jamming pebbles and mud into the gaps to stop drafts, but they had only an old, thick fustian blanket to act as a door. It was little good in winter-time, but it served well enough now, in the warmth of summer. Sarah always left it open at night until he got home, to help him find his way.

The ground was flat here, with a light scattering of moorstone. One or two bushes broke the soft undulations of the grassy plain before his door, but in the main the area was empty as far as the eye could see. While some way off, Henry stopped, frowning. Up ahead, between him and his hut, a bush appeared to have changed. When he had left that morning, it had been a thin straggling plant, but now it seemed larger, and more substantial.

For a moment he felt as if his heart had stopped. All the terror of the moors struck him anew: he suddenly recalled the stories of the moorland spirits. The tales he had heard when sitting before the hearth of the inn with a quart of ale in his hand had seemed laughable then, but now, miles from anybody else, he felt defenseless. A gust of wind flicked the hair from his forehead, and in its light caress he felt the icy trickle of sweat. When the shadow-like figure slowly moved, the hairs at the back of Henry’s head rose like a dog’s hackles in a chilly spasm of fear.

Whatever it was blocked his path. He could not get to his door without passing it; could not see how Sarah was. She must surely be inside, but he dared not call to her – not for his own sake, but from fear of what the thing might do to her.

Then the fear disappeared as if blown away with the wind. The figure had coughed! Any creature which made such a mundane sound was only flesh and blood like himself. Gripping his mattock, he quietly placed his pack on the ground and crouched. Whoever it was seemed to want to remain hidden. The small explosion of sound had been stifled, as if smothered by a covering hand. It had only been the breeze, carrying the sound to him like a friendly spy, which had betrayed the man. Who he was and why he was here was a mystery, but one which Henry was keen to have answered. Carefully placing one foot in front of the other, he stalked his prey, circling widely to come upon the man from behind.

The figure slowly resolved itself into that of a squatting man, resting easily with elbows on his knees. Clad in a dark cloak, he surveyed the land ahead, occasionally glancing behind him at the hut with a cautious deliberation. Henry felt the blood hammer at his ears. This was no casual moorman, this was clearly an ambush, and the miner felt a rising anger. This man was waiting for him. There was only one reason, as Henry knew, why anyone would want to attack him, and if he could surprise the stranger, he might be able to capture him and gain the upper hand.

With infinite care, he crept toward the dark shape. Each time he saw the head begin to move he froze, holding his breath. Then, as it turned back to the path, Henry continued, his feet rising high and slow in a parody of normal motion before being carefully placed down, testing each step to make sure that it would make no sound. There were no twigs or dry leaves to betray his presence here. In a state of exquisite tension, his scalp tingling with his excitement, his hands locked like cast iron round the stave of his mattock, his mouth open to silence even his breathing, he painstakingly moved forward.

But then it all went wrong.

“Henry? Henry?”

His wife’s call, betraying a slight anxiety, came clear on the night air from the doorway. She stood peering out into the gloom. It was only because he was late. Sarah had been waiting with his food ready since dusk, for he normally returned before full dark. Now it was quite black outside as she walked to the curtain and twitched it aside. Henry was never this late, she thought to herself, and she wondered whether he could have hurt himself, maybe falling into one of the bogs which proliferated in certain areas, or perhaps having an accident while digging. But that was ridiculous. He knew all the land around here, had walked over the whole area with her to make sure that it was safe. Her husband was a careful man, she knew, and unlikely to harm himself. But though not yet worried, she nonetheless felt a vague trepidation. It was unlike him to be so late, he loathed walking across the moors in the dark.

Head thrust forward, she frowned out, staring. Up ahead there was a shadowy figure. She called, saw his face turn to her, yellow-white in the gloom, and scared, and then she saw the other form spin and rise, and the two men springing from beside the path. That was when she screamed.

Setting off from the hall, Samuel Hankyn burped gently to himself, smiling under the relaxing influence of the strong ale in his belly. He was mildly interested in what had made his master send him home so early, for it was unlike Sir William to go on without a man-at-arms, especially since he was going to meet the man who, as all in the Manor knew, he considered to be his enemy.

Samuel noted that Ronald Taverner, his companion, still wore his vague and faintly stupid expression; he gave a quick frown of exasperation. He should not have listened when Ronald suggested they should go for a drink before making their way home. After all, he had seen often enough before how little the lad could drink.

Strange, though, he reflected again, that his master should have decided to dismiss his men at the miner’s door and enter alone. After the row that afternoon he would have expected Sir William to take a strong force with him, rather than just Sir Ralph, his son John and two men-at-arms – himself and young Ronald. A show of strength would have been more in keeping with a man of his standing, and since all the men in the fort knew of the argument which had led to Sir Robert rushing out in a rage, there was even more reason to make a strong showing before the miners. If they even suspected that they had sown dissension in the ranks of the Beauscyr family, the miners might decide to ask for more, or even to take the knight hostage against a large ransom. It had happened before.

For now, though, Samuel just felt grateful at having escaped. If it came to a fight, he wanted to be far away. Knights were well-enough protected, for they had mail and armor to cover them, and if that failed and they were captured, few would kill them. Keeping them prisoner against a goodly charge for release was vastly more profitable. Not so for the poor man-at-arms. He was never wealthy, so could not afford much more than the legal minimum of arms – Samuel’s sword and helmet were paid for by Sir William – and was therefore not worth the keeping. If caught, a man-at-arms was lucky if his only punishment was a knife across the throat.

Facing the road ahead, he frowned. That was the thing that niggled at him. Sir William must know that he was riding into danger in going to the miners’ camp, so why go there unprotected? It was madness. Surely Sir William was not going to give in – that was almost incredible.

The facts spoke for themselves nonetheless. They had ridden out from Beauscyr to Thomas Smyth’s hall at the vill in the middle of the moors, and there Sir William had ordered the men-at-arms to leave him. When Samuel looked back, he saw John and Sir Ralph leaving the knight at the door and riding off on the Chagford road. They would not have left the old knight unless he knew himself to be safe, and that meant he must have been going to accept the miner’s terms – paying money to stop damage to the estate.

Samuel and Ronald could have gone straight back to the Manor, but the whole place still felt as if there was a storm brewing after the afternoon’s argument, and so Ronald quickly persuaded Samuel to find an inn. Both men had seen John and Sir Ralph heading northeast on the Chagford road, and guessed they were going to the Fighting Cock. It was no secret that the two often went to that tavern for their drinking and other entertainments, and Samuel and Ronald wanted to go somewhere else where they would not be under the amused and patronizing eyes of the squire, so they went off the other way, to the farmer’s hall where the Dart and the Cowsic Rivers met the road. Here, in the little valley, they were soon happily clutching pots of ale and forgetting their master and his troubles.

Now, some hours later, it was getting dark and Samuel was in a hurry to return to the Manor. He had no wish to be out when night fell, he was too well aware of the tales, and he was fearful of the response of Lady Matillida if they should arrive late. In a small fort like Beauscyr she would be certain to hear about it. Others had endured her fury: he had no wish to.

After leaving the stableyard they turned east. It wasn’t long before Samuel saw a pair of riders before them. He felt sure that they were miners, and cursed. Even a single quart of ale made Ronald useless in a fight, and today he had consumed three. Nervously, Samuel glanced south. He remembered this area, it was close to the River Dart, and the ground was often little better than a mire. On the other side of the road there was a path north. They could follow that for a mile, and then turn east on to the Lych way. It was hardly a direct route, but better than getting involved in an unequal fight. Cursing quietly, he spurred his mount to the trail.

Ronald seemed unaware of any change in their direction. He jogged along happily after Samuel, his face beaming. Samuel muttered bitterly. With this detour, they would be travelling a good two miles out of their way. But there was no alternative – the two riders were at the end of the lane, staring after him suspiciously. Praying that they would not follow, Samuel led on.

This track wound along near the river at first; gradually the hills began to rise upon either side. It would have been easy to turn off to the right and make their way down to the road again, but that would have taken them close to Crockern Tor, the seat of the miners’ parliament. Anything associated with tinners was unattractive tonight, and Samuel determined to stay on the track until it met the Lych way.

The rocks on both sides grew more plentiful, and the horses began to climb. A hillock stood before them, and when they reached its summit, another lay beyond. Soon Samuel could see the gray-green mass of a wood ahead, and he pursed his lips at the sight. It was only a short way after this, he knew, that the main track lay, and he kicked his horse again. The rest of the journey would be faster, and the sooner they were on their way the happier he would be. The sun was low in the west.

Its glow was a rim of gold and purple above the hill to his left, and it gilded the top of the bank on his right with impossible fiery colors. Down here in the valley he felt the cold rising from the river, and there was an eerie quality to the deadened sounds of their horses’ progress as they circled the little wood.

“Is it much farther?” he heard Ronald call. The lad’s brain was still sodden: his face had not yet lost its expression of bemused happiness.

“Shut up, you daft bugger,” he snarled. “If it wasn’t for you we’d be most of the way back. Can’t you see where we are?” Ronald gazed at him in blank incomprehension. “Look around. We’re miles out of the way, hadn’t you realized?”

They were at the top of the wood now, and Samuel was about to turn in disgust and make off along the Lych way, when he saw something new in Ronald’s expression. “What is it now?” he asked irritably.

In answer, the young man-at-arms pointed a shaking finger. There, just to their left, stood a large tree, with a rock at its base. And from one branch, spinning slowly, head drooping, hanged a man.

5

It had been dark for almost an hour when Matillida Beauscyr heard the cry from the gate, then the heavy snort of a horse and a stamping of hooves in the courtyard. Peering through the open door, she saw the ostlers holding her older son’s horse while he dismounted and curtly instructed them to feed and groom the great creature. Then he made his way over to her.

She stood quite still as he came near, one hand resting on the doorframe, and though she made no sign he knew immediately how angry she was.

“Mother. My apologies for being out so late. I…”

“Be quiet and come inside.”

The words were forced out between teeth clenched so tightly together she looked as if she had lockjaw. Following her, he could feel his face reddening just as it had in his youth in anticipation of the sharp cutting edge of her tongue. With an effort he kept his head up, determined not to show his feelings.

It was the same whenever he knew he had upset her. Robert feared no man greatly, not even his father, but his mother was different. The daughter of a wealthy burgess in Exeter, Matillida had been reared to behave imperiously, confident in the knowledge that her wishes carried authority. She still had the deportment of a princess – but now, in the Manor she had taken for her home, she wielded more power than any queen.

In the hall, she led the way to the fireplace, swearing at the bottler and curtly ordering him out, and sat, staring at her son. “Well?” she demanded. Her voice was deceptively cold. She would not let herself fly into a passion, that would be too demeaning, but she could not hide her contempt as she stared at her eldest son. He had good reason to squirm, she thought.

To move to the middle of the moors after the busy social life of Exeter had not been easy, but she had understood her duty. Her father had been glad to have won for her the hand of a man such as Beauscyr. To Matillida’s mind, Sir William was maybe not so comely as other knights, but he was a man of wealth and power then, in 1289, and she was pleased with the way that she had fitted into his household. In the nineteen years since, never had she forgotten her twin responsibilities: to look after the Manor and give her husband the sons he needed. And she had, although two other sons and a daughter had died young, too weak to survive in the harsh moorland climate. Only two had lived, and now the eldest had left the family open to attack. The fool!

“I’m sorry if you were worried for me, but…” Robert began stiffly.

“Don’t be stupid! If you were mad enough to get yourself into trouble on the moors, you know well enough how to look after yourself. And if you were to get yourself killed, at least then you would save us from any other problems caused by your lack of thought.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I was angry – I had to leave, otherwise I might have said something which could have made problems for us.”

“No, not angry. You were sulking like a child whose plaything has been taken away. You rode off from an important meeting where your father needed you,” her voice began to rise, “and you did it in a manner which guaranteed that all the men in the yard would see and hear. ‘Oh, the poor young master,’ they will all have thought. And where does it leave you in the future? How do you expect them to respect you now? What happens when your father dies? He’s over fifty-five now, he can’t last much longer – and how can you take over his responsibilities if the men think you will run away each time there is a hard decision or negotiation to undertake?”

“That’s hardly fair,” he said, his face flushing. “That cretinous miner Smyth was threatening us, the bastard! He rode in here as if he owned the place, and…”

“You dare to call him cretin?” Her voice was low, but her hands gripped the carved arms of the chair tightly. It was galling that her son was so dense. After the privileged education he had received, he should have realized the implications to the Manor and himself. “He at least knows his power here – you seem to forget it. Do you not recall that under the King’s law, if a miner says there is tin on our land, he can come and seek it out? If he says there is ore beneath our fields, he can ruin our crops if he has a mind to, and don’t…” she held up a hand to stop his attempt at interruption, “…don’t tell me he wouldn’t dare. He has the men to do it. And when he came here to talk, you ran from the room like a maid scared of losing her virginity!”

“I suppose it would have been better for me to stay and challenge him. You’d have liked that,” he said bitterly.

“Don’t be even more of a fool!” Abruptly she stood and stared at him with her hands clasped. “When your father dies, you will be responsible for the Manor, and for me. This man Smyth must not perceive any weakness in you, because he will use it against you. If he thinks that each time he comes here to negotiate with you, all he need do is enrage you, he will know he can control you.”

“But he wants us to pay him not to come on to our lands!”

“I know that. For now, as you say, he wants us to pay him to protect our Manor. If we refuse, he will claim there is tin here, or he will demand that he be allowed to divert the waters from our stream for his workings, or he will cut down our trees to make charcoal for his furnaces – anything. And we know there is nothing we can do to stop him. But soon there might be something we can use against him. For now we must calm him, remain on friendly terms with him, try not to insult or demean him, and persuade him to stay away from the Manor. That is what your father and brother are doing now, trying to keep him happy. After your outburst, it was necessary. Now we will pay. We will mollify the man, befriend him, make sure he is content. Later, maybe, we will gain the advantage and make him regret his presumption!”

“How can we? He’s only a common peasant, no better than Peter Bruther, a runaway villein. Would you negotiate with him?”

“I would negotiate with the Devil himself if it would keep this Manor together!”

The words sank in slowly. For his own mother to spit out such a blasphemy stunned him, but there was no mistake. There could be no misunderstanding her words or her commitment, and suddenly he was not sure that he had ever understood her. Mumbling another apology, he took himself out of the room.

Alone again, Matillida let her breath escape slowly; her rage had dissipated. Surely the boy must understand. He had responsibilities, not merely to the land and the Manor, but to the family. Today, his behavior had endangered all that – and it was unforgivable. She was filled with a sense of approaching danger, suddenly fearful for the safety of this place and her family.

In the yard Sir Robert dragged his feet on the cobbles. He was confused, unsure of himself and even more of his mother. At least soon she would have to treat him better – like a man, not a brainless child. He paused by the stables and watched a groom assiduously rubbing sweat from his horse’s flanks with a handful of straw. Today, with luck, a new life had begun for him. Sir Robert climbed the staircase in the corner which led up to the walkway on the wall.

He was still there, out by the main gate, when two riders came into view. With dull uninterested eyes he watched them canter down the hill. They were men-at-arms, he noticed, from the Manor.

“Open the gates!” one yelled as they came closer.

“Is Sir William here yet?”

As the bolts were hauled back and the gate unbarred, Sir Robert could hear the surly response from the doorkeeper. “You should know – you were out with him. Of course he’s not back!”

“God!”

Sir Robert watched the man jump down from his horse and lead it through the second gate to the courtyard, the second trailing after, both exhausted after their ride, their mounts tired and flecked with sweat. Soon they were surrounded by a milling crowd of ostlers and guards. Something in the hushed anxiety of the scene made him hurry to the inner wall and shout down: “You! What is it? What’s the matter?”

His voice stilled the hubbub below, and he found himself peering down at a group of pale faces. One stood out. It was one of the men, who now stared back with a mixture of nervousness and suspicion. “Sir, it’s the runaway, Peter Bruther. He’s dead!”

The following afternoon, Sir Ralph of Warton was looking out at the view from a low tower, mulling over the news about Bruther, as four figures rode toward Beauscyr Manor. The bailiff of Lydford and his friend were easily distinguishable out in front, and the other two must be servants, he thought. One was close by the knight, moving at the same pace like a well-trained squire, and he caught Sir Ralph’s attention almost immediately. The man was clearly a warrior, and from the way he rode, never more than a few feet from his master’s horse, the two were used to working together. Like his master, he was clad in a light woollen surcoat, but both wore mail beneath, as the occasional glints at wrist and ankle revealed.

The last man in the group lolloped along behind the others like a grain-filled sack, radiating discomfort and misery. He was small of stature and wore a simple short-sleeved shirt with a padded jacket. Clearly this was not a man-of-war in any sense of the word – he looked like a laborer.

Hearing a step, Ralph turned to find John peering over his shoulder.

“So the bailiff and his friend are back, then. And they’ve brought guards, too. Very sensible. You can never tell where your enemies are, can you?”

Ralph gave him a frosty smile. “We need not fear each other, anyway.”

“You think so?” John faced him. “But after your humiliation by that man…”

“Don’t be ridiculous! He was a peasant, that’s all. He was not worth my anger. And certainly not the risk of being hanged for murder. Why? You don’t think that I…”

“Perhaps. It was an embarrassment, wasn’t it? I hope that the man-at-arms who was with you does not feel it necessary to tell our friend the bailiff. That could mislead him unnecessarily.”

“The man-at-arms?” Ralph surveyed him warily.

“What can he tell?”

“Only what happened, of course. But maybe I should have a word with him and see to it that his memory is… modified. The last thing you and I need is to have any suspicions raised about either of us, after all.”

He bowed and made his way down the stairs just as the first gate was opened to welcome the visitors, and Ralph found his attention drawn to the four men entering the barbican. “Yes,” he murmured, “that’s the last thing I need – I am a stranger here. But what about you, my friend? What do you want?”

In the courtyard, the four men slowly swung from their saddles. Hugh, Simon’s servant, was the last to get down. He had always hated riding. Born and raised at the northeastern edge of Dartmoor, the second son of a farmer, he had never needed to mount a horse while a boy. Nor was there an opportunity. In the small hamlet where they had lived, they had been more or less self-sufficient, bartering with travelling merchants for any goods they could not produce themselves. It was hardly ever necessary to travel anywhere.

But since he had gone into service with Simon, Hugh had been forced to get used to regularly covering long distances. And that meant learning to ride. He hated it! Horses were far too large for a man to control, he felt, and every time he clambered up and squatted uncomfortably in the saddle he found his thoughts turning to the hardness of the ground so far below. In Simon’s service he must go up to Tiverton, east to Exeter, sometimes cross the moors to visit the stannary towns of Ashburton, Tavistock and Chagford, or make the long journey down to the coast. All were, for him, excursions of despair. During the journey, all he could think of was the pain and anguish of the trip, and even when he finally reached their destination, he could not enjoy the triumph of safe arrival: his thoughts were already bent on the agonies to come while returning home.

Today, though, he did not feel so bad. The weather had been good, so his fear of getting lost in a moorland fog was unfounded, and the warmth of the sun, and regular gulps from his wineskin, had made him almost mellow. Still, he had no wish for his master to think that he was becoming used to riding, so he maintained his glower of disgust as he released his feet from the stirrups and dropped heavily from the saddle, standing rubbing his backside with both hands.

While a lad, Hugh had been sent out with the sheep, protecting the flock from thieves on either two or four legs. Much of his suspicion of people came from those days, and now, as he turned and stared at the walls of the Manor, his face set hard. All around them men bustled, some coming to take the horses, others pulling their bags from the saddles. The pair standing and talking to his master and Sir Baldwin were, he learned, Sir William Beauscyr and his son Sir Robert. Beyond more men stood watching idly, common soldiers who could have been outlaws the week before, leaning against posts or lounging with thumbs hooked into sword-belts. To Hugh they looked like executioners gauging their prisoners, and he gave a quick shudder at the thought.

The aging knight and his son greeted Simon and Baldwin, then led the way to the hall, Hugh trailing along behind. Edgar, Baldwin’s man, kept as close to his master as a shadow.

“Sir William,” Simon said as they entered the hall, “as I understand it, Peter Bruther’s death was no accident.”

The man gave a wry smile. “No, bailiff. It was no accident.”

“Why are you so sure?” asked Baldwin.

“Because he was hanged – that’s why! Two of my men found him swinging from a tree,” he said curtly.

Simon and Baldwin exchanged a look. Both were troubled by the news, the bailiff most of all. With all the existing problems between the tinners and landowners, it only needed one small spark to start a conflagration which could engulf all the lands under his authority. This death could easily be that spark.

Sir William plainly did not hold the same fear. He was reserved but not fearful as he strode to the fireplace where his wife sat quietly stitching at a tapestry. She smiled up at him as he touched her shoulder. When she returned to her work he said, “Certainly, it’s a nuisance. But it’s a problem solved as well.” Baldwin was not surprised at his words. It would have been strange for the old knight to feel otherwise. After all, he reasoned, the death of Bruther must have been a relief to Sir William, and the man was no hypocrite.

Seating himself at a bench near the fire, Simon gazed at the old knight thoughtfully. Robert wandered to the dais and leaned back on the table, listening carefully. Simon glanced at him, then back at the knight. “Solved?” he prompted.

“Yes.” Sir William dropped heavily into a chair. “Solved. Bruther is dead. He was a sore problem to me and my family while he lived, but now he’s dead, the example he set to my peasants has been killed with him. If any other villeins had ideas about running away, they’ll think again now.”

Baldwin had seated himself beside Simon, and now leaned forward. “Do you have any idea who might have killed him?” he said. He was surprised when Matillida Beauscyr answered, her eyes on her stitching at first, but then rising to meet Baldwin’s gaze.

“Yes. He did.” Her voice carried certainty. “He killed himself as surely as if he had put the rope round his own neck.”

“I’m sorry?” said Baldwin, frowning. “How did he do that?”

“The miners hereabouts are a tough group, Sir Baldwin, and they have their own kind of justice. They rely on all tinners holding to certain principles. If a man makes a claim to some piece of land, it is his. This fool Bruther went on to a plot and began tinning there. I have no doubt you will find that he was on someone else’s land. To the tinners, that would be as good as theft. I rather expect you will find that he was trespassing and the real miners decided to punish him.”

Sir Robert frowned, unsure of her point, but then it came to him and he almost gasped. In a few short words, Matillida had put the blame firmly on to Thomas Smyth.

“You mean that he was hanged as a punishment for working on another man’s claim?” Baldwin probed.

Sir William spoke again. “Yes. We’ve no doubt about it. He was lynched by a mob.”

Simon stirred. “You’ve got his body here?”

“Yes, in an undercroft – it’s cool down there.”

“May we see him now?”

Shrugging, the knight led them back into the courtyard and up toward the kitchen area, leaving his son and wife behind. At the back of the building, near the wall closest to the river, he took them down a short stair and into a shallow, pit-like cellar. Here wine and ale barrels lined the walls, and when Hugh tapped one experimentally, it thudded dully, sounding comfortingly full. Up at the far end of the chamber was a large box; within it rested the corpse of the man who had caused so many problems to the landlord.

Walking toward it, Sir William beckoned the others forward with a proprietorial gesture. Peering inside the box, Baldwin and Simon found themselves staring into the face of a man in his late twenties, slimly built and dressed in a rough sleeveless tunic of thick reddish cloth which left his arms bare.

“Poor devil,” Simon heard Baldwin mutter, and he could easily understand why. Lank dark hair fell over one eye, almost covering it, but not hiding the unfocused stare. Bruther had plainly died from strangling. His eyes were wide and staring in the suffused face, his mouth open, tongue a blackened, bloated mass with a line of toothmarks where his jaws had closed in his death throes. Around his neck were the remains of a hemp rope. It was a light cable, of the kind used for lashing, not the type normally associated with a hanging, and was tied loosely. While the bailiff watched, Baldwin studied the body, his hands resting on the edge of the box while his eyes ranged over the figure. Copying his stance, Simon forced himself to stare down as well.