Текст книги "A Moorland Hanging"

Автор книги: Michael Jecks

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8

How long have you known your master, George?” Simon’s voice was conciliatory as they jogged their way down the incline from the house, heading southwest to the miners’ encampment. They had already left the stream far to the left, and were now passing through empty lands where the only sound came from their jingling harnesses.

Harang glanced at him suspiciously, his eyebrows almost meeting in a sandy line. Reassured by the frank openness he saw, he gave a shrug. “Some seventeen years, I reckon.”

“That was when you first came down here?”

“Yes.”

“And you began to work for him then?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve stayed with him since?”

“Yes.”

His taciturn unresponsiveness made Simon falter. He glanced at Baldwin, who said mildly, “So I suppose Alicia was born some time after you started working for Thomas Smyth?”

“Yes.”

“She must be… what – fifteen? Sixteen?”

“Fifteen. Born back in 1303. In the May time.” For the first time his voice grew softer, and his face showed the strength of his feelings for the girl.

“She looks a bright girl.”

“Very bright,” he told the knight, who now rode beside him. “Quick and alert, she is. I remember when she was young, I only ever had to tell her once what bird was singing and she always remembered afterward.”

“It’s a pleasure to be with someone who learns fast, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes, sir. And she’s nearly as strong as a lad, too. Growing up round here, she knows the moors as well as most folk know their own garden. She’s often out for hours at a time on her pony.”

“She obviously likes Sir Robert Beauscyr.”

“Why do you say that?” Suspicion darkened George’s face.

“She hardly made a secret of it, the way she leapt to his defense, did she?”

“Well… yes, they know each other,” George admitted unwillingly.

“Isn’t it…” Baldwin hesitated. “I mean, you must agree, this Robert Beauscyr, he may be wealthy, but he’s hardly a perfect example of a knight, is he? I’d have thought he’d be too dull for her.”

“That’s what I’ve said to her, but once she’s…” His face reddened as he went silent.

“A little willful, perhaps? She looked like she had her own mind.” George threw him a quick glance, then grinned suddenly and gave a definite nod. “Ah!”

“Look, sir.” George settled in his saddle. “It’s not that, see. If she’d set her cap at someone else, a farmer or someone, I doubt whether I’d have any complaint about it, but I don’t trust the Beauscyrs. I’ve known some lords in my time, and they’re never as strong as their sires, if you follow me. The sons always seem to be weaker, whether in the head or the arms, just as if the strength is reduced in the children. And that’s what I reckon has happened with the Beauscyrs. Sir William is strong enough, I can’t argue with that, he’s proved it in fighting for the King – but what of his son, Sir Robert? He’s got some brains, but he uses them all in books and reading, and that’s not natural. No, I don’t think he’s right.”

“Right for Alicia, you mean? Or do you mean he could kill?” Baldwin laughed at the man’s expression.

“Come, George. Like your master said, Robert Beauscyr had good reason to want the man back. Do you think he could murder?”

“Sir Robert Beauscyr kill Peter Bruther?” He considered, riding in silence as he thought through the implications. As he knew, the Beauscyr family had little enough reason to like Peter Bruther, but killing a man was different from disliking him. “I wouldn’t have thought he could kill, but if he had a group of men with him and they would do his bidding, he might order them to.”

“What do you know about his brother?”

“Him?” He spat. “If Robert’s got the brains, then John’s got the muscle. He’s one man I’d always want in front of me, never behind. But he’s no interest in the lands, he’s always riding out with his knight looking for more loot or spoil. Their sort are never satisfied, they always want more.”

“Their sort?” Baldwin shot him a glance, but George felt he had said enough and refused to explain himself, maintaining a reserved silence for the remainder of their journey. Luckily it was not much farther, and soon they were at the broad plateau where the miners held their camp. George led them to the blowing-house, where there was a small stable area near a slowturning waterwheel. Leaving their horses there, he took them to the house itself. “You wanted to see this last time you passed near,” he said, and motioned the knight inside.

Baldwin found it was as hot as a smithy, with two men working bare-chested at the furnace. Its flames filled the square room with an unearthly glow of angry red light. He puffed out his cheeks at the heat and winced. The air was so dry and pungent with the fumes of charcoal that it was difficult to breathe after the coolness of their ride, and with each squeeze of the bellows the atmosphere bludgeoned at him.

The building was a simple two roomed affair, built of sturdy rock and turf to keep out wind and rain. A doorway to his right led into a storeroom, and the fire was opposite, set into the wall. It looked like a series of rocks set vertically, four feet wide at most. To the left was a massive bellows, which appeared to be driven from outside by the waterwheel in the stream, and which fed air into the bottom of the hearth. Behind the rocks, George told them, was a tall clay pot, shaped like a cone standing on its point.

“We fill the clay pot with layers of charcoal and ore,” George explained when asked. “The bellows are needed to get the furnace hot enough so that the tin melts. When it does it runs into that trough at the bottom.” He indicated a deeply grooved stone under the furnace. “Then all we have to do is ladle it into an ingot, ready for coining at the stannary town.”

The temperature was too extreme. Though Baldwin would have liked to stay longer and see what else went on, he was eager to leave. “Fascinating,” he murmured to Simon outside as he wiped sweat from his forehead, “but distinctly uncomfortable!”

“Aye, but good when the snow lies on the ground,” said George cheerfully. Since seeing the room he appeared to have recovered his good humor, Baldwin thought, like a devil after receiving a brief but warming blast of hellfire.

“Can you show us where these three men used to live?” Simon asked. He was bored with seeing blowing-houses and the other machines and paraphernalia of the miners. To him it was all as exciting as watching cob dry – if a great deal more profitable.

George Harang shrugged unconcernedly and led them to a series of cottages at the southern edge of the hamlet. Stopping at one he waved a hand for them to enter, leaning against the wall with every sign of relaxation. Exchanging a glance, Simon and Baldwin ducked under the lintel and entered.

It was a miserable hovel, only ten feet by eight, and it stank of urine and smoke. A tiny hearth held a few burned twigs and pieces of wood, while a bundle of faggots stood to one side. There was a sad palliasse, bleeding straw, and a canvas sack beside it with a wooden platter and pot atop, all covered with soot. Apart from that the room was empty.

Outside, a stranger had joined Hugh, Edgar and George. Short and slight, he had the sallow skin and bright eyes of overwork. George cocked a thumb at him. “This is a friend of theirs. He used to share the cottage with them.”

Simon saw that the youth was nervous, perhaps from shyness. He said, “We would like to ask you some questions about Harold Magge, Thomas Horsho and Stephen the Crocker. Do you know where they are?”

“No, sir,” said the boy, shaking his head emphatically. “I never saw them go. They just weren’t here the day before yesterday when I went to sleep, and I haven’t seen them since.”

“Did they always sleep here?”

“Yes, sir.” The nod was as pronounced as the shake, and Simon began to wonder whether his head was firmly set on his shoulders. If not, it was likely to fly off at any moment.

“When did you last see them?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Roughly, lad. You don’t have to be precise.”

“Some days ago, sir.”

“ Where did you last see them?”

“I can’t remember, sir.”

“Surely you can tell us whether they were here at the hut or out somewhere else when you last saw them!”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Staring at him, Simon felt the exasperation mounting until he caught a glimpse of George Harang’s face. He was resting against the wall of the cottage, exuding relaxed nonchalance as he smiled at the miner. And then Simon caught on.

“Thanks, anyway. You’ve been very helpful,” he said, and the man hurried away like a startled hart. Turning, Simon smiled at his friend. “I think we have taken up enough of George’s time, don’t you?” Seeing the disbelief on Baldwin’s face, he took him by the arm and began to walk with him back to their horses.

“Come, we need to speak to the Beauscyrs, don’t we?”

Their guide accompanied them to their horses. “I’m sorry you found out so little,” he lied cheerfully.

“Yes,” said Simon reflectively. “Just one last thing, though. Where were you on the night Peter Bruther died?”

“Me?” George smiled. “I was at the house with my master, of course. Where else would I be?”

“That was a complete waste of time!” Baldwin muttered angrily as they rode at a steady pace up the incline from the camp. Simon glanced at him, smiling.

“Not entirely, Baldwin. We have learned something from our visit. It’s clear that George Harang and Thomas Smyth do not want to help us track down any of these three men. They know exactly what their men were doing that night and don’t want us to find out – which raises some interesting points to consider. For example, if Thomas Smyth is hiding the men or preventing us from finding them, did he know that the three men were going that way? Did he tell them to go? Did he actually instruct them to go and beat up Henry Smalhobbe? And if he did, did he also tell them to go on to Peter Bruther’s place and attack him too?”

“He could have, from the look of him,” said Baldwin, his dark eyes brooding as he frowned at the horizon ahead. Simon followed his stare to where a man herded cattle. The knight continued, “I think Smyth would stop at little to get what he wants. He’s a man who has carved out his own empire here, and no one can tell him what to do. There are any number of men to do his bidding, and if that poor, terrified rabbit of a man was anything to go by, many of them are fearful of upsetting him. I’m sure that’s what he was scared of, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I have no doubt about it. That was why I thought we might as well leave, as we were obviously not going to get anywhere – at least, not while George Harang was hanging around in earshot. No, if we want answers from any of Thomas Smyth’s men, we’ll need to get them away from their master and his servant.”

Sir William watched the small party riding off to hunt with a sense of relief. Three retainers had joined his sons and Sir Ralph. The two boys had been niggling at each other almost from the moment John had returned, and though he was very proud of his sons, both of them, Sir William was beginning to look forward to the time when Sir Ralph and his youngest decided to leave and continue their travels abroad. Sighing, he turned back to the hall, where his wife would be waiting. Matillida too was feeling the strain of the constant sniping; she was becoming waspish.

Something was wrong with Robert, he reflected. His oldest son usually responded pragmatically to problems, but now he appeared to be incapable of seeing how to avoid conflict – indeed, he sought it out. In the past he would always have avoided an argument, preferring to get on with work, but since the affair of Peter Bruther, and especially now that his brother had come home again, he seemed to relish quarrelling. Sir William frowned. It was almost as if he had suddenly discovered a new strength of character.

And John too was a different person. Of course, a lot of that was due to his training as a warrior. Before that he had been a mere boy, but he had now returned as a man, and that was hard for Robert to understand. John had his own opinions on a number of matters where before he would have bowed to his brother’s view. No longer. He had left home a shy, quiet boy; now he was used to work and hardship after six years of steady training in service to his master. Confident and self-assured after living for years on the Scottish marches, a warrior now after fighting the border raiders, he had seen too much to be able to go back to a state of happy obedience, constantly deferring to his older brother’s wishes. Perhaps that was it. Maybe it was just that Robert could not understand that John had grown to maturity, Sir William decided.

Climbing the steps, he found his eyes being dragged back to the main gate, as if trying to look through it to the men riding off. He was still unsure of Sir Ralph. The knight had certainly trained his son well in the arts of war and chivalry, he had seen that in numerous little signs, in the way that he shared money unstintingly with the guards, in the way he offered to give alms to beggars at the door, but most of all in the way he could handle a sword. It had been impressive, Sir William admitted to himself – but troubling, as well.

The day before, John had been fretful, apparently bored, and had asked one of the guards to practice with him. One of the men-at-arms had been persuaded, Ronald Taverner, and they had used training swords built of heavy iron, with edges and points blunted. For protection they wore bucklers – small, circular shields. The idea had been to keep John in training, or so he had said, but when Sir William had gone to the stables to watch, he had been surprised by something Sir Ralph had said.

The knight had joined him, resting his forearms on the rail, a small dry smile on his face, and Sir William had said, “It’s good to see the young working to achieve the best they can, isn’t it?”

Sir Ralph had glanced at him, then back at the circling fighters. “To learn, surely the young should pick fighters as good as themselves, or better?”

Surprised, Sir William had watched the two men. It was plain what the knight had meant, and he had seen it for himself. Whereas John had demonstrated his skill, battering with his sword at any point of weakness like a good soldier, the guard had been clearly uneasy and far below John’s standard. He had held his sword well enough, but seemed not to have enough strength to use it effectively. His buckler was never quite fast enough to parry the crushing blows of his opponent’s weapon, his own blade was always just too slow to take advantage of an opening. Though John had managed to make it look as if he was having to work hard, the real effort had all been on the other side.

“They do look unmatched,” he had said, and had been surprised by his guest’s chuckle.

“More than a little. Any moment now John will lose interest. Ah, there it is!”

John had faltered, a foot dragged and made him stumble, and immediately the guard was on him. But as soon as he moved forward, the squire feinted to the right, then swung his buckler, knocking the man to his knees. Before he could move, the heavy sword had chopped downward, and he had collapsed, rolling in the dirt of the yard in his pain and clutching at his neck while John sauntered over to the bar and thrust his sword into the ground, casually tugging his gauntlets free.

“So, Father. I fear your guard missed my little trick.” His eyes were partly lidded, and Sir William had not been sure what expression they held. “Still, he has learned not to trust a swordsman who trips.”

“Did you have to hit him so hard? There was no need…” Three men had rushed to the rolling figure, and helped him to his feet as Sir William watched, stunned. Even when propped upright, his head dangled loose as though his neck was broken.

“Of course there was,” John said imperturbably. “If he was not hurt, how could he learn? It is only by thrashing dogs – and servants, too! – that they get the point of their lesson. He’ll be all right. Just have a headache for a couple of days.” And then he had stared at Sir Ralph, who met his gaze evenly. “Anyway, the main thing is, I won. Winning is all that matters when you hold a weapon, isn’t it? Winning and surviving.”

“John, that’s not the way of a knight. It’s not only victory that matters, it’s the honor of the match,” his father had protested.

“Perhaps, Father. But sometimes the honor doesn’t matter,” John had said, and Sir William had been shocked into silence by his cynicism. Half-shrugging, John had walked away, leaving the two men standing and watching him go. As he was half-carried away to recover, the wounded man also watched John go, and cast a baleful glare at him.

But more than the distaste which he felt for his son’s words was his shock at hearing the knight beside him murmur, “Your man should be grateful. If his sword had been real and edged, John would still have struck him.”

Now, a day later, Sir William could still recall the strange sadness in the northern knight’s voice. It was as if Sir Ralph had, with those words, confessed to himself how poorly he had trained his squire. Though a warrior should be resolute and determined in battle, he should still be loyal, honorable and courteous – to those beneath his station as well as his superiors. John’s behavior showed no chivalrous qualities whatsoever. That, Sir William felt sure, was why Sir Ralph looked so unhappy, so distressed, as if for the first time he had understood the nature of the squire he had created.

A noise at the gate made him look up, drawn once more to the present. It was the bailiff and his friend, back from their visit to Thomas Smyth. Anxiety surged through him as he watched them enter and dismount, but there was nothing he could do. If Thomas had told them, he would soon know about it. Then he drew himself up sharply. Sir Ralph could have had another reason for his black mood the day before, he thought. There was no indication of when Peter Bruther had died: Sir Ralph might think John had played a part in the villein’s death.

Simon saw the figure of the old knight slowly making his way up the stairs and nodded toward him. “This has hit him hard. Sir William looks older than when we first came here.”

“Yes. He feels his responsibilities. It is strange how death can remind a man about his own weaknesses – or those of his family.” Baldwin’s face was pensive, his eyes fixed on the now closed door.

“Should we leave him alone for a while, do you think?”

“We must question him at some point. It might as well be now,” said Baldwin, setting off for the hall.

Inside, the old knight and his wife were resting in front of the fire. Simon could see how exhausted Sir William was when he raised his eyes to the four men. “Bailiff, Sir Baldwin – please come in and have some wine.”

“Thank you,” Simon said, reaching forward to take the proffered goblet, then settling on his bench. Baldwin sat beside him, while Edgar and Hugh took their seats unobtrusively some feet behind.

“Have you had a useful morning?” asked Matillida Beauscyr graciously, and Baldwin smiled at her as he sipped some wine.

“Very, thank you,” he said. “Yes, we have been to see Thomas Smyth, and the miners’ camp. And, tell me: we saw a man on the moors near your mining camp with cattle. Are there many who use the moors for pasture?”

Sir William nodded. “There are some. It’s not the same as it used to be before the famine – then we had five thousand head or more, but there’s less than half that number now… But there are still some farmers who use their rights of pasturage. The man you saw was probably Adam Coyt. He lives over west of here. I think he’s been on the moors all his life, which has been a hard one. His wife and son are both dead, and he’s kept his little farm going alone ever since.

Baldwin said, “It must be hard for a man like him. Working all alone, and with no one to leave it to.”

“It happens all too often, I fear,” Sir William sighed. “The moors are harsh on all those who choose to live here. To be a moorman you must be as hard as the moorstone itself.”

“But your Manor is not like that!” Simon protested. “It is successful, with good crops and growing herds.” As bailiff, he knew; he saw the records of production each year. Sir William shot him a glance as if expecting an immediate tax increase.

“We have been lucky so far, bailiff. Luckier than some,” he admitted heavily.

“You must be glad you have two strong sons to leave all this to,” Baldwin continued.

“Of course. It would be difficult if I had no heirs,” and Sir William shrugged.

Baldwin did not meet his look. “Thomas Smyth has no son, does he? Could you tell us anything about him?”

Sir William stared at the fire for a moment. “I should have thought,” he said dryly, “you could have found out all you needed to know from the man himself while you were with him. Anyhow, he is not a local man, as you probably guessed. I think he came from the north somewhere, and moved here back in ’86 or ’87. He was only a lad then, of course, but enthusiastic. Well, he began mining and was lucky. Many men go for ages without finding anything, but he was one of the fortunate ones. He happened on a piece of land which bore a good quantity of metal, and he was shrewd with it, getting other men to look after it for wages while he searched for more. Soon he was not satisfied with just finding tin. He had to aim for better, more efficient ways of refining it. Most men are pleased to find tin and smelt it once, but not he.”

“Smelt it once?” asked Baldwin. It was Simon who answered, resting his elbows on his knees.

“There is a first and a second smelting, Baldwin. When miners find ore, they break it into small chunks and melt out the tin over their fires. That’s called ‘first smelting.’ There are lots of impurities in it from the charcoal and other rubbish, so it has to be smelted again to produce ‘white tin,’ which is clean enough to be coined at the stannary towns.”

“I see. And Smyth was not satisfied with that?”

Sir William gave a sour grin. “Oh no, not old Thomas. He’s too sharp. He had to build his own blowing-house. The furnace is so clean he can smelt tin faster and recover even more, and it’s all white tin. There’s hardly any dirt mixed with it. He can produce as much as he wants, and smelt other men’s metal too, so he charges them to use his fires, and that makes him even more powerful here.”

Simon stated the obvious inference. “You do not like him Sir William.”

“I do not. It is wrong for a man like him to be able to live like a lord. He is only a commoner – I don’t even know if he’s a free man. He could well be another runaway peasant like Bruther, someone who managed to escape to the moors. Just because he has accumulated money does not make him any better.”

“He told us you were with him on the night that Peter Bruther died. What were you doing there if you dislike him so much?”

Sir William stared at him, anger flaring briefly, only to be washed away by a kind of tired acceptance. “For a guest you are very inquisitive, bailiff,” he sighed. “No matter. I was negotiating: I was there to agree terms with him so that he would not damage my lands.”

“So you went to pay him not to come here?”

“Yes. If I didn’t, he promised a small army of miners, taking my water, digging on my pastures, and cutting down my trees for charcoal. They have the right, after all. We settled on a sum.”

“I see. The men who found the body, they were riding with you, were they not?”

“Yes. But I sent them off before I went in to speak to Smyth.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to talk to him without two inquisitive men-at-arms listening.”

“Were you alone with Smyth for the discussion?”

“Apart from his man, George Harang.”

“You had no men with you?” Simon’s voice was openly amazed.

Sir William looked up, frowning. “And who should I have had with me, bailiff? A son like Robert, who loathed the fact that I must negotiate with a blackmailer? Or perhaps John and his master, who travelled with me, but… Ha! Each would prefer to slice his own throat than deal with a commoner. They left me when we arrived at the miner’s house. I sent the men-at-arms back so they would not hear what I was there to discuss with Smyth. How could I let one of my guards hear that kind of talk? It would take no time at all for news to travel all round this fort that I, the master of the Manor, was being threatened by a common tinner and forced to pay up. How could the men here respect me if they heard that?”

His wife put her hand on his shoulder and William gradually subsided, sinking back into his chair exhausted. Surely, he thought, the bailiff must understand. A fortress like this was only as strong as the men inside it. If the guards all felt unsure of their master, they might run off and desert him or, worse, decide that he was too old for his responsibilities. Weak lords did not live long – there was always someone prepared to organize a mutiny among the common guards. It was not like the old times when honorable men worked for their master for life; now castles like Beauscyr had to rely on hirelings, on paid mercenaries. That was why this castle, like so many other new ones, had dormitories for the men-at-arms separated from the solar where the family lived. In the past all would have slept in the same hall, but mercenaries were not to be so well-trusted as guards, and it was not rare for a lord to find himself having to fight his own men, defending his solar from the very soldiers he had trained for war. Surely, the bailiff could understand that, too?

His wife looked at Simon coldly. “Is it not enough that we must demean ourselves in front of this miner? Do you have to rake this up and embarrass us with it?”

“I am sorry, my lady, but though Peter Bruther was only a villein, it does seem he was murdered, and we must ask everyone who could have been involved.”

“Who could have been involved? Are you saying that you suspect my husband of involvement?” Her brows rose in angry disgust. “I do not wish to hear more, sir. You are our guests, but there is no need for us to accept insults. I would like to be left alone, now. Please leave us.”

It was not a request. Feeling ashamed, and not a little saddened at upsetting the lady of the Manor, Simon led the way from the room.

“This is how I used to feel when I was a small boy and my nurse sent me from the room for misbehaving,” Baldwin murmured to raise his spirits, and Simon smiled gratefully.

Once they had left, Matillida knelt at her husband’s feet, her hands in his lap. “You see how their minds are working? That whoreson Smyth has them on his side already. You have heard about the corruption of officials – well, obviously the bailiff thinks about his purse more than he does about justice! You must do something to make Puttock realize what a danger the miners are out there.”

Sir William looked old and tired, and for the first time she could see how the years had exacted their toll on his spirit. Resting one hand on hers, the other in her hair, he smiled weakly. “Poor Matillida! All you want is the family strong and secure, and all you find are threats on every side. What do you want me to do? Have Thomas Smyth murdered? Or maybe just have him tortured until he admits to killing young Bruther?”

“Don’t be foolish. No, we need to keep him with us, that’s certain. We cannot allow this affair to get out of proportion, to turn Smyth against us. You know that Robert is set on Alicia?”

“What! My son wants her? But he hates Thomas…”

“Of course he does, but that means nothing, not when it comes to the girl. And she would be good for him. She is intelligent and should bring a good dowry.”

He gave a harsh bark of a laugh. “A good dowry? Yes, very good! It will be our own money which is returned to us.”

“Yes, husband, but better that it should come back as a dowry than be lost to the family forever. And the girl would make him a good wife, as I say. Especially with me helping and training her. So we must ensure that her father is not at odds with us, mustn’t we?”

“But you said we need to make the bailiff realize how dangerous the miners are. How can we…”

“We must help the bailiff understand how unsettling it is to have outlaws and thieves masquerading as miners, of course. We do not object to freemen coming here and working, only the brigands and cut-throats. And if they are allowed to remain, is it surprising that people sometimes get killed by them? Of course not! That is the point you must make to the bailiff and his friend, that it is hard enough surviving here without having murderers and outlaws living nearby in a miners’ camp.”

He stood and sighed, looking down at her. “I will see what I can do.”

“You must! We have to try to keep Thomas Smyth happy so that he will smile on his daughter’s marriage to our son. It will make sense for him, to marry into a good family, and it will be good for us to have the use of his power and wealth. But he needs to be curbed a little. He must be made to realize that his power ends at the border of our lands, and he must not try to extort money from us again.” Nodding, Sir William made his way to the door, but before he could leave, her voice stopped him. “And if the bailiff listens to you, we might be able to break the power of other miners like him forever, and get control of the land for ourselves.”