A Moorland Hanging aktm-3

by Michael Jecks

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

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

  “I got hurt in practice, sir.”

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

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

  “An accident, then.”

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

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

  “Samuel?” Simon said, looking up.

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

  “A warning?” His tone made Simon raise his brows. “What do you mean? A warning about what?”

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

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

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

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

  “I…”

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

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

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

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

  “No, sir. I mean, unless…”

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

  Simon considered him. “John and Sir Ralph?”

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

  “Oh, come on, that’s…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I said, ‘What do you think, Simon?’”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What is it, Simon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “How many men were there?”

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

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

  “What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Baldwin leaned against the battlement and folded his arms. “We don’t know what to think. But it does seem as though John had an opportunity to kill Bruther. It was light when you got to the inn, wasn’t it?” He nodded. “And was it still light when you were with the woman?”

  “I suppose so. The shutters were over the windows. I couldn’t say.”

  “So it comes to this. John knew that Bruther had insulted you, his master. He knew Bruther had caused problems for his father and the Manor. And we know he had the chance to kill Bruther because he disappeared for some time.”

  “But surely others had more reason to kill than he?”

  “Possibly, but we can’t ignore the fact that John seems to have had the chance as well as reasons aplenty. Did he kill while he was in the north with you?”

  Sir Ralph wetted his lips nervously. “It’s possible,” he managed after a moment.

  “So he could have killed again.” Baldwin’s tone was definite, and Sir Ralph slowly nodded. They had no more questions and a few minutes later he left them, walking meditatively over to the stairs. They watched him slowly crossing the courtyard to the hall.

  “Now I think Sir Ralph feels sure it is his squire,” said Baldwin.

  “Yes, but he could be wrong. Don’t forget, the three men working for Thomas Smyth could have been telling the truth when they said they were told not to attack Bruther,” Simon reminded him. “From Sir Ralph’s words, it would appear that Bruther was protected by miners, so it must be less likely that it was Smyth’s men who killed him. But why would that be? Why was Thomas not after this one man to go away and leave the area? If he was so determined to have Henry Smalhobbe and others thrown off the moors, what would’ve made him let Bruther stay?”

  “From all we have heard, this Peter Bruther was no coward. He seems to have been prepared to stand up for himself against his master, Sir Ralph – anyone. Perhaps he fought against Thomas Smyth as well. After all, we do not know who these other miners were who defended him against the worthy knight. Maybe there were others like him and Smalhobbe – a little group of the weak protecting themselves against the strong.”

  “Possibly. We must speak to Henry Smalhobbe and ask him about that.”

  “We could go and ask the miners, too, of course, but I doubt whether we’d find out much more than we have already learned,” mused Baldwin.

  “No. It’s Smalhobbe I wish to see. I want to know more about that man’s past.”

  At his hut Henry Smalhobbe paused at the door and dropped his sack of tools with a sigh of satisfaction. Hearing the clatter, Sarah rushed to the doorway and twitched the curtain aside, gasping with relief as she saw he
r husband. She had been on edge and anxious ever since the attack, and especially after hearing about poor Peter’s death. From that appalling day onward she had not been able to relax.

  The air was still and humid, and she had felt on the brink of fainting all day in the smothering heat. Even the birds had seemed to find it too exhausting to sing, apart from an occasional lark. There had been a haze which had hidden the further hills when she stared out to the south and east, and the land nearer shimmered under the smothering blanket of intense dry heat.

  As she performed her chores, sweeping the hard-packed earth of the floor, washing a tunic and mixing dough, Sarah Smalhobbe could sense a brooding danger all round as if the moors themselves hated her and wanted both her and her husband to die. These moors were not soft and gentle like the northern ones nearer their old home, they were brutal and unfeeling, and she could feel them watching her.

  She was not fanciful, but the tales of the old man of the moors, Crockern, kept crowding back into her mind.

  How the spirit hated men, hated the way that the tinners dug deep into his body to bring up his riches, disturbing the gray rocks which were his bones. This might be the fourteenth century, but she could feel the weight of his disapproval, and though she was Christian, she knew better than to tempt him here in his own land.

  At least her husband was back safe again. She hugged him, feeling the tears close once more, and even when she heard his short gasp of pain as she gripped him, squeezing his bruised chest, she could not let go. It was too good to be able to hold him after the loneliness of the day.

  Henry caressed her fondly and kissed her head. The pain was receding, though one arm was still almost useless. He had only gone to his workings to make sure that no one else was stealing his ore, but nobody had been there all day, and he had spent much of his time merely sitting and wondering about their future here. The miners working for Smyth were becoming more violent, and he was not going to be able to protect himself and his wife from their attacks if they continued. Perhaps they should leave now, while they still could, before any fresh assault? But to do that would be to admit defeat.