A Moorland Hanging aktm-3

by Michael Jecks

  Striding out, Baldwin snatched a lantern from a gawping boy, then jerked his head at Edgar. “Get these people out. Hugh will help you.” He jabbed a finger at the man who appeared to have discovered the two bodies. “He can stay.”

  Nodding, Edgar began to shepherd the crowd from the little room. It was some moments before they had peace; the men in the courtyard were trying to squeeze through the little doorway as Hugh and Edgar forced them back. At last, when he had the door barred, Edgar noticed that Sir William and his son had remained where they stood. The manservant was considering asking them to leave as well when he heard Baldwin’s call, and forgetting them he hurried to the door. Baldwin gave him the lantern to hold so that he could study the figure.

  At first he surveyed the position of the body, standing stock still while his eyes roved over the limbs, fixing their position in his mind, memorizing where the toppled barrels lay and then glancing round at the other stacks of goods. He could see that the man must have fallen forward. Apart from the collapsed pile of barrels on to which he had fallen, there was no other sign of a struggle. He crouched and examined the nearest barrel. Right beside it on the ground was a circle, and he nodded to himself. “Look, Simon, this one tipped over from where it had stood.” He rocked the barrel tentatively. “Not very heavy, either. The others must have been stacked on top of it.”

  Letting his eyes take in the scene again, he moved up to the body. A few inches above Samuel’s hand was a sharp tear in the wool of his coat.

  Touching it lightly, Baldwin could feel the stickiness, and his lip curled in distaste. “Yes, he was stabbed too. In the back.”

  “What can have happened?”

  “I’m not sure.” Baldwin’s eyes went to the other body on the bed. Taking the light from Edgar, he strode to the palliasse. “Ah!”

  “What?” Simon followed him. “What have you found?”

  “Look.” Baldwin turned, and in his hand was a short-bladed knife, its steel dulled with dried blood.

  “This must be what killed them.”

  Sir William’s voice came from the storeroom. “Sir Baldwin, there’s a knife out here too.”

  “What?” The knight’s face registered astonishment for a moment, then he darted through to where the old knight stood frowning at a thin-bladed knife, turning it over and over in his hand.

  Baldwin took it from him and studied it. “So what has happened here, then?” he muttered.

  “I can guess,” said Sir Robert. “There were regular gambling games down here. The guards get bored too often, and then they resort to playing at dice. These two were obviously playing at some game, began arguing and soon came to blows. They stabbed each other.”

  “That is a truly magnificent hypothesis,” murmured Baldwin, and the young knight gave a slight smile, pleased with the older man’s approbation. Simon could hear the dry sarcasm in his friend’s tone and for a moment his mood lightened.

  “It would explain it, wouldn’t it?” the young knight said, glancing smugly at Simon.

  “Oh, yes!” Baldwin’s voice registered emphatic agreement.

  Smiling, Robert walked from the storeroom, stared briefly at the body on the bed, then went out. Hugh closed the door after him. Sir William had watched his son depart, but now his gaze returned to Baldwin, who was again studying Samuel’s figure. “So you aren’t convinced, Sir Baldwin?” he asked, his voice calm and steady.

  “No. Not at all.”

  “Why?”

  “It is too simple on the one hand, and too difficult on the other. Oh, I am sure that the poor lad in there on his mattress died almost instantly from his wound. There was no blood, and I think that means he was dead in an instant. No blood always does seem to indicate a quick death. But this one, Samuel – he managed to stagger all the way out here, over from the bed, before dying.”

  “So?”

  “Sir William, this man bled a lot. Feel the back of his coat if you don’t believe me. There’s a good pool of blood here where he lies. Yet there’s no blood on the floor by Ronald’s palliasse, or from the bed to here. He was not stabbed there, he died here, where he fell.”

  “But… but surely he could still have been killed by the other. Ronald must have stabbed him here, and then made his way back to his bed where he himself died.”

  “I fear not. As I said, Ronald died almost instantaneously. What is stored in these boxes and things?”

  The question caught Sir William unawares. “Out here? Food and some drink, I think. And spare cloth. Nothing much. Why?”

  “I just wondered why this man would have wanted to come out here.” Baldwin’s gaze was travelling around the room as he spoke. There was no window, just a small door which gave onto the courtyard. When Baldwin walked to it and tried it, it was barred.

  Simon gave him an enquiring look, and the knight shrugged. “It means nothing,” he said. “It is barred now, but the murderer might have got in last night and barred it afterward, once he had killed Samuel.”

  “What are you saying – that someone in the garrison killed these two?” demanded Sir William, his face reddening.

  “Hmm? Oh, yes, without a doubt as far as I’m concerned. Somebody came in here, probably through the locked door, and called out or kicked over a stack of barrels to attract Samuel’s attention. Why else should he come here? When the poor man entered he was grabbed and stabbed in the back. It would not have taken long for him to die, not with a wound that high on his back. Then the same man went through to Ronald’s room and stabbed him through the heart, possibly while he was asleep, but that’s a guess. Whether the dice were already on the floor or not is unimportant, but it is possible the killer scattered them as an afterthought to suggest the idea that there had been a gambling fight. Then it was simply a matter of dropping knives about, after dipping them in blood, to leave us with the clear inference that they must have slaughtered each other. I have no doubt we were expected to think that these two had fallen out over money, but I find it hard – no, impossible – to believe that, after seeing the two of them together. They were too friendly.”

  Sir William appeared to shrivel as Baldwin spoke. Simon half-expected the old man to fall to the floor as the knight finished talking, he looked so frail and weak. His face took on an introspective look. “And is there anything else? Anything to indicate who it could have been?” he asked, but Baldwin did not respond. He carried on searching the rooms in his quest for clues while the others watched. They were still there when the servant began pounding on the door and shouting once more for Sir William.

  Sir Robert watched his brother with a dry, humorless smile. He had heard of the row of the night before, and was amused to see how it had affected his brother. John stood apart, not wanting to talk to the men-at-arms who helped Robert to his horse, or to the men who climbed on to their own horses to join in the hunt. He waited like a sulking child at the periphery of all the noise as the men prepared.

  There was still an all-encompassing smell of burned wood and straw from the stable, and it was partly this which had persuaded Robert to go and search for food. He had no desire to wait in the fort and supervise the men clearing up. After the night before he knew that John would prefer to be leaving the Manor for the morning too, and that gave him cause for a certain sadistic pleasure, knowing he could not go. On a whim he walked his horse over to where his brother stood.

  “Come, brother. Why don’t you join us?” John looked up, and Robert saw the despair in his eyes. It made him regret his sarcastic, bantering query, to see his brother so smothered by fears. When he spoke again his voice was softer. “John? Are you all right? Would you like me to stay with you? The men can go alone, if you want to talk.”

  “To you?” For a moment all Robert could see was the surprise, and he gave a twisted smile. It did sound odd. For the last few weeks they had quarrelled incessantly, neither wanting to approach too close to the other. Their ideas were too different, their motives, their interests, their very souls, were worlds
apart. Each time they came together they sparked, like flint and steel. But it left Robert with a hole he could feel in his heart. He wanted a brother he could call his friend, a man to whom he could talk, with whom he could discuss his anxieties and his hopes, a man he could speak to of his love for Alicia, and who would understand and give encouragement. It was more than that: he needed somebody he could trust wholeheartedly, a man he could rely on, especially now he was to become master of Beauscyr. And especially since the death of Bruther. He leaned forward in his saddle, so that his head was close to his brother’s, and no one else could hear his words.

  “Look, John, if you want me to, I’ll stay here to speak to you. You’ll be going soon, I know, and I don’t want you to leave with any bad feelings.” An air of uncertainty crept into his brother’s face and John peered up at him, biting his lip. It emboldened Robert. “When Father is dead and I am master here, you’ll always be welcome to visit, and…”

  The spell was broken. With those few words, John lost his indecision. A sneer twisted his features into a grimace of disgust and he took a half-step backward. “So you can feel generous to me, you mean? So you can allow me the scrapings from your table, like an old man begging alms at your door?” Robert wanted to cry out, to stop the flow of spite and jealousy, but the words stuck in his throat. “How kind, brother. How very kind! So you will let me come back here every now and then to see how well you are: how profitable your estate is; how plentiful your children are. I fear, brother, that I might not be able to. I fear that I might prefer to stay in Italy. A jail there would please me more than to see you living here happily, and as far as I am concerned, once our father is dead, I will have no wish to see you or the estate ever again. So thank you, brother. I hope you enjoy your hunt.” And break your damned neck! he added inwardly.

  Robert stared, all color drained from his face. As though carved from marble, he sat rigid and unmoving on his horse, and only then did John see that there was no pride in his attitude, only hurt rejection. Then John ached to take his words back, to try to explain… but it was too late. The damage was done.

  His spine stiff and straight, Robert kicked his horse into a canter and swept through the first, then the second gate, out to the open moors beyond. It would not do to let the rest of the hunting party guess at his torment. Up in front was the rising land, a broad expanse topped by a small clump of trees, toward which he headed, the hooves of his followers’ horses pounding behind him. There was a thick lump of despair in his chest. He could hardly think coherently, for every thought led him back to John and the terrible contempt in his younger brother’s eyes.

  That was why the ambush was such a dramatic success.

  20

  George Harang watched the men approaching with a feeling akin to panic. If only there hadn’t been that fire, he thought. The Manor would not have been awake so early, they would all still have been at their breakfasts, not up and active – and it was far too early to send out a party to hunt. He slapped a fist into his cupped hand. The preparations were not even half-completed.

  And yet the men were coming on, as if they had not seen his group of miners lying in wait. It was a strong force of men-at-arms, one man out in front ignoring the others, riding as stiff as a board of wood, apparently uncaring whether his guards could keep up with him or not.

  Harang quickly assessed the chances of success, and then signalled urgently to the man next to him and gave his instructions.

  If only John had not been so quick to take offense, Robert lamented as he lashed his horse up the slope. Why should he be so swift to anger just because the older of the two was to inherit the estate? It was the natural way of things, not some curious new injustice.

  He clenched his jaw resolutely. There had been no need for John to spurn his attempt at reconciliation, it had been offered in all sincerity. And yet the jeering withdrawal of his brother had made it clear that there could be no friendship between them. But despite his own anger, Robert could still feel the prickle behind his eyes.

  Then he saw the figure of a man standing up on the skyline before him, waving his arms urgently. Robert set spurs to his horse and increased his speed. At least someone wants my help, he thought, a bitter grin twisting his lips.

  As he came closer, he saw that the man was familiar. The body stocky and trim, the legs short, the trunk thick like an oak tree. It was George Harang.

  “Now!” bellowed George.

  Suddenly the ground was full of miners. A group appeared in front of him, and as he whirled, Robert saw that he was surrounded. More were behind, some facing him with smiles of disdain at his stupidity while others turned back toward his men, fitting arrows to bows. Robert stared, stunned. The blood pounded in his veins, thundering at his temples like the steady beat of a warhorse at full gallop, and he felt a chill creep over him.

  George walked down toward him, laughing loudly, issuing orders and keeping a wary eye on the members of the hunting party. “Tie him up!”

  “Sir William, Sir William!” The pounding on the door sounded as though it was going to shatter the timbers to dust, and the old knight lifted his eyes to it with resignation. Was there never any peace, he wondered. Irritably he walked to the door and tugged it wide.

  “What the devil is…”

  “Sir William, it’s the miners. They’ve come and they’ve captured your son – we saw them from the walls, sir. They…”

  Baldwin and Simon raced up and listened at either side of the old knight as the messenger stuttered and stammered, his pale, round face wrinkled and anxious, reminding Baldwin of his old mastiff, who was no doubt lying comfortably in front of his fire at Furnshill. Shaking the idea from his head, he caught the end of the message: “And they took him, knocked him from his horse, and…”

  Baldwin grasped him by the shoulder. The man had graying hair and black, misshapen teeth in a revolting, slack mouth. Blue eyes stared back, the terror in them plain to see. Gradually he calmed under the serious stare of the knight’s dark brown eyes. “Good, now, start again. You say that your master’s son has been taken. Which one?”

  “Sir Robert, sir,” the man gulped.

  “And he was taken by miners?”

  “Yes, sir. The men at the gate saw it. There was George Harang and others, and they caught Sir Robert just at the top of the hill, when he went out to hunt. There were lots of them, and they tied his hands and took him away.”

  “Where to? Which way did they go?”

  “Toward the miners’ camp, I suppose. One of the men has followed. We’re getting the rest of the horses saddled now, sir.”

  “Good.” Baldwin stared at Sir William. “We must hurry; this cannot be permitted. It is one thing to take moormen hostage, quite another to take a knight captive.”

  “Do you know of any reason why they should have taken your son, Sir William?” asked Simon.

  “No, I’ve no idea why they should do this,” declared the knight with frank astonishment. “We’ve always lived side by side with the miners on the moors, and there’s never been anything like this before. We’ve paid when they wanted money, we’ve not intimidated them, I’ve recognized their power, and it would have been stupid to try to curb them – that would only have led to more troubles. No, I’ve no idea why they should have done this.”

  Simon slowly nodded. “Very well. Let’s get ready, then.”

  Hugh and Edgar trailed after them. Baldwin’s man wore a happy smile, and he clapped Hugh on the back as they went. “Don’t worry,” he said cheerfully. “It’ll be fun,” and began whistling.

  “Fun!” muttered Hugh contemptuously and sniffed. He had the unpleasant suspicion that there would be blood shed, and he had no wish to see the color of his own.

  In the courtyard they found a mass of confused and anxious men. Some wore helmets, some mail, but most simply had their leather or quilted jackets. All gripped weapons, rough agricultural tools or long-handled pikes; only a few wore swords. One stood with shy embarrassment cl
utching a worn billhook. Pale faces or flushed, all held the same quiet concern. It was one thing, Baldwin knew, to accept a master’s food and lodging, but when it came to protecting him, the nature of an oath of allegiance took on a wholly different and more fearsome meaning. All these people were aware of how little Sir William must value each of their lives against that of his oldest surviving son, and in their eyes he read the age-old calculation: would their leader be able to win without throwing away his men’s lives needlessly? It was there in the narrow watchfulness, in the slow, unhurried movements, in the careful stroking of a hand over the haft of a lance. All these men felt the same tension as they looked at Sir William.

  Baldwin was about to turn and mention this to the knight when the older man pushed past him, going to the stairs and climbing halfway up them. But this was not the same Sir William. A few moments before, he had been an elderly man bent with his cares, his vitality sapped by recent events. No longer. Now he was a warlord.

  There was no shout from the crowd to welcome him. At a hanging, even the victim would get cheery applause, but not Sir William. The men stared up at him, and he stared back, and a strange stillness slowly settled on them all, curiously out of place for such a sizeable group. It was no surprise, Baldwin reflected. After all, these men had seen the steady decline of the head of the Beauscyr family. They all knew that he had few enough years left. His walk had gradually slowed, he tired more easily, and the strength which had marked him out as a great warrior had begun to fail him.

  For several minutes there was no sound but for the whip and crackle of clothes drying in the gusting breeze on the lines by the kitchen. The sun peered between some clouds and added a tinge of warmth, but still Sir William stared. Some men began to shuffle, their feet restlessly slapping in the little puddles of sloshed water from the buckets.

  “You all know what’s happened to my son.” His tone was pensive, almost sad, but carried clearly. “He’s been captured by miners and taken away. I don’t know why. It could be that the tinners want to hold him to ransom. They’ve done it to others before, though they’ve never dared do it to me in the past. It’s probably because I agreed to pay them not to damage the Manor’s lands. Now they feel so powerful, they think they can threaten even me. It’s my fault, if they think that. I should have realized. But I could do nothing, because they threatened other things if I tried to use force to keep them from here. I had to pay. I am sorry, because it means that you all must now fight to help me free my son.”