A Moorland Hanging aktm-3

by Michael Jecks

  George hovered, undecided. Thomas had told him to stay here with the two men, but he, too, was shocked by the brutality of the battle. This was not what he had expected. It was no way to avenge Peter – it was merely a slogging match in which men with the least reason to fight were pitted against each other. Yet slowly, unwillingly, he shook his head. He had never yet failed his master.

  Baldwin walked forward casually. Simon was standing a short distance from George, his face reddening in fury, and the knight moved alongside, aware of the heightened tension in their other guards. “George,” he said. “Simon is right. We have to stop this. Look at it.”

  The miner risked a glance and saw men grappling with each other, men holding each other by the throat, one who sat numbly, his head bleeding profusely from a wound in his scalp, and bodies… everywhere he looked there were figures lying on the ground. Then he saw a young man fall, after a blow from a club. Gritting his teeth, he addressed Simon. “Come with me,” he said quietly.

  He led the way past the guards, who stared dumbly as if unsure whether to join the fight or stay where they were, between the cottages on the left, and to a place where the ground rose. From here they could see Thomas. He was wielding his heavy sword as if it was as tight as an arrow, and against him stood John. Glancing round the field, Simon made out Sir William on his feet a little behind, and Sir Ralph was with him, also off his horse. A man stumbled by carrying a lance, a bloody gash in his arm, and Simon swore viciously. The man could only have been twenty, no more, and he was crying, unseeing, just walking to avoid any further fighting, and the sight inflamed the bailiff. Before Baldwin could stop him, he had shoved past two struggling groups and drawn his sword, knocking John and Thomas apart and standing between them.

  Baldwin stared in astonishment, but then, seeing that two miners were rushing to Simon thinking he was going to attack their master, he leapt forward with a muttered prayer, and stood facing them, his back to the bailiff and his sword outstretched while his brown eyes held theirs unblinkingly. They hesitated, exchanging a glance, before slowly circling round him to get closer to Thomas Smyth, but he moved to bar their way. At the sound of the bailiff’s voice they halted.

  “Stop this madness!”

  Risking a quick glance behind him, the knight saw that his friend was bellowing right into the miner’s face. Thomas stood white with rage, his sword gripped in both hands, and Baldwin thought for one terrible moment that he was going to attack Simon. But then the fire died from his eyes and he seemed to shrivel. While the deafening clamor of the battle ranged all round them, the miner was locked in his own private world of pain and grief.

  This was not what he had wanted. He had tried to get hold of John, the man he believed had killed his son, but when George Harang had come back with Robert, he had intended somehow to use him as a bargaining chip to capture the real culprit. He had not wanted this. All he had wanted to do was avenge his son, not cause more hurt. The bailiff was staring at him with open disgust, and it shook Smyth, making him look all round.

  Theirs was a distinct island of calm in the middle of the battle, fringed by men hacking and stabbing at each other. Their allegiance was a mystery, for in the height of battle all were reduced to a bland uniformity, faces set, wielding their weapons with the fixed and fearful determination to kill before they could be harmed. Thomas found it difficult to distinguish between his own men and those of the Beauscyrs. The men were all involved in their own private battles, small groups of three or four with various weapons, some clinched together in a mortal fight for control of a single dagger, some slipping and sliding at the bank of the stream, faces and clothes streaked with mud and soil, others standing and making slashing arcs in the air with steel and iron. Here and there men stood warily glaring at each other, panting as they rested, too exhausted already to continue, snatching rest in the midst of the killing. And all over the ground were the bodies. Some writhing, some rolling, some screaming, and more just still, features fixed, with stabs or great marks in their skulls where a mace or pick had dashed out their brains.

  Simon saw the miner’s face change. A look of understanding came into his eyes, and with it an infinity of sadness. He nodded, his sword dropping, and stood up from his crouch, and Simon knew that the fight must soon end.

  “STOP THIS NOW!” he roared, and Simon was surprised at the power in his voice. “ALL OF YOU, STOP!”

  Some of those nearest paused and turned to stare. Baldwin saw one man try to look to Thomas, and as he did, his opponent sprang forward, ready to stab, but before he could strike Baldwin had knocked his falchion aside. Immediately the other faced back and tried to swing his axe at the Beauscyr man, and Baldwin had to knock that away too. “Stop this now!” he snarled. “If one of you tries again I will take your arm off!”

  Simon strode through the mass to Sir William. He was standing white-faced while a man tied a dirty cloth round his head. A flap of skin on his cheek hung loose where a slash from a dagger had caught him. Now he stared dumbly as the bailiff approached. “Tell your men to stop. Now!” Simon rapped out. “The miners will stop if you men do. Order them to lay down their arms, Sir William.”

  “What of Robert?”

  “If you tell your men to stop, we can ask, can’t we?” bellowed Simon nastily. “Is having all the Beauscyr men killed going to help? Tell your men to CEASE FIGHTING.” To his immense relief he saw the old knight sigh and nod.

  22

  The fighting had spread to cover almost a square mile, and it took several minutes of bellowing to halt the battle. Gradually, uncertainly, and in all cases with their eyes fixed cautiously on their enemies, men pulled apart, fingering weapons newly notched or snapped. They backed together, forming small sullen circles, gasping for breath, here three miners, there four Beauscyr men. Several peasants stood and tried to calm a youth who sobbed and clutched his smashed wrist. All were taut, expecting a sudden renewal of the fight; all were scared of being surprised, and no one trusted their opponents.

  Baldwin saw this, and took Thomas by the arm, pulling him to where Sir William and Simon stood. “Thomas, you must order your men to pull back a little. Sir William, you too. Your men must stand back and leave you two here, so they can all see that there is no deception. Tell them to form a ring around us.”

  With a slow shuffling the two companies separated when the leaders gave the order. One scuffle broke out when a man saw a friend lying dead, but his companions pulled him away. Simon could not even see what side he was on. There was a slowly increasing space as the two sides paced backward, all scowling at their enemies. Now and again they stumbled over a body. Fortunately, few had died. Those who were hurt were collected and taken away to have their wounds seen to, and soon there were clumps of men ferrying those who could not walk over to the bank of the stream where they had their limbs washed and bound. Fires were lighted to heat the irons that would cauterize the worst of the injuries.

  Simon forced himself to look away, ignoring the angry mutters that came from all sides, and faced Beauscyr and the miner. John was there as well, standing beside his father and peering round with haughty amusement. Edgar and Hugh were with Baldwin, and although Hugh had blood spattered on his tunic, he seemed well enough.

  “Right, Sir William, and Thomas. This nonsense has to stop,” Simon said as he marched toward them, then stood with his hands in his belt. “First, Thomas, I want you to order that Robert Beauscyr is released. There is no profit in keeping him here.”

  “Why should I? I think this miserable cur killed Peter, and I want to keep his brother until I see what will happen to him.”

  Simon spoke loudly, so that all could hear. “John Beauscyr has told me what he was doing on the night that your son was killed, and I am content for now with his word. He was not the man who murdered your son.”

  As his words sank in there was a complete silence. The old knight was the first to speak, his voice low and shocked. “Your son?”

  “Peter Bruther was m
y son. I knew his mother before I married, and it was for my wife’s sake that I never admitted to him, but he knew he was my flesh and blood. That was why he came to the moors. I told him to, so that he could learn the ways of farming tin and make himself wealthy. It was why I made sure he always had a guard to protect him from you and your men.”

  John, too, was gaping. “Peter was your son?” he said, shaking his head from side to side in disbelief. “But none of us knew that!”

  “Is that why you killed him? Because you thought he was unprotected?” roared the miner, taking a quick step toward him. Baldwin moved to stand between them.

  “Wait, Thomas.” The deep brown of his eyes held and quieted the glinting black flint of the miner’s.

  “Look around you! There has been enough harm done already. Let us listen for a time and talk before you decide to cause more deaths.”

  “I didn’t cause the deaths here, it was the Beauscyrs who attacked the camp.” But his voice was toneless, and he looked away. After a moment, he nodded.

  Simon addressed the old knight. “Sir William, I want to prevent further bloodshed. I am sure that you and your men don’t want any more killing either. We are not a court here, we have no coroner to conduct an enquiry or clerk to record it, but we can investigate here and now, while there are all these men to witness it. I can report later to the chief warden at Lydford. Will you be content to continue?”

  The old man nodded, still staring at the miner, and Simon felt that he was wondering how he would feel if he had been Thomas Smyth, if he had lost his son, a young man he could not recognize publicly, and whom he had tried to help by bringing him out from villeinage to a new life where he could be protected, only to find that he had been murdered. Sir William’s face dis played his horror and compassion. The sight gave Simon some relief. The knight would be compliant.

  “Thomas?” the bailiff prompted, glancing at the miner. Thomas Smyth nodded slowly. “Good. In that case, we should have chairs brought. There’s no need for us to stand when we can sit.”

  The bailiff sat in the middle, flanked by Baldwin and Hugh. Edgar stood nearby, while Sir William and his son sat to Simon’s left, Thomas to his right. The miners and the Manor’s men crouched or sat all around, reminding Simon of the stannary courts he had attended. It was strange to be in control of a meeting like this; usually it would be the chief warden or a judge who would sit at the throne to listen to evidence in an inquest or court session, but the bailiff had no time to feel anxious about his lack of experience. This matter was too serious to be left alone, as the battle had shown. He was determined to resolve the argument between the miners and the Beauscyrs.

  “All of us are here to try to find out what really happened on the day that Peter Bruther died,” he began.

  “You all know me. I am the bailiff of Lydford, and my duty is to find the murderer. I call on all here to witness the words of the men who come before us today. You must listen and see that we are fair to all.” He glanced round. “First, I want to see the three men who were sent to Henry Smalhobbe and beat him.”

  It took a little time for the three to be fetched. Harold Magge stood resolutely defiant, the others looked cowed and nervous before all the men. Simon saw that their bruises had reduced, and nodded to himself while Thomas instructed them to tell the truth. Then he stirred. “You went to Henry Smalhobbe and attacked him on the day that Bruther died, didn’t you?”

  Magge nodded. Quickly Simon took him through the evidence he had given before, how he had sat in wait for Smalhobbe, how the man had nearly taken him by surprise but had been bested, and how they had returned to the miners’ camp. Simon glanced at Thomas as he asked, “Who beat you afterward? Who caused your bruises?”

  “Thomas Smyth did it. He thought we must have killed Bruther, and he had told us not to attack him. When news arrived about Bruther being found at Wistman’s Wood, he came straight to the camp and ordered us to be brought to him. He had us beaten to get us to admit to killing Bruther.”

  “Had you killed Bruther?”

  “No!”

  “Had you seen Bruther that night?”

  “No.”

  “Who did you see that night?”

  Magge hesitated, glancing at Thomas, and Baldwin saw the old tinner give a small nod. “George Harang and Thomas. We saw them riding back from the direction of Bruther’s place, after we had left Smalhobbe. They were heading southward to the road.”

  “Thomas?”

  “Yes, it’s true.” He looked up bleakly. “We went to see him but he wasn’t there. I waited some time, but when it began to grow dark it seemed better to get home again, to meet Sir William. There was no sign of Peter.”

  “I see. Now, Harold Magge. Where did Henry Smalhobbe come from when you ambushed him?”

  “From the south.”

  “Could he have come from Wistman’s Wood?”

  “Smalhobbe?” There was a sneer to his voice. “He’s only a smallholder. He’d hardly kill another miner.”

  “He was nearly able to surprise you, wasn’t he? If his wife had not called out, you yourself told me that he might have overcome you, and if he had, he might have beaten off the others, mightn’t he? Now, please answer the question: could he have come from Wistman’s Wood?”

  “He was coming from the south. Wistman’s is south and west from there, but he might have walked keeping to the lowlands rather than over the hills. And he was late that night, later than he usually was. I suppose he could have been to Wistman’s Wood.”

  “You never told me this before,” said Thomas Smyth. His voice was tired, his visage pale, and he was staring at his man with a kind of hopeless sadness.

  “You didn’t ask us about where Smalhobbe had been, sir,” Magge said shortly. “You asked us what we’d been doing – not about him. I didn’t know Bruther was your son. I just thought we’d done something to displease you…” He trailed off as the bailiff held up a hand.

  “Harold, would you say it was possible?” He instinctively trusted this man’s opinion. Somehow the miner gave off an aura of wholesome stolidity, and Simon recalled how the first time he had seen Magge he had thought instantly of a farmer from the moors. Now, like a farmer, Magge paused and considered the question for some time in silence.

  “I reckon it’d be possible but I don’t think it was him. Smalhobbe’s not a killer, no matter what others say.”

  “In that case, I’d like to speak to Robert Beauscyr next,” said Simon. The young knight was soon standing before them. He did not appear to have been mistreated, which was a relief. Baldwin had wondered what might happen if he had turned up wounded. The Beauscyr men could easily be tempted to hurl themselves into a fresh attack if the boy had been harmed. After all, he was the reason why they had been commanded to fight.

  Simon asked him to tell everyone what he had done on the night of the murder. Nervously, Robert told of his flight from the hall and how he had ridden to Chagford, where he had met Alicia, and of his subsequent agreement to meet her. This brought a wry smile to Thomas’ face. He had not realized how involved his daughter was with the boy. Looking at him now, he wondered about Robert Beauscyr as a son-in-law. To his faint surprise he found the idea less distasteful than he expected.

  “But you saw two men on the road, didn’t you? Over toward Wistman’s Wood,” Simon prompted.

  “Yes.”

  “And nobody else?”

  “No, bailiff.”

  Simon glanced at the miner. “The two riders were men-at-arms from the Manor. It was they who found Bruther’s body shortly after.”

  “Are they here?” Thomas asked, surveying the men ranged opposite.

  “They are dead,” said Baldwin shortly, and a dangerous new wave of tension gripped the watching men.

  “How? How did they die?”

  It was Sir William who answered, sounding as tired as the miner. “They appear to have got into a fight over a game of dice. Both were stabbed.”

  “When was this
?” the miner demanded.

  Simon told him. “Early this morning. When we found them, their bodies were still warm.”

  Thomas Smyth turned to peer at John. “It was you, wasn’t it?” His voice shook with emotion. “The men could identify you somehow, and you killed them to conceal your guilt.”

  “Be silent, Thomas!” Simon said, but John had gone white with fury.

  Leaping out of his chair, he faced the miner, grabbing his sword’s hilt. But before he could draw it, Edgar slapped his hand away. There was an angry rumble from the Beauscyr men, met by a sudden movement from the miners at the other end of the space where the tinners sat and listened. Simon quickly stood, hands held high. “Be still!” he bellowed, and then looked from Thomas to Sir William. Both also stood, slowly and unwillingly, and calmed their men. Meanwhile, John stood glowering furiously at Edgar, who smiled back calmly, his eyes never moving from the boy.

  Simon glared at the youngest Beauscyr. “Keep your hand from your sword, squire. I’ll have no more blood on the moors today.”

  “You expect me, me, the son of an honorable knight to accept being accused of common murder? By a miner? By God, you have no right to…”

  “Silence! I have every right, and every duty, to investigate a murder. Stand before us, and keep your hand from your sword. Do I have to remind you that this is a lawful investigation into murder? If you don’t obey I’ll have you arrested and kept at Lydford prison.”

  For a moment, Baldwin thought John was going to argue. He glared fiercely at the bailiff, while he considered his position. Simon was red-faced with fury, his anger simmering, ready to boil up and scald the lad. At last, giving a scornful shrug, the boy strode off to stand beside his brother.

  “John Beauscyr, you were out on the moors that day. Did you see anyone else? Someone who could have been involved in the murder of Peter Bruther?” His rage ebbing, Simon realized he must leave out the boy’s admission of robbery. In the present climate it would be too much to expect the miners to control their ire if they were to discover that John had been involved, on his own admission, in banditry. John spoke shortly about that evening, about the ride to Thomas Smyth’s house and the subsequent journey to the inn. When he talked of the meeting with Bruther on the road, a hush fell, and everyone seemed to be listening intently.