A Moorland Hanging

by Michael Jecks

  A Moorland Hanging

  A Knights Templar Mystery

  MICHAEL JECKS

  For Nicky, Martin, George,

  and especially Keith and Lynn,

  who first suggested I should be a writer.

  Contents

  1

  Clambering up the long, shallow gradient to the mass of…

  2

  “For the love of God, Simon!”

  3

  At the top of the steps, they found themselves in…

  4

  With the troubles caused by outlaws, Sir Ralph had decided…

  5

  It had been dark for almost an hour when Matillida…

  6

  The knight had finished his study of the ground and…

  7

  After receiving directions, they left early the next morning to…

  8

  “How long have you known your master, George?” Simon’s voice…

  9

  Sir Ralph of Warton rode back slowly, his mind on…

  10

  Simon groaned as he hauled himself upward from the bench…

  11

  The inn was a pleasant surprise when it came into…

  12

  Ronald Taverner was lying on a palliasse below the hall,…

  13

  Supper that evening was a dismal affair, though John Beauscyr…

  14

  “Myths and superstitions!” Baldwin muttered frustratedly as the four left…

  15

  On their way to the Fighting Cock they rode past…

  16

  Climbing on to his horse, Simon took up the reins…

  17

  Simon and the others arrived back at Beauscyr just as…

  18

  Hugh and Edgar had been waiting at their favorite place…

  19

  The clamorous tolling of the chapel bell brought Simon to…

  20

  George Harang watched the men approaching with a feeling akin…

  21

  They sat on the bench outside a cottage and sipped…

  22

  The fighting had spread to cover almost a square mile,…

  23

  Henway, the small vill where Wat Meavy lived, lay some…

  24

  By the time they trotted into Smyth’s yard, Hugh was…

  25

  Back at Beauscyr, Simon and Baldwin sat on chairs close…

  26

  Sitting once more in the sun outside Simon’s house at…

  Author's Note

  About the Author

  Other Books by Michael Jecks

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  –1–

  Clambering up the long, shallow gradient to the mass of rock at the summit, the last thing on Thomas Smyth’s mind was the man who was shortly to die. Smyth was concentrating solely on the dull pain of his strained muscles, and wondering how much farther he must go.

  Just before the last slope he had to pause to rest, his hands on his hips as he panted. It was becoming cooler as evening approached, a relief after the day’s searing heat. Glowering at the tor above, he gave a brittle smile. After this expedition he knew he must accept he was no longer a young man. Though his mind was the same as when he had first come here, a lad of not yet twenty, that was more than thirty-two years ago now. Thomas was well past middle age.

  Gazing around him, he saw thin feathers of smoke rising eastward in the still evening air: the straggle of crofts on the Chagford road were settling for the night. He could hear a dog barking, a man shouting, shutters being slammed over windows, and an occasional low grumble from oxen in the byres. After the misery of 1315 and 1316, when the whole kingdom had been struck with famine, it sounded as if the country had returned to normal. This little vill in the middle of Dartmoor stood as proof of the improvement in the weather, which now, in 1318, promised healthy harvests at last.

  But Smyth’s anger, never far from him now, would not let him survey the view in peace. He felt his gaze being pulled back. South and east, he knew the gray mists were caused by his new blowing-house, whose charcoal furnace melted the tin which was the primary cause of his wealth. It was the other fires northward which made him set his jaw and glare, the fires from the other men, the miners who had arrived recently and stolen his land.

  He himself had not been born here. It was many years ago, while serving as a soldier in the Welsh wars, that he had first heard tell of the huge wealth to be amassed from working the ore that lay so abundantly on the moors. Thus, when the battles were done, he had meandered southward, intending to take his share.

  Back then, in 1286, he had been a gangling nineteen year old—a poor man with no future. In those days, a large part of this area around the West Dart River had been uninhabited, and only a few tinners struggled to work the land for profit. Taxes were crippling, raised whenever money was needed for wars—and it was rare for the old King not to be at war. Many had already left the land by the time Thomas arrived, allowing him to increase his works for little cost, and though it had taken some years he had steadily built up his interests until now he was the wealthiest tinner for many miles, employing others to keep the furnaces lighted and the molds filled with tin. If he did not own the land, that was merely a technicality—and a financial saving. By all the measures he valued, the land was his: he could farm tin and take the profits; he could bound tracts of land wherever he wanted; he had a seat at the stannary parliament. These were the ancient rights of the stanners of Devon, and he made full use of them.

  But others had come, stealing parcels of land he considered his own, working it to their own advantage, ruining his efforts and making him look foolish in front of his neighbors. It was intolerable.

  With a last baleful glare, he set his face to the hill once more and continued climbing.

  Behind him, George Harang smiled in satisfaction. He had caught a glimpse of Thomas’ expression, and knew what it signalled. At last the old tinner had made up his mind; he was going to defend his land and investments. From George’s perspective, the retaliation was long overdue—not that he would ever have said so openly. He respected his master too much.

  They were ascending the southern side of Longaford Tor, and soon George could see the yellow glow of a fire up near the conical mound of stone at the top. Nodding toward it, he walked a little ahead, his hand on his knife, but there was no need for caution. The three men were waiting for them in the shelter of the small natural bowl in the grass as agreed. Barely acknowledging them, Thomas Smyth’s servant strode past the little band, to stand with arms folded as the discussion began.

  Watching his employer, George could see that the inner strength he had admired as a lad had not diminished. Though he was only some five feet six inches tall, Smyth had the build of a wrestler, with massive arms and thighs, and a chest as round and solid as a wine barrel. He had a natural way with the men who worked for him, a commander’s ability to put all at ease in his company. As always he squatted with them by their fire, his square chin jutting in aggressive friendliness as he spoke, dark eyes alight, thick eyebrows almost meeting under the thatch of graying hair. In the kindly light of the flames, George felt sure his master could have been mistaken for a man of ten, maybe even twenty, years younger. The fierce glitter in his eyes, the sudden stabbing movements of his hands as he spoke, the quick enthusiasm in his words, all seemed to indicate a man in his prime, not one who was already one of the oldest for miles around.

  When Thomas had finished speaking, his eyes held those of the other men for a moment as if to confirm that he had selected the right group. Then, satisfied, he clapped the two nearest on their backs, rose and sta
rted off back down the hill, moving more quickly now, George following behind him.

  “They’ll do it,” Thomas said meditatively, gazing eastward with his hands hooked into his thick leather belt as they walked south to their horses.

  “Yes, sir,” George agreed, and was surprised when his master spun round to stare at him, frowning in concentration.

  “You think they’re right for this, don’t you?”

  George nodded with conviction. “Harold Magge, he’d do anything you’d ask,” he said firmly while the almost black eyes held his. “And Stephen the Crocker and Thomas Horsho’ll do what Harold tells them.”

  Thomas turned back to the view. “Good,” he said softly. “I’ve had enough. I want my land back.”

  South and east of them as the two men descended, Adam Coyt was putting the last of his cattle in through the gate, and setting off with his dogs to stroll round the old moorstone enclosure while he checked for weaknesses in the wall.

  He had spent all his life on the moors. As a boy he had played out on the open lands, the huge rolling plains between Lydford and Chagford, watching the creatures through the seasons. Rabbits, deer and hart, wolves and foxes, he knew them all as well as he knew the animals on his own farmstead. A moorman, he had known no other life. His father had lived here and his father before him, all the generations working in the cruel climate which so often broke those who did not respect it.

  Like a tinner, Adam felt a close affinity for the land, but in his case it was bred of experience and fear. Though he had prospered, Dartmoor had exacted its toll, taking his wife and son. He could not blame the moors; it was the way of the forest, that was all. She should not have gone out when it had begun to snow, and was mad to try to return later. Crockern, Dartmoor’s spirit, deserved respect from people. There was no use in praying to God for help, not when Crockern had sent the bitter winds to scour the land. When Adam had found her body, slumped and curled into a small ball of agony, the flesh frozen blue-white, he had wept, but not for long. There was no sense in tears—he had work to do. A year later his son too had succumbed, unable to survive the bitter winter of 1316 when the food spoiled under the sheeting rains. Then Adam had not even been able to cry. It had been hard, he had tried to give the lad enough, taking from his own meager portion to feed him, but it was insufficient and the crying had increased in volume daily until Adam was almost relieved when it faded and at last was stilled. A month later when the thaw had come he had made the cruel journey to Widecombe Church—the small pathetic body could no longer be kept in its barrel, protected in salt like a haunch of pork, and he wanted the boy to be buried with his mother.

  For all that, the moors had given him a good life. His cattle thrived, his life was unaffected by the miseries of warfare or disease which all spoke of in the towns when he went to buy goods, and he lived in peace, far from others. Only the miners occasionally disrupted his life, digging holes on the land he needed for pasture, and stirring up the streams where he watered his animals.

  To a moorman like Adam Coyt, the world was formed of two groups of men: those, like him, who were of Dartmoor, and others—foreigners—who came from other parts of Devon or the world. Now, as night fell, their fires could be seen as glittering points of light, some far off, others closer. These were the places where the tin miners lived. He sighed at the sight, but patted his dog’s head and continued up to his house. There was nothing he could do about the invading metal hunters.

  Henry Smalhobbe yawned and sat back in front of his fire, keen to see what the dark ore would yield up to him. Last week he had dug a new leat from the River Dart to his little plot so that he could have running water to help him sort the valuable tinstone from the lighter soil around it; this was his first fire since finishing the leat, and his first attempt at tinning in this area.

  It was hard work compared to what he was used to, and his hands still blistered too easily. Many days of labor were needed to generate enough ore to make a fire worthwhile, but at least this parcel of scrubby ground appeared to have more potential than the last area he had tried. For the best part of a year he had covered a few hundred yards of the little river bed, separating the good ore from the useless spoil, and piling up the waste at the edge until he noticed tinstone in a hole dug for a fire. Interested, he had begun to investigate the ground nearby. At first there had been little, but then he located a rich-looking deposit. Parallel to the old river bed there seemed to be a thick layer of tinstone only a foot or so under the ground, and now he had given up the search in the stream and was concentrating on the store lying just under the ancient banks.

  Stretching, he relaxed and leaned back on his elbows, a slight man in his late twenties with roughly cut, mousy hair. He looked overtired, with strained features and bright brown eyes which held a feverish glitter. No matter how many hours he spent in the sun and rain, his skin never tanned, just went an unhealthy red.

  On hearing a noise he glanced over his shoulder. Sarah, his wife, was approaching carrying a bowl of beans and soup on a platter with bread and a pot of ale. A dark, plump woman in her early twenties, she watched while he ate. Seeing him look up, she smiled, her cheeks dimpling. It made her look fifteen again, the same as when they had first met. She chatted, and he was pleased that she did not mention her fears. They had talked about the threats and dangers often enough. It was pointless going over the same sterile ground day after day. She nodded toward the fire as he gulped his ale. “Is there much tin in that lot, do you think?”

  Placing the pot carefully on the ground, he glanced at the smoking charcoal. This was the easiest way to obtain the metal from the ore. You dug a hole and started a fire with layers of charcoal and ore over it. Once the fire had died, the tin could be pulled free from the ashes in jagged, black chunks. He broke off a crust of bread and chewed. “I don’t know. It was dark, and felt heavy, but it’s hard to tell. Sometimes the best metal comes from the worst-looking scraps, and the best-looking tinstone sometimes yields little…”

  He could see her thoughts were not on his words. Her gaze had risen to the flickering glow to the north, where their neighbor had his hut. “There’s no point in worrying, Sarah,” he said gently.

  “No,” she agreed, but went on staring. “Still, I wish he would come here and stay with us at night. It would be safer, for us as well as him. While we stay apart…”

  “Sarah, he won’t come. Anyway,” he shot a quick glance at the distant fire, “he’ll be all right.”

  “Smyth’s men have threatened us too often. If he wants us gone, he can attack us easily, and Peter’s too far from everyone else, out there on the moors. There’s no one to help him.”

  Her husband stood and shrugged. “I know. But he’s convinced he’s safe. Anyway, I see no reason for us to fear. We’re tinners no less than Smyth, and we have the same rights as him. He can’t make us leave.”

  Sarah nodded, but her eyes avoided his. She knew he was right under the law, but that did not dispel her fear. Three times now the men had come—twice when Henry was away at his works. The first time they had only made lewd comments, surrounding her and barring her escape while they amused themselves by insulting her, speculating why she had no children yet: was it her or her husband? Was he not good enough? Maybe another man, a real miner, would be better? And all she could do was stand silently, her face reddening in shy embarrassment at their talk. That time they had soon gone.

  The second time Henry had been with her. One moment they had been alone, the next they were encircled by four men who stood with cudgels ready and told them to go, to leave this land. She recalled her husband’s courage with a flush of pride. He had shoved her to safety behind him, facing the men and cursing them, stubbornly stating his right to the tin within his bounds, ignoring their threats and hissed warnings. The men had left as suddenly as they had appeared, but their menacing words seemed to hang on the still evening air for hours afterward.

  But it was the third visit which had scared her the most.
While she was inside their hut, a man had entered without knocking. She recognized him immediately: it was Thomas Smyth. Uninvited, he crossed to a stool and seated himself, and in a calm, soft voice he had begun to talk, resting his elbows on his knees and staring at her with his unsettling dark eyes. At first she had thought he was rambling: he had spoken of his life, of his marriage, then of his love for his daughter—and it was only then that she realized he was trying to intimidate her. “I wouldn’t like to think of my daughter being so far from anyone. I wouldn’t want to think she could be widowed so easily, could be left to fend for herself, as you could be if your husband was to die out here on the moors.”

  This time her fury had been sparked. That this man should dare to enter her house and threaten her, in defiance of all laws of hospitality, was obscene. It was so shocking that she had forgotten her fear, and, raising her wooden spoon, she had shrieked at him to go. He did, with a cynical, half-amused glance at her weapon, as though measuring it against the swords, knives and arrows of his men. But at the door he had paused, looking back at her and saying slowly and deliberately, “Think about what I have said, Mrs. Smalhobbe. After all, even now your husband might be dead. You might already be a widow. Think on that!”

  The terror of that visit was still heavy on her soul. That strange, dark little man with the gentle voice, comparing her to his own daughter, had given her an impression of cruelty which had not faded with time. She knew that her husband had been anxious for her when he returned home that night. Her terror was all too plain, and as soon as he arrived she had launched herself into the protection of his arms. It was some time before he could persuade her that he was perfectly safe—indeed, he had seen no one all day.