A Moorland Hanging

by Michael Jecks

  Today it had been Sir Ralph’s idea to go out hunting. He felt it would be good to get away from the claustrophobic atmosphere of the Manor, away from the gray eyes of the bailiff and the astute questions of his friend from Furnshill. Sir Ralph had anticipated a pleasant ride out to a quiet part of the Beauscyrs’ private park where they could set the hounds at a deer. It was some time since he had been able to enjoy hunting as a pastime rather than a necessary chore, and the prospect was attractive.

  The reality had been very different. They had ridden eastward, away from the moors themselves, and out into some thick woods, and almost immediately the two brothers had started at each other. One—and he was not sure now who it was—had passed comment on the other’s choice of area for the hunt, and suddenly he was in the middle of a battle. It was a matter of pure self-defense to drop back as the insults and curses flowed, and all peace was gone. They had found a small buck and chased him for a mile or more, but then lost the scent, and of course each brother said it was the fault of the other. After biting back his rising anger for a further mile, Sir Ralph had lost any desire to be with the two and had announced his intention of returning. Hastily refusing any company, he turned his horse to the west and left, ignoring the pleading look from a man-at-arms who clearly wished to avoid any more bickering and also wanted to get back to the castle and a pint of ale.

  There was some tension between the two young men that he did not understand. It seemed to go beyond the normal rivalry. Maybe it was simply the jealousy of the younger. In most families John would have been sent to a convent instead of into training as a knight. All too often, the second son was diverted to the religious life while the older carried on his education and training as heir. In this case, though, it should have been the other way around. Robert, for all his posturing and prideful behavior, was more suited to a cloistered life, while John was the resolute, strong and willful one. He would, the knight thought, have made a very good master of the Manor.

  At the gate he called to the doorkeeper, dropping from his horse and walking into the courtyard. There he saw the other knight, the bailiff’s friend, and he stiffened. Squaring his shoulders he led his horse through to the stables.

  “A good mount,” he heard Baldwin say, and nodded, avoiding the man’s gaze. He would have turned and made off, but the dark-haired knight was too close for him to pass, and so he stood dumbly, tugging off his gauntlets.

  His indecision was painful to watch, Baldwin decided, and he smiled, trying to appear as friendly as possible. It only served to heighten the man’s anxiety. Baldwin patted the black horse’s rump, and then his eyes caught sight of the mark, visible on the left outer thigh although partly concealed by dirt—a large capital M. When he glanced back at the knight, he could see the sudden stillness in his face, the tautness in the way he held himself.

  “Sir Ralph, don’t worry,” he said, so softly that the ostler could not hear. “Matters up at the Warbeck are not important down here.” And he turned and left. But he could feel the knight’s eyes on his back all the way across the yard.

  Simon was at the entrance to the kitchen, Hugh and Edgar beside him. The bailiff and his man were drinking from large pots of ale, served by the old bottler.

  “Drinking again, Simon? The beer will addle your brains.”

  “Too late,” Simon said, and took another long draft.

  “My brain feels addled enough already. Miners, knights, squires, villeins…pah! We’re wasting our time here! I have no idea who might have killed Bruther, I don’t even have any idea what the man was like. How can we find out who did it when all we have to go on is a series of vague dislikes about him?”

  “You are right,” said Baldwin, taking a pot from the servant and holding it out to be filled, then placing his hand over the top when it was only half-full. “Thank you. Yes, Simon, you could be right. We know that he was a sore embarrassment to his master, to old Sir William, and to Robert Beauscyr. He was disliked by Thomas Smyth for being a foreigner, and not bowing to the miner’s will, so it is possible he was killed by Smyth…”

  “Or by the gang who beat up Smalhobbe,” Simon interjected. “And then there’s that knight too,” he said, pointing with his chin at the tall figure by the stables.

  “I don’t trust him. He’s too aloof.”

  “I know what you mean, but I think I might be able to clear up a few points about him soon. Leave him to me.”

  “What about the other brother?”

  “Who, John? He’s hardly been here in three years or more. What possible reason could he have for murder?”

  “There are many reasons for murder, Baldwin. Maybe he wanted to remove a problem from his father and brother.”

  Sir Ralph had just emerged from the stables. He stood staring across at the small group of men, as if undecided, but then strode off to the hall. Baldwin cocked an eyebrow at the bailiff. “Did you see that? I think if I had been alone here, he would have come over to speak to me.”

  “Why on earth do you say that?”

  “I was looking at his horse just now, and there was a brand-mark on its rump.”

  “Really? Well, now so many lords need to hire additional warriors, they often do that, don’t they? Brand the horses, so if they’re stolen they can be found. And it’s not uncommon for a man to say his mount was stolen when he bartered it for money, if he feels his master doesn’t pay enough—and if he knows his lord will replace it for him. And if mercenaries decide to run away before their contract is up, it’s an easy way to find them again. It’s not very pleasant, I know, but many do it. It’s another foreign habit we’ve been lumbered with, and—”

  “Simon, please! You must never travel, old friend, you would surely be lynched within a few yards of the coast in any foreign country. What is important is, do you know of any place which brands horses with a capital M?”

  “Moretonhampstead?” Simon’s face screwed up as he tried to think of places far away.

  Laughing, Baldwin clapped him on the back, spilling much of his beer and making the bailiff give a low growl of disgust. “Simon, you’re priceless as a guide to these parts, but you’re hopeless as a man of the world. Who in that little town would care about hirelings? I’ll give you a hint: try far, far to the north. Near Scotland, where John and Sir Ralph were living.”

  Just then, a cry came from the gates. Immediately there was a bustle of men in the yard. The haughty figure of Robert Beauscyr rode in; his brother, grinning broadly, followed with three hounds trailing along behind him.

  “While you’re congratulating yourself on how much more knowledgeable than me you are, Baldwin, why don’t you go and speak to Robert?” Simon murmured.

  “And I’ll have a word with the other brother. We should try to discover whether they know anything.”

  When the knight nodded, the bailiff wandered idly toward the squire, who was rubbing down his horse, while Baldwin followed Robert to the far side of the stables.

  Hugh glanced at Edgar. “Are we supposed to go too, do you think?”

  The man-at-arms was watching his master. “I don’t think we can help them—we’d probably only get in the way.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Hugh belched happily and held out his pot once more to the bottler.

  Robert Beauscyr was critically observing a groom remove the saddle and bridle from his horse and making dry comments about the man’s abilities when Baldwin approached. He looked up quickly on hearing the knight’s step, and seemed relieved to see who it was—or who it was not.

  “A good ride?” Baldwin asked pleasantly.

  “The ride was fine, but the conversation was dull. Very dull.”

  Leaning on a trestle, Baldwin crossed his arms comfortably. “It’s very difficult with brothers. You feel you should like them—but sometimes they can be impossible.”

  “He’s so superior sometimes—he was never like this before he went off to the north. Then we used to be able to talk about things and enjoy each other’s
company, but now it’s ‘Oh, you still do that here…’or ‘Well, of course, in the north we didn’t have all these luxuries…’ and ‘I suppose living out in the middle of nowhere you have to do this sort of thing, but in decent company…’It makes me want to knock some sense into him.”

  The knight smiled. “You can choose friends, but you’re stuck with your family,” he agreed.

  “Not for long, thank God! He leaves soon with Sir Ralph, and I’ll be glad when they’ve gone.”

  “Don’t be too hard on him, Robert. He is very young, and he will grow out of it in time. The trouble is, he has been fighting with other men he respects. Once he has won his spurs, he will begin to understand that life is not so straightforward. Right now, all he knows is that he has been tested in battle and has won—or at least hasn’t been killed, but as a knight, he’ll discover that it’s not so easy to be in command. He will have to send men to their deaths, and that is a sobering responsibility.”

  Robert glanced at him, and saw the faraway look in his eyes. “You have fought, and led men?” he asked.

  Stirring himself, Baldwin gave a wry smile. “Oh yes, my friend. And seen them die. And I was very much like your brother, full of hellfire and gallantry and a constant source of embarrassment and pain to my older brother. He had the responsibility to protect the family and the Manor, while I could go and enjoy my freedom, and I do not think I ever realized how hard his task was. It took the death of a city to show me what real duty meant, and by then it was too late to say anything. I was too far away. Don’t worry, John will calm down. He will improve, and you will be proud and happy to call him your brother again, once he has got the lust for power and money out of his system.”

  “If he ever does,” Robert said, throwing a surly glance over his shoulder at his brother. “It’s not as if a knight going to the Continent nowadays returns wealthy, not like the old times when there were estates to be won.”

  “There are still some who succeed,” Baldwin said mildly. “I think while he is in the service of Sir Ralph he will be well looked after; that man is very astute.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Robert.” Baldwin’s tone was reflective. “I know this is annoying to you, but I must ask it: what were you doing on the night Peter Bruther died?”

  The man whirled to face him. “Me? I…Do you mean to accuse me?”

  Baldwin’s eyes held his in silence, and Sir Robert had to drop his gaze. He frowned and shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. After all, I did have cause to hate him after he ran away and made the family look foolish.” He stared down at his boots. “You already know about that devil’s bastard, Thomas Smyth, and how he demanded that we should pay him money to keep off our lands. That was the afternoon he came to see us. We had the rest of the day to think about it. He made it sound reasonable, said he had a need for more water, and it would cost a lot of money to bring it from the moors. His alternative, he said, was to divert our streams—it would be much cheaper for him that way. But then he said that if we agreed to pay him the difference, he could tell the miners to leave our water alone and get it from farther off. It was sheer blackmail, nothing else.”

  “How did your father react?”

  “My father’s an old man. Old and tired. In his life he’s fought hard and long in many battles and yet he still has to contend with the likes of Smyth. He thought we had no choice. I…I’m afraid I lost my temper. Bargaining with Smyth was like haggling with a thief for the return of your own purse! That was what made me mad, the way that the thief was going to get what he wanted. I left them to it, I wanted no part of a discussion of that sort, and rode to Chagford, to the tavern.”

  “Did you go near Bruther’s place?”

  He did not hesitate. “Yes. In the afternoon I went past Bruther’s holding. But I didn’t see him, nor anyone else nearby.”

  “When did you get back?”

  “A little after dark. I was furious. It took me that long to calm myself. The thought that my father was giving away my birthright, first in letting that villein get away, and then in paying off the miners—well, it was better that I was away for a while, that was all.”

  “How did John react to the miner’s offer?”

  “How should he react? When he heard about it he was amused. It’s my estate, not his, when my father dies. To him, anything that reduces the Manor makes me look foolish, and that appeals to him.” His voice was bitter.

  “You say you saw no one near Bruther’s place. What about elsewhere?”

  Frowning, Robert thought for a minute. “I saw Adam Coyt, a moorman, north of Crockern Tor in the afternoon. He was cutting peat, I think. Apart from him I saw no one except miners.”

  “Where? And at what time of the day?”

  “They were heading north, a little after I saw Coyt, walking up to the road.”

  “How many were there?” asked Baldwin, trying to keep his voice casual to hide his sudden tension.

  “Three. They were making their way up from their camp to the moors. They weren’t far from Coyt at the time.”

  “I see.” Baldwin nodded, considering. There was something shifty about Sir Robert’s manner, he thought. He asked casually, “And you were alone all this time?”

  “Oh, yes. All the time.”

  And Baldwin knew he was lying.

  Seeing Simon walk toward him, John’s smile broadened. He stood with his hands in his belt, waiting for him. “So, bailiff, have you found the men who killed poor Peter yet?” he said cheerily.

  Simon regarded him sourly. The youth’s hectoring manner was as annoying as his older brother’s. “Not yet, but we will,” he said sourly.

  “Yes?” His eyes drifted off to where Baldwin was talking to Robert. “And you will do it by talking to us individually, I suppose. Is that so we cannot concoct a story between us? If so, you’re too late; we’ve just been completely alone for some time—since Sir Ralph became bored, I think, with our conversation. Ah well. What can I do for you, anyway?”

  “Peter Bruther was surely killed for a reason. Who could have hated him enough to want to hang him?”

  “A good question. I suppose you already know the obvious ones: Thomas Smyth and his merry men, my father, and, of course, my brother. It’s for you to take your choice between them.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me?” For a split second Simon could see his surprise. “But…ah, bailiff, I think you’re playing games. What reason could I have? It’s not as if I stand to gain anything from Bruther’s death. He was an annoyance to the family, but that’s none of my concern now. The whole estate will go to Robert, and I have no wish to help him by removing obstacles to his happiness. Why should I?”

  “You really are angry about Robert inheriting the Manor, aren’t you?”

  “You are most observant, bailiff,” John said dryly. Then his lip curled, and when he continued his voice was scornful. “My beloved brother is a clerk. He is good with books and accounts, which is, I suppose, what the place needs for most of the time, but for the rest it needs a strong grip. He’s not capable of providing that; I am.”

  “To keep the peasants under control?”

  “There is that,” he nodded. “With trailbaston becoming a serious problem, with outlaws attacking outlying places, it’s time we got hard on the people who foment discord. They are prepared to upset the balance of the kingdom, and they must be destroyed.”

  Simon watched him. He was smiling as he pronounced his cures for the nation as if there was a joke the bailiff could not understand. “So you think all outlaws should be hunted down and killed,” he said.

  “Oh yes, bailiff. Anyone who wishes to create disharmony: common peasants who become outlaws, thieves, cut-purses, draw-latches, brewers who water down their ale, tinners who mix impurities with their metal…and men who cannot keep their estates in order. All need the rope, don’t you think?”

  “Including knights?”

  “Oh, no.” Now his expression became seri
ous. “You can’t lump a well-born knight into the same category as the rest. A knight is the holder of all the prime virtues, no matter what. He is the highest order of the land, fighting for what is good. After all, of the three levels in society, the knights, the clergy and the people, it is the knights who are the most important; for they are the men who must keep order.”

  “Many would say that the clergy should be the highest order.”

  “They can give direction, but little more. The crusades proved that; the bishops and their men showed that we should take back the Holy Land, but could they have taken it without the knights? Of course not.”

  “But,” Simon’s Christian soul was aghast, “it was the knights who lost the Holy Land, by consorting with the heathens there! If they’d—”

  “If they had not been misled by others, you mean. The Pope and his bishops began to fall into bad habits, didn’t they? The Popes have been too interested in their own wealth for too long. Look at Boniface, and all the rumors about him being a Devil-worshipper and a sodomist. It is no wonder that God decided the Holy Land should be taken from us after all that.”

  “That has nothing to do with it! Boniface was not Pope until years after the Fall of Acre!”

  “And you think he was the first to be so debauched and heretical? No, it has been going on for years. And the knights have always been pure, because a knight’s only duty is to look for honor and glory in battle. Courtesy, honor, largesse…these are the main principles by which a knight must live. All a bishop need do is profess a love of God to increase his wealth a hundredfold; as soon as he’s considered a holy man people will flock like sheep to give him their money.”

  “You have a very cynical view of the world, John.”

  “Perhaps. But at least I will not be disappointed by it. I’ve seen too much already to trust anyone or anything more than I trust myself and my sword.”

  “If you feel this way, do you think a runaway villein is of no importance compared to a knight, and should be punished for bringing shame to a knight’s family?”