A Moorland Hanging

by Michael Jecks

  Baldwin had been silent, but now he cleared his throat and leaned forward. To offer sympathy would have been insulting, he knew, and would have been taken as patronizing. “Adam, could you tell us about the night Peter Bruther died. Where were you that day?”

  The axe dropped and a branch leapt away. Picking up the twigs, the farmer tossed them onto the growing pile by the door, then sighed and walked out, crossing the yard to the house, returning with a large earthenware jug which he upended, taking a long draft. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he passed it to the knight, who smiled appreciatively. Tipping it, Baldwin found it was filled with cider so strong he could hardly swallow, and he had to control an urge to cough at the pungent fumes. It was with relief that he passed it on to Simon.

  “That afternoon, I was up to the north of here, seeing to some peat up near Longaford Tor, where the ground is flat before the marsh. I often go there, it’s good fuel,” Coyt said, glancing at the bough before him. “And wood is not plentiful here. It’s too valuable to burn. Anyway, it took longer than I expected, and my old pony isn’t as fast as she used to be when she has a weight to carry, so I was late coming home. I was near the Smalhobbe place just as dusk fell. Young Henry, he was game, I’ll say that for him. He tried to get one of the men waiting, but there were two others got him first.”

  “Did you try to get help?”

  “Help? Up there? Where would you expect me to go? The nearest place was that miner’s, Bruther’s, about a mile or so north, and how was I to know that one miner would want to help another? It was miners attacking Henry, and what good would bringing another do? And what difference would one more make? Even if I ran all the way there, the three would have been gone by the time I got back.”

  “How was his wife?”

  “She was making a row—screaming and such. But the men didn’t hear her. They just kept beating her man.”

  “Was anyone else out there?”

  “I saw a couple of riders before, while I was cutting peat.”

  “Did you see who they were?” asked Baldwin sharply.

  Coyt glanced at him in faint surprise. “I think it was that miner, Smyth, and his man. They were off north of Smalhobbe’s.”

  “What, heading up toward Bruther’s?” Simon demanded.

  “Yes, up that way, I suppose,” Coyt said disinterestedly.

  “You’re sure it was them?”

  “They passed me later on the road, just as it was getting really dark. I recognized their horses. It was them.”

  “I see.” Simon and Baldwin exchanged a glance. If the men were coming along the road, they were coming from the direction of Wistman’s Wood. Baldwin continued, “And you kept going southeast?”

  “Yes, down to the road, then over and east. There’s a path there which brings me to my door. It took some time with my poor old pony.”

  “And you saw nobody else on the road? No one else passed you?”

  “No. At least…” He frowned again.

  “It could be important,” Baldwin prompted.

  “I don’t know, but someone did overtake me, just about when I got to the road to Chagford. It was dark by then, but there was someone north of me, riding quietly. I didn’t see who.”

  “How long after you saw the pair of riders would that have been, do you think?”

  “Not very long. I had to cross the Cherry Brook, and the pony was slow, but not more than a few minutes.”

  “He was far off?”

  “I didn’t look.” The farmer’s voice had fallen to a sullen mutter, and his axe rose and fell only sluggishly as he was pressed.

  “Why? Surely it was strange to hear a rider at that time of night, especially off the road?”

  Face reddening, the farmer struck again at the log and made no answer.

  “Coyt? I said, why didn’t you look?”

  Suddenly the farmer whirled and faced him, not aggressively, but with belligerent shame. “Because I thought it could be Old Nick. That’s why!”

  “Old—”

  Simon quickly interjected. “The Devil, Baldwin. The Devil.” And Adam Coyt turned and walked away from them.

  As soon as he was out of earshot, Baldwin threw up his hands in despair. “The Devil! In God’s name! Why do these people still insist on such ridiculous beliefs? If he’d only glanced round, he could have seen who it was. It could have been Robert, John—or neither! But because of a stupid—”

  “Not so stupid, Baldwin,” said Simon shortly. “He had no idea that someone had been killed, had no idea that the rider so near could have been involved. These moorland farms are so remote, far from anyone. Have you not felt the loneliness of the moors? It is easy for a man’s mind to turn to things like this out here. And there are many stories about the Devil.”

  “Simon, really! That’s no excuse. If this man had just taken a quick look, he might have—”

  “I might have what?” Adam Coyt had returned unnoticed. “You don’t know these moors, you haven’t been out here. You don’t live here all year like I do, and you haven’t seen the things the moors can do to a man. You just can’t understand like we do. Take that man Bruther. Yes, the horse riding past me might have been carrying his murderer—but so what?”

  “What do you mean?” Baldwin’s face was screwed into a mask of irritated confusion.

  “Bruther brought it on himself. He was far out into the moors, and the moors look after themselves, that’s all I’m saying. This area is all different when you live here. You might think I’m foolish to believe in Old Nick or Crockern. It’s easy for you. You’ll leave here and go back to your own village. Me, I’ve got to stay and live here. And I can’t do that if the land won’t let me. Bruther didn’t believe either, he thought it was all superstition. I heard him once, laughing at the thought that Crockern might decide to have revenge on miners living too far out on his moor. He said he didn’t mind Crockern, he said he’d offer a fair price. It doesn’t do to make fun of the spirits on their own land.”

  “So you think it was this Crockern who killed Bruther? Not the Devil?” Baldwin’s tone was derisive.

  “I don’t know. And I don’t care. Whoever killed him was keeping Crockern happy, that’s all I know.”

  –14–

  “Myths and superstitions!” Baldwin muttered frustratedly as the four left Coyt’s house and began to follow the road into the moors. If the man had only looked, they might now have a fresh witness, or at least the name of someone who could have seen who the two riders were. It was possible that this man could have been Bruther’s murderer, too.

  “If men behaved normally and ignored the old wives’ tales,” he said bitterly, “not only would they be less scared all the time, they would probably manage to work better and be happier in their lives. Crockern and Old Nick!”

  Simon smiled faintly at the knight’s disgust. “There’s not much else here for people, though, Baldwin. Anyway, the question is, who was on that horse?”

  “If we take the word of that farmer, it was the Devil.”

  Simon knew how little regard his friend had for the old stories—Baldwin had ridiculed them often enough before. The knight was a well-travelled man, with more experience of the world, and Simon found it hard to argue the case with him. Even so, he found the knight’s irascible outbursts against deeply held local beliefs very insulting.

  “Simon?” Baldwin gave him a shame-faced grin. “I am sorry—but I have seen too many people harmed by rumors and stories to want to have any truck with them. You are right, old friend. We need to discover who the single rider was. It could have been one of the Beauscyr sons, of course. Robert can give us little account of where he went that night, and John was away from the inn, although he has not admitted this to us yet.”

  The bailiff was mollified by his change in mood. “So now we must try to find out about three men, not two,” he mused. “The pair of riders seen by Samuel and Ronald, and the single one heard by Coyt.”

  “Yes. It is odd,
though.” Baldwin’s face was pensive. “After talking to Sir Robert, I could have sworn he was one of the two riders—he looked so guilty. Perhaps he was the lone rider who later overtook Coyt?”

  “But if he was, did he kill Bruther? Or were Smyth and his man responsible? And if it was Smyth who killed Bruther, what was Sir Robert doing out there?”

  “If it truly was him,” Baldwin murmured. “Anyway, the killer must belong to one of the two groups, surely? Miners or men of the Beauscyr demesne.”

  “I think so, yes. Unless…” Baldwin glanced at him. Simon chewed his lip and shrugged. “There is another group, I suppose, Baldwin. Farmers, like Coyt himself, have been affected as well. Their moors are being dug, the water in their streams diverted, their pastures ruined.”

  “Is that reason enough to kill?”

  They had arrived at the clapper bridge again, and Simon let his horse pause to drink. “I don’t know. It depends on what people thought of Bruther, doesn’t it? What sort of person was he? From Sir Ralph’s story he would appear to have been a bold enough fellow, at least when he had other people with him he was. And he was rude to Robert, too, just before we first came here.”

  “Yes. Most say he was a rash young man, always making enemies,” Baldwin admitted. “Though Smyth spoke well enough of him.”

  “It’s not like olden times when villeins were always subservient. This man seems to have taken willfulness to an extreme. I mean, how many runaways would dare to insult two men like Sir Robert, his master until recently, and Sir Ralph, a man who is well-versed in battle and clearly prepared to defend his name?”

  “He did not, though, did he?”

  “No, but only because there were a number of miners there and it would have been foolish.”

  “The same goes for when Sir Robert was insulted by Bruther. The fellow must have had a death-wish to have been so forthright.”

  Simon stared at his friend. “Baldwin, how often have you seen people behave that way?”

  “A villein, you mean? Never.”

  “What about other men?”

  Shrugging, Baldwin drew his mouth into a glum crescent. “For someone to be rude to a knight is mad, and—”

  “You miss my point. The only time I’ve seen people intentionally demean a knight or a man-at-arms is when they knew themselves to be the more powerful!”

  “Well, yes, but you are surely not suggesting that a mere serf could feel himself more powerful than, say, Sir Robert? One only has to look at them to see how different they are. One is poor and lives in a rude hovel, while the other is wealthy, the heir to a great hall and money, with a rich estate, and born into the King’s highest esteem. How on earth could a miserable peasant like Bruther think he was the equal of such a man—let alone superior.”

  “But he did, didn’t he?” His horse was watered, and Simon kicked its flanks to cross the stream. “He did think he was at least equal, to have dared to speak so forwardly. He knew how he was considered by the Manor: as a runaway. And yet he faced them and bested them.”

  “Only because of the men with him,” Baldwin protested.

  “And why did he feel safe with them?”

  “Well, because they were miners like himself, I would imagine. You yourself told me that the miners have their own laws and rules down here. No doubt he knew that with others of his kind he would be safe enough.”

  “No, Baldwin. We know that Thomas Smyth is a harsh master, and he’s enforcing his will on the miners round here, that’s why Smalhobbe was beaten, wasn’t it?”

  “Well, yes, but perhaps Bruther banded together with other small miners in the area for protection from Smyth?”

  “If there was such a group, they failed pretty miserably, didn’t they? If you were going to organize men, and then insulted your enemies, would you leave the others and go home alone in the evenings? I doubt it! After making your mark with an enemy you’d all want to stick together for defense.”

  “Yes, I suppose you are right,” said Baldwin musingly.

  “So, if Bruther had so many men with him, why was he apparently alone and defenseless on the night he died? Where had the others gone, and why? Why had they left him there?”

  “Perhaps they had a disagreement with him? Maybe they wanted to do something which he disapproved of, and—”

  “No, no, no—do you remember how Sir Ralph described his meeting with Bruther? It was like the younger man was in charge, wasn’t it? He was the only one who spoke—none of the others did. And it was the same when he insulted Sir Robert. Bruther spoke, the others simply observed and fingered their weapons. No, I think he was in charge, but why was he left all alone? If a leader disagrees with his company, some may leave, but others will stay, even if it’s only a few.”

  “Perhaps they did. There might have been others with him when Bruther was killed, but they escaped before they too could be hurt.”

  “I don’t think so. Look at it like this: we are working on the assumption that there were three people on the moors nearby that night. If Bruther had even one other man there with him it would have been hard for three to take him on without one of them getting hurt or killed.”

  “Well, then. Maybe they did. Maybe they killed the other and threw his body into a bog. And even if they didn’t, if it was one of the knights, they might have been happy to have simply got the man they hated and not cared about the others. You are building bricks without straw, old friend. All of this is guesswork, nothing more.”

  Simon shook his head. “I don’t think so. Let’s visit Smalhobbe. Maybe he can shed some light.”

  Following the trail, they were retracing the steps of Adam Coyt on the night of the murder, and Baldwin found himself glancing around with interest. The road ran reasonably straight, keeping to the lower ground. Stunted shrubs lined the roads, with occasional clumps of heather. After a short way, a small copse appeared, with hills rising on either side. When he asked, Simon told him that this area was called Believer. The main east–west road was only another mile away, and they should be able to quickly cover the ground beyond to where the outlying miners lived.

  The Smalhobbes’ property looked more cheerful now. Smoke drifted idly from the roof, and the gray stone building set in the broad plain appealed to Baldwin. It was the picture of tranquillity, curiously at odds with the recent savage events.

  Before the door was Sarah Smalhobbe, seated on a stool and plucking the feathers from a hen while others pecked madly and scratched at the ground. She gave them a slow smile of welcome and called for her husband. After a minute he joined them.

  “Bailiff, Sir Baldwin,” he said, ducking his head to them respectfully.

  “Henry, we’d like to speak with you for a little,” Simon said, climbing from his horse and passing the reins to Hugh. Smalhobbe looked very tired, he could see, but well enough apart from that. At least he could walk again. The miner was clad in a heavy leather jacket over a thin woollen shirt and short hose. A long knife was at his thick belt. His left arm was wrapped in cloth from the wrist to the elbow, and there was a bruise on one cheek and a cut over a blackened eye.

  Smalhobbe sat on his wife’s stool and sighed. “It still hurts to move more than a few yards, sirs. My back is one mass of lumps and bumps where the whoresons laid into me.”

  “They won’t be back,” said Simon shortly. “The men have been found, and they are being held at the miners’ camp.”

  “What, by more of Thomas Smyth’s miners?” His face registered dismay. “But they were his men! You can’t trust him to keep them guarded, he’ll want them to get out and carry on.” He stared at them both, then at his wife, who stood a short way off, listening with an air of dejected concern.

  “They will not, I think,” said Baldwin reassuringly.

  “They will have other things to occupy them. Thomas Smyth will not come out here again for quite some time, if he ever does.”

  The miner did not look convinced. His eyes flitted over the horizon as if expecting to see
bands of marauders approaching at any moment.

  Simon tried to gain his attention. “Henry, we are finding it difficult to discover who could have killed Bruther. Who do you think might have done it? Do you think it was the same men who attacked you?”

  “Harold Magge and the others, you mean?” The miner stared at him. “No, I doubt it. Beating someone up—they could do that…but killing Peter? I don’t think so.”

  “You had seen no one else that night, until you were set upon?”

  “No, nobody. I was at my works all day and it was quiet.”

  “You never went near Wistman’s?”

  “No.”

  Baldwin interrupted. “You were late home. Why?”

  “I was smelting,” he said simply. “It sometimes takes time.”

  Simon nodded. “Do you know who Bruther’s friends were?”

  “Friends?”

  Squatting before him, Baldwin held his gaze. “We know he had several men with him in the days before his death. Sir Robert Beauscyr saw them with him, so did Sir Ralph of Warton—some seven or eight men who looked as if they were miners too. Do you have any idea who they were?”

  The miner looked hopelessly at his wife. “No, I don’t know.”

  Baldwin saw her quick glance, the pleading expression in her husband’s eyes, and knew the man was lying. “Very well,” he said quietly. “Perhaps you can tell us this, then. What sort of a man was Peter Bruther?”

  “He was a miner,” Smalhobbe said off-handedly.

  “He had not been here for long, and he was learning how to get tin, the same as me.”

  “Yes, but what was he like? If we know what sort of man he was, we may be able to guess why someone should want to murder him.”

  “He was quick, and self-assured, I suppose. It was hard for him to make friends and trust people, but he seemed happy enough.”

  “Was he by nature aggressive?”

  “Not that I saw. I mean, he was capable of a fight when he had been drinking, but that’s all.”

  “Did he often go drinking?”

  “Once or twice a week. He used to go to the Fighting Cock over toward Chagford.”