Michael JECKS - A Moorland Hanging

With the troubles caused by outlaws, Sir Ralph had decided to take the advice of his host and bring a man-at-arms with him on this ride. He was also aware, after talking to his young squire, that there was another good reason for bringing someone along with him who knew the area – for Dartmoor could be a dangerous place even in the middle of summer. Bogs proliferated, and often trapped unwary travellers as well as the sheep and cattle of the moormen. Even so, in the warm sunshine it was hard to be too fearful, and he soon threw off his feelings of caution and began to canter, enjoying the sensation of the wind pulling urgently at his cloak and the feeling of precise, elegant power in his horse’s stride. He was not dressed for war, clad only in his riding clothes of hose and a simple tunic of green wool, thin and cool. There had been no need to bring his great horse. Today he rode his palfrey, a light-framed roan mare who ate up the miles with eager joy.

His guard, a cheerful young man called Ronald Taverner, was happy enough with the ride. It was good to be out from the Manor for once. He had no knowledge of this knight, but he was an optimistic soul, eager to please Sir William and keen to impress any friend of the Beauscyr family. Right now the wish uppermost in his mind was that they might be able to stop off for a while and buy some drink, and for that he was taking the knight out north and west, toward the alehouse where the Dart River crossed the east-west road over the moors. The farmer there always made too much ale for himself, and was happy to sell it on to any passerby.

They had gone some four or five miles when they found themselves at the edge of a low cliff; they reined in and peered into the valley formed by a tight loop of an old river bed. Below them were the remains of what must have been a powerful watercourse, now reduced to a little stream, trickling down in a narrow rivulet between rocks, curving sharply away to their left and right. All around was a mess of gray moorstone and mixed gravels, with here and there a small bush or stunted tree. There was also a man, who stood as the two figures appeared over the brow above him and shielded his eyes against the sun behind them as he peered up.

Sir Ralph ignored him. Clearly the man was merely one of the tin workers, and thus of little importance. But then he heard the sudden hiss as the man-at-arms drew in his breath.

“What is it?”

“That man there. It’s Peter Bruther, the runaway from my master’s Manor.”

“Is it?” Ralph looked back. He saw a man in his late twenties, thin and worn, dressed in a faded brown tunic and what looked like a shabby fustian cloak. Dark eyes held his, but not with suspicion or fear, merely with a kind of vague curiosity. After a minute, he shrugged and began scraping muck from the stream and tipping it into a leather bucket. Somehow Ralph felt let down. From what he had heard, this villein was the embodiment of evil, and yet the reality was rather pathetic. Making a quick decision, the knight smiled to himself. Spurring his horse on, he rode down the slope to where the man stood.

Hearing their approach, Bruther straightened again and watched as they splashed through the stream, glancing behind him once as if expecting a sudden attack, then waiting patiently. Ralph smiled at the look. Even if he wanted to, there was nowhere for him to run to – and little point in trying to escape from men on horseback, the knight reasoned.

“Are you Peter Bruther?”

On hearing his words, Bruther straightened and stared up at him. “I am a miner.”

Ralph felt his mouth twitch. It was pleasing that the man had a defiant spirit. “I assume that means you are, then. You are the runaway from Sir William Beauscyr’s estates.”

“I used to be one of his men,” Bruther confessed with an air of calm; if he had been admitting to owning a sack of corn for sale he could not have been more casual.

Studying him, Ralph was suddenly aware of a certain dry humor in his intelligent eyes. It was unsettling. As a knight, he was used to a range of expressions on the faces of peasants: usually anxiety and trepidation, often outright fear. Never before had he seen the open contempt which was now evident in the curl of the man’s lip and the raised eyebrow. Fury welled up in him. In a merchant or another freeman it would have been disrespectful. In a runaway, it was blatantly impudent. Ralph spurred his horse closer.

“If there is something which amuses you, share it with me.”

“Oh, no. Not until you have explained why you want to speak to me. You are the trespasser here, after all, not me.”

“Trespasser!” The knight spat the word, astonished by the daring of this insignificant little man. Beside him, he heard the intake of breath from the man-at-arms.

“Sir Ralph, I think we should return…”

“No,” he interrupted, his eyes fixed on the slight figure before him. “I think we should take this man back with us. If for no other reason, his insolence deserves punishment. And it would be a good turn to Sir William for the hospitality he has shown me. After all, the Beauscyr family cannot be held responsible for me bringing the man back in error, can they? And I will soon be gone. Once he is back on the Manor’s land, he can be punished as a runaway. Tie him and give me the end of the rope – he can come back with us to the Manor and explain his amusement there. If he will not walk, we can drag him.”

“Sir Ralph…”

This time it was Peter Bruther who stopped the man-at-arms. “It’s Sir Ralph, is it? You know that I am a tinner – you see my tools here? You must know that I am responsible to the King now and am bound by stannary law, and yet you want to take me hostage?”

Ralph smiled bleakly. “I know you are a runaway villein from Beauscyr and that is all that matters to me.” He turned. “I told you to tie him…”

His voice faded at the sight which met his surprised gaze. Where before there had been an empty sweep of river bed, now there was a group of eight men. From the mattocks and shovels gripped in their grimy fists, they must be miners, and he realized too late that they must have been working further upstream, round the bend. There was no doubt in his mind, as he looked them over, that they were prepared to fight. Unconsciously, his hand fell to his sword, but at the movement he saw the point of a pick rise threateningly. He took his hand away, but kept it close. “Leave us alone,” he hissed.

“But, you see, these men are my friends – other miners like me. I think you should leave, though. This land is stannary land. Our land. You have no rights here.” Bruther was almost at his horse’s head now, peering up at him. His voice took on a harsh, jeering tone. “Go on, sir knight. Leave us. Or do you prefer to try to take me back, like you threatened?”

“You’ll regret this!” Ralph leaned low in his saddle and glared at Bruther, eyes wide in impotent fury. But there was nothing he could do. Viciously yanking the reins round, so that the metal bit cut into his mare’s mouth, he whipped and spurred her up the slope. Before Taverner could chase after him, Bruther snatched his pony’s bridle, and stood smiting up at the nervous man-at-arms. While his men laughed, the miner slipped the thong on his small coil of rope, then weighed it in his hands.

“You tell your Sir Ralph that I’ll keep this,” he said mockingly, and chuckled. “Tell him he can come and get me whenever he wants. I shall always keep it handy. If he wants me, he can come and tie me up and take me back with him.” He slapped the pony’s rump and Ronald clattered off after the disappearing knight.

But the man-at-arms had to travel a long way before the jeers and laughter of the men behind him had at last died away.