Michael JECKS - A Moorland Hanging

Setting off from the hall, Samuel Hankyn burped gently to himself, smiling under the relaxing influence of the strong ale in his belly. He was mildly interested in what had made his master send him home so early, for it was unlike Sir William to go on without a man-at-arms, especially since he was going to meet the man who, as all in the Manor knew, he considered to be his enemy.

Samuel noted that Ronald Taverner, his companion, still wore his vague and faintly stupid expression; he gave a quick frown of exasperation. He should not have listened when Ronald suggested they should go for a drink before making their way home. After all, he had seen often enough before how little the lad could drink.

Strange, though, he reflected again, that his master should have decided to dismiss his men at the miner’s door and enter alone. After the row that afternoon he would have expected Sir William to take a strong force with him, rather than just Sir Ralph, his son John and two men-at-arms – himself and young Ronald. A show of strength would have been more in keeping with a man of his standing, and since all the men in the fort knew of the argument which had led to Sir Robert rushing out in a rage, there was even more reason to make a strong showing before the miners. If they even suspected that they had sown dissension in the ranks of the Beauscyr family, the miners might decide to ask for more, or even to take the knight hostage against a large ransom. It had happened before.

For now, though, Samuel just felt grateful at having escaped. If it came to a fight, he wanted to be far away. Knights were well-enough protected, for they had mail and armor to cover them, and if that failed and they were captured, few would kill them. Keeping them prisoner against a goodly charge for release was vastly more profitable. Not so for the poor man-at-arms. He was never wealthy, so could not afford much more than the legal minimum of arms – Samuel’s sword and helmet were paid for by Sir William – and was therefore not worth the keeping. If caught, a man-at-arms was lucky if his only punishment was a knife across the throat.

Facing the road ahead, he frowned. That was the thing that niggled at him. Sir William must know that he was riding into danger in going to the miners’ camp, so why go there unprotected? It was madness. Surely Sir William was not going to give in – that was almost incredible.

The facts spoke for themselves nonetheless. They had ridden out from Beauscyr to Thomas Smyth’s hall at the vill in the middle of the moors, and there Sir William had ordered the men-at-arms to leave him. When Samuel looked back, he saw John and Sir Ralph leaving the knight at the door and riding off on the Chagford road. They would not have left the old knight unless he knew himself to be safe, and that meant he must have been going to accept the miner’s terms – paying money to stop damage to the estate.

Samuel and Ronald could have gone straight back to the Manor, but the whole place still felt as if there was a storm brewing after the afternoon’s argument, and so Ronald quickly persuaded Samuel to find an inn. Both men had seen John and Sir Ralph heading northeast on the Chagford road, and guessed they were going to the Fighting Cock. It was no secret that the two often went to that tavern for their drinking and other entertainments, and Samuel and Ronald wanted to go somewhere else where they would not be under the amused and patronizing eyes of the squire, so they went off the other way, to the farmer’s hall where the Dart and the Cowsic Rivers met the road. Here, in the little valley, they were soon happily clutching pots of ale and forgetting their master and his troubles.

Now, some hours later, it was getting dark and Samuel was in a hurry to return to the Manor. He had no wish to be out when night fell, he was too well aware of the tales, and he was fearful of the response of Lady Matillida if they should arrive late. In a small fort like Beauscyr she would be certain to hear about it. Others had endured her fury: he had no wish to.

After leaving the stableyard they turned east. It wasn’t long before Samuel saw a pair of riders before them. He felt sure that they were miners, and cursed. Even a single quart of ale made Ronald useless in a fight, and today he had consumed three. Nervously, Samuel glanced south. He remembered this area, it was close to the River Dart, and the ground was often little better than a mire. On the other side of the road there was a path north. They could follow that for a mile, and then turn east on to the Lych way. It was hardly a direct route, but better than getting involved in an unequal fight. Cursing quietly, he spurred his mount to the trail.

Ronald seemed unaware of any change in their direction. He jogged along happily after Samuel, his face beaming. Samuel muttered bitterly. With this detour, they would be travelling a good two miles out of their way. But there was no alternative – the two riders were at the end of the lane, staring after him suspiciously. Praying that they would not follow, Samuel led on.

This track wound along near the river at first; gradually the hills began to rise upon either side. It would have been easy to turn off to the right and make their way down to the road again, but that would have taken them close to Crockern Tor, the seat of the miners’ parliament. Anything associated with tinners was unattractive tonight, and Samuel determined to stay on the track until it met the Lych way.

The rocks on both sides grew more plentiful, and the horses began to climb. A hillock stood before them, and when they reached its summit, another lay beyond. Soon Samuel could see the gray-green mass of a wood ahead, and he pursed his lips at the sight. It was only a short way after this, he knew, that the main track lay, and he kicked his horse again. The rest of the journey would be faster, and the sooner they were on their way the happier he would be. The sun was low in the west.

Its glow was a rim of gold and purple above the hill to his left, and it gilded the top of the bank on his right with impossible fiery colors. Down here in the valley he felt the cold rising from the river, and there was an eerie quality to the deadened sounds of their horses’ progress as they circled the little wood.

“Is it much farther?” he heard Ronald call. The lad’s brain was still sodden: his face had not yet lost its expression of bemused happiness.

“Shut up, you daft bugger,” he snarled. “If it wasn’t for you we’d be most of the way back. Can’t you see where we are?” Ronald gazed at him in blank incomprehension. “Look around. We’re miles out of the way, hadn’t you realized?”

They were at the top of the wood now, and Samuel was about to turn in disgust and make off along the Lych way, when he saw something new in Ronald’s expression. “What is it now?” he asked irritably.

In answer, the young man-at-arms pointed a shaking finger. There, just to their left, stood a large tree, with a rock at its base. And from one branch, spinning slowly, head drooping, hanged a man.

It had been dark for almost an hour when Matillida Beauscyr heard the cry from the gate, then the heavy snort of a horse and a stamping of hooves in the courtyard. Peering through the open door, she saw the ostlers holding her older son’s horse while he dismounted and curtly instructed them to feed and groom the great creature. Then he made his way over to her.

She stood quite still as he came near, one hand resting on the doorframe, and though she made no sign he knew immediately how angry she was.

“Mother. My apologies for being out so late. I…”

“Be quiet and come inside.”

The words were forced out between teeth clenched so tightly together she looked as if she had lockjaw. Following her, he could feel his face reddening just as it had in his youth in anticipation of the sharp cutting edge of her tongue. With an effort he kept his head up, determined not to show his feelings.