Michael JECKS - A Moorland Hanging

“This wood,” Baldwin said when they caught sight of greenery up ahead. “Isn’t it the one we passed the other day?”

Simon peered ahead. “Yes, it’s Wistman’s,” he said, and something in his voice made the knight look at him.

“I suppose now you will tell me the man was killed because he upset the wish-hounds!” he said lightly.

“There are some things you can’t laugh at, especially out here on the moors, Baldwin. Strange things can happen, it’s not like other places. Take this wood: all the trees are shorter than they should be. Crockern looks after his land the way he wants.”

Baldwin was about to say something when Samuel pointed. “That’s where he was,” he said simply.

Up ahead was a wall of moss-covered trunks. A small breeze made dry leaves rustle, chilling the men as it cooled the sweat on their backs. They paused and stared. Beneath one, which stood a little taller than the others, was a large rock, and beside this lay an untidy coil of the same hemp they had recovered from Peter Bruther’s body.

“He was hanging off that branch there,” Samuel continued, a finger indicating a heavy bough directly above the stone.

The knight nodded, then dropped from his horse and walked over to the tree. The hemp had been sliced through, he saw. He stared hard up at the oak, then below at the stone. “You cut him down?”

“Yes, sir. When I came back with the other men.”

Baldwin clambered up on top of the rock. It stood some two feet above the ground, and when he was on it he could just reach the branch overhead with his arms stretched upward. He gripped the branch and stared at it for some time, then let it go and sprang down, studying the ground all round while Simon observed him. He had seen his friend like this before, searching for any hints like a dog seeking a spoor.

Samuel grunted to himself and kicked his horse, moving out of the wind into the shelter of a rock. Hugh went over to join him and offered him a sip of his wineskin. The guide nodded to him gratefully and took a long pull of the cool drink, passing the skin back and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Jerking a thumb at the knight, who was now squatting and moving twigs and leaves aside as he examined the ground, Samuel asked: “Is he always like this? He looks like he’s searching for roots.”

Hugh burped quietly and stoppered the flask. “Often enough. But he seems to see things sometimes which you’d never have expected,” he explained, with a certain grudging respect. “What he’s looking for now, though, I can’t imagine.”

“There’s nothing to look for. Men came here and hanged him, that’s all.”

“He lived out here, did he?”

Shrugging, the man inclined his head slightly northward. “A little way off north of here. Most of the miners live out in the open, but this one was nearer the middle of the moors than the rest. Must’ve been mad. Anyone who’s been out on the moors for any time at all learns to stay away from the middle.”

“Why?” Edgar had ridden closer, and now sat easily and clearly comfortable a short way from them.

“Because no one who knows the moors wants to tempt him,” Hugh muttered, and the guard nodded sagely.

“Tempt who? What are you on about?”

“Look,” Hugh said, “this area, it’s Crockern’s, all of it. The spirit of the moors. He doesn’t like people trying to take from him. Even the miners know that, that’s why they all stick together, more or less. They keep to their villages, and leave most of the moors to the old man. Otherwise…” His voice trailed off as he caught sight of the cynical, raised eyebrow.

“Come on, Hugh. Otherwise what?”

“There was a farmer, not far from here. He had a good living, earned enough to feed himself and his family, but he got greedy. He wanted more. So he started increasing his land, taking more and more from the moors. Well, Crockern doesn’t mind people living here as long as they don’t hurt his country, but as for taking over bits they don’t really need, he doesn’t like that. So he stopped anything from growing on the new fields – thought that would stop the farmer. But it didn’t. The fool kept trying to increase his lands, draining and hedging and ditching, planting more and more all the time, until Crockern had had enough and decided to put a stop to it. The farmer found his animals died, all his plants withered, not just the ones on the new land, but on his old fields too, and then his house burned down…”

Samuel interrupted. “House? No, it was his barn.”

“House or barn,” Hugh amended diplomatically. “Anyway, he lost everything, and he was ruined. And that is Crockern. If you upset Crockern here on his own territory, you see, you’ll be destroyed by him.”

“And that’s what happened to this miner, you think?” Edgar was amused. Having spent most of his life in great cities he felt able to treat the superstitions of country folk with scorn. “He tried to take too much from the land, so the old man of the moors killed him?”

Offended by the bantering tone, Hugh was silent, but the man-at-arms stared at Edgar, his dark eyes pensive. “I wouldn’t laugh if I’s you. Crockern may not like it, not here on his land. Who’s to say why Bruther died? For all I know he might have killed himself, but I’ll tell you this: as far as I’m concerned, that boy’s as likely to be Crockern’s corpse as the victim of the miners hereabouts.”

“If that was the case, why were no other miners hurt? Surely Crockern wouldn’t want to differentiate between them, would he?”

The man-at-arms studied his face carefully, then motioned southward. “You know what that hill’s called?”

Edgar glanced round, back the way they had come. There was a hill, but from where they sat it was impossible to see more than the flanks. He shook his head.

“That’s Crockern Tor down there, where the miners all meet for their parliament,” Samuel said slowly. “And Bruther, well, he lived close. Too close, maybe. Crockern doesn’t like his bones being disturbed.”

“You can’t believe that!” Edgar scoffed, but the man ignored him and, kicking his horse, meandered a short distance away. When Edgar turned to Hugh, he noticed a speculative expression on the servant’s face. Hugh looked almost as if he was wondering whether a bolt of lightning might strike Edgar down at any moment.

The knight had finished his study of the ground and remounted his horse, frowning thoughtfully. “Simon,” he said softly, “I think this will be an interesting matter before we’re done.” He swung his leg and settled, grasping his reins, staring back at the tree. “There’s something strange about this death.”

“What’s that?”

“First, the land hereabouts. What was Bruther doing over here – fetching wood or something? There’s no axe. Then there’s his body…” He lapsed, glowering at the tree as if expecting it to answer his thoughts.

“His body?” Simon prompted after a few moments.

“Yes. If you were going to lynch someone, what would you do to him first?”

“I don’t know – gag him, I suppose.”

“And?”

“Well, it would depend on how many men were with me, how powerful the man was, lots of things.”

Baldwin shot him a look. “One of the first things you’d do would be to tie him up, surely?”

“Yes, of course.”

“So why wasn’t Bruther tied?”

“I suppose the men who cut him down must have unbound him…”

“No, Simon. He was not bound. If he had been, his wrists would have been bruised. They weren’t. I checked.”

“Could he have been unconscious? Maybe he was knocked out before they strung him up?”