Michael JECKS - A Moorland Hanging

“Possibly.” His voice was noncommittal.

“There you are then. He was attacked and knocked cold, then someone threw the rope over that branch, tied one end to his throat, hauled him up, and fastened the other end to the tree to hold him there.”

“I suppose so,” Baldwin said dubiously. He still wondered about the thin mark on the dead man’s neck, but did not want to discuss it in front of the man-at-arms. He wheeled his horse to face the others.

“Hey, you!” Simon called out, and their guide came forward. “You found this body with another man from the Manor, is that right?”

He nodded. “Yes, I was with Ronald Taverner.”

“Why were you all the way up here? It’s miles from Thomas Smyth’s place, and I understand you went there with Sir William.”

Samuel explained about their decision to go for a drink, and about their circuitous route homeward after seeing the two miners on the road. Baldwin listened carefully as the man spoke. His story rang true, but he seemed reticent on one point.

“I don’t understand why you came all the way out here,” Baldwin probed. “Isn’t there a nearer tavern or inn? Surely there’s one on the way to Chagford?”

“John and his knight went there. I didn’t want to be with them.”

“Why not?” asked Simon.

“Because…” He stopped and stared at the ground.

“Come on, Samuel. It will go no further,” said Simon reassuringly.

“John can be a hard man,” he muttered.

Baldwin nodded. From what he had observed he felt sure that the young squire could be a cruel master. After all, he was being tutored by Sir Ralph of Warton. Mercenary knights like Sir Ralph were all too common, and none were noted for kindness or generosity of spirit.

“So you went all the way out to the alehouse near the Dart and drank there,” Simon stated. “And on the way back you left the road because of some miners. What were they like?”

“One was tall, both were young. They were cloaked and hooded.” His face took on a pensive frown.

Simon had the same thought. “It’s rare for miners to own horses; they usually ride ponies if anything, don’t they? And you say they were cloaked… Wasn’t it a warm night? Why would they have been cloaked?”

“I don’t know. At the time I just assumed they must be miners. Who else would be out on the moors at that time of day? Farmers would all be bedding down their animals, and there’s no merchant would want to travel at that hour. I just thought…”

“Could it have been a knight, a man riding with his squire?”

Again Samuel frowned. There had been something odd about the two, now he came to think of it. “I don’t know… One could have been well-born, but the other…” He stumbled into silence.

After some moments, Simon cleared his throat. “All right, Samuel,” he said kindly, “tell us if anything comes to you. For now, do you know where this man Bruther used to live?”

“Yes, over beyond the Smalhobbes’ place.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“Good, so it’s not too far out of our way, then. Take us there.”

Simon and Baldwin followed as he led them past the rock where the two servants waited. Simon saw Edgar give Hugh a patronizing sneer and overheard him mutter, “Crockern’s corpse!” The bailiff made a mental note to ask his man what the comment meant.

They toiled up the bank of the hill. Within a short distance they found they had left the boulders behind; rocks only seemed to lie in the valley around the wood. Toward the top of the hill the land was firm, undulating grassland for as far as the eye could see, with small yellow and white flowers lying among the grasses. The ubiquitous gray tors towered over the skyline in all directions. At the sight of the emptiness, Simon gave an inward groan. By now he was longing to get down from his saddle, but that pleasure was obviously some way off.

It was a good mile and a half to the little hut where Peter Bruther had lived. After some minutes, they could see it – a small, stone-built place, with turves carelessly tossed over for a roof. A fast-flowing stream wandered before it, cutting deeply into the black soil. Behind lay a patch of cultivated soil, where some crops struggled against the bitter winds which scoured the land.

At the sight of the building, the five men slowed to a trot. All were struck with the urge to approach quietly as a mark of respect to the dead man who had lived there. Their passage was almost spent until they splashed through the stream and headed to the door. And only then did they hear a shrill scream and see the woman dart from the entrance, ducking under the head of Baldwin’s horse, and pelting away to the east.

The men were so surprised that at first no one could move. Baldwin’s horse seemed as astonished as his rider, shying only when the woman had passed well beyond, but even as he snorted and jerked his head, his rider was beginning to get over his shock. While Simon exchanged a dumbfounded glance with Hugh, the knight set spurs to his horse, and with Edgar close behind, made off after her.

He had no desire to harm or scare her, but he was intrigued to know who she was and what she had been doing in the dead man’s house. Approaching obliquely so as not to alarm her unduly, he overtook her and slowed to a trot. She was sobbing. He smiled, trying to look reassuring, and held up his hands to show they were empty of weapons. It appeared to work, for as he reined in, she stopped a short distance from him, wiping at her eyes and panting.

It was impossible for the knight to miss the signs of her poverty, the threadbare dress and dirty wimple, the holes at the elbows and knees, but he was impressed by her carriage. She stood tall and straight, looking almost like a lady, and was not scared to meet his gaze. This was no fearful rabbit of a serf, he could see.

“Please stop, madam. You are in no danger, I assure you.”

“Who are you? Are you with Thomas?”

His expression of frank incomprehension must have been convincing, for her eyes left his at last, and moved to take in the straggle of men at the hut behind her, then Edgar, who had pulled up to her side and now sat resting his elbows on his horse’s withers. Baldwin shrugged to emphasize his ignorance of the name. He had no knowledge of this Thomas.

“You aren’t miners, then,” she said doubtfully, and her mystification increased as the dark-faced knight laughed aloud.

“No, no, we’re not miners. I am Sir Baldwin Furnshill, and the gentleman back there is Simon Puttock, the bailiff of Lydford. We are here to find out who killed Peter Bruther.”

“He is dead, then?” she cried, and covered her face with her hands.

Edgar led Baldwin’s horse back to the hut while the knight walked with the weeping woman. By the time they had returned to the other men, he had managed to learn that she was Sarah Smalhobbe.

“Why were you here, Sarah?” Simon asked when Baldwin had introduced her.

“I wanted help after they attacked us. They came to my house yesterday, three of them, and they set on my husband. He’s there now, in his cot. Three against one! Where’s the victory in that, eh? The cowards hit him and kicked him while he was on the ground, beating him with cudgels just because he refused to leave the moors. But where else can we go, sir? We have no family to protect us, we’re just poor people, and we cannot leave and find somewhere else to live.”

“You do not come from around here, then?” Baldwin asked gently, and her gaze immediately moved to him. She hesitated, nervous of saying too much. “No, sir. We come from the north.”

“Where from? Why did you come all the way down here, to this miserable place?”

Unaccountably she began to snivel again. “Sir, it’s hard, but there has been nowhere to earn a crust – the famine affected richer people than us. We had to go somewhere when we could no longer get food, and when we heard about the mining down here, it seemed a chance to build our lives again.”