Michael JECKS - A Moorland Hanging

Simon glanced at Baldwin, then back at the woman. “We can protect you on the way to your house, and perhaps help your man. But you must tell us who did this to him.”

The fear returned to her eyes. “If I tell you they’ll come back.”

“If you tell us, we can see that they never come back,” he said reassuringly.

“How can I depend on that? What if you’re wrong? They may burn us out, or kill us both!”

“Sarah, calm yourself. I am the bailiff. They will not dare to attack you if they hear you’re under my protection.”

“I don’t know… I must speak to my husband.”

“Very well, I won’t force you. But think on it. We may be able to help you – after all, the last thing we need down here is mob-rule.”

“You already have that, bailiff,” she said sadly, and turned away.

While she waited outside Bruther’s hut with Hugh and Edgar, Simon and Baldwin entered the little dwelling. A balk of timber in the center supported the roof, while a burned patch and twigs nearby showed where the miner had kept his fire. A simple stool formed the only furniture. The man’s sad collection of belongings lay on a large moorstone block which jutted from the wall in place of a table: a cloak, a hood, a small knife, a half-loaf of bread, a paunched rabbit. A thin and worn sleeping mat lay rolled up on the floor beside it.

Baldwin picked up the dead rabbit and weighed it in his hand. “This can only be a day old. In this heat it would hardly last much longer. If he caught this, surely he would not have committed suicide shortly after?”

“Why – do you think he might have killed himself?” Simon asked sharply.

The knight sighed. “No, but suicide would explain why his hands had not been bound. Then there’s the second mark…”

“What second mark?”

Baldwin explained while Simon listened intently. “It more or less proves it must have been murder,” the knight said, tossing the rabbit aside.

“It’s not very honorable, is it?” Simon mused.

“Stepping up behind a man and throttling him. Not the kind of behavior you’d expect out here. Usually if there’s a fight it’s with daggers or fists. This… it’s sickening.”

“Yes. As you say, it is hardly chivalrous. But then, there are many miners on the moors, and I doubt whether any of them have noble blood. In any case, there is not much reason here to kill a man, if they killed him to rob.”

“Could they have taken something from him?”

“From a villein? Maybe he had a purse on him, but he hadn’t been living here for a year yet. He can’t have earned that much. No, I doubt whether the purpose was robbery. Besides, since when have robbers hanged their victims?”

There was nothing more for them to learn here. They went outside and mounted their horses. Baldwin offered Mrs. Smalhobbe a ride with Edgar, but she refused. It wasn’t far to her house and she would be happier to walk. “So would I,” Hugh muttered fiercely when he saw that Simon was within hearing, but his master chose to ignore the comment.

At the Smalhobbe holding they found a small and neat square stone cottage. Sarah immediately ran to the door and entered while the men dismounted. Inside it was tiny. By the light of a guttering candle, which made the air rank with the foul smell of burning animal fat, Simon could see the slim figure lying on a palliasse at the far end of the room, his wife kneeling beside him. On their appearance, the miner lurched up to sit, his brown eyes showing anxiety – but not fear, Baldwin noted approvingly. The man looked unwell, his gaunt features bruised, but though he was slight of build, Smalhobbe looked wiry and fit.

“My wife says you are trying to find out what happened last night,” he said, his voice weary and strained.

Baldwin glanced round the room, then sighed as he realized there were no chairs or benches. He squatted. “Yes. Peter Bruther was killed, as your wife has presumably told you. We understand you were attacked as well.”

Henry Smalhobbe watched as Simon crouched down beside the knight. The miner’s expression was reserved and suspicious, but Simon thought he could detect a degree of hope there, as if the man had been praying for some relief and now felt he could see the approach of rescue. Simon cleared his throat. “Could you tell us what happened last night? Maybe we can help you at the same time as clearing up the matter of who killed Peter Bruther.”

“Maybe,” said Henry Smalhobbe quietly, and sank back on to an elbow. His face was now in darkness, below the level of the candle in the wall, so that his expression was difficult to read; Simon wondered whether the move was intentional. He chewed his lip in concentration as the miner continued: “There’s not much to tell. I was out all day, same as normal, working the stream a little to the south of here. When I came back it was just before dark. Well, I was almost home when I saw a man hiding outside. He must have been waiting for me.” He spoke dispassionately, as though recounting another man’s misfortune. “After I heard Sarah call out, I had to look at her and make sure she was all right. Well, before I could turn round, something caught me across the back of my head.” He broke off and gingerly touched his scalp. “I fell down, and someone whispered in my ear, said that if I didn’t go and leave this land to the one it belonged to, I could die. And my wife…”

“I understand. Please, what happened then?” said Simon softly.

“They beat me. Someone was kicking me, another had a cudgel, I think, and hit me all over – my legs, back, head, everywhere. I passed out when they got to my head.” He spoke simply, not trying to embellish his tale, and Simon felt sure he could be believed.

It was Baldwin who leaned forward and asked: “Did you see any of these men?”

“I didn’t need to, sir. I know them all. There’s three of them: Thomas Horsho, Harold Magge and Stephen the Crocker.” He explained briefly about their previous visits, how they’d threatened him and his wife.

“Usually George Harang is there too, when these men go out to scare people, but last night it was Harold who spoke. If George had been there, it would have been him.”

“Did you hear them say anything about Peter Bruther? Any comments at all?”

“No, sir, not that I recall. I’d tell you if I did.” His voice carried conviction.

“Have you heard of anybody else being attacked recently? Do you know if anybody else was hurt last night?”

“No, sir,” said Smalhobbe, glancing at his wife for confirmation. She shook her head too, her eyes huge in her concern.

Baldwin subsided, and Simon stiffly rose to his feet, his knees cracking. “Thanks for all that. We’ll see what we can do. If you’re prepared to accuse these men, perhaps we can get them punished.”

“Oh no, sir!” Sarah Smalhobbe’s face was twisted with fear. “We can’t! What will happen to us if we do that? You can see what the men are prepared to do when we make only a little trouble for them…”

Simon cocked his head. “What do you mean by ‘a little trouble’? What have you done to deserve this beating?” he asked.

She stared at him for a moment, then her eyes dropped, flitting nervously, or so Simon thought, to her husband.

“Henry?” he prompted, and was sure that the man started nervously.

“When we came here, we did all legally, bounding our plot, marking it out and registering it. All we wanted was to be left alone to make some kind of living, and so far we have. But some tinners, all they want is to keep people off the land.”

“Tinners? Surely you mean the landowners? It is they who wish the miners to leave,” said Baldwin.

“No, sir. The landowners want us to leave them alone, it is true. Some miners damage their lands and pasture, but no, I did mean miners want us off this part.”