Michael JECKS - A Moorland Hanging

“Is it very wealthy, then? There is a lot of tin here and others want you to leave so that they can take it?”

To the knight’s surprise, the wounded man gave a harsh laugh. “Hardly! There might be enough for me and Sarah to live off, but not enough to become wealthy. No, it’s because another man has paid miners not to work this land so that he can keep it for his own pasture, and they are enforcing the agreement.”

“So these men, they beat you because they were paid to keep the land empty?”

“Yes, sir. They work for a powerful man, for Thomas Smyth, and he is paid not to mine this far into the moors. So he has told them to get rid of the likes of us.”

“Did you know of this, Simon?” asked Baldwin, glancing at his friend in astonishment.

“I’ve heard of it,” he admitted. “It’s hard to stop. When the Devon miners divided from the Cornishmen thirteen years ago and formed their own stannary parliament here in Dartmoor, they became more powerful locally, and this type of thing has happened a few times. But,” he stood and nodded to the Smalhobbes, “I’ll do what I can to stop it, now I know who’s responsible.”

Simon was quiet during their return to the Manor, and Baldwin too was content to hold his peace. Although the bailiff had warned him about the troubles caused by the tinners, he had not realized how the bands of men affected the people in the moors, terrorizing some in return for money from others. He was still frowning thoughtfully when they arrived at Beauscyr Manor. Dusk was approaching, and they were all relieved to drop from their saddles. Samuel Hankyn went off to the kitchen, while the two men and their servants made their way to the hall. Here Baldwin was pleased to see that food was laid out for them on a table before the fire, and he had filled a trencher and was eating before the others had seated themselves. But for them, the hall was empty.

After some minutes, Sir Robert Beauscyr twitched the curtains aside and strode in. He marched across the rush-covered floor to a bench opposite Simon and sat, staring at the bailiff. “Well? Have you discovered anything?” he demanded.

Simon regarded him silently while he chewed on some tough, dry beef. He had disliked the older of the two brothers since their first meeting. His arrogance was insulting, and Simon was unused to such treatment. Swallowing, he leaned back on his bench and picked up his pewter mug. Ignoring the question, he said, “How long has the Manor been paying money to Thomas Smyth to keep off the Manor’s lands?” and drank.

Robert Beauscyr was dumbfounded. The whole affair had only blown up over the last few days. Before that, even he had not known of the arrangement. He regained his composure with an effort and tried to pass the matter off with a shrug, aware that his shock had been visible. “What has that to do with this murder?” he snapped. “It is irrelevant.”

“No, not irrelevant. If, for example, you had paid a man to protect lands which were yours, and he tried to do that by killing a man, it would be the same as you paying for the murder.” The bailiff nonchalantly popped a crust of bread into his mouth, delighted by the young knight’s discomfort. “Wouldn’t it?”

“No… I mean, maybe. But that’s not important here.”

“Why? Do you consider yourself above the law?” asked Baldwin mildly.

Sir Robert glared at him. “No, of course not. But Wistman’s Wood is not part of the Manor. It falls outside our demesne. If it’s anyone’s, it’s Adam Coyt’s, a moorman. He has rights of pasturage there. Anyway, we wouldn’t pay to have a villein killed!”

“Even one who had run away and was proving a continuing embarrassment to the family?” said Simon with raised eyebrows.

Before Robert could answer, the outer door slammed and his father entered. Sir William was irritated to see that his son was already there. Noting how tense the men round the table looked, he hesitated and offered up a quick prayer. “What’s the fool said now?” he wondered under his breath. Nodding curtly to the visitors, he dropped down beside his son, feeling exhausted. He knew that his fatigue was visible. Baldwin’s suggestion that the miners could accuse him of Bruther’s murder had come as an appalling shock, and he found it hard to meet the knight’s gaze now. The past week had been hard enough, and he knew it would not get any easier until the bailiff had gone.

Sighing, he said: “So I suppose you found the spot where he was killed, then, bailiff?”

Immediately his son burst out, “You didn’t say – did you find anything?”

There was a hint, Simon thought, of nervousness in his voice; he subjected the youth to a pensive stare. “It seems unlikely he killed himself,” he told the Beauscyrs. “We think he was probably killed by a gang.” He did not want to mention their visit to the Smalhobbes’ plot yet, not until he was sure that the latter would be safe from any retaliation. “As you said, the miners are a hard group of men. No doubt some of them were annoyed at Bruther’s mining activities.”

“I see. What will you do about it?”

Simon stared at his pot, then glanced at Baldwin. The knight had no doubts. He lazily stretched his legs and sighed happily. “We will go and speak to these miners tomorrow, and see what they have to say.”

“Good,” said Sir Robert, and stood. “I want this affair sorted out quickly so that we can get back to normal.” He marched swiftly to the door and left them.

“Forgive him his rudeness, bailiff. It is only the impetuousness of youth. He’s had an anxious day today; he’s convinced the miners are going to create more problems. And he’s argued with my other son.” Sir William sighed heavily. “And one of the men-at-arms was hurt at practice today… Why does everything always go wrong at the same time?”

Giving him a frosty smile, Simon nodded curtly, while Baldwin had to hide his grin by drinking from his pot. If the boy continued being so “impetuous,” he thought to himself, he might soon find himself being taught manners at the point of a bailiff’s sword.

A fter receiving directions, they left early the next morning to meet the miner they had heard so much about: Thomas Smyth. On the way they spoke about the corpse. Simon was not convinced by Baldwin’s preoccupation with the thin mark on Bruther’s neck. “Are you sure it wasn’t anything to do with the rope he was hanging by?”

“It could not be the rope,” said Baldwin with certainty. “If a man is hanged, the rope makes a bruise; if a man is throttled, fingers and thumbs will show as marks. But you can hit a dead body as hard as you like – it does not bruise.”

Simon shrugged. “Perhaps so, but what’s that got to do with it?”

“On this body, the rope did not bruise. It burned, it’s true, but did not bruise. What does that mean? It means that Bruther was already dead when he was hanged. The thin cord killed him because that one did mark his neck.”

“Fine! So someone hanged him after killing him to show how he had died. Very kind of them,” said Simon sarcastically.

Baldwin smiled. “Someone strangled him before he was hanged,” he agreed. “But then someone – presumably the same ‘someone’ – went through the charade of hanging him for some purpose.”

“And you’re sure he was strangled?”

“Oh, yes. There can be no doubt about that. He had all the signs of being throttled. Didn’t you see the red splotches all over his face? The little hemorrhages in his eyes?”

“I felt no need to study the corpse as closely as you,” said Simon dryly, and the knight chuckled. “What else did you notice?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Yes, Baldwin. You look as smug as an innkeeper who has just sold a barrel of six-month-old ale to a sot. Come on, then. What is it?”