Michael JECKS - A Moorland Hanging

As Baldwin had expected, the house was magnificent. The door gave on to a panelled screens passage, above which was a minstrels’ gallery, while beyond was a long hall with high windows throwing immense pools of light on to the rush-strewn floor. The fireplace was a huge circle of packed earth in the middle of the floor and an enormous log lying smoldering on the bed of glowing ashes hissed and crackled softly. Tapestries sheathed the walls and kept in the warmth, while all the visible woodwork was richly carved. Two wolfhounds lay by the fire, rising at the noise of the visitors’ entrance and watching their master.

Thomas Smyth walked to his dogs and rested his hands on their two heads briefly. Immediately, as if at a signal, the animals dropped down again and rested. Nearby was a bench at a table, and Smyth sat, waving a hand for the others to do likewise.

Simon found himself assailed by sudden doubts. This man did not have the look of a brutal extortioner – far less a killer. He looked calm and reasonable, with the self-assured aura of wealth. He watched as Baldwin stepped over to the hearth and crouched before the dogs, stroking their heads. When Hugh walked too close, one stared at him and there was a perceptible rumble, making the servant scurry to a bench and sit, but the animals submitted to Baldwin’s patting with apparent pleasure. The bailiff shook his head. Somehow Baldwin always had that effect on dogs.

“So, bailiff. What can I do for you?” Thomas Smyth sat easily, his hands on his knees, the very picture of amiable friendliness.

“How did you know I was the bailiff?”

“Ah well, when someone as important as you and your friend pass through the moors, you’re bound to be noticed. And my men cover a wide area here. After all, I have over a hundred men working for me.”

“Of course,” said Simon, but he was aware of the implied threat in those innocuous words. Only a rich man assured of his power could afford to have so many men in his pay, and this miner was pointing out the numbers he could count on. As if to emphasize the fact, Smyth glanced casually at the other three men before his eyes rested on Simon again. But then, seeing the understanding in Simon’s face, he grinned, as if this was all a game, and since both knew it, why not get on with it and to hell with verbal fencing. And with a feeling of faint disgust, Simon found himself liking the brash confidence of the man. He decided to approach the true aim of their visit obliquely.

“There was an attack yesterday,” he began. “Why did your men beat Henry Smalhobbe and tell him to leave his works?”

“Who?”

“Henry Smalhobbe. He named your men.”

“That’s a serious allegation, bailiff,” Thomas Smyth said, his eyes hardening into black ice. There was an intake of breath behind him, and Simon turned to see that the doorman had followed them into the hall and now stood near at hand. He glared angrily at the bailiff.

“Very serious,” Simon agreed mildly, turning back to the miner.

“Did this man say exactly who beat him?” This time the miner affected a display of surprise.

“Harold Magge, Thomas Horsho and Stephen the Crocker. All your men.”

“George?” Smyth looked at his servant.

“Sir,” he said, “they’ve all left the mines. They must’ve gone the day before yesterday.”

“Ah. So, you see, bailiff, they’ve all left my camp. They must be doing something on their own if they attacked this – who did you say it was?”

Simon ignored the question. “Why would they have left your camp?”

“Ah, well now, bailiff,” said Smyth, shrugging expansively and smiling. “There’re as many reasons for a man to leave as I have men working for me. I’m a master tinner, I’ve got a controlling interest in many works over the moors, and it’s hard to keep track of all the men who labor in my mines. There’re all sorts: journeymen paid by the day, laborers contracted to me yearly, and many others. Do you really expect me to know all of them personally? It’s impossible! And then, of course, there are foreigners, men who aren’t local and grow to dislike the moors – or get scared by them. They often get depressed by living out there, and just leave.”

“Others have suggested that you keep very close control of your men – and your mines.”

“Oh, yes. Well, of course I do.” His affable smile widened as if in sympathy that this was the best that Simon could do. “I have to control them with vigor. The men are a tough bunch, bailiff. They need considerable… let’s say ‘supervision,’ shall we? Out here, there are many who might not wish their past to come under too close a scrutiny. Quite a large proportion, I’m sure, only came to Dartmoor because they knew that they would then fell under stannary law, and be safe from any embarrassments they wished to leave behind. That doesn’t mean I know them all by name.”

“You mean you’ve outlaws working for you?” Simon asked bluntly.

“Bailiff, please! Do you expect me to ask all the sheriffs and reeves in the land about the past life of every man who comes to me asking for a job? Anyway, most of them will never return where they came from, so you could almost say that I am helping the law by stopping them from being outlaws! While they are here, working for me, they aren’t living in the woods and robbing merchants – if they ever did, that is.”

Baldwin stood, grunting. “These three men – were they outlaws?”

“I’ve no idea. I didn’t ask them,” said Smyth.

“Is it true that you have been trying to force Smalhobbe and others from the moors?”

“Force?” He paused, head on one side as he stared at the knight as if astonished.

“Yes, force them from the moors. By threatening them, suggesting that their wives could be raped or widowed…”

“Oh, really! I already have widely spread works, I don’t need more.”

“And yet a man is wounded and holds you responsible – and another is dead.”

“Dead?” The look he threw at George Harang was not faked, Baldwin was sure. There was genuine surprise there.

“Yes, a man called Bruther,” Simon said shortly.

“Who did you say? Peter Bruther’s dead?” The tinner was transfixed, staring in disbelief.

“Murdered,” said Simon. “Someone hanged him. Do you have any idea who could have wanted Bruther dead?”

Smyth’s expression was wooden. The bailiff could not know the truth, he thought. If he did, that question would never have been asked. Before he could collect his wits and respond, there was an interruption.

The door banged open, and Baldwin came face to face with a pair of women. One was a cheerful, contented-looking lady of forty at most, a matter of ten years or so younger than Smyth, and the knight guessed from her smile that she must be his wife. She was short and plump, with the clear, fresh complexion he associated with moorland dwellers, but with none of the dour stolidity he had seen elsewhere. Her dark hair was braided and curled under her wimple, the stiff severity of the headgear out of place beside her laughing brown eyes.

With her was a younger woman, obviously her daughter. She had the same dark hair and sunny, warming smile which betrayed her vivacious spirit. Seeing the guests, she paused at the door, but then her eyes went to her father, and she crossed to him. Baldwin could see that she was only some fifteen years or so old, still a little coltish in her movements, and slim as a foal, but with none of the gawkiness which was sometimes so evident in girls of her age. The maid was very self-assured, and clearly knew she was being watched by four men from the way she elegantly and decorously floated across the floor to her father. Baldwin noticed that her mother had observed this too. As if in mild despair at this forward behavior, she sighed, and then grinned when he caught her eye. He had to smile broadly in return.