Michael JECKS - A Moorland Hanging

“Right for Alicia, you mean? Or do you mean he could kill?” Baldwin laughed at the man’s expression.

“Come, George. Like your master said, Robert Beauscyr had good reason to want the man back. Do you think he could murder?”

“Sir Robert Beauscyr kill Peter Bruther?” He considered, riding in silence as he thought through the implications. As he knew, the Beauscyr family had little enough reason to like Peter Bruther, but killing a man was different from disliking him. “I wouldn’t have thought he could kill, but if he had a group of men with him and they would do his bidding, he might order them to.”

“What do you know about his brother?”

“Him?” He spat. “If Robert’s got the brains, then John’s got the muscle. He’s one man I’d always want in front of me, never behind. But he’s no interest in the lands, he’s always riding out with his knight looking for more loot or spoil. Their sort are never satisfied, they always want more.”

“Their sort?” Baldwin shot him a glance, but George felt he had said enough and refused to explain himself, maintaining a reserved silence for the remainder of their journey. Luckily it was not much farther, and soon they were at the broad plateau where the miners held their camp. George led them to the blowing-house, where there was a small stable area near a slowturning waterwheel. Leaving their horses there, he took them to the house itself. “You wanted to see this last time you passed near,” he said, and motioned the knight inside.

Baldwin found it was as hot as a smithy, with two men working bare-chested at the furnace. Its flames filled the square room with an unearthly glow of angry red light. He puffed out his cheeks at the heat and winced. The air was so dry and pungent with the fumes of charcoal that it was difficult to breathe after the coolness of their ride, and with each squeeze of the bellows the atmosphere bludgeoned at him.

The building was a simple two roomed affair, built of sturdy rock and turf to keep out wind and rain. A doorway to his right led into a storeroom, and the fire was opposite, set into the wall. It looked like a series of rocks set vertically, four feet wide at most. To the left was a massive bellows, which appeared to be driven from outside by the waterwheel in the stream, and which fed air into the bottom of the hearth. Behind the rocks, George told them, was a tall clay pot, shaped like a cone standing on its point.

“We fill the clay pot with layers of charcoal and ore,” George explained when asked. “The bellows are needed to get the furnace hot enough so that the tin melts. When it does it runs into that trough at the bottom.” He indicated a deeply grooved stone under the furnace. “Then all we have to do is ladle it into an ingot, ready for coining at the stannary town.”

The temperature was too extreme. Though Baldwin would have liked to stay longer and see what else went on, he was eager to leave. “Fascinating,” he murmured to Simon outside as he wiped sweat from his forehead, “but distinctly uncomfortable!”

“Aye, but good when the snow lies on the ground,” said George cheerfully. Since seeing the room he appeared to have recovered his good humor, Baldwin thought, like a devil after receiving a brief but warming blast of hellfire.

“Can you show us where these three men used to live?” Simon asked. He was bored with seeing blowing-houses and the other machines and paraphernalia of the miners. To him it was all as exciting as watching cob dry – if a great deal more profitable.

George Harang shrugged unconcernedly and led them to a series of cottages at the southern edge of the hamlet. Stopping at one he waved a hand for them to enter, leaning against the wall with every sign of relaxation. Exchanging a glance, Simon and Baldwin ducked under the lintel and entered.

It was a miserable hovel, only ten feet by eight, and it stank of urine and smoke. A tiny hearth held a few burned twigs and pieces of wood, while a bundle of faggots stood to one side. There was a sad palliasse, bleeding straw, and a canvas sack beside it with a wooden platter and pot atop, all covered with soot. Apart from that the room was empty.

Outside, a stranger had joined Hugh, Edgar and George. Short and slight, he had the sallow skin and bright eyes of overwork. George cocked a thumb at him. “This is a friend of theirs. He used to share the cottage with them.”

Simon saw that the youth was nervous, perhaps from shyness. He said, “We would like to ask you some questions about Harold Magge, Thomas Horsho and Stephen the Crocker. Do you know where they are?”

“No, sir,” said the boy, shaking his head emphatically. “I never saw them go. They just weren’t here the day before yesterday when I went to sleep, and I haven’t seen them since.”

“Did they always sleep here?”

“Yes, sir.” The nod was as pronounced as the shake, and Simon began to wonder whether his head was firmly set on his shoulders. If not, it was likely to fly off at any moment.

“When did you last see them?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Roughly, lad. You don’t have to be precise.”

“Some days ago, sir.”

“ Where did you last see them?”

“I can’t remember, sir.”

“Surely you can tell us whether they were here at the hut or out somewhere else when you last saw them!”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Staring at him, Simon felt the exasperation mounting until he caught a glimpse of George Harang’s face. He was resting against the wall of the cottage, exuding relaxed nonchalance as he smiled at the miner. And then Simon caught on.

“Thanks, anyway. You’ve been very helpful,” he said, and the man hurried away like a startled hart. Turning, Simon smiled at his friend. “I think we have taken up enough of George’s time, don’t you?” Seeing the disbelief on Baldwin’s face, he took him by the arm and began to walk with him back to their horses.

“Come, we need to speak to the Beauscyrs, don’t we?”

Their guide accompanied them to their horses. “I’m sorry you found out so little,” he lied cheerfully.

“Yes,” said Simon reflectively. “Just one last thing, though. Where were you on the night Peter Bruther died?”

“Me?” George smiled. “I was at the house with my master, of course. Where else would I be?”

“That was a complete waste of time!” Baldwin muttered angrily as they rode at a steady pace up the incline from the camp. Simon glanced at him, smiling.

“Not entirely, Baldwin. We have learned something from our visit. It’s clear that George Harang and Thomas Smyth do not want to help us track down any of these three men. They know exactly what their men were doing that night and don’t want us to find out – which raises some interesting points to consider. For example, if Thomas Smyth is hiding the men or preventing us from finding them, did he know that the three men were going that way? Did he tell them to go? Did he actually instruct them to go and beat up Henry Smalhobbe? And if he did, did he also tell them to go on to Peter Bruther’s place and attack him too?”

“He could have, from the look of him,” said Baldwin, his dark eyes brooding as he frowned at the horizon ahead. Simon followed his stare to where a man herded cattle. The knight continued, “I think Smyth would stop at little to get what he wants. He’s a man who has carved out his own empire here, and no one can tell him what to do. There are any number of men to do his bidding, and if that poor, terrified rabbit of a man was anything to go by, many of them are fearful of upsetting him. I’m sure that’s what he was scared of, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I have no doubt about it. That was why I thought we might as well leave, as we were obviously not going to get anywhere – at least, not while George Harang was hanging around in earshot. No, if we want answers from any of Thomas Smyth’s men, we’ll need to get them away from their master and his servant.”