Michael JECKS - A Moorland Hanging

Sir William watched the small party riding off to hunt with a sense of relief. Three retainers had joined his sons and Sir Ralph. The two boys had been niggling at each other almost from the moment John had returned, and though he was very proud of his sons, both of them, Sir William was beginning to look forward to the time when Sir Ralph and his youngest decided to leave and continue their travels abroad. Sighing, he turned back to the hall, where his wife would be waiting. Matillida too was feeling the strain of the constant sniping; she was becoming waspish.

Something was wrong with Robert, he reflected. His oldest son usually responded pragmatically to problems, but now he appeared to be incapable of seeing how to avoid conflict – indeed, he sought it out. In the past he would always have avoided an argument, preferring to get on with work, but since the affair of Peter Bruther, and especially now that his brother had come home again, he seemed to relish quarrelling. Sir William frowned. It was almost as if he had suddenly discovered a new strength of character.

And John too was a different person. Of course, a lot of that was due to his training as a warrior. Before that he had been a mere boy, but he had now returned as a man, and that was hard for Robert to understand. John had his own opinions on a number of matters where before he would have bowed to his brother’s view. No longer. He had left home a shy, quiet boy; now he was used to work and hardship after six years of steady training in service to his master. Confident and self-assured after living for years on the Scottish marches, a warrior now after fighting the border raiders, he had seen too much to be able to go back to a state of happy obedience, constantly deferring to his older brother’s wishes. Perhaps that was it. Maybe it was just that Robert could not understand that John had grown to maturity, Sir William decided.

Climbing the steps, he found his eyes being dragged back to the main gate, as if trying to look through it to the men riding off. He was still unsure of Sir Ralph. The knight had certainly trained his son well in the arts of war and chivalry, he had seen that in numerous little signs, in the way that he shared money unstintingly with the guards, in the way he offered to give alms to beggars at the door, but most of all in the way he could handle a sword. It had been impressive, Sir William admitted to himself – but troubling, as well.

The day before, John had been fretful, apparently bored, and had asked one of the guards to practice with him. One of the men-at-arms had been persuaded, Ronald Taverner, and they had used training swords built of heavy iron, with edges and points blunted. For protection they wore bucklers – small, circular shields. The idea had been to keep John in training, or so he had said, but when Sir William had gone to the stables to watch, he had been surprised by something Sir Ralph had said.

The knight had joined him, resting his forearms on the rail, a small dry smile on his face, and Sir William had said, “It’s good to see the young working to achieve the best they can, isn’t it?”

Sir Ralph had glanced at him, then back at the circling fighters. “To learn, surely the young should pick fighters as good as themselves, or better?”

Surprised, Sir William had watched the two men. It was plain what the knight had meant, and he had seen it for himself. Whereas John had demonstrated his skill, battering with his sword at any point of weakness like a good soldier, the guard had been clearly uneasy and far below John’s standard. He had held his sword well enough, but seemed not to have enough strength to use it effectively. His buckler was never quite fast enough to parry the crushing blows of his opponent’s weapon, his own blade was always just too slow to take advantage of an opening. Though John had managed to make it look as if he was having to work hard, the real effort had all been on the other side.

“They do look unmatched,” he had said, and had been surprised by his guest’s chuckle.

“More than a little. Any moment now John will lose interest. Ah, there it is!”

John had faltered, a foot dragged and made him stumble, and immediately the guard was on him. But as soon as he moved forward, the squire feinted to the right, then swung his buckler, knocking the man to his knees. Before he could move, the heavy sword had chopped downward, and he had collapsed, rolling in the dirt of the yard in his pain and clutching at his neck while John sauntered over to the bar and thrust his sword into the ground, casually tugging his gauntlets free.

“So, Father. I fear your guard missed my little trick.” His eyes were partly lidded, and Sir William had not been sure what expression they held. “Still, he has learned not to trust a swordsman who trips.”

“Did you have to hit him so hard? There was no need…” Three men had rushed to the rolling figure, and helped him to his feet as Sir William watched, stunned. Even when propped upright, his head dangled loose as though his neck was broken.

“Of course there was,” John said imperturbably. “If he was not hurt, how could he learn? It is only by thrashing dogs – and servants, too! – that they get the point of their lesson. He’ll be all right. Just have a headache for a couple of days.” And then he had stared at Sir Ralph, who met his gaze evenly. “Anyway, the main thing is, I won. Winning is all that matters when you hold a weapon, isn’t it? Winning and surviving.”

“John, that’s not the way of a knight. It’s not only victory that matters, it’s the honor of the match,” his father had protested.

“Perhaps, Father. But sometimes the honor doesn’t matter,” John had said, and Sir William had been shocked into silence by his cynicism. Half-shrugging, John had walked away, leaving the two men standing and watching him go. As he was half-carried away to recover, the wounded man also watched John go, and cast a baleful glare at him.

But more than the distaste which he felt for his son’s words was his shock at hearing the knight beside him murmur, “Your man should be grateful. If his sword had been real and edged, John would still have struck him.”

Now, a day later, Sir William could still recall the strange sadness in the northern knight’s voice. It was as if Sir Ralph had, with those words, confessed to himself how poorly he had trained his squire. Though a warrior should be resolute and determined in battle, he should still be loyal, honorable and courteous – to those beneath his station as well as his superiors. John’s behavior showed no chivalrous qualities whatsoever. That, Sir William felt sure, was why Sir Ralph looked so unhappy, so distressed, as if for the first time he had understood the nature of the squire he had created.

A noise at the gate made him look up, drawn once more to the present. It was the bailiff and his friend, back from their visit to Thomas Smyth. Anxiety surged through him as he watched them enter and dismount, but there was nothing he could do. If Thomas had told them, he would soon know about it. Then he drew himself up sharply. Sir Ralph could have had another reason for his black mood the day before, he thought. There was no indication of when Peter Bruther had died: Sir Ralph might think John had played a part in the villein’s death.

Simon saw the figure of the old knight slowly making his way up the stairs and nodded toward him. “This has hit him hard. Sir William looks older than when we first came here.”

“Yes. He feels his responsibilities. It is strange how death can remind a man about his own weaknesses – or those of his family.” Baldwin’s face was pensive, his eyes fixed on the now closed door.

“Should we leave him alone for a while, do you think?”