Michael JECKS: A Moorland Hanging

“But…” She stopped and considered. This land was all they had in the world. They had come here – was it only a year ago? – to try to make a new life after losing their old home, and had, by the grace of God, been able to earn a meager living. Were they to leave now, would they ever be able to settle elsewhere? For the first time since the first visit from Smyth’s men, she contemplated the options left to them: stay and run the risk of violence from their rich and powerful neighbor, or leave and try to find a new living somewhere else. They had tried that for a year before coming here to the moors, and the very thought of it made her shudder. She could not face it again.

Turning to her husband, she held his gaze for a minute. “We will stay,” she said at last.

He gave her a tender smile. “At least we have each other,” he said.

“Yes,” she whispered, but glanced fearfully one last time at Peter Bruther’s small fire, so tiny and sad in its distant solitude.

The decision to remain had left a hollow pit of fear in Sarah’s belly. The haven they had thought so safe only a few weeks before had proved as insecure as any of the other places in which they had attempted to hide. At least she had her husband with her, she thought. Poor Peter Bruther had no one. How could he defend himself, all alone out there, if Thomas Smyth’s tinners chose to attack him?

Leaping from his horse and tossing the reins to the waiting ostler, Sir Robert Beauscyr strode quickly to the steps leading to the old hall, his narrow face pale, lips compressed into a thin line. He took the steps two at a time, threw open the great door and passed through the curtain into the hall itself.

“Father!” he began imperiously. “That damned cretin, your man who…”

“Be quiet!” The angry bellow from his normally calm and composed father made Robert pause, and it was only then that he noticed the other two men in the room. His fury dissipated as he studied them warily. One – young, broad-shouldered and with the powerful right arm that spoke of a life spent in training for war – he recognized immediately.

Sir Robert could see that his younger brother had grown to maturity. The slim, lithe boy of fourteen who had left home six years before had developed into a swarthy warrior. Blue eyes held his calmly, but the face had changed: the nose had been broken, and a thick scar marred the flat of his right cheek which would, Robert was sure, attract all the women in Exeter.

For his part, John Beauscyr was unimpressed by the sight of his brother and had to conceal a grimace of disgust. Always more interested in study than in fighting, Robert had the ascetic thinness of a priest; his skin was waxy from spending too many hours indoors. Even his handshake felt limp and pathetic. John was sure that his older brother would have made a better merchant than knight, and it was a constant source of aggravation that in the lottery of life he should have come second: it would be Robert, not he, who would inherit the old Manor of Beauscyr in Dartmoor.

The second visitor was a tall man, standing a little away from the fire as though keeping back until sure that Sir Robert was no danger. Having seen the welcome given by John, he stepped forward, and Sir Robert was struck by the sense of power emanating from him, not strength of muscle alone, but of purpose and of will. John introduced them.

“Robert, this is my master, Sir Ralph of Warton. I have been his squire for over two years now. Sir Ralph, this is my brother.”

Sir Robert glanced quickly at his father, then gestured to the waiting servant. “Sir Ralph, I am pleased that you have come to visit our house, you are most welcome. Are you to be here for some time?”

Sir Ralph graciously inclined his head. “Not for long, I fear, sir. This is simply the last stage of our journey to the coast. I confess I find the current state of the kingdom depressing, and will be glad to leave when I may.”

“Who would not?” said Sir William shortly, instructing the servant to fetch more wine and some cold meats. “Since the famine there are hardly enough villeins to work the fields.”

“But it is peaceful here.”

“I suppose so. At least down here we are safe from the raids of those murderers from Scotland.”

“They are the devil’s own brood,” Sir Ralph agreed.

“Of course, sir. Mad! They must be mad. One victory and they seem to think they can raid with impunity as far into the kingdom as they choose. Don’t they realize that they will suffer the Pope’s extreme displeasure? Their leader is already excommunicated, I believe – do they want their whole country to suffer anathema?”

“They already do.” It was John who spoke, and Robert was interested to see that he reddened and looked down as his knight shot a keen glance at him. It was as if he suddenly realized he had said something wrong. Sir Ralph spoke then as he took a mug of wine from the servant.

“Yes, the Scottish are all under an interdict. The Pope decided to punish them for refusing to seal their dispute with King Edward, who is, after all, their liege lord.”

“Good,” said Sir William, rubbing his hands together with a smile of satisfaction. “Let us hope they will realize the error of their ways, then. Perhaps this will make them see that they cannot live by simply stealing what they want all the time. Those Scottish are no more than a tribe of outlaws.”

“More to the point, it also stops any chance of a new crusade to the Holy Land, and that is what the Pope wishes for,” Sir Ralph continued, staring into his mug.

“While the Scottish continue raiding in the north, and with the French King threatening the south, King Edward can hardly be expected to agree to travel to Palestine. The Pope’s desire for a new attempt on the Holy Land must stay just that: a desire, with no chance of being satisfied.”

“At least the Pope’s trying to cow the Scots into submission.”

“Yes, sir. And the news from Ireland sounds better. The King’s justiciar over there has apparently forced the Scottish invaders back. Thanks to God for a wise man who can command his troops.”

“If, er… if there was to be a new crusade, Sir Ralph – would you join it?” asked Sir Robert, and was fixed with an intense stare from the knight’s gray eyes.

“Yes, sir. I am like your brother here. I have no property; my brother inherited it all from our father. What I crave – what I need – is an oppportunity to win glory and favors. Where else should a knight be, but in battle? If there was a new crusade I could win fame and wealth. But be that as it may, there will be no crusade. Not while the French and English kings bicker among themselves at every opportunity. No, I will not be going to Palestine. But I want to cross the sea, to see new lands and fight. There are wars in Italy where a knight can earn good sums. I may go there.”

Motioning for more wine, Sir William burped and agreed. “Yes, the Italian cities offer good opportunities.”

Sir Ralph nodded, but his eyes remained on Sir Robert. After a moment John cleared his throat.

“So how is the demesne? The Manor looks as though it’s hardly suffered, compared with the rest of the kingdom.”

“We’ve been lucky,” Sir William agreed. “The estates have not been so badly affected as others. And not many villeins have died.”

“But some have run away.”

Sir Robert’s sharp tone made his brother and the knight look up. His father opened his mouth to speak but Sir Robert carried on, his anger rising again swiftly as he remembered the incident. “Oh, yes, some have run. Like Peter Bruther…”

John frowned. “Who, old Martha’s son?”

“Yes. She died, and he ran away some nine months ago. We thought he must have gone east, to try to win his freedom, but I saw him today on the road to Exeter. The cretin did not run far, apparently, he just went to the moors. He saw me, too, and went to the trouble of stopping me to show he does not fear us any more, the cur!”