Michael JECKS - A Moorland Hanging

Sir Ralph glanced away. He wanted to believe the knight’s words, but he could not speak. It was too dangerous. He was not from this area, and he had no family or friends on whom he could count for protection. Suddenly he felt very alone.

After a moment Baldwin sighed. There was nothing more he could say, and the determined glower on Sir Ralph’s face spoke of his resolution to maintain his silence. Baldwin turned to leave, pausing when he faced the inner courtyard. Now what were they talking about? he wondered. Sir Ralph followed the direction of his glance and saw John and Robert standing near a wall sconce.

Alone once more, Sir Ralph gazed out to the south. Whether it was guesswork or not was irrelevant to him – all that mattered was that Sir Baldwin evidently knew about his past. How he had found out was unimportant. The fact was, he did know. And that could mean the bailiff knew as well…

That thought made him shudder.

Simon groaned as he hauled himself upward from the bench which had been his bed for the night. In the past, when he was younger and had not qualified for the privilege of sleeping in a hall, he had often spent nights in barns while travelling. It was preferable to this, he thought. In a barn or stable there was hay and straw to make a comfortable bed, but now he was a bailiff, his hosts always seemed to think he deserved a chance to sleep on one of the family’s best wooden benches in the main hall. Probably, he winced, because of a general dislike for bailiffs.

It would not be surprising if it was some kind of punishment. Though he himself tried to behave honorably, there were many bailiffs in the land who were known to be corrupt and dishonest. Even among the bailiffs responsible for the moors, there were some whose actions were, at best, dubious. The chief warden regularly received complaints from people claiming that bailiffs captured men of the county and held them in jail until ransoms were paid, or that juries were coerced into giving bad decisions in court in return for money. Few trusted the moor’s bailiffs.

Stretching, he glanced around. True to form, Hugh was still snoring gently in the corner by the wall. It always took the equivalent of a charge of warhorses to wake him in the mornings, no matter where he rested. There was no sign of Edgar or Baldwin. Their benches were empty.

He stood, yawned, and wandered to the fire. The large blocks of wood which had fed it the night before were almost burned through, and he had to push some glowing embers together and blow at them to restart the flames. It took some time, and he was still crouching there when he heard the door crash open. Startled, he looked round to see Baldwin stamping in, Edgar hurrying along in his wake.

“Quick, Simon, get ready to leave. I’ve ordered your horse to be saddled, and food to be prepared. There’s no telling how long this will take.” He kicked Hugh’s bench. “Damn them!”

“What in the good Lord’s name is the matter with you?” Simon asked reasonably, grinning maliciously at the sight of Hugh who, shocked into wakefulness in an instant, tried to leap up, forgetting where he was. Arms flailing, he slipped backward and disappeared.

“What’s the matter? War, bailiff. That’s what’s the matter! Those mad fools have gone to the mining camp with some men-at-arms!”

“What? Who?”

“Wake up, Simon. Hell’s teeth, you’d try the patience of a saint when you’re half-asleep! Robert and John, of course. They’ve got it into their heads that Peter Bruther’s murderers are in Thomas Smyth’s camp, and they’ve ridden there to catch them.”

Hugh’s face reappeared over his bench, his eyes massive in his alarm, though whether at falling or at the thought of a fight, Simon was in no mood to guess. “Hugh! Stop staring and get ready.”

They were on their way in a matter of minutes. Their horses were ready and waiting and it took only a moment to clamber up, snatch the reins from the ostlers, and whip their mounts through the gates, passing rapidly over the moors to the miners’ camp.

The sun was well into the sky when they approached, and Simon was reflecting with longing on the breakfast he should have been eating, had it not been for the stupid actions of the two brothers. At the Manor, he thought dreamily, there would have been cold cuts of the calf they had eaten the night before, and his belly rumbled at the memory. When Baldwin came alongside, he contemplated him sourly.

The knight ignored the bailiff’s look; he was frowning seriously. “What’s that – can you hear it?” He cocked his head, and Simon followed suit. Dimly, over the thudding of hooves and squeaking of harnesses they could make out a crashing and clanging, like an army of blacksmiths. Baldwin cursed through gritted teeth. “God! We’re too late!”

Kicking his horse to greater urgency, Baldwin fumbled for his sword hilt. Now that they were almost there, he was beginning to wonder whether it was such a good idea to have chased after the two brothers and their men. There were only the four of them, and if it came to a battle their force would be inadequate to keep the two sides apart. His sword was loose in its sheath, and he had just taken fresh hold of the reins when they came over the brow of the hill and could see down into the valley of the miners.

“Thank God!” he heard Simon say, and nodded to himself. There were no bodies on the ground, and the sides were not closed yet. They charged forward.

The crowd was thickest at the blowing-house, and it was here that Baldwin aimed his mount, thundering down the shallow incline, through the stream, the water leaping up on both sides, and then on to the yelling and swearing men.

Bellowing “Stop!” at the top of his voice, Baldwin drew his sword and pounded toward the miners. Now he could see what had created the harsh metallic ringing. It was not sword on armor, it was rocks raining down on the brothers’ shields. They were standing before the doorway to the blowing-house with three men-at-arms at their sides, while the tin workers hurled rocks, going to the stream’s banks to use its plentiful supply of moorstone. At the front Baldwin could see the sandy hair of George Harang. He appeared to be directing the attack, yelling to urge the tinners on.

A man hurled a stone which bounced from John’s shield, making him curse and stagger, but that was the last one. Even as it struck, Baldwin arrived between the two groups. He screamed at the miner who had thrown it, pointing with his sword: “I said stop! If I see another missile I’ll have your head – do you understand? ” The man nodded dumbly, aghast to find a knight suddenly appear in front of him. When Baldwin was sure he would obey, he whirled his horse round to face the Beauscyrs, and found Simon was already with him, Edgar and Hugh to either side. The bailiff’s horse was pawing at the ground, as he stared at the men, his rage clear for all to see.

“Well? What excuse do you have for this trespass?” Simon said, his voice as cold as a moorland stream.

“You are guilty of invading the King’s forest, of armed attack and threatening men of the King’s demesne – what excuse can you give? Robert? Speak!”

“We wanted to come and catch the gang who killed Peter Bruther.”

“Oh? You know who it was now, do you?”

John came forward, a bemused frown on his face.

“Bailiff, it had to be the miners. They were threatening us, as you know. It’s only a small step from extortion to murder.”

“Rubbish!”

“It’s true. And this same gang has been beating up outlying miners. What about Henry Smalhobbe? Doesn’t he deserve protection from these moor-based thugs? Or don’t you care about them, bailiff?”

Simon, white with fury, was about to kick his horse forward when Baldwin’s hand gripped his arm. The knight’s voice was calm. “John Beauscyr, you are a fool. Be silent. The bailiff is right to protect all miners, not one or another but all. You are at fault in being here, let alone in drawing weapons against those who have a legal right to be here. We will deal with you later. For now, you will come with us.”