Michael JECKS - A Moorland Hanging

“That’s very good, Alicia. Thank you for that, it’s been very useful. Now,” he stood, “I think we should go. We have many other people to see and speak to.”

Thanking Thomas Smyth and his daughter, the bailiff and his friend went out to their horses. “And now, Baldwin,” said Simon with a wolfish smile, “I think we ought to have a brief look at the Fighting Cock, don’t you?”

The inn was a pleasant surprise when it came into view. A large central block stood a little apart from storerooms, stables and kitchens, all made from stone. But while other buildings seemed depressing and gray, this place sparkled in the sunlight. It was trading well, too, judging from the number of horses which waited outside.

They left their horses tied to rings in the inn’s walls and entered. It was a large hall, the ceiling supported by huge pillars which rose up like the masts of great ships. In the middle was a fireplace, and the rushes on the floor smelled fresh and fragrant, almost overcoming the sour stench of spilled ale. The windows were tall and narrow but lighted the room well.

As they had expected, the place was full. Baldwin saw craggy-featured miners in one corner, a foppishly dressed merchant with four servants holding court near the fire, a knight with two men-at-arms standing and leaning against a wall and watching the others with a mocking smile, a laughing group of farmers at a table, two older men with rosy cheeks sitting primly as if with distaste at such noisy displays, and in and among them moved three serving girls, daintily circling round the men with pots and jugs in their hands.

Striding to a table which was for the present deserted, Baldwin beckoned to a pretty, pale young girl, whose auburn hair was loose and flowing. She smiled at him and nodded, soon making her way to them between the tables.

“So, Simon. We need to find out whether Sir Ralph was here like young John said, don’t we?” the knight said as he sat.

“Sirs?”

Baldwin glanced up to find the girl at his side. He returned her smile, ordered for them, and she disappeared into the throng once more. Before long she was back, carrying full earthenware pots of ale. When she had set them down, Baldwin asked if she could wait for a minute.

“Oh no, sir. Not while there are so many to be served. I have to keep working, or I might lose my job here…”

“This won’t take long,” Baldwin promised. “It’s just that my friend and I know the Beauscyrs, and John told us that his knight and he were here the other day.”

“Yes, sir. They came in an hour or so before dark. We know John here.” Dimples deepened and the light beamed like flakes of gold in her hazel eyes. Happily she said, “But I can’t stop now. Anyway, that was Molly, if he recommended one of us, not me. I’m Alison. But I can get her to come to you later, if you want.”

The knight stared at her. “Oh! I…”

Seeing his friend’s embarrassment, Simon began to shake with laughter. Baldwin himself was incapable of speech. While the girl stared from one to the other, Simon struggled to bring his humor under control. At last he managed to say, “Alison, there’s just one thing, if you could: if John was with Molly, where was his friend?” “His friend? Oh, no! You misunderstand me – Molly was with his friend. John wasn’t in the mood at the time.”

“I see. And his friend was here for how long?” Simon asked while Baldwin coughed and leaned forward attentively.

“Most of the night, sir.” Her eyes went to the knight with a faint nervousness. She knew the Beauscyr family was wealthy and powerful, and she did not like being questioned about them.

“So John and his friend were here until late, then?” Simon asked.

“No.”

“What?”

“John wasn’t here for long. After Molly took his friend away, he went out – for a ride, I daresay!” she giggled. “He didn’t come back till later.” Seeing a man wave urgently, she left them, steering a course back through the people.

“Bugger!” Simon swore, and up-ended his pot.

“Yes, that does change matters a little, doesn’t it? If she’s right, both brothers were out and about that night.”

“Yes, and it would have been easy for either to have got Bruther and killed him.”

“I wonder… Although the two brothers show every sign of hating each other, perhaps both were out there trying to kill Bruther…”

“You mean they might have formed an alliance?”

“Well, it is possible. Obviously Sir Robert wished to see the villein returned or be punished, and it is not impossible that he could have persuaded his brother to help him – by pointing out that their mother depended on the stability of the Manor, for example.”

“I suppose so, but having seen how the two of them react to each other I would have thought it was unlikely. Maybe John himself had his own reasons to want Bruther dead?”

“Yes…” Baldwin’s expression betrayed his doubt.

“But it seems a little far-fetched to think that both wanted the man dead and coincidentally happened to be out looking for their victim on the same night. I find that too unlikely. There must be a more simple explanation; we just do not have all the facts yet. Come, let’s be off. I want to hear what these three miners have to say for themselves.”

At the miners’ camp they found a short but well-muscled guard standing before the blowing-house with his sword drawn. He watched the two men suspiciously as they approached, and seemed unwilling to stand aside until Baldwin rested his hand on his own sword and stared at him unblinkingly. After a moment the guard shrugged ungraciously and let them pass.

The three miners were back in the storeroom where they had been hidden, sitting sullen and uncommunicative. Though they glanced up as Simon and Baldwin walked in, none made any move to show that they recognized their questioners.

It made little difference, for there was no point in trying to talk. The waterwheel rumbled and clattered, and men added to the din, pounding chunks of ore with iron-shod clubs on moorstone mortars, reducing the stones for the furnace, and there was a continual hiss and suck as the great bellows worked. The room was stuffy, and acrid with a stench that Simon was coming to recognize: the metallic tang of tin, the smell of money. Motioning to Baldwin, he invited the three to follow them outside, where the air was cleaner and they could speak free of the clamor of the machines and hammers.

Blinking and wincing after the darkness, the three men followed Simon and Baldwin to the stream’s bank, the guard trailing along in their wake, unsure whether he should allow his prisoners to move from their jail but unwilling to force the issue with a knight.

When they were all seated some distance from the slowly revolving wheel, Simon surveyed the men. “Which of you is Magge?” he asked. There was no point in scaring these men further, he saw. Their fear was all too evident. They knew their lives were at risk. From their shuffling and limping, they must have suffered a beating; Simon would raise this with the Beauscyr brothers when he next saw them. In his opinion there was no excuse for torturing a prisoner.

Harold Magge lifted his head as though it weighed as heavily as a rock on his shoulders. Bloodshot blue eyes gazed back at the bailiff with immense weariness from a face tanned brown as the dark soil all round. In a happier time, Simon thought, and with a tankard of cider in his fist, this man could have looked as cheerful as a free-born farmer with his roughly cut hair and the thick gray bristle on his square jaw. Now a dark bruise showed on one cheek, the edges an unhealthy yellow, and there were scratches on his face where the skin had been scraped. He gave the impression of great sadness and near despair.