Michael JECKS - A Moorland Hanging

“That was last year, of course – 1317. Since then, all of Sir Gilbert’s neighbors have been persuaded by his actions that he must be stopped. I understand that they were to attack his castle at Mitford. I merely wondered whether you knew of this affair, Sir Ralph? No? There was a knight with Sir Gilbert, too, I recall.” The vagueness of Baldwin’s voice was deceptive; there was no loss of concentration in his eyes as he stared at the man before him. “His name was Sir Ralph, I think. Sir Ralph of Oxham. Have you heard of him, I wonder?” Without giving the other man time to respond, he immediately moved on. “Of course, it doesn’t matter to us down here. It’s irrelevant. If a knight swears fealty to a more powerful knight, he should be honored for keeping to his vows. It is hard to condemn a man for holding to his oath if his master then decides to become, for example, a shavaldore. In any case, we have enough trouble keeping the peace in this county without worrying about the affairs of others many hundreds of miles away. After all, there’s this murder to think about, even if it was only the killing of a villein.”

Sir Ralph breathed out slowly, the exhalation whistling through his pursed lips. “Yes,” he said raggedly. “Murder is a more serious crime, isn’t it?”

“Tell me, Sir Ralph. On the night that Peter Bruther died, you went to an inn with John, didn’t you? We have been to that same inn today, and a girl there told us that you spent the evening with one of them, but that John was out riding.”

“Out riding? No, he told me he was there all night. He was certainly there when I returned to the room.”

“Asleep?”

“No, he was already awake, sitting by the fire.”

“Was this in daylight?”

“It was still dark. The cocks hadn’t crowed yet.” There was little doubt in Simon or Baldwin’s mind of Sir Ralph’s sincerity. “He was there all night, I thought,” he continued. “Or at least, that was what he told me. I mean, where else could he have been?” His face went white as he suddenly realized what he had said.

“Sir Ralph, we would be very grateful if you did not mention anything about this conversation to John or his family,” said Baldwin quietly. “You are not a fool, so I won’t explain why.” The knight nodded again, slowly, his mind dwelling on the surprise revelation about his squire. “And now, could you tell us what he was like while he was with you in the north?”

“Very good,” said Sir Ralph shortly. “He always appeared brave, prepared to put himself at the front of any raiding party, whatever the risk. And he was bright, too – not a mindless thug like some: he could think an attack through. When it came to a defensive action, he was very quick to see the lie of the land and use it to best advantage, siting archers and men-at-arms effectively. I have to say, there was no better squire while I was in… the north.”

“Was he honest? Would you call him honorable?”

“Honorable, yes. He would make sure that a captive was well looked after until a ransom could be sought, and what more can a soldier do? I’m not aware that he ever mishandled a prisoner; he always looked after them.”

“You didn’t answer the first question: was he honest?”

Sir Ralph thought back to the raids, the times when his leader, Gilbert, had led them out to the villages, to the churches and the priory. The clashing of the arms, the arguments over the spoils, the looting, women weeping at the sight of their dead men, and the inevitable, cynical smile on his squire’s face as he looked to their portion of the profits, playing at dice with other soldiers and always winning their loot, secretly finding food while those same men starved, and his ability to lie to them, saying he was as hungry as they.

“No,” Sir Ralph said sadly. “No, I do not think he was very honest. Not now I think back.”

Baldwin nodded slowly. From the expression on Sir Ralph’s face, it was clear that the knight was seeing his squire in a new light. “I think,” he said, “we should see this other man-at-arms who was with Samuel Hankyn when he found the body, so that we can check his story.”

“Yes,” said Simon, his eyes still on the knight.

“What was his name?”

“Ronald Taverner.”

The start was unmistakable. Sir Ralph had been reaching for a pot of wine when Baldwin spoke, and on hearing the name, his hand almost knocked the drink from the table. He remained there, fixed, contemplating the pot in his hand as if to avoid meeting the gaze of the bailiff, then carefully set it back down.

“What is it, Sir Ralph?” asked Simon, his voice betraying his frank surprise.

The knight’s face turned to him. He looked tragic, but without speaking he rose and strode quickly from the room, and Simon and Baldwin could only stare at each other in amazement.

George Harang walked carefully into the hall. He had managed to avoid his master for some hours by riding to the camp on the pretext of checking on the blowing-house, but the messenger had not left any room for doubt. “Master Thomas wants you, George, and he wants you now. I don’t think he’s of a mind to wait,” the boy had said, and his eyes told of the urgency of his mission.

Questioning him on the way back, George found that Smyth had hardly moved from his seat at the fire since the bailiff and his friend had left. When the bottler had gone in to speak to him, he had been bellowed at, and since then all had left him alone. Then, after some hours, he had suddenly come back to life, roaring for wine and demanding George.

As he crossed the floor to where Smyth sat contemplating the small fire, chin cupped in one hand, the other resting idly on a hound’s flank, George felt his anger mounting. This shrivelled old man was not his master. Thomas Smyth was a strong and courageous man known throughout the moors. The figure before him was that of a huddled old man, tired and weak after a lifetime of struggling.

“Master? I heard you wanted me,” George said tentatively, and the black eyes fixed on him.

“Wanted you?” Smyth sounded pensive, as if his mind was elsewhere, but then he stood, and George saw that he was not humbled, but consumed with rage. “Of course I want you. Who else? That bailiff and his friend – what do you think of them?”

“I don’t like the knight. The bailiff seems straightforward enough.”

“Oh, yes. Straightforward, certainly. But can we trust him? I don’t think so. For a start, how well does he know this area? Not as well as us, George. And all the time he’s here, he’s staying with the Beauscyrs, listening to their poison about the miners and me! I don’t like him and I don’t trust him, and I think the Beauscyrs can wind him round their fingers like a ring. All that family wants is to see us off the moors, and while they’ve got the King’s own man living with them, they can get him to think their way. In any case, I doubt he’d cost much to buy – most bailiffs are cheap enough.”

“Do you think he’ll take their side, then?”

“I think we have to make sure he isn’t going to. You’ll need to keep an eye on them, George. Keep an eye on where they go and who they meet, and then we’ll see, won’t we?” His gaze turned away, and he stared once more at the fire. “I think that bailiff could be a great danger to us, a real threat. And I want to make sure we’re safe…”

Ronald Taverner was lying on a palliasse below the hall, in a quiet room where he could rest. Samuel Hankyn knelt by his side, feeding him sips of hot sweetened ale. He watched his friend with concern. Gone was the cheerful lad he had known for so long. Now Ronald was pale and nervous, starting at the slightest noise. Chewing his lip, Samuel was angry to see how his friend had changed. As Simon and Baldwin entered, Samuel stepped back to the wall, throwing them a suspicious glare.