Michael JECKS - A Moorland Hanging

Simon felt claustrophobic in the small room. Only a little light crept through the narrow slit window in the wall and the open doorway. Apart from a bench, well chewed by woodworm and rats, there was nowhere else to sit. The bailiff tried it tentatively. It appeared able to support him, but after giving it a cursory glance, Baldwin preferred to stand. Testing it with two bodies, he reasoned, could prove to be too dangerous.

Though he was used to seeing wounded men, the sight of this latest victim made the bailiff scowl with compassion. Taverner was little more than a boy from the look of him, a slight man in his late teens with an unruly shock of mousy hair above a narrow face with a high brow. Dark eyes met his with a look of trepidation and slender fingers plucked at the frayed edge of the worn blanket. Ronald Taverner was unused to meeting officials.

“What has happened to you?” asked Baldwin, and Simon could hear from his voice that the knight was as struck by the lad’s condition as he.

“I got hurt in practice, sir.”

“How?” Baldwin could see no visible sign of a wound, but the stillness of the form under the blanket showed the degree of his suffering.

“Sir, it was while I was with John, sir. We were practicing with blunted swords, and he caught my neck.”

“An accident, then.”

The quick glance shot at Samuel was seen by the bailiff and his friend. Simon leaned forward. “Was it an accident?”

“Oh, yes, sir!” The boy’s voice was emphatic, but his friend snorted in disgust.

“Samuel?” Simon said, looking up.

He needed no further prompting. The injustice of the attack had at first shocked him, but then his anger had been ignited, and through all the hours of looking after his companion he had found it growing. “No, sir, it wasn’t an accident. It was a warning,” he said bitterly.

“A warning?” His tone made Simon raise his brows. “What do you mean? A warning about what?”

“Go on, Ronald, tell them. Tell them how that mad bastard nearly killed you. You might as well, you owe him nothing.”

Faltering, with many a glance at his friend, Ronald told of the match between himself and the younger of the two brothers, how he had tried to get his strike, how John had stumbled, then whipped his sword round hard. It was easy to recall. The memory of the sparkling agony in his head, the intolerable pain, was too vivid. He shuddered. “It was just to teach me, he said, sir,” he finished miserably.

“Let me see,” demanded Baldwin, walking to the rough bed and kneeling. He examined the swollen and bruised neck for a moment before gently helping the white-faced boy to lie back again. Glancing at Simon, his eyes glittered with cold fury. “This is ridiculous! His wound is far too heavy for a training session – that damned fool John must have tried to inflict as much pain as possible. This lad could have been killed.”

“What was he trying to teach you, Ronald?” said Simon, leaning forward.

“I…”

“Tell them, Ronald. There’s no point keeping it back now. If they throw us out, at least we’ll still be alive. If he does this to you again, like Sir Baldwin says, he might kill you. You don’t want to end up like poor Peter, do you?” Samuel’s voice betrayed his frustration.

“Well, sirs. It was to stop me telling anyone about me and Sir Ralph meeting Peter Bruther on the moors a little while before he was killed.”

Listening to the story, Simon felt his face creasing into a perplexed frown. When the boy finished, sinking back on his pillow with a slight gasp then wincing as he tried to wriggle into a more comfortable position, Baldwin and the bailiff exchanged a baffled glance.

“Tell me, Ronald,” said Simon after a minute or two of reflection, “do you have any idea why what you have just told us should have led to your beating?”

“No, sir. I mean, unless…”

“Because John and his friend killed Bruther,” said Samuel flatly.

Simon considered him. “John and Sir Ralph?”

“We saw them riding off together and they came back here together. It must have been them who killed Bruther, and John hurt Ronald here to stop him talking – maybe even meant to kill him.”

“Oh, come on, that’s…”

“Why else? They wanted him to keep his mouth shut.”

“It would seem that Sir Ralph was with a woman all night at the tavern,” Baldwin said mildly. “He could not have killed Bruther.”

“A slut from the tavern? If she was paid enough she’d probably say she was with him all year,” sneered Samuel. “Those tavern tarts only want money. Are you saying you think she’s honest?”

“But if you’re right,” said Simon patiently, “I don’t understand why you think they would kill Bruther.”

With a quick movement Samuel pushed himself away from the wall. He found it hard to believe that the bailiff could be so naive. “It’s obvious! This Sir Ralph couldn’t take the insult from a runaway villein, and he went back there with his squire to murder Bruther because of Bruther’s rudeness. They didn’t want anyone to hear about the affair. They tried to avoid having anything to connect Bruther to them. That’s why they had to have any rumor about the meeting on the moors quashed, because it shows why Sir Ralph wanted Bruther dead! A noble knight turning tail like a cur! What more reason do you need?”

“But that can’t be it!” Ronald protested, gesturing weakly with a flapping hand. “He’s always been good to me, and generous, not like others. And after all…”

“I know all that,” said Samuel quickly, and Baldwin glanced keenly at him. The interruption was too hasty, he felt, but the man-at-arms met his questioning gaze unflinchingly. “There was no one else out there, so who else could it have been? If you’re right and this woman is telling the truth, maybe the knight did stay in the tavern that night – but was John there? He’d think an insult to his master was an insult to him too.”

Simon and Baldwin left the room shortly afterward. There was nothing more to learn – or, as Baldwin ruefully admitted to himself, there was nothing more that the two men were prepared to divulge. When he spoke, his voice low and guarded against the servants running to and fro around them, the bailiff was deep in thought, and had to ask him to repeat his question.

“I said, ‘What do you think, Simon?’”

“It would make sense, wouldn’t it?” Simon mused.

“If we didn’t know Sir Ralph was at the tavern that night, the two of them would be perfect suspects – if what Ronald said was true. There’s little I wouldn’t think the Beauscyr sons capable of,” he added darkly.

“Simon, Simon, Simon!” Baldwin laughed. “You mean John killed Bruther for the insult offered to his master? Do you not think that it would show a little too much loyalty? From what I have seen of John, I would hardly expect him to be that devoted to anyone.”

“No. You’re right. He’s too self-confident to care what might be said about his master. And he cares nothing for the estate or his brother.”

“Did you notice how Samuel silenced his friend? Just when Ronald was saying how Sir Ralph was better than others, Samuel shut him up.”

“Yes. But I’ve no idea what the lad was going to say. Maybe we can question Taverner alone.”

Baldwin shook his head. “Too late. From the way those two behaved in there, I would say that Samuel was the stronger – and he wanted whatever it was kept quiet. I expect Ronald will already have been persuaded to hold his tongue. He will do Samuel’s bidding – who else will he feel he can trust here at the Manor after his injury?”

“Could it be that they saw John, do you think? Is that what Samuel was hiding?”