Michael JECKS - A Moorland Hanging

But it was not only the color. There was an urgency to the youth’s movements as he strolled round his horse. He was different now, more alive. Even when he spoke there was a new vitality to his voice. “More questions? Or are you just a bored guest seeking entertainment?”

Baldwin’s smile faded. He had known others who had been listless and vapid, only to become energized after violence. After the death of Peter Bruther, he wondered whether Robert’s new-found excitement had the same cause – whether Robert could have been the killer. “You had a pleasant afternoon?” he asked, and was rewarded by a quick glance.

“Yes, thank you, Sir Baldwin,” he said mockingly. “I had a very pleasant ride, uninterrupted either by my brother’s needling or your questioning. I trust you had an enjoyable time too?”

Ignoring the jibe, Baldwin stepped forward and stroked the horse’s rump. “I am sure you would have found it very boring. We asked questions of a lot of people, that is all. It is interesting, though, is it not, to speak to people you would not usually meet?”

“You’ve questioned the three we caught?” Robert peered at the knight with sudden concentration.

“Yes. Harold Magge and the others.” Baldwin was a little surprised to see that the young man had become reflective. “Who beat them?”

“Beat them? What do you mean?”

“Just that. They have been beaten severely. Did you and your brother torture them?”

Sir Robert stared in astonishment. “Why on earth would I have done that? We thought they were there so we hunted for them, but we had no time to harm them – as soon as we found them we were attacked by the others.”

Baldwin raised a doubtful eyebrow, and the young knight sighed and turned away. He looked sad now, deflated, and Baldwin was sorry to see how his happiness had fled. In a more conciliatory tone, he said, “The three were very helpful.”

“What did they have to say?” As he spoke he moved further round the horse, so that now his face was hidden in the gloom of the stable and Baldwin could not see his features.

Sucking at his teeth to extract a fragment of meat, Baldwin said, “They confirmed it was they who attacked Smalhobbe, though they deny absolutely having anything to do with the death of Bruther.”

“Did… did they see the two riders noticed by Samuel?”

A revealing question, Baldwin considered. “Why such interest in the riders? Do you think it was they who committed the murder now? This morning you were convinced that it must be the miners.”

“I… well, they would hardly admit it themselves, would they? They will surely have tried to put the blame on to someone else. I just wondered if they had tried to accuse the two riders they saw. Did they say?”

Baldwin smiled and nodded. Now he was sure that at least one of the riders was known to him.

The next morning was dry but overcast as the four men set off from Beauscyr Manor, and Baldwin found the difference in the weather daunting. In the gloomy light the rolling plains and hills appeared more threatening on either side, their flanks invaded by dark-colored heather, the higher points malevolent with their variously-shaped moorstone tors. Some looked like fantastic creatures waiting to spring, others like giants towering over the land seeking smaller creatures to crush. Although he was not usually given to unwarranted fears or superstitions, the sight of the massive shapes looming on all sides made him aware of how remote this place was from any town.

To his vague irritation, Simon was unaffected by the malign feel of the area. He rode on steadily, whistling tunelessly, and apparently unaware of the menace which the knight felt. In a strange way, his very lack of interest in the views was reassuring to Baldwin. His very unconcern seemed to keep the monsters Baldwin could sense at bay, as though they needed belief to make them whole. But it piqued his pride to find that for once it was he who was being superstitious.

They made their way west, then north by west until they came to a small group of trees – not like Wistman’s Wood, Baldwin noticed, but ordinary, straight and tall oaks and chestnuts. Here they had to encircle a wide area of marshland, and to make a broad sweep before they could continue riding along well-trodden tracks of packed earth up and down the gentle slopes of the moorland hills until they came to a brook. Trailing along its banks, they continued northward, Simon leading the way. A scattering of trees rose around them. At last the sun broke free of the silvery clouds above, and they were enclosed in a verdant glow as it glimmered through the leaves.

Coming to a clapper bridge, where a massive block of stone had been laid over the stream, Simon turned right. Here there was a track leading east, and they were soon out of the trees, climbing a slight hill. At the top Simon slowed, and here Baldwin caught his first sight of Adam Coyt’s farm.

It was a well-cared-for barton, lying a scant half-mile from the road in the lee of a wooded hill which protected it from the worst of the winter storms. The long house was sturdy and strong, built of moorstone which was hidden under the white lime render. A few yards away was a byre, with three outbuildings leaning close by as if for warmth. From the roof of the house came a thin ribbon of smoke which was immediately wafted away by the gusting wind.

From the barn where he was axing branches from a series of tree trunks, preparing them for cutting into manageable planks, Adam Coyt watched them approach with slitted, suspicious eyes. Strangers out here were a rarity, and letting the axe fall from his hand, he walked out to meet them.

Hugh was relieved to fall from his horse. He knew full well that today his master wished to travel widely and see several people, and was determined to take his rest when he could. Seeing Adam walk up, he nodded. From his youth in Drewsteignton he recognized the sort of man he was. Hard as the elements, as much formed of the land around him as any of the trees in his little wood, this was one of the old Dartmoor men.

Simon dropped from his mount and smiled reassuringly. “Good morning. I…” As he spoke, two sheep dogs suddenly bolted from the barn and stood snarling before him.

Giving a whistle, Adam commanded them to be silent without even glancing in their direction, and Simon was relieved to see them obey. Both immediately sat, and one began to scratch, changing in an instant from wild animals with slavering jaws into friendly companions with wide smiling mouths. At home with dogs, Baldwin ambled over to them, let them smell his hands briefly, and began to stroke them, and soon was engulfed as they ecstatically panted and slobbered over and around him, almost knocking him from his knees in their enthusiasm.

“He likes dogs,” Simon said, more by way of apology than explanation, and Adam nodded again, this time in frank astonishment that any man could wish to coddle a working animal. To his way of thinking it was a certain sign of lunacy, the same as petting a cow or a lamb. There was no profit in behaving that way with farm animals.

After Simon’s introductions, the farmer grunted his assent to answering the bailiff’s questions and led the way to the log-pile. Foreigners were welcome, his actions showed, to pass their time any way they wished, but he still had a living to earn and work to do. Their enquiry was conducted to the steady chop of his hatchet.

Regretfully leaving the dogs, Baldwin squatted on a thick trunk while Simon stood nearby. It was Simon who began.

“Adam, you’ve lived here all your life. Have things changed much over the years?”

Without looking up, the farmer considered for a moment. “No. The moors are the moors. They change with the seasons, but that’s all.”