Michael JECKS: A Moorland Hanging

“Did you beat him?” his brother asked, curious.

“He was surrounded by miners, like guards round a king. I could do nothing. If I had, they would have attacked me.” Sir Robert glared at the fire, while John could not hide his sneer at this weakness.

Shrugging, Sir Ralph said, “Well, if you want him, go after him. If a villein runs away he must remain free for a year and a day to gain his freedom. If he has not been gone for a year yet, you have every right to bring him back.”

“Not here, Sir Ralph. The moors are different. And others will see him get away with it, without punishment! He will see to that: the rogue promised it, and laughed at me. Him – a villein – laughing at me!”

Sir William wore a worried frown. “This could be bad for the demesne. What can we do? If we do nothing, the other villeins will see that they can go when they want, and the Manor will fail for lack of workers, but if we try to pull him back, the miners could fight us.”

John was unconcerned. “Demand that the warden at Lydford comes and sorts it out. He has responsibility for the tinners in Devon under the law. Peter Bruther must come back, and the warden can make him.”

“Maybe you’re right,” muttered Robert. Looking up suddenly, John was surprised by the fury on his brother’s face as he ground out: “One thing I do know: if I catch that bastard alone, out on the moors, he’ll regret his laughter at my expense.”

“You mustn’t harm a miner,” his father remonstrated mildly.

“Me? I mustn’t let villeins run away, Father, and neither should you!”

“For the love of God, Simon!”

“What?” Simon Puttock turned in his saddle, and peered at his friend.

His companion sighed dramatically, but when he caught Simon’s expression he could not help breaking into loud, but not unkind, laughter. “Your misery, that’s what! You’ve been like a bear with a leg in a trap all the way, complaining about this visit. Are you going to keep it up until we get there? What are you so troubled about? The journey is not long, there’s a meal at the end of it, and at least the weather is good for a ride over these moors you’ve told me so much about.”

Simon, bailiff of Lydford Castle, gave a surly shrug of his shoulders, but was forced to confess the validity of at least the last part of the statement. From here, up at the far eastern fringe of Lydford, the moors did look inviting in the sunshine – a deceptive series of softly molded green hillocks in the distance, rolling and merging one into the other, touched with bright yellow and gold where the sunlight caught the gorse, with occasional licks of purple and mauve where the heather lay. The scene looked as rich in color as the robes of an emperor, the flanks of the hills spattered here and there with white where sheep grazed. Overhead a hawk soared in a cloudless sky, while ahead of them water sparkled in brooks and pools.

But the view gave him no comfort, and the worst of it was, the bailiff wasn’t sure he could fully explain his problems. It had been two years now since he had first met Sir Baldwin Furnshill, the Master of Furnshill Manor near Cadbury, and in that time the two had become firm friends. As Simon knew, after investigating murders with him, Baldwin was shrewd and learned, and had a good grasp of law – especially now that he was a Keeper of the King’s Peace – but the troubles Simon was forced to contend with almost daily would be incomprehensible even to a man trained in legal matters. Though Baldwin had travelled much in his youth, in those days he had been a member of a wealthy and powerful organization. Local issues were a very different kettle of fish.

The bailiff threw him a doubtful glance. In the sunlight, Baldwin was tanned and fit-looking, the thin knife-scar on his cheek shining red in the sun. His brown eyes moved confidently over the country ahead, and with his strong, square face he looked the picture of a modern knight. But the neatly trimmed beard which followed the line of his jaw jarred, as did his clothing. The old tunic was stained and worn, his hose faded and dusty, making him look as if he had fallen on hard times. It was not so, Simon knew, for the knight’s estates were prosperous, but Baldwin had simply no interest in his appearance. He was content to appear poor if others wished to believe him so.

“Come along, Simon. How can you be so miserable on a day like this?” Baldwin asked again. It was unlike his friend to be so introspective and oblivious to the world. If anything, it was usually Baldwin himself who was prey to dark thoughts, and Simon who had to pull him back to the present. But not this time. Baldwin was relaxed and refreshed after staying with the bailiff for three days, and he found it hard to understand why the message from an obscure Manor toward Widecombe should have so unsettled his friend.

Simon rode along in silence for a while, jogging in time with his horse’s slow gait. “It’s these damned miners, Baldwin,” he said at last. “Wherever they go, there’s trouble.”

“But this man Beauscyr only has a simple complaint, surely?”

“It’s not as easy as it seems,” Simon grunted. “This is not like your Manor, where you have the right to treat your peasants as you wish. This is a forest.”

“A forest?” Baldwin repeated dubiously.

“Yes. It used to be a hunting ground for the King until he made Piers Gaveston Earl of Cornwall and gave it to him. Since Gaveston’s killing, it has reverted to the King – and the miners fall under the King’s demesne.”

“How so?”

The bailiff explained. “There has always been a lot of tin on the moors, and the farming of it has become a profitable occupation for many – not least for the King. Edward taxes all the metal mined here, so he has given rights to the miners to protect them and their interests. More or less anything that helps them find tin, they are allowed to do.”

“But the man is a runaway, surely? All of this is irrelevant.”

“I wish it was. The trouble is, as soon as he bounded land, he became a miner. It follows that he’s a member of the King’s demesne. Beauscyr may not like it, but his man is now de facto a tin miner working for the King. There’s little Beauscyr can do about it.”

“Well, then, Beauscyr must accept that he has lost his man, whether he likes the fact or no. He can petition the King if he feels he has a claim.”

Simon studied his friend with an embittered eye. The knight stared back with open, cheerful incomprehension, and Simon sighed again. “Sir William Beauscyr won’t see it like that, Sir Baldwin,” he said dryly. The knight chuckled at the sarcastic use of his title as the bailiff scowled at the track ahead. “As far as he’s concerned, he’s got rights too – the same as you or anyone else. This man was his villein; he has run away, therefore he should be returned.”

“Except that now the man falls under the King’s protection,” Baldwin said lightly.

“Except that now the man is the King’s,” Simon agreed. “The trouble is, many villeins run away and call themselves miners, just to escape their lords. Some men on the moors have claimed stannary rights and privileges – that is, they’ve declared they’re miners and behave as such – until they have a new tax imposed, when they suddenly change their minds and say they’re merchants, or farmers, or foresters… anything! That’s what Beauscyr alleges: that this man – who was it? Peter? – this man is claiming to be a tinner out of convenience, and has no intention of mining.”

“That I cannot understand,” said Baldwin. “What would be the point of it? All it means is, he has gone from one master to another. It’s not as if he is free…”