Michael JECKS - A Moorland Hanging

The spell was broken. With those few words, John lost his indecision. A sneer twisted his features into a grimace of disgust and he took a half-step backward. “So you can feel generous to me, you mean? So you can allow me the scrapings from your table, like an old man begging alms at your door?” Robert wanted to cry out, to stop the flow of spite and jealousy, but the words stuck in his throat. “How kind, brother. How very kind! So you will let me come back here every now and then to see how well you are: how profitable your estate is; how plentiful your children are. I fear, brother, that I might not be able to. I fear that I might prefer to stay in Italy. A jail there would please me more than to see you living here happily, and as far as I am concerned, once our father is dead, I will have no wish to see you or the estate ever again. So thank you, brother. I hope you enjoy your hunt.” And break your damned neck! he added inwardly.

Robert stared, all color drained from his face. As though carved from marble, he sat rigid and unmoving on his horse, and only then did John see that there was no pride in his attitude, only hurt rejection. Then John ached to take his words back, to try to explain… but it was too late. The damage was done.

His spine stiff and straight, Robert kicked his horse into a canter and swept through the first, then the second gate, out to the open moors beyond. It would not do to let the rest of the hunting party guess at his torment. Up in front was the rising land, a broad expanse topped by a small clump of trees, toward which he headed, the hooves of his followers’ horses pounding behind him. There was a thick lump of despair in his chest. He could hardly think coherently, for every thought led him back to John and the terrible contempt in his younger brother’s eyes.

That was why the ambush was such a dramatic success.

George Harang watched the men approaching with a feeling akin to panic. If only there hadn’t been that fire, he thought. The Manor would not have been awake so early, they would all still have been at their breakfasts, not up and active – and it was far too early to send out a party to hunt. He slapped a fist into his cupped hand. The preparations were not even half-completed.

And yet the men were coming on, as if they had not seen his group of miners lying in wait. It was a strong force of men-at-arms, one man out in front ignoring the others, riding as stiff as a board of wood, apparently uncaring whether his guards could keep up with him or not.

Harang quickly assessed the chances of success, and then signalled urgently to the man next to him and gave his instructions.

If only John had not been so quick to take offense, Robert lamented as he lashed his horse up the slope. Why should he be so swift to anger just because the older of the two was to inherit the estate? It was the natural way of things, not some curious new injustice.

He clenched his jaw resolutely. There had been no need for John to spurn his attempt at reconciliation, it had been offered in all sincerity. And yet the jeering withdrawal of his brother had made it clear that there could be no friendship between them. But despite his own anger, Robert could still feel the prickle behind his eyes.

Then he saw the figure of a man standing up on the skyline before him, waving his arms urgently. Robert set spurs to his horse and increased his speed. At least someone wants my help, he thought, a bitter grin twisting his lips.

As he came closer, he saw that the man was familiar. The body stocky and trim, the legs short, the trunk thick like an oak tree. It was George Harang.

“Now!” bellowed George.

Suddenly the ground was full of miners. A group appeared in front of him, and as he whirled, Robert saw that he was surrounded. More were behind, some facing him with smiles of disdain at his stupidity while others turned back toward his men, fitting arrows to bows. Robert stared, stunned. The blood pounded in his veins, thundering at his temples like the steady beat of a warhorse at full gallop, and he felt a chill creep over him.

George walked down toward him, laughing loudly, issuing orders and keeping a wary eye on the members of the hunting party. “Tie him up!”

“Sir William, Sir William!” The pounding on the door sounded as though it was going to shatter the timbers to dust, and the old knight lifted his eyes to it with resignation. Was there never any peace, he wondered. Irritably he walked to the door and tugged it wide.

“What the devil is…”

“Sir William, it’s the miners. They’ve come and they’ve captured your son – we saw them from the walls, sir. They…”

Baldwin and Simon raced up and listened at either side of the old knight as the messenger stuttered and stammered, his pale, round face wrinkled and anxious, reminding Baldwin of his old mastiff, who was no doubt lying comfortably in front of his fire at Furnshill. Shaking the idea from his head, he caught the end of the message: “And they took him, knocked him from his horse, and…”

Baldwin grasped him by the shoulder. The man had graying hair and black, misshapen teeth in a revolting, slack mouth. Blue eyes stared back, the terror in them plain to see. Gradually he calmed under the serious stare of the knight’s dark brown eyes. “Good, now, start again. You say that your master’s son has been taken. Which one?”

“Sir Robert, sir,” the man gulped.

“And he was taken by miners?”

“Yes, sir. The men at the gate saw it. There was George Harang and others, and they caught Sir Robert just at the top of the hill, when he went out to hunt. There were lots of them, and they tied his hands and took him away.”

“Where to? Which way did they go?”

“Toward the miners’ camp, I suppose. One of the men has followed. We’re getting the rest of the horses saddled now, sir.”

“Good.” Baldwin stared at Sir William. “We must hurry; this cannot be permitted. It is one thing to take moormen hostage, quite another to take a knight captive.”

“Do you know of any reason why they should have taken your son, Sir William?” asked Simon.

“No, I’ve no idea why they should do this,” declared the knight with frank astonishment. “We’ve always lived side by side with the miners on the moors, and there’s never been anything like this before. We’ve paid when they wanted money, we’ve not intimidated them, I’ve recognized their power, and it would have been stupid to try to curb them – that would only have led to more troubles. No, I’ve no idea why they should have done this.”

Simon slowly nodded. “Very well. Let’s get ready, then.”

Hugh and Edgar trailed after them. Baldwin’s man wore a happy smile, and he clapped Hugh on the back as they went. “Don’t worry,” he said cheerfully. “It’ll be fun,” and began whistling.

“Fun!” muttered Hugh contemptuously and sniffed. He had the unpleasant suspicion that there would be blood shed, and he had no wish to see the color of his own.

In the courtyard they found a mass of confused and anxious men. Some wore helmets, some mail, but most simply had their leather or quilted jackets. All gripped weapons, rough agricultural tools or long-handled pikes; only a few wore swords. One stood with shy embarrassment clutching a worn billhook. Pale faces or flushed, all held the same quiet concern. It was one thing, Baldwin knew, to accept a master’s food and lodging, but when it came to protecting him, the nature of an oath of allegiance took on a wholly different and more fearsome meaning. All these people were aware of how little Sir William must value each of their lives against that of his oldest surviving son, and in their eyes he read the age-old calculation: would their leader be able to win without throwing away his men’s lives needlessly? It was there in the narrow watchfulness, in the slow, unhurried movements, in the careful stroking of a hand over the haft of a lance. All these men felt the same tension as they looked at Sir William.