Michael JECKS - A Moorland Hanging

A few paces away, Sir Ralph was half-expecting Sir William to ride in like a warrior of old, razing the place to the ground in a wild orgy of destruction, horses thundering down the plain, the men reaching out with their swords and lances, slashing and stabbing at all in their path. That was the old way, the chevauchee, the riding out of chivalry.

But Sir William had learned his warfare among men like these miners and he disdained a mad rush. From what he had heard, his adversaries understood how to site archers, the same as the Welsh, against whom he had struggled with the old King Edward. Back in those days, he and others had been impressed by the skills of their enemies, especially their ability to use the land to funnel horsemen into small areas where the horses could be slowed and their riders pulled down. He had no wish to be tricked like this, nor to lose any lives unnecessarily, especially that of his son.

Sir William carefully scrutinized the lie of the land. It dropped from here down to the stream, with the little buildings dotted around like pebbles scattered on a board. There was no apparent defense, no barricades or walls behind which archers could hide, just the close-positioned huts. It was these which would offer protection. The alleys and lanes between would allow ropes to be strung to knock riders from the saddle. Men could be lying in wait behind the cottages, ready to spring out and club or stab. There could be little doubt that the miners already knew that he and his force were here. They must have had a lookout watching from on high. He glanced to either side. To the left was a small cluster of rocks – the ideal site for a guard, commanding a good view all over the land to the east. It would have taken no time to leap down, climb on to a pony and gallop for the camp.

Sir Ralph and Baldwin joined him. The mercenary jerked his head down toward the vill. “Where do you think they’ll have put him?”

“I have no idea. He could be in any of those huts.” Sir William suddenly felt exhausted. Slumping in his saddle he turned a tired face to Baldwin. “What do you think, Sir Baldwin?”

Studying the area, Baldwin did not answer for a moment, then pointed. “There, in the blowing-house. It’s the safest, most secure place. That’s why the three miners were kept hidden there. The storeroom has only the one door and no window. However, the other buildings all around make it hard to get to.”

“I think you’re right,” the old knight nodded.

“Let’s go and find out,” said Sir Ralph, his gaze going from one to the other in some confusion. “Why are you waiting?”

“Because I know this tin-mining bastard,” said Sir William heavily. “He was a soldier with me many years ago in Wales. He’s no knight, maybe, but he was a good warrior nonetheless, and crafty.”

Simon moved up to their side. “If it’s a trap, he’s baited it well. It’s a tempting morsel he’s put down. May I suggest we draw its teeth before we stand on it?”

“Speak plainly, man! What do you mean?” asked Sir William tetchily.

“I’ll go down and try to speak to him. There’s no sense in running in there at full tilt. Like you say, if he’s had any experience of warfare, he’ll have placed his men where we won’t be able to get to them but where they can pour arrows into us. It makes no sense for us to run into that. He’s unlikely to harm me, anyway. I’ve got nothing to do with this and he’s not going to want to upset the warden and the King by hurting me.”

“I will join you, Simon,” said Baldwin. “I should be safe too.”

“If you’re both quite certain,” said Sir William, staring at them with apparent surprise. “Are you sure you’ll be safe?”

“As I say, he won’t be in a hurry to upset the King – this is the King’s land. He may be proud enough to offend you, but if the King heard that his bailiff was hurt, he would be down here in force and the miners would find their lives more difficult. No, we should be safe.”

Seeing Sir William’s shrug of acceptance, they set off slowly down the long slope, loping cautiously with their servants.

“I thought it was a good idea back there,” said Baldwin musingly.

“And now?”

“It is very quiet, isn’t it?”

He was right. Simon could hear the rhythmic gurgle and splash of the water round the wheel as he approached. The cottages all looked empty, but he had the uncomfortable sensation of being watched. It was like riding into one of the old farmsteads long since deserted, only here it was more alarming, for the smell of smoke lay all over. There should have been the bustle of people, with men cooking and hammering, chatting and shouting as they worked, and the silence was oppressive.

“Damn this! Let’s ride in like men and stop this slow torture,” he muttered and was about to kick his horse, when Baldwin pointed with his chin at the ground.

“Not if you love your mount, old friend.”

Frowning, Simon followed his gaze and saw the little squares in the grass. There were holes dug all over the smooth, level area leading to the blowing-house, the turves relaid above to hide them. He gave a shame-faced grin and reluctantly nodded. Each turf hid a hole a foot deep, dug to break a horse’s leg and stop any charge.

In among the cottages Baldwin glimpsed men waiting. In most ways they looked the same as those commanded by Sir William – a rough, scruffy crew used to working with the heavy picks and mauls they gripped, staring anxiously at the four men riding slowly in to speak to their master. The knight sighed. No matter what the dispute, he knew, it was always the way with war: the wealthy bickered and the poor fought and died for their cause.

At the blowing-house they stopped and waited, remaining seated on their horses. Looking at Baldwin, Simon saw that he was quite calm and at ease, and the bailiff gave a grimace. His own stomach was bubbling, and he could taste bitter acid. At a sudden noise his horse skittered nervously, and he cursed it, gripping hard with his knees. When he looked up again he found himself meeting the enquiring gaze of Thomas Smyth. The miner stood grasping a heavy falchion, an old sword which had chips from its single edge to show its past had not been peaceful; he appeared surprised to encounter the bailiff and his friend.

Simon felt his fear dissipate. It was hard to be scared of a man who looked so sane and normal, and even if his meetings with the miner had not always been pleasant, Smyth was at least businesslike. “Thomas,” he said, feeling suddenly tired and flat. “Just what in damnation do you think you’re doing?”

They sat on the bench outside a cottage and sipped rough ale while Thomas Smyth watched them, his brows lowered. To Baldwin he had the air of a man pushed beyond patience. His black eyes were redrimmed and sunken, making them appear bruised, and the lines in his face had deepened. Like Sir William, he had aged in the last few days.

“It was the final straw – when I heard about that whelp John Beauscyr, I mean, and how he’d been to the inn that evening. He must have passed Peter on the way there, after he had left his father at my hall.”

“So what?” asked Simon.

“John Beauscyr must have followed Peter afterward and killed him.”

“But the miner had men with him – you knew that already.”

“Yes. I knew that. But I also know that the miners left him a little later and came back here. He told them he would not need them that night.”

“So when he went on to his cottage, he was alone?” Baldwin asked.

“Yes. All that way over the moors, he was on his own. It would have been an easy job to kill him.”

“You know how he died?” Simon said gently, and the tinner nodded somberly.