Michael JECKS: A Moorland Hanging

“So,” Simon mused after a time, “the Pope wants to see peace as well, does he? That could be helpful. Maybe he can persuade the Bruce to stop his raiding.”

“Do not place too much store on his ability to bring an end to the wars, my friend.” Baldwin smiled wryly. “The Pope has already excommunicated the Bruce, after all. And if you had been crowned King of the Scots, I doubt you would be pleased to receive a letter from the Pope addressed to ‘You, who call yourself King of Scotland!’ If Pope John wants peace, he will need to try harder than that!”

They were still chuckling at this as they rode down a shallow slope from which the sweep of the moors could be seen. For Baldwin, unused to the area, it was an awesome sight. Bright grass gleamed in the sun, some thin and cropped by cattle, some long and spindly like reeds, both sliced apart in places by silvery trails of glistening water trickling to blue pools. Their path was a dark slash meandering between softly molded hillocks surmounted with moorstones, a landscape which would have been bleak in winter, Baldwin felt, but which now seemed full of promise with the high singing of larks in the dear sky and the constant tinkling music of the water.

For several miles the knight and his friend saw no other person. The route was well – trodden, the grass flattened and in places worn away, but there was no sign of habitation. The ground became, if possible, even more profusely covered with the gray boulders. Their path took them into a low valley, and soon they were trailing around the fringes of a little wood on the steep hillside, where the trees grew among the litter of stones and boulders.

“God above! Simon, what’s happened here?”

The trees were unlike any the knight had seen before; it was as if each of the plants had been shrivelled. All were stunted, misshapen caricatures of the great boughs he knew from his own lands. None was more than twenty feet tall, and most were much shorter.

“I’m glad it’s a surprise to you,” Simon smirked. “You’re always so pleased to amaze me with your tales of foreign countries, it’s pleasant to repay the debt, if only in part.”

“But what has happened to these trees? Why are they so… deformed is the only word I can think of. These are oaks, aren’t they?”

“I think so, yes,” said Simon, his voice thoughtful as he glanced at the trees near the track. “But they only grow so high out here, in Wistman’s Wood.”

“What about other parts of the moors?”

“I’ve heard there are some other places where the trees are similar, but I haven’t been to them yet. All the other trees I’ve seen are normal.”

“They are certainly very curious. All the branches point in the same direction – had you noticed that?”

“It’s as if they’re pointing to something, isn’t it? There are rumors I’ve heard…”

“Yes?”

“Well, you remember the stories, don’t you? About the Devil and his pack of wish-hounds baying after lost souls? This is where those stories come from, Baldwin, out here on the moors. They say that the wish-hounds are heard here when the winds blow hard.”

Baldwin gave him a sour stare. “I suppose you think the hounds come here to piss on the trees? Diabolical hounds peeing on the branches kill them off, and that makes the oaks die on one side? Really, Simon, I…”

“No, of course not,” said Simon, hastily holding up a hand to stem the knight’s ironic flow. “But I know I wouldn’t want to stay here after dark.”

“No, I can see why,” said Baldwin reflectively, gazing at the trees. The atmosphere was oppressive, he thought, and it was easy to understand how people could imagine the worst of such a place, especially if the wind howled among the boughs as night fell. Baldwin did not believe in old wives’ tales himself, but it was natural for anyone to be affected by the menacing power of a place like this.

“The people here think there’s some kind of strangeness about it,” Simon continued. “Maybe that’s where the name comes from. Round here, ‘wisht’ means uncanny, or weird. Certainly these trees look it.”

“Yes, they do. But I think these trees grow this way for some mundane reason. Wish-hounds!” His voice betrayed his amusement, and the bailiff shot him a suspicious glance.

Another mile southward, after they had breasted another hill, Baldwin at last understood why Simon had brought him this way. He reined in his horse and stared.

“This is what I wanted you to see, Baldwin. Welcome to the tin mines of Dartmoor!” Simon announced as they came to a halt.

Baldwin found himself staring at a wide encampment on a plain surrounded by low hills, the whole unmarked by wall or fence. Dotted here and there stood small, gray turf and stone cottages. One, larger than the others and set in their midst, gave off a thick plume of smoke which straggled in the slight breeze. The broad area was pitted and scarred with holes and trenches. Through the middle trailed a narrow but fast-flowing stream, from which sprang several man-made rivulets, and there was a large dam over to their right. Other leats were fed by this, tailing off into the distance, and Baldwin guessed that they led to other workings.

“With all these houses there must be many men here,” said Baldwin, eyeing the area speculatively.

“An army. Over a hundred in this camp alone,” Simon agreed, and kicked his horse on.

They had only travelled a short way when they saw a pair of men at the outskirts of the vill, and Simon smiled with sardonic amusement at their reaction-it was all too typical of the attitude of miners out here that they should be suspicious of strangers. One pointed in their direction before running off, while the other man grasped what looked like a pick and faced them resolutely. By the time the bailiff and his friend had come closer there was a group waiting for them, looking like trained soldiers to Baldwin’s military eye. The man who had run for help had returned, joined by a thickset character who looked as if he was in charge.

Simon rode up to him, smiling in a friendly manner until the tinner snapped: “Who’re you? What d’you want here?”

The bailiff sighed. It was infuriating that these miners should feel free to be so arrogantly discourteous-even more that they had the right and strength to behave so. He heard Baldwin’s intake of breath and could almost feel the waves of disapproval from the knight.

“Good day,” he replied pleasantly. “We’re on our way to visit a friend, to the east. My companion here hasn’t seen how tin is farmed, and…”

“He won’t find out today, either,” said the man firmly, and Baldwin moved his horse a little closer to Simon. The miner was short and sandy-haired, with skin tanned by the sun and wind to the color of old saddle leather. Though he looked quite old, Baldwin could not be sure whether that was a sign of the harshness of life on the moors or an indication of his age. If fitness was anything to go by, the man was not ancient. His belly was taut, the breadth of his shoulders was almost the same as his height, and the knight quickly came to the opinion that he would not want to fight such a man without a superiority in weapons. As it was, the man merely carried a long dagger at his waist, but Baldwin could see that he was wary in the way his hands rested close to its haft, his thumbs hooked into his thick leather belt.

“At least tell us how far it is to Sir William Beauscyr’s Manor,” Baldwin said sharply, and was pleased to see a quick flicker of doubt in the miner’s brown eyes.

“You’re friends of Sir William?”

“Not quite,” Baldwin said, then glanced at Simon.

“But the bailiff of Lydford and I are on our way to see him.”