Michael JECKS - A Moorland Hanging

Baldwin walked forward casually. Simon was standing a short distance from George, his face reddening in fury, and the knight moved alongside, aware of the heightened tension in their other guards. “George,” he said. “Simon is right. We have to stop this. Look at it.”

The miner risked a glance and saw men grappling with each other, men holding each other by the throat, one who sat numbly, his head bleeding profusely from a wound in his scalp, and bodies… everywhere he looked there were figures lying on the ground. Then he saw a young man fall, after a blow from a club. Gritting his teeth, he addressed Simon. “Come with me,” he said quietly.

He led the way past the guards, who stared dumbly as if unsure whether to join the fight or stay where they were, between the cottages on the left, and to a place where the ground rose. From here they could see Thomas. He was wielding his heavy sword as if it was as tight as an arrow, and against him stood John. Glancing round the field, Simon made out Sir William on his feet a little behind, and Sir Ralph was with him, also off his horse. A man stumbled by carrying a lance, a bloody gash in his arm, and Simon swore viciously. The man could only have been twenty, no more, and he was crying, unseeing, just walking to avoid any further fighting, and the sight inflamed the bailiff. Before Baldwin could stop him, he had shoved past two struggling groups and drawn his sword, knocking John and Thomas apart and standing between them.

Baldwin stared in astonishment, but then, seeing that two miners were rushing to Simon thinking he was going to attack their master, he leapt forward with a muttered prayer, and stood facing them, his back to the bailiff and his sword outstretched while his brown eyes held theirs unblinkingly. They hesitated, exchanging a glance, before slowly circling round him to get closer to Thomas Smyth, but he moved to bar their way. At the sound of the bailiff’s voice they halted.

“Stop this madness!”

Risking a quick glance behind him, the knight saw that his friend was bellowing right into the miner’s face. Thomas stood white with rage, his sword gripped in both hands, and Baldwin thought for one terrible moment that he was going to attack Simon. But then the fire died from his eyes and he seemed to shrivel. While the deafening clamor of the battle ranged all round them, the miner was locked in his own private world of pain and grief.

This was not what he had wanted. He had tried to get hold of John, the man he believed had killed his son, but when George Harang had come back with Robert, he had intended somehow to use him as a bargaining chip to capture the real culprit. He had not wanted this. All he had wanted to do was avenge his son, not cause more hurt. The bailiff was staring at him with open disgust, and it shook Smyth, making him look all round.

Theirs was a distinct island of calm in the middle of the battle, fringed by men hacking and stabbing at each other. Their allegiance was a mystery, for in the height of battle all were reduced to a bland uniformity, faces set, wielding their weapons with the fixed and fearful determination to kill before they could be harmed. Thomas found it difficult to distinguish between his own men and those of the Beauscyrs. The men were all involved in their own private battles, small groups of three or four with various weapons, some clinched together in a mortal fight for control of a single dagger, some slipping and sliding at the bank of the stream, faces and clothes streaked with mud and soil, others standing and making slashing arcs in the air with steel and iron. Here and there men stood warily glaring at each other, panting as they rested, too exhausted already to continue, snatching rest in the midst of the killing. And all over the ground were the bodies. Some writhing, some rolling, some screaming, and more just still, features fixed, with stabs or great marks in their skulls where a mace or pick had dashed out their brains.

Simon saw the miner’s face change. A look of understanding came into his eyes, and with it an infinity of sadness. He nodded, his sword dropping, and stood up from his crouch, and Simon knew that the fight must soon end.

“STOP THIS NOW!” he roared, and Simon was surprised at the power in his voice. “ALL OF YOU, STOP!”

Some of those nearest paused and turned to stare. Baldwin saw one man try to look to Thomas, and as he did, his opponent sprang forward, ready to stab, but before he could strike Baldwin had knocked his falchion aside. Immediately the other faced back and tried to swing his axe at the Beauscyr man, and Baldwin had to knock that away too. “Stop this now!” he snarled. “If one of you tries again I will take your arm off!”

Simon strode through the mass to Sir William. He was standing white-faced while a man tied a dirty cloth round his head. A flap of skin on his cheek hung loose where a slash from a dagger had caught him. Now he stared dumbly as the bailiff approached. “Tell your men to stop. Now!” Simon rapped out. “The miners will stop if you men do. Order them to lay down their arms, Sir William.”

“What of Robert?”

“If you tell your men to stop, we can ask, can’t we?” bellowed Simon nastily. “Is having all the Beauscyr men killed going to help? Tell your men to CEASE FIGHTING.” To his immense relief he saw the old knight sigh and nod.

The fighting had spread to cover almost a square mile, and it took several minutes of bellowing to halt the battle. Gradually, uncertainly, and in all cases with their eyes fixed cautiously on their enemies, men pulled apart, fingering weapons newly notched or snapped. They backed together, forming small sullen circles, gasping for breath, here three miners, there four Beauscyr men. Several peasants stood and tried to calm a youth who sobbed and clutched his smashed wrist. All were taut, expecting a sudden renewal of the fight; all were scared of being surprised, and no one trusted their opponents.

Baldwin saw this, and took Thomas by the arm, pulling him to where Sir William and Simon stood. “Thomas, you must order your men to pull back a little. Sir William, you too. Your men must stand back and leave you two here, so they can all see that there is no deception. Tell them to form a ring around us.”

With a slow shuffling the two companies separated when the leaders gave the order. One scuffle broke out when a man saw a friend lying dead, but his companions pulled him away. Simon could not even see what side he was on. There was a slowly increasing space as the two sides paced backward, all scowling at their enemies. Now and again they stumbled over a body. Fortunately, few had died. Those who were hurt were collected and taken away to have their wounds seen to, and soon there were clumps of men ferrying those who could not walk over to the bank of the stream where they had their limbs washed and bound. Fires were lighted to heat the irons that would cauterize the worst of the injuries.

Simon forced himself to look away, ignoring the angry mutters that came from all sides, and faced Beauscyr and the miner. John was there as well, standing beside his father and peering round with haughty amusement. Edgar and Hugh were with Baldwin, and although Hugh had blood spattered on his tunic, he seemed well enough.

“Right, Sir William, and Thomas. This nonsense has to stop,” Simon said as he marched toward them, then stood with his hands in his belt. “First, Thomas, I want you to order that Robert Beauscyr is released. There is no profit in keeping him here.”

“Why should I? I think this miserable cur killed Peter, and I want to keep his brother until I see what will happen to him.”

Simon spoke loudly, so that all could hear. “John Beauscyr has told me what he was doing on the night that your son was killed, and I am content for now with his word. He was not the man who murdered your son.”