Michael JECKS - A Moorland Hanging

As his words sank in there was a complete silence. The old knight was the first to speak, his voice low and shocked. “Your son?”

“Peter Bruther was my son. I knew his mother before I married, and it was for my wife’s sake that I never admitted to him, but he knew he was my flesh and blood. That was why he came to the moors. I told him to, so that he could learn the ways of farming tin and make himself wealthy. It was why I made sure he always had a guard to protect him from you and your men.”

John, too, was gaping. “Peter was your son?” he said, shaking his head from side to side in disbelief. “But none of us knew that!”

“Is that why you killed him? Because you thought he was unprotected?” roared the miner, taking a quick step toward him. Baldwin moved to stand between them.

“Wait, Thomas.” The deep brown of his eyes held and quieted the glinting black flint of the miner’s.

“Look around you! There has been enough harm done already. Let us listen for a time and talk before you decide to cause more deaths.”

“I didn’t cause the deaths here, it was the Beauscyrs who attacked the camp.” But his voice was toneless, and he looked away. After a moment, he nodded.

Simon addressed the old knight. “Sir William, I want to prevent further bloodshed. I am sure that you and your men don’t want any more killing either. We are not a court here, we have no coroner to conduct an enquiry or clerk to record it, but we can investigate here and now, while there are all these men to witness it. I can report later to the chief warden at Lydford. Will you be content to continue?”

The old man nodded, still staring at the miner, and Simon felt that he was wondering how he would feel if he had been Thomas Smyth, if he had lost his son, a young man he could not recognize publicly, and whom he had tried to help by bringing him out from villeinage to a new life where he could be protected, only to find that he had been murdered. Sir William’s face dis played his horror and compassion. The sight gave Simon some relief. The knight would be compliant.

“Thomas?” the bailiff prompted, glancing at the miner. Thomas Smyth nodded slowly. “Good. In that case, we should have chairs brought. There’s no need for us to stand when we can sit.”

The bailiff sat in the middle, flanked by Baldwin and Hugh. Edgar stood nearby, while Sir William and his son sat to Simon’s left, Thomas to his right. The miners and the Manor’s men crouched or sat all around, reminding Simon of the stannary courts he had attended. It was strange to be in control of a meeting like this; usually it would be the chief warden or a judge who would sit at the throne to listen to evidence in an inquest or court session, but the bailiff had no time to feel anxious about his lack of experience. This matter was too serious to be left alone, as the battle had shown. He was determined to resolve the argument between the miners and the Beauscyrs.

“All of us are here to try to find out what really happened on the day that Peter Bruther died,” he began.

“You all know me. I am the bailiff of Lydford, and my duty is to find the murderer. I call on all here to witness the words of the men who come before us today. You must listen and see that we are fair to all.” He glanced round. “First, I want to see the three men who were sent to Henry Smalhobbe and beat him.”

It took a little time for the three to be fetched. Harold Magge stood resolutely defiant, the others looked cowed and nervous before all the men. Simon saw that their bruises had reduced, and nodded to himself while Thomas instructed them to tell the truth. Then he stirred. “You went to Henry Smalhobbe and attacked him on the day that Bruther died, didn’t you?”

Magge nodded. Quickly Simon took him through the evidence he had given before, how he had sat in wait for Smalhobbe, how the man had nearly taken him by surprise but had been bested, and how they had returned to the miners’ camp. Simon glanced at Thomas as he asked, “Who beat you afterward? Who caused your bruises?”

“Thomas Smyth did it. He thought we must have killed Bruther, and he had told us not to attack him. When news arrived about Bruther being found at Wistman’s Wood, he came straight to the camp and ordered us to be brought to him. He had us beaten to get us to admit to killing Bruther.”

“Had you killed Bruther?”

“No!”

“Had you seen Bruther that night?”

“No.”

“Who did you see that night?”

Magge hesitated, glancing at Thomas, and Baldwin saw the old tinner give a small nod. “George Harang and Thomas. We saw them riding back from the direction of Bruther’s place, after we had left Smalhobbe. They were heading southward to the road.”

“Thomas?”

“Yes, it’s true.” He looked up bleakly. “We went to see him but he wasn’t there. I waited some time, but when it began to grow dark it seemed better to get home again, to meet Sir William. There was no sign of Peter.”

“I see. Now, Harold Magge. Where did Henry Smalhobbe come from when you ambushed him?”

“From the south.”

“Could he have come from Wistman’s Wood?”

“Smalhobbe?” There was a sneer to his voice. “He’s only a smallholder. He’d hardly kill another miner.”

“He was nearly able to surprise you, wasn’t he? If his wife had not called out, you yourself told me that he might have overcome you, and if he had, he might have beaten off the others, mightn’t he? Now, please answer the question: could he have come from Wistman’s Wood?”

“He was coming from the south. Wistman’s is south and west from there, but he might have walked keeping to the lowlands rather than over the hills. And he was late that night, later than he usually was. I suppose he could have been to Wistman’s Wood.”

“You never told me this before,” said Thomas Smyth. His voice was tired, his visage pale, and he was staring at his man with a kind of hopeless sadness.

“You didn’t ask us about where Smalhobbe had been, sir,” Magge said shortly. “You asked us what we’d been doing – not about him. I didn’t know Bruther was your son. I just thought we’d done something to displease you…” He trailed off as the bailiff held up a hand.

“Harold, would you say it was possible?” He instinctively trusted this man’s opinion. Somehow the miner gave off an aura of wholesome stolidity, and Simon recalled how the first time he had seen Magge he had thought instantly of a farmer from the moors. Now, like a farmer, Magge paused and considered the question for some time in silence.

“I reckon it’d be possible but I don’t think it was him. Smalhobbe’s not a killer, no matter what others say.”

“In that case, I’d like to speak to Robert Beauscyr next,” said Simon. The young knight was soon standing before them. He did not appear to have been mistreated, which was a relief. Baldwin had wondered what might happen if he had turned up wounded. The Beauscyr men could easily be tempted to hurl themselves into a fresh attack if the boy had been harmed. After all, he was the reason why they had been commanded to fight.

Simon asked him to tell everyone what he had done on the night of the murder. Nervously, Robert told of his flight from the hall and how he had ridden to Chagford, where he had met Alicia, and of his subsequent agreement to meet her. This brought a wry smile to Thomas’ face. He had not realized how involved his daughter was with the boy. Looking at him now, he wondered about Robert Beauscyr as a son-in-law. To his faint surprise he found the idea less distasteful than he expected.

“But you saw two men on the road, didn’t you? Over toward Wistman’s Wood,” Simon prompted.

“Yes.”

“And nobody else?”