Michael JECKS - A Moorland Hanging

Baldwin smiled but said nothing. Because they rarely discussed his time as a Knight Templar it would be difficult for the bailiff, so strongly rooted in the secular world as he was, to understand that the Templars had fought not for profit but for God. When they gained wealth, it was not for an individual, but used to enrich the Order so that it could continue to perform its vital function of protecting pilgrims in the Holy Land. All else was unimportant compared with that holy task. But then, the Knights of the Order were not worldly soldiers fighting for their own profit; they were the vanguard of Christ, the warrior monks. Their chivalric code made the concept of mercenary soldiering distasteful to Baldwin.

“Come, my friend. Let’s go back inside,” he said quietly. “At least we will be returning to Lydford tomorrow.”

“Yes, but I’ll not be allowed to forget this issue, I’m sure. With a young man like Sir Robert Beauscyr involved, who feels his inheritance is threatened, this matter will be bound to come up again before long.”

Standing on the castle walls above the gate the following morning, watching the two men ride away, Sir Robert Beauscyr was filled with righteous indignation. He had always had faith in the rule of the law, had believed it gave protection to those who needed it, and was convinced his family had right on their side. It was not just unfair that Peter Bruther should be allowed to escape justice, it was wrong. Worse was the fact that any attempt to put things right would mean breaking the law.

“So, brother. No satisfaction there.”

John had stepped quietly to his side and was also staring at Baldwin and Simon as they cantered up the gentle slope. Sir Robert could not resist a scornful jibe.

“All alone for once, John? Where’s your master, Sir Ralph?”

“Oh, he wanted to go for a ride to see the moors.” He gave his brother a faintly amused, questioning look, but then half-shrugged as though Robert’s mood was to be expected, and was, in any case, of little consequence. “So, the bailiff will not help. That seems certain.”

His brother nodded angrily. “What’s the point of the law if it’ll not uphold what’s right and good?”

“Ah, but this time the law has to try to find a way between the interests of a small family in the moors and the King.”

His dry sarcasm made Sir Robert stare. “What do you mean? Our father, and his before him, have aided the kings of England in all the wars over the last fifty years. We’ve the same interests as the King. He must know that.”

“Are you certain about that?” Now John’s voice was scornful. “From what I hear, this King of ours is too weak to choose what tunic to wear of a morning. All he wants is money so he can show largesse to his friends – and the miners give him that money. What are we worth? And how much can he value our loyalty when he has the choice of great lords – the pick of men such as Aymer de Valence and Thomas of Lancaster? Does he need the Beauscyr family to protect him as well?”

Irritably gesturing with his hand as if slapping at the suggestion, Sir Robert snapped, “Rubbish! The King knows who his real friends are. It’s the knights in the shires like us who are his real guards, the men he needs to call on in time of war, not…”

“Brother, brother, please! Can you really believe that? The King cannot be stupid enough to think it. The knights who, as you say, he calls on when there are battles to be fought, are either abroad and earning money fighting with the Pisans or the Venetians or any others who will pay, or they are loyal to their lord before their King. After all, who do most knights give their word of allegiance to? The King or their local magnate? Anyway, Edward does not even need to worry about that here. Here his choice is very clear: does he support the miners, who provide him with many tons of tin and the taxes they produce, or does he side with a few knights whose lands border the moors, and whose wealth can only be measured in a few pounds?”

“In fairness he must…”

“Oh, no! Life is not fair. The King, God bless him, is forced to look to his own and the kingdom’s good. I fear that our father – and you – weigh rather low in his estimation compared with the tin miners.”

“What’s the matter with you?” asked Sir Robert, stung by the sarcasm. “You know the King needs men like us, we’re the backbone of the kingdom. Where would he be without the knights and…”

“Who’s that?”

The sudden concentration on his brother’s face made Sir Robert wheel round to the view. A pair of riders approached down the slope from the west. He frowned as he tried to make out the figures. “Good God! It’s that miner, Thomas Smyth, and his henchman. What do they want here?”

“I have no idea,” said John imperturbably, his eyes fixed on the horsemen. “But as the heir to the Manor, I’m sure you’ll know soon enough.”

Muttering an oath, Sir Robert spun on his heel and strode to the staircase in the small tower at the corner of the stables. This was just one more cause for concern. The miners were a constant irritation, and any visit from them was unlikely to be for social purposes, as Sir Robert knew.

Curious to see how the meeting went, John remained up on the wall where he could see down into the courtyard. From his vantage point he had a clear view of the reception. The old tinner dropped from his horse, tossing the reins to his servant with a haughty flick of his wrist, plainly feeling there was no danger to him even here in the stronghold of his enemy, John saw with some surprise. Sauntering across the yard, the visitor left his servant and made his way to the hall’s steps, at the top of which stood Sir William, his face grim. They met and said a few words at the door, then passed inside. A few moments later Sir Robert emerged from the stable block, rushed to the hall and stormed inside.

It was possible to hear what was being said inside the hall from the top of the steps, and for an instant John toyed with the idea of eavesdropping. Here was an opportunity for harmless fun, the chance of overhearing something with which he could prick his brother’s pride… but the embarrassment if he was caught outweighed the potential for any advantage. He shrugged and put the meeting from his mind. It was hot on the wall, and he was about to leave and fetch himself a pint of ale when he heard the raised voices.

It was obvious that there was a heated debate going on. He could make out his father’s voice, apparently raised in an attempt to calm someone, then the hoarse bellow of his brother: “You can’t – I won’t allow it! This is madness, complete madness! You want to take this foreigner’s word – it goes against all reason! I won’t have it!”

There was more in a similar vein, and John could see that the miner’s servant found it as intriguing as he did. At the first shout, he wavered visibly, undecided whether to go to the hall or not. With one hand on his dagger, the other pulling at his bottom lip, the man soon reached a decision and began to move toward the hall, but before he could cross the yard, the door was thrown open and Sir Robert hurtled out, rushing down the steps and across the cobbles to the stables. There he shoved a slow-moving ostler to his horse. Under his bellowed orders it was saddled and bridled, and then he mounted and galloped through the gate, off up the slope before the Manor.

John watched dumbfounded until his brother had disappeared among the trees at the brow of the hill, then he turned back to the courtyard. At the top of the steps stood his father, the tinner in the doorway behind him. He could see the quick motion of the miner’s hand, the slow loosening of the servant’s grip on his dagger’s hilt, but most of all what John saw, and what made him smirk secretly to himself, was the expression of despair on his father’s face as he stared after his oldest son.