A Moorland Hanging

16

Climbing on to his horse, Simon took up the reins and wheeled to face the east. Baldwin sprang up, and seeing the bailiff’s quick glance, followed his gaze. At the top of the hill, east of them on the road, a rider was approaching. By the time Hugh had managed to clamber on to his mount it was clear that it was Alicia.

“Good afternoon,” Baldwin said pleasantly as she drew near. “Been far?”

She laughed, happy after her exercise, her face warm and flushed. “Almost as far as Chagford.” She patted her mare’s neck.

The knight moved forward and studied her horse. It was a small chestnut, almost a pony in size, but strong-looking, with firm, solid legs and a heavy neck. “How old is she?”

“Meg? She’s just over three.”

“Tell me if you ever have a foal from her; she looks like a good, sturdy animal. Ideal for this land, I imagine.”

Simon joined them. She gave him a coquettish glance and tilted her head. “Are you here to interrogate me, bailiff?” she teased. “I don’t know if I can be any help to you, but maybe you should force me to tell what I know.”

“I don’t think I need question you too hard,” he said, without returning her smile. “We have already discussed this matter with your father.” For all the good it did us, he added to himself.

Baldwin could guess at the reason for his friend’s sourness. “Tell me, Alicia,” he said smoothly. “You were in Chagford with your mother on the day Peter Bruther died. You didn’t see him at all on that day, did you?”

Her face froze and her hand stopped its patting. “Me? No, I didn’t see him in town. We weren’t there for long, though, we were back here in the early afternoon.”

Trying to relax her, Baldwin smiled, and she did as well, but tentatively, unsure of his next move. “Do you often ride out so far?” he asked.

“To Chagford? Sometimes, not very often.”

“It could be dangerous, surely? There are a lot of men out here who would like to hold the daughter of Thomas Smyth.”

“How do you mean, Sir Baldwin?” she asked innocently, and Simon turned away to hide his broad grin.

The knight’s sudden discomfort made his voice harsh. “I think you know full well, Alicia. In the same way as your friend Sir Robert Beauscyr, I imagine.” It was her turn to blush – not from shame but from a kind of youthful pride – and Baldwin nodded seriously. “You should be careful. There are many different types of wolf on moors like these.”

He was thinking of what they had heard of Smalhobbe as he said this, but she misunderstood. “Oh, but that’s ridiculous! Robert isn’t like that. I don’t care what Father has told you, to me he’s always kind and gentle. I just don’t believe…” She broke off, and her hand twitched, as if wanting to grab back the words before they could reach the knight.

“What don’t you believe, Alicia?” he asked softly, but she shook her head firmly.

“Please forget what I have said. It is unimportant.”

“No, I am afraid it is not. You see, if we are to make sure that it was not Sir Robert, there are certain things we need to know. For example, at present we don’t even know where he was on the day Bruther was murdered. Now, he admits he was on the moors, but will not give us any way of checking it. It is almost as if he thinks he might get somebody into trouble if he says where he was.”

Her eyes would not meet his. She sat perfectly still, gazing at the view, and her voice was small. “You can’t really think he was involved in the murder, can you? He’s such a calm, even-tempered man.”

“Whoever murdered Bruther was probably a very calm man,” said Baldwin. “You have to be calm to take someone by the neck and strangle the life from him, holding him from behind until he stops thrashing and his death-throes are done.”

She winced. “Is that how he died? I hadn’t realized.” After a moment her head lifted and she met his gaze with resolution. “Very well, I will answer your questions.”

“You saw Sir Robert that day?”

“Yes. He was in Chagford when we got there, and I saw him. Mother didn’t, and she didn’t see me go to him. He had been drinking, and was very unhappy because of my father demanding money. I told him I would try to speak to Father and get the ransom reduced. He wanted to talk to me, but Mother was calling and I had to go, so I agreed to meet him later, out at Longaford Tor. We… we have met there before.”

“I see. So you went there in the afternoon and saw him?”

“It was evening by then, getting close to dark, but yes, and he was fine. The drink had worn off. I hadn’t managed to speak to Father yet, though. As soon as Mother and I had got back from Chagford, he went out – he’d only been waiting for George to return. There was some sort of trouble at the mine, apparently. I was going to try to talk to him later. I spent the afternoon with Mother. Later, when she went up to rest, I slipped off to the Tor to see Robert, and was with him in the early evening. When I came home, Father was back and talking with Sir William, so I was too late. Sir William had already paid the money.”

Simon interrupted. “What did your father think of you seeing Sir Robert?”

“I love Sir Robert… and I will marry him.” Alicia tossed her head haughtily. “Just because Father is not happy with his family is not my concern.”

“Marry him?”

“Yes. We agreed yesterday.”

So that was the reason for the youth’s evident pleasure the previous evening. Baldwin smiled. “You have made him very happy. But tell me: on that night, did you see your father arrive?”

“No.”

“Or see Bruther at the hall?”

“Bruther? Why – was he here?”

He studied her face, but could discern no falsehood.

“Where did you go with Sir Robert?”

“West, then south. When it got late we came to the road and back to the hall.”

Simon quickly butted in, “So you went down to the two bridges?”

“Yes,” she said, turning to him in surprise. “Yes, we were there.”

“Did you get there just as it became dark? Did you see two men on horses?”

She nodded. “Yes, but they had left the road before we got to them. They went north, up toward Wistman’s Wood.”

Simon and Baldwin exchanged a look: the two riders were undoubtedly Samuel Hankyn and Ronald Taverner. “That answers one question, anyway,” said Baldwin, recalling his certainty that Sir Robert had been there. This girl was the other rider seen by Samuel, then.

“But it leaves one unanswered,” said Simon, and faced the girl again, who was staring from one to the other inquisitively. “Alicia, where were you just before that? Had you gone there by road?”

“Yes, like I said, we stuck to the road. There was no point going off it, and anyway, we wouldn’t. Not after dark, not in the moors. It’s too dangerous – you can’t see the bogs and mires. Why?”

“Did you see another rider?”

“No, only the two. Why?”

Riding back from the hall, Simon was silent and preoccupied. They were no nearer discovering who had killed Bruther; all they could come up with were conflicting testimonies. The mystery of the two riders seen by Samuel was answered… but rather than clearing up the mystery it merely served to highlight how poor was their understanding of the matter. Thomas Smyth had been to see Bruther the day before his death but refused to say why; John Beauscyr had been out and refused to say where; Sir Robert could have killed Bruther before he met Alicia.

“Back to Beauscyr, Simon?”

His friend’s calm voice broke into his depressed silence, and he grunted agreement. They were almost at the lane to their left which led down past Adam Coyt’s farm to the Manor, and now the sun was getting lower and the wind felt bitter and chill. Baldwin pulled his cloak tighter round his shoulders.

“I thought this was summer,” he shivered.

Simon gave a gloomy shrug. “The weather here on the moors can always surprise you. This wind feels like it could start raining again soon.”

“Let’s hurry back, then.”

Setting spurs to their horses they quickened their pace. Above them, huge gray clouds, their edges tinged with white, moved across the sky with alarming speed. The land, which had looked so calm and soft, green and purple under its velvet-like covering, now showed itself in a darker mood. The moors took on a more menacing aspect, the heather now a gloomy dark carpet, the tors great black monsters crouching ready to leap.

Even Baldwin gave a shudder at the sight. Though he instinctively rejected any suggestion that there could be ghouls or ghosts seeking out souls in the way that Adam Coyt and other people in the area believed, it was easy to understand how such fears could arise. The huge open space of the moors with its almost complete lack of trees made a man realize how small he was when compared with the vastness of nature.

Glancing at Simon, who rode glumly, hunched against the chill, Baldwin said, “There is a strange feeling about these moors when the weather changes.”

“Yes,” Simon muttered. “I’m glad you’ve noticed. Especially after your words about Coyt.”

“Oh, there is no need for superstition. All I meant was, one can sense… There is a certain… A malevolent…” His voice faded on an apologetic, confessional note, and he carefully avoided the bailiff’s eye.

“‘One can sense?’ ‘Malevolent?’ And you try to deny you hold any superstition?”

“Simon, one can feel an atmosphere without blaming imaginary ghosts and ghouls!”

“And yet you can blush when a young girl flirts, and sense malevolence because the weather cools!”

“It is not just that the weather has cooled!” the knight declared hotly, avoiding talking about Alicia.

“Oh no?” A cynical eyebrow was raised. “You thought nothing of the moors until the clouds came over.”

“That has little to do with it. It is the way that…”

“Yes?”

“There are times, Simon, when you can be infuriating.”

“Yes. But my wife makes good ale and you like my store of wine,” the bailiff pointed out smugly.

“Sometimes I wonder whether that is enough to justify our friendship.”

Reaching the lane, they made their way silently down toward the Manor. A light drizzle began, spattering them and creating tiny explosions in the dust at their feet, but at the same time the weather felt warmer, and Baldwin shrugged the folds of his cloak away. The rain was a relief after the heat of the last few days, and he had always enjoyed the feeling of the droplets pattering against his face. Simon, he saw, was not so content. The bailiff rode with his back hunched against the elements wearing a grimace of disgust.

“So, Simon,” he said, “what do we do now?”

“We’re no nearer an answer, are we?” Simon replied despondently.

“At least we are beginning to understand a little about this man Bruther,” Baldwin said.

“Are we? Smyth says he was a paragon, Coyt says he was a devil-may-care sort who would twitch the tail of Crockern if he had the chance. The Beauscyrs and their guest thought he was some kind of madman, a rogue who would stop at nothing, even threatening and making fun of a knight. Smalhobbe seems to have been fearful of him, or at least wary. Molly and Smyth say he was kind, hard-working and honest, while others think he was dishonest.”

“Well, yes, but look at it from the other point of view, Simon. The Beauscyrs and Sir Ralph would naturally be disgusted by a man like Bruther. He goes against the natural order of their lives: not only did he dare to run away, but afterward he showed no remorse or guilt. That marks him out as a danger, someone who is prepared to stand in opposition to all that they hold dear – and the worst of it to them was that they could do absolutely nothing about it. To Coyt he was almost impossible to comprehend: a man who showed no fear of the moors, nor any terror of Crockern. To a farmer who has spent the whole of his life out here, that is surely understandable.”

“But what of the others?” Simon said. “Smalhobbe appeared to dislike him.”

“Yes, but a measure of that could be his own position. He is scared of being denounced as an outlaw, though he can fight, from what Magge said. Any man who realizes he is being ambushed and then circles his attacker must have had some military skill, whether it came from conventional training or… or some less wholesome experience. In any case, he clearly resented the fact that he had failed to protect himself and his wife, while Bruther succeeded somehow.”

“And as you say, Molly and Smyth almost revered his memory.”

“Molly’s motive at least is understandable, thank God! She clearly felt he was going to rescue her from her life at the inn and make her his wife.”

“But what about Smyth? There’s something very odd there.” Simon fell silent, deep in thought.

“What?” Baldwin prompted.

“It may be nothing but… everyone we have spoken to so far has referred to him as ‘Bruther,’ except two. Molly and Smyth both talked of him as ‘Peter.’ I don’t know, but both appeared to know him well… At least, both seemed to know him better than the others. Did you notice that?”

“No, I didn’t,” said Baldwin, and his brows pulled together into a frown. “But you’re right – they did. Why should that be?”

Tossing his reins to the ostler, George Harang jumped from his horse and ran to the hall. Inside he found Thomas Smyth sitting at his chair before the fire, gripping a tankard. He looked up as his servant entered, red-faced and dirty after his ride through the light rain, his face showing his concern.

“Sir? I got your message and came as soon as I could, but what is it? The boy said that the bailiff and his friend were here, that they were asking questions – is something wrong?”

Thomas Smyth gave a weary smile. “No, old friend. Not the way you think, anyway. But I know at last who killed Peter. On the night Sir William came here to see us, he rode over here with his son, that bastard John. John left him when they reached the hall and rode on to the inn. And at the inn was Peter, the poor lad. He set off home, according to Molly, a little before John arrived.”

George frowned. “So they must have crossed on the road.”

“Yes. And afterward Peter disappeared. So who could have killed him? That runt; that bastard – John Beauscyr!”

“What do you want to…”

“Don’t be stupid!” Smyth spat the words jeeringly.

“I want his head, here, now, on my lap! That pathetic little worm killed my Peter, and probably thinks he can get away with it. The bailiff’s incompetent – or is being paid to be so by Sir William. I don’t know and I don’t care which it is; all I do know is, John murdered Peter, and he must be made to pay.”

“So you want me to tell the bailiff, then?”

“Didn’t you hear me? The bailiff is no use! We have to get him and bring him to justice. Peter was a miner, a tinner, and he came under the stannary laws. We, as miners, can obtain justice. We can’t rely on officials, they have their hands in the Beauscyrs’ purses, and have no need to see to our compensation. What does this bailiff care for our hardships? He’s no use to us, we have to catch this Beauscyr on our own. I want a force of men, all armed, to take John Beauscyr prisoner tomorrow. He’s a murderer – and he shall pay.”

George rushed from the room, his brain churning. He hadn’t had time to tell his master about his conversation with Molly at the inn, and he hesitated a moment, undecided whether to return to the hall and tell Thomas. But then he shook his head. His master had new proofs. Anything George had heard from the girl was unimportant now. He ran out to his horse.

Alone once more, Thomas Smyth turned back to his solitary vigil by the fire. Strange, he thought abstractedly, that the flames did not warm him anymore. Since Peter’s killing he had felt no rest or peace of soul, and the tiredness of inaction had eaten into his bones. Shuddering, he grinned wryly to himself. This, then, was old age, this exhaustion which sapped the will and eroded the hunger for money and power. It was not like before, when each day had been a new opportunity, a new chance to expand his mining area and enhance his wealth. Now nothing seemed to hold any interest for him.

His wife Christine opened the solar door. She saw his strained, taut features and hurried over to him, feeling as if her heart would burst. When she put her arms round him and held him, she felt the same as she had when she had rocked her children, offering protection and security; performing this little service to her man made the breath stick in her throat like the stone from a plum, and tears of sympathy sprang into her eyes. Of her children, six all told, only the one had lived. All the others had succumbed to the cold and the illnesses which assailed the young of wealthy and poor alike.

Thomas finally pulled away and looked into her tear-stained face with a sort of wonder, slowly reaching up with a hand to touch the heavy drops at either cheek; then he sighed and pulled her down on his lap in a snug embrace. While she sobbed in her own turn, gulping and moaning, he rocked her, and felt himself gain strength from her weakness. The abstraction and despair left him, and he was filled instead with a rigid determination. Come what may, he would avenge Peter Bruther.

Christine Smyth slowly felt her abject misery subsiding and the grip of her man increase as his strength returned. When she eased herself away from his embrace, in his now black eyes she saw firm purpose, and she sighed as she wiped the tears away with a hand, feeling her inadequacy anew. Taking a deep breath, she managed to say, “So you will go with the men to find his killer?” before the tears welled up once more.

“You heard us?”

“I did not eavesdrop; you spoke loud enough for the miners at the camp to hear.”

His face was serious. “We will go tomorrow.” He hated to see her vexation, but there was nothing he could do. She must understand that; he had a duty to Peter Bruther.

She gave him a brittle smile. “And you will catch John Beauscyr and hang him – lynch him like a common killer?”

“Did he treat Peter any better? Beauscyr throttled him from behind like any outlaw. What do you expect?”

“I expect him at least to be able to defend himself.”

“Why, so he can brief a lawyer for himself? What good would that do? We know he did it; no one else was there.”

“But Thomas, what if it wasn’t him?”

“It was,” he said harshly, and putting her from his lap he stood and strode from the room.

Her eyes sorrowfully followed his figure as he went. Though she dared not speak out loud, her lips framed the words again: “But what if it wasn’t him?”