A Moorland Hanging aktm-3 Page 2

  “Yes,” she whispered, but glanced fearfully one last time at Peter Bruther’s small fire, so tiny and sad in its distant solitude.

  The decision to remain had left a hollow pit of fear in Sarah’s belly. The haven they had thought so safe only a few weeks before had proved as insecure as any of the other places in which they had attempted to hide. At least she had her husband with her, she thought. Poor Peter Bruther had no one. How could he defend himself, all alone out there, if Thomas Smyth’s tinners chose to attack him?

  Leaping from his horse and tossing the reins to the waiting ostler, Sir Robert Beauscyr strode quickly to the steps leading to the old hall, his narrow face pale, lips compressed into a thin line. He took the steps two at a time, threw open the great door and passed through the curtain into the hall itself.

  “Father!” he began imperiously. “That damned cretin, your man who…”

  “Be quiet!” The angry bellow from his normally calm and composed father made Robert pause, and it was only then that he noticed the other two men in the room. His fury dissipated as he studied them warily. One – young, broad-shouldered and with the powerful right arm that spoke of a life spent in training for war – he recognized immediately.

  Sir Robert could see that his younger brother had grown to maturity. The slim, lithe boy of fourteen who had left home six years before had developed into a swarthy warrior. Blue eyes held his calmly, but the face had changed: the nose had been broken, and a thick scar marred the flat of his right cheek which would, Robert was sure, attract all the women in Exeter.

  For his part, John Beauscyr was unimpressed by the sight of his brother and had to conceal a grimace of disgust. Always more interested in study than in fighting, Robert had the ascetic thinness of a priest; his skin was waxy from spending too many hours indoors. Even his handshake felt limp and pathetic. John was sure that his older brother would have made a better merchant than knight, and it was a constant source of aggravation that in the lottery of life he should have come second: it would be Robert, not he, who would inherit the old Manor of Beauscyr in Dartmoor.

  The second visitor was a tall man, standing a little away from the fire as though keeping back until sure that Sir Robert was no danger. Having seen the welcome given by John, he stepped forward, and Sir Robert was struck by the sense of power emanating from him, not strength of muscle alone, but of purpose and of will. John introduced them.

  “Robert, this is my master, Sir Ralph of Warton. I have been his squire for over two years now. Sir Ralph, this is my brother.”

  Sir Robert glanced quickly at his father, then gestured to the waiting servant. “Sir Ralph, I am pleased that you have come to visit our house, you are most welcome. Are you to be here for some time?”

  Sir Ralph graciously inclined his head. “Not for long, I fear, sir. This is simply the last stage of our journey to the coast. I confess I find the current state of the kingdom depressing, and will be glad to leave when I may.”

  “Who would not?” said Sir William shortly, instructing the servant to fetch more wine and some cold meats. “Since the famine there are hardly enough villeins to work the fields.”

  “But it is peaceful here.”

  “I suppose so. At least down here we are safe from the raids of those murderers from Scotland.”

  “They are the devil’s own brood,” Sir Ralph agreed.

  “Of course, sir. Mad! They must be mad. One victory and they seem to think they can raid with impunity as far into the kingdom as they choose. Don’t they realize that they will suffer the Pope’s extreme displeasure? Their leader is already excommunicated, I believe – do they want their whole country to suffer anathema?”

  “They already do.” It was John who spoke, and Robert was interested to see that he reddened and looked down as his knight shot a keen glance at him. It was as if he suddenly realized he had said something wrong. Sir Ralph spoke then as he took a mug of wine from the servant.

  “Yes, the Scottish are all under an interdict. The Pope decided to punish them for refusing to seal their dispute with King Edward, who is, after all, their liege lord.”

  “Good,” said Sir William, rubbing his hands together with a smile of satisfaction. “Let us hope they will realize the error of their ways, then. Perhaps this will make them see that they cannot live by simply stealing what they want all the time. Those Scottish are no more than a tribe of outlaws.”

  “More to the point, it also stops any chance of a new crusade to the Holy Land, and that is what the Pope wishes for,” Sir Ralph continued, staring into his mug.

  “While the Scottish continue raiding in the north, and with the French King threatening the south, King Edward can hardly be expected to agree to travel to Palestine. The Pope’s desire for a new attempt on the Holy Land must stay just that: a desire, with no chance of being satisfied.”

  “At least the Pope’s trying to cow the Scots into submission.”

  “Yes, sir. And the news from Ireland sounds better. The King’s justiciar over there has apparently forced the Scottish invaders back. Thanks to God for a wise man who can command his troops.”

  “If, er… if there was to be a new crusade, Sir Ralph – would you join it?” asked Sir Robert, and was fixed with an intense stare from the knight’s gray eyes.

  “Yes, sir. I am like your brother here. I have no property; my brother inherited it all from our father. What I crave – what I need – is an oppportunity to win glory and favors. Where else should a knight be, but in battle? If there was a new crusade I could win fame and wealth. But be that as it may, there will be no crusade. Not while the French and English kings bicker among themselves at every opportunity. No, I will not be going to Palestine. But I want to cross the sea, to see new lands and fight. There are wars in Italy where a knight can earn good sums. I may go there.”

  Motioning for more wine, Sir William burped and agreed. “Yes, the Italian cities offer good opportunities.”

  Sir Ralph nodded, but his eyes remained on Sir Robert. After a moment John cleared his throat.

  “So how is the demesne? The Manor looks as though it’s hardly suffered, compared with the rest of the kingdom.”

  “We’ve been lucky,” Sir William agreed. “The estates have not been so badly affected as others. And not many villeins have died.”

  “But some have run away.”

  Sir Robert’s sharp tone made his brother and the knight look up. His father opened his mouth to speak but Sir Robert carried on, his anger rising again swiftly as he remembered the incident. “Oh, yes, some have run. Like Peter Bruther…”

  John frowned. “Who, old Martha’s son?”

  “Yes. She died, and he ran away some nine months ago. We thought he must have gone east, to try to win his freedom, but I saw him today on the road to Exeter. The cretin did not run far, apparently, he just went to the moors. He saw me, too, and went to the trouble of stopping me to show he does not fear us any more, the cur!”

  “Did you beat him?” his brother asked, curious.

  “He was surrounded by miners, like guards round a king. I could do nothing. If I had, they would have attacked me.” Sir Robert glared at the fire, while John could not hide his sneer at this weakness.

  Shrugging, Sir Ralph said, “Well, if you want him, go after him. If a villein runs away he must remain free for a year and a day to gain his freedom. If he has not been gone for a year yet, you have every right to bring him back.”

  “Not here, Sir Ralph. The moors are different. And others will see him get away with it, without punishment! He will see to that: the rogue promised it, and laughed at me. Him – a villein – laughing at me!”

  Sir William wore a worried frown. “This could be bad for the demesne. What can we do? If we do nothing, the other villeins will see that they can go when they want, and the Manor will fail for lack of workers, but if we try to pull him back, the miners could fight us.”

  John was unconcerned. “Demand that the warden at Lydford comes and
sorts it out. He has responsibility for the tinners in Devon under the law. Peter Bruther must come back, and the warden can make him.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” muttered Robert. Looking up suddenly, John was surprised by the fury on his brother’s face as he ground out: “One thing I do know: if I catch that bastard alone, out on the moors, he’ll regret his laughter at my expense.”

  “You mustn’t harm a miner,” his father remonstrated mildly.

  “Me? I mustn’t let villeins run away, Father, and neither should you!”

  2

  “For the love of God, Simon!”

  “What?” Simon Puttock turned in his saddle, and peered at his friend.

  His companion sighed dramatically, but when he caught Simon’s expression he could not help breaking into loud, but not unkind, laughter. “Your misery, that’s what! You’ve been like a bear with a leg in a trap all the way, complaining about this visit. Are you going to keep it up until we get there? What are you so troubled about? The journey is not long, there’s a meal at the end of it, and at least the weather is good for a ride over these moors you’ve told me so much about.”

  Simon, bailiff of Lydford Castle, gave a surly shrug of his shoulders, but was forced to confess the validity of at least the last part of the statement. From here, up at the far eastern fringe of Lydford, the moors did look inviting in the sunshine – a deceptive series of softly molded green hillocks in the distance, rolling and merging one into the other, touched with bright yellow and gold where the sunlight caught the gorse, with occasional licks of purple and mauve where the heather lay. The scene looked as rich in color as the robes of an emperor, the flanks of the hills spattered here and there with white where sheep grazed. Overhead a hawk soared in a cloudless sky, while ahead of them water sparkled in brooks and pools.

  But the view gave him no comfort, and the worst of it was, the bailiff wasn’t sure he could fully explain his problems. It had been two years now since he had first met Sir Baldwin Furnshill, the Master of Furnshill Manor near Cadbury, and in that time the two had become firm friends. As Simon knew, after investigating murders with him, Baldwin was shrewd and learned, and had a good grasp of law – especially now that he was a Keeper of the King’s Peace – but the troubles Simon was forced to contend with almost daily would be incomprehensible even to a man trained in legal matters. Though Baldwin had travelled much in his youth, in those days he had been a member of a wealthy and powerful organization. Local issues were a very different kettle of fish.

  The bailiff threw him a doubtful glance. In the sunlight, Baldwin was tanned and fit-looking, the thin knife-scar on his cheek shining red in the sun. His brown eyes moved confidently over the country ahead, and with his strong, square face he looked the picture of a modern knight. But the neatly trimmed beard which followed the line of his jaw jarred, as did his clothing. The old tunic was stained and worn, his hose faded and dusty, making him look as if he had fallen on hard times. It was not so, Simon knew, for the knight’s estates were prosperous, but Baldwin had simply no interest in his appearance. He was content to appear poor if others wished to believe him so.

  “Come along, Simon. How can you be so miserable on a day like this?” Baldwin asked again. It was unlike his friend to be so introspective and oblivious to the world. If anything, it was usually Baldwin himself who was prey to dark thoughts, and Simon who had to pull him back to the present. But not this time. Baldwin was relaxed and refreshed after staying with the bailiff for three days, and he found it hard to understand why the message from an obscure Manor toward Widecombe should have so unsettled his friend.

  Simon rode along in silence for a while, jogging in time with his horse’s slow gait. “It’s these damned miners, Baldwin,” he said at last. “Wherever they go, there’s trouble.”

  “But this man Beauscyr only has a simple complaint, surely?”

  “It’s not as easy as it seems,” Simon grunted. “This is not like your Manor, where you have the right to treat your peasants as you wish. This is a forest.”

  “A forest?” Baldwin repeated dubiously.

  “Yes. It used to be a hunting ground for the King until he made Piers Gaveston Earl of Cornwall and gave it to him. Since Gaveston’s killing, it has reverted to the King – and the miners fall under the King’s demesne.”

  “How so?”

  The bailiff explained. “There has always been a lot of tin on the moors, and the farming of it has become a profitable occupation for many – not least for the King. Edward taxes all the metal mined here, so he has given rights to the miners to protect them and their interests. More or less anything that helps them find tin, they are allowed to do.”

  “But the man is a runaway, surely? All of this is irrelevant.”

  “I wish it was. The trouble is, as soon as he bounded land, he became a miner. It follows that he’s a member of the King’s demesne. Beauscyr may not like it, but his man is now de facto a tin miner working for the King. There’s little Beauscyr can do about it.”

  “Well, then, Beauscyr must accept that he has lost his man, whether he likes the fact or no. He can petition the King if he feels he has a claim.”

  Simon studied his friend with an embittered eye. The knight stared back with open, cheerful incomprehension, and Simon sighed again. “Sir William Beauscyr won’t see it like that, Sir Baldwin,” he said dryly. The knight chuckled at the sarcastic use of his title as the bailiff scowled at the track ahead. “As far as he’s concerned, he’s got rights too – the same as you or anyone else. This man was his villein; he has run away, therefore he should be returned.”

  “Except that now the man falls under the King’s protection,” Baldwin said lightly.

  “Except that now the man is the King’s,” Simon agreed. “The trouble is, many villeins run away and call themselves miners, just to escape their lords. Some men on the moors have claimed stannary rights and privileges – that is, they’ve declared they’re miners and behave as such – until they have a new tax imposed, when they suddenly change their minds and say they’re merchants, or farmers, or foresters… anything! That’s what Beauscyr alleges: that this man – who was it? Peter? – this man is claiming to be a tinner out of convenience, and has no intention of mining.”

  “That I cannot understand,” said Baldwin. “What would be the point of it? All it means is, he has gone from one master to another. It’s not as if he is free…”

  “Yes, it is!” said Simon emphatically. “As a tin miner, he has most of the rights of a freeman – that’s the whole point. He can farm tin as he wants, for as long as he wants. The miners have ancient rights, since time out of mind, so the King can be sure they’ll bring in the greatest quantity possible. He certainly earns a fortune each year from their efforts. The King imposes few rules on the stanners, and they make their own laws. That’s why they can go anywhere on the moors. They have the right, given to them by the King, to wander anywhere, on to anyone’s land, to dig for tin, to cut turves for their peat fires, to redirect water for their workings – almost anything. This Peter ‘Whomsoever’ knew what he was doing when he ran away. To all effects he’s free now. And this bloody fool Beauscyr wants me – me! – to sort out problems which have been brewing for centuries…”

  Baldwin grinned to himself as his friend muttered on. At thirty-two Simon was some thirteen years younger than he, and still occasionally prone to the kind of angry outbursts which Baldwin more commonly associated with the wild red-haired men of the north. However, the knight knew that these fits of temper never lasted long. Tall, with swarthy skin and brown, nearly-black hair, Simon was normally phlegmatic, accepting what life threw at him, and as he grew older his gray eyes studied the world with a reserved calmness that hid a sharp mind. Having been educated, he was more keen to listen to arguments and strive to find a fair and reasonable line through any dispute, a trait Baldwin found reassuring in a man responsible for the well-being and fortunes of others. The bailiffs logical mind was able to accomm
odate most petitioners, and it was only rarely that he lost his temper, when matters appeared to be unfair, or when people were intransigent.

  This time it was frustration at being sent to mediate between two parties whose views and wishes were so utterly at odds with each other. From the little Baldwin had heard, there was no likelihood of Simon being able to please both groups. The needs of the miners and the landowners in the moors were too intertwined and yet mutually exclusive to permit of an easy resolution – the King himself would have to rule an agreement. He studied his friend sympathetically for a moment.

  “Still, Simon, I was pleased to see that your own Peter has thrived.”

  The bailiff threw him a quizzical grin at the mention of his son. “Thanks for changing the subject,” he said. “Yes, Peter is fine, thanks to God! And Hugh is devoted to him.” The boy was a long-awaited blessing. Simon and Margaret, his wife, doted on their daughter Edith, but both had longed for a brother for her. Their wishes had finally been fulfilled the previous year, and Simon’s servant Hugh had taken to the baby immediately, a fact which occasionally led to arguments between him and Simon’s daughter as they bickered over who should look after him.

  Some way farther on, Baldwin shifted in his saddle. “Have you heard about affairs on the Scottish marches?” The bailiff threw him a baffled glance as he continued: “It seems that the Pope has been so infuriated by the wars between the Scottish and English that he sent two cardinals to try and negotiate a peace.”

  “A peace between the Bruce and Edward? Never!” Simon snorted. “None of the King’s men in England want to see the Bruce keep what he’s stolen, and he’s unlikely to agree to give it all up.”

  “It may become easier. Now that the Irish have begun to force his men back, he may accept that over there, his conquests have stretched as far as they are going to. Perhaps he will think about agreeing to peace at last.”

  “I’m not so sure. A man like that’s got no honor. He swore fealty to the King’s father when he was Earl of Carrick – how could he be trusted again?”