A Moorland Hanging Read online

  “Why were you all the way up here? It’s miles from Thomas Smyth’s place, and I understand you went there with Sir William.”

  Samuel explained about their decision to go for a drink, and about their circuitous route homeward after seeing the two miners on the road. Baldwin listened carefully as the man spoke. His story rang true, but he seemed reticent on one point.

  “I don’t understand why you came all the way out here,” Baldwin probed. “Isn’t there a nearer tavern or inn? Surely there’s one on the way to Chagford?”

  “John and his knight went there. I didn’t want to be with them.”

  “Why not?” asked Simon.

  “Because…” He stopped and stared at the ground.

  “Come on, Samuel. It will go no further,” said Simon reassuringly.

  “John can be a hard man,” he muttered.

  Baldwin nodded. From what he had observed he felt sure that the young squire could be a cruel master. After all, he was being tutored by Sir Ralph of Warton. Mercenary knights like Sir Ralph were all too common, and none were noted for kindness or generosity of spirit.

  “So you went all the way out to the alehouse near the Dart and drank there,” Simon stated. “And on the way back you left the road because of some miners. What were they like?”

  “One was tall, both were young. They were cloaked and hooded.” His face took on a pensive frown.

  Simon had the same thought. “It’s rare for miners to own horses; they usually ride ponies if anything, don’t they? And you say they were cloaked…Wasn’t it a warm night? Why would they have been cloaked?”

  “I don’t know. At the time I just assumed they must be miners. Who else would be out on the moors at that time of day? Farmers would all be bedding down their animals, and there’s no merchant would want to travel at that hour. I just thought…”

  “Could it have been a knight, a man riding with his squire?”

  Again Samuel frowned. There had been something odd about the two, now he came to think of it. “I don’t know…One could have been well-born, but the other…” He stumbled into silence.

  After some moments, Simon cleared his throat. “All right, Samuel,” he said kindly, “tell us if anything comes to you. For now, do you know where this man Bruther used to live?”

  “Yes, over beyond the Smalhobbes’ place.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  “Good, so it’s not too far out of our way, then. Take us there.”

  Simon and Baldwin followed as he led them past the rock where the two servants waited. Simon saw Edgar give Hugh a patronizing sneer and overheard him mutter, “Crockern’s corpse!” The bailiff made a mental note to ask his man what the comment meant.

  They toiled up the bank of the hill. Within a short distance they found they had left the boulders behind; rocks only seemed to lie in the valley around the wood. Toward the top of the hill the land was firm, undulating grassland for as far as the eye could see, with small yellow and white flowers lying among the grasses. The ubiquitous gray tors towered over the skyline in all directions. At the sight of the emptiness, Simon gave an inward groan. By now he was longing to get down from his saddle, but that pleasure was obviously some way off.

  It was a good mile and a half to the little hut where Peter Bruther had lived. After some minutes, they could see it—a small, stone-built place, with turves carelessly tossed over for a roof. A fast-flowing stream wandered before it, cutting deeply into the black soil. Behind lay a patch of cultivated soil, where some crops struggled against the bitter winds which scoured the land.

  At the sight of the building, the five men slowed to a trot. All were struck with the urge to approach quietly as a mark of respect to the dead man who had lived there. Their passage was almost spent until they splashed through the stream and headed to the door. And only then did they hear a shrill scream and see the woman dart from the entrance, ducking under the head of Baldwin’s horse, and pelting away to the east.

  The men were so surprised that at first no one could move. Baldwin’s horse seemed as astonished as his rider, shying only when the woman had passed well beyond, but even as he snorted and jerked his head, his rider was beginning to get over his shock. While Simon exchanged a dumbfounded glance with Hugh, the knight set spurs to his horse, and with Edgar close behind, made off after her.

  He had no desire to harm or scare her, but he was intrigued to know who she was and what she had been doing in the dead man’s house. Approaching obliquely so as not to alarm her unduly, he overtook her and slowed to a trot. She was sobbing. He smiled, trying to look reassuring, and held up his hands to show they were empty of weapons. It appeared to work, for as he reined in, she stopped a short distance from him, wiping at her eyes and panting.

  It was impossible for the knight to miss the signs of her poverty, the threadbare dress and dirty wimple, the holes at the elbows and knees, but he was impressed by her carriage. She stood tall and straight, looking almost like a lady, and was not scared to meet his gaze. This was no fearful rabbit of a serf, he could see.

  “Please stop, madam. You are in no danger, I assure you.”

  “Who are you? Are you with Thomas?”

  His expression of frank incomprehension must have been convincing, for her eyes left his at last, and moved to take in the straggle of men at the hut behind her, then Edgar, who had pulled up to her side and now sat resting his elbows on his horse’s withers. Baldwin shrugged to emphasize his ignorance of the name. He had no knowledge of this Thomas.

  “You aren’t miners, then,” she said doubtfully, and her mystification increased as the dark-faced knight laughed aloud.

  “No, no, we’re not miners. I am Sir Baldwin Furnshill, and the gentleman back there is Simon Puttock, the bailiff of Lydford. We are here to find out who killed Peter Bruther.”

  “He is dead, then?” she cried, and covered her face with her hands.

  Edgar led Baldwin’s horse back to the hut while the knight walked with the weeping woman. By the time they had returned to the other men, he had managed to learn that she was Sarah Smalhobbe.

  “Why were you here, Sarah?” Simon asked when Baldwin had introduced her.

  “I wanted help after they attacked us. They came to my house yesterday, three of them, and they set on my husband. He’s there now, in his cot. Three against one! Where’s the victory in that, eh? The cowards hit him and kicked him while he was on the ground, beating him with cudgels just because he refused to leave the moors. But where else can we go, sir? We have no family to protect us, we’re just poor people, and we cannot leave and find somewhere else to live.”

  “You do not come from around here, then?” Baldwin asked gently, and her gaze immediately moved to him. She hesitated, nervous of saying too much. “No, sir. We come from the north.”

  “Where from? Why did you come all the way down here, to this miserable place?”

  Unaccountably she began to snivel again. “Sir, it’s hard, but there has been nowhere to earn a crust—the famine affected richer people than us. We had to go somewhere when we could no longer get food, and when we heard about the mining down here, it seemed a chance to build our lives again.”

  Simon glanced at Baldwin, then back at the woman. “We can protect you on the way to your house, and perhaps help your man. But you must tell us who did this to him.”

  The fear returned to her eyes. “If I tell you they’ll come back.”

  “If you tell us, we can see that they never come back,” he said reassuringly.

  “How can I depend on that? What if you’re wrong? They may burn us out, or kill us both!”

  “Sarah, calm yourself. I am the bailiff. They will not dare to attack you if they hear you’re under my protection.”

  “I don’t know…I must speak to my husband.”

  “Very well, I won’t force you. But think on it. We may be able to help you—after all, the last thing we need down here is mob-rule.”

  “You already have that, bailiff,�
�� she said sadly, and turned away.

  While she waited outside Bruther’s hut with Hugh and Edgar, Simon and Baldwin entered the little dwelling. A balk of timber in the center supported the roof, while a burned patch and twigs nearby showed where the miner had kept his fire. A simple stool formed the only furniture. The man’s sad collection of belongings lay on a large moorstone block which jutted from the wall in place of a table: a cloak, a hood, a small knife, a half-loaf of bread, a paunched rabbit. A thin and worn sleeping mat lay rolled up on the floor beside it.

  Baldwin picked up the dead rabbit and weighed it in his hand. “This can only be a day old. In this heat it would hardly last much longer. If he caught this, surely he would not have committed suicide shortly after?”

  “Why—do you think he might have killed himself?” Simon asked sharply.

  The knight sighed. “No, but suicide would explain why his hands had not been bound. Then there’s the second mark…”

  “What second mark?”

  Baldwin explained while Simon listened intently. “It more or less proves it must have been murder,” the knight said, tossing the rabbit aside.

  “It’s not very honorable, is it?” Simon mused.

  “Stepping up behind a man and throttling him. Not the kind of behavior you’d expect out here. Usually if there’s a fight it’s with daggers or fists. This…it’s sickening.”

  “Yes. As you say, it is hardly chivalrous. But then, there are many miners on the moors, and I doubt whether any of them have noble blood. In any case, there is not much reason here to kill a man, if they killed him to rob.”

  “Could they have taken something from him?”

  “From a villein? Maybe he had a purse on him, but he hadn’t been living here for a year yet. He can’t have earned that much. No, I doubt whether the purpose was robbery. Besides, since when have robbers hanged their victims?”

  There was nothing more for them to learn here. They went outside and mounted their horses. Baldwin offered Mrs. Smalhobbe a ride with Edgar, but she refused. It wasn’t far to her house and she would be happier to walk. “So would I,” Hugh muttered fiercely when he saw that Simon was within hearing, but his master chose to ignore the comment.

  At the Smalhobbe holding they found a small and neat square stone cottage. Sarah immediately ran to the door and entered while the men dismounted. Inside it was tiny. By the light of a guttering candle, which made the air rank with the foul smell of burning animal fat, Simon could see the slim figure lying on a palliasse at the far end of the room, his wife kneeling beside him. On their appearance, the miner lurched up to sit, his brown eyes showing anxiety—but not fear, Baldwin noted approvingly. The man looked unwell, his gaunt features bruised, but though he was slight of build, Smalhobbe looked wiry and fit.

  “My wife says you are trying to find out what happened last night,” he said, his voice weary and strained.

  Baldwin glanced round the room, then sighed as he realized there were no chairs or benches. He squatted. “Yes. Peter Bruther was killed, as your wife has presumably told you. We understand you were attacked as well.”

  Henry Smalhobbe watched as Simon crouched down beside the knight. The miner’s expression was reserved and suspicious, but Simon thought he could detect a degree of hope there, as if the man had been praying for some relief and now felt he could see the approach of rescue. Simon cleared his throat. “Could you tell us what happened last night? Maybe we can help you at the same time as clearing up the matter of who killed Peter Bruther.”

  “Maybe,” said Henry Smalhobbe quietly, and sank back on to an elbow. His face was now in darkness, below the level of the candle in the wall, so that his expression was difficult to read; Simon wondered whether the move was intentional. He chewed his lip in concentration as the miner continued: “There’s not much to tell. I was out all day, same as normal, working the stream a little to the south of here. When I came back it was just before dark. Well, I was almost home when I saw a man hiding outside. He must have been waiting for me.” He spoke dispassionately, as though recounting another man’s misfortune. “After I heard Sarah call out, I had to look at her and make sure she was all right. Well, before I could turn round, something caught me across the back of my head.” He broke off and gingerly touched his scalp. “I fell down, and someone whispered in my ear, said that if I didn’t go and leave this land to the one it belonged to, I could die. And my wife…”

  “I understand. Please, what happened then?” said Simon softly.

  “They beat me. Someone was kicking me, another had a cudgel, I think, and hit me all over—my legs, back, head, everywhere. I passed out when they got to my head.” He spoke simply, not trying to embellish his tale, and Simon felt sure he could be believed.

  It was Baldwin who leaned forward and asked: “Did you see any of these men?”

  “I didn’t need to, sir. I know them all. There’s three of them: Thomas Horsho, Harold Magge and Stephen the Crocker.” He explained briefly about their previous visits, how they’d threatened him and his wife.

  “Usually George Harang is there too, when these men go out to scare people, but last night it was Harold who spoke. If George had been there, it would have been him.”

  “Did you hear them say anything about Peter Bruther? Any comments at all?”

  “No, sir, not that I recall. I’d tell you if I did.” His voice carried conviction.

  “Have you heard of anybody else being attacked recently? Do you know if anybody else was hurt last night?”

  “No, sir,” said Smalhobbe, glancing at his wife for confirmation. She shook her head too, her eyes huge in her concern.

  Baldwin subsided, and Simon stiffly rose to his feet, his knees cracking. “Thanks for all that. We’ll see what we can do. If you’re prepared to accuse these men, perhaps we can get them punished.”

  “Oh no, sir!” Sarah Smalhobbe’s face was twisted with fear. “We can’t! What will happen to us if we do that? You can see what the men are prepared to do when we make only a little trouble for them…”

  Simon cocked his head. “What do you mean by ‘a little trouble’? What have you done to deserve this beating?” he asked.

  She stared at him for a moment, then her eyes dropped, flitting nervously, or so Simon thought, to her husband.

  “Henry?” he prompted, and was sure that the man started nervously.

  “When we came here, we did all legally, bounding our plot, marking it out and registering it. All we wanted was to be left alone to make some kind of living, and so far we have. But some tinners, all they want is to keep people off the land.”

  “Tinners? Surely you mean the landowners? It is they who wish the miners to leave,” said Baldwin.

  “No, sir. The landowners want us to leave them alone, it is true. Some miners damage their lands and pasture, but no, I did mean miners want us off this part.”

  “Is it very wealthy, then? There is a lot of tin here and others want you to leave so that they can take it?”

  To the knight’s surprise, the wounded man gave a harsh laugh. “Hardly! There might be enough for me and Sarah to live off, but not enough to become wealthy. No, it’s because another man has paid miners not to work this land so that he can keep it for his own pasture, and they are enforcing the agreement.”

  “So these men, they beat you because they were paid to keep the land empty?”

  “Yes, sir. They work for a powerful man, for Thomas Smyth, and he is paid not to mine this far into the moors. So he has told them to get rid of the likes of us.”

  “Did you know of this, Simon?” asked Baldwin, glancing at his friend in astonishment.

  “I’ve heard of it,” he admitted. “It’s hard to stop. When the Devon miners divided from the Cornishmen thirteen years ago and formed their own stannary parliament here in Dartmoor, they became more powerful locally, and this type of thing has happened a few times. But,” he stood and nodded to the Smalhobbes, “I’ll do what I can to stop it, now I know
who’s responsible.”

  Simon was quiet during their return to the Manor, and Baldwin too was content to hold his peace. Although the bailiff had warned him about the troubles caused by the tinners, he had not realized how the bands of men affected the people in the moors, terrorizing some in return for money from others. He was still frowning thoughtfully when they arrived at Beauscyr Manor. Dusk was approaching, and they were all relieved to drop from their saddles. Samuel Hankyn went off to the kitchen, while the two men and their servants made their way to the hall. Here Baldwin was pleased to see that food was laid out for them on a table before the fire, and he had filled a trencher and was eating before the others had seated themselves. But for them, the hall was empty.

  After some minutes, Sir Robert Beauscyr twitched the curtains aside and strode in. He marched across the rush-covered floor to a bench opposite Simon and sat, staring at the bailiff. “Well? Have you discovered anything?” he demanded.

  Simon regarded him silently while he chewed on some tough, dry beef. He had disliked the older of the two brothers since their first meeting. His arrogance was insulting, and Simon was unused to such treatment. Swallowing, he leaned back on his bench and picked up his pewter mug. Ignoring the question, he said, “How long has the Manor been paying money to Thomas Smyth to keep off the Manor’s lands?” and drank.

  Robert Beauscyr was dumbfounded. The whole affair had only blown up over the last few days. Before that, even he had not known of the arrangement. He regained his composure with an effort and tried to pass the matter off with a shrug, aware that his shock had been visible. “What has that to do with this murder?” he snapped. “It is irrelevant.”

  “No, not irrelevant. If, for example, you had paid a man to protect lands which were yours, and he tried to do that by killing a man, it would be the same as you paying for the murder.” The bailiff nonchalantly popped a crust of bread into his mouth, delighted by the young knight’s discomfort. “Wouldn’t it?”

  “No…I mean, maybe. But that’s not important here.”