“You mean you’ve outlaws working for you?” Simon asked bluntly.
“Bailiff, please! Do you expect me to ask all the sheriffs and reeves in the land about the past life of every man who comes to me asking for a job? Anyway, most of them will never return where they came from, so you could almost say that I am
helping
the law by stopping them from being outlaws! While they are here, working for me, they aren’t living in the woods and robbing merchants—if they ever did, that is.”
Baldwin stood, grunting. “These three men—were they outlaws?”
“I’ve no idea. I didn’t ask them,” said Smyth.
“Is it true that you have been trying to force Smalhobbe and others from the moors?”
“Force?”
He paused, head on one side as he stared at the knight as if astonished.
“Yes, force them from the moors. By threatening them, suggesting that their wives could be raped or widowed…”
“Oh, really! I already have widely spread works, I don’t need more.”
“And yet a man is wounded and holds you responsible—and another is dead.”
“Dead?” The look he threw at George Harang was not faked, Baldwin was sure. There was genuine surprise there.
“Yes, a man called Bruther,” Simon said shortly.
“Who did you say? Peter Bruther’s dead?” The tinner was transfixed, staring in disbelief.
“Murdered,” said Simon. “Someone hanged him. Do you have any idea who could have wanted Bruther dead?”
Smyth’s expression was wooden. The bailiff could not know the truth, he thought. If he did, that question would never have been asked. Before he could collect his wits and respond, there was an interruption.
The door banged open, and Baldwin came face to face with a pair of women. One was a cheerful, contented-looking lady of forty at most, a matter of ten years or so younger than Smyth, and the knight guessed from her smile that she must be his wife. She was short and plump, with the clear, fresh complexion he associated with moorland dwellers, but with none of the dour stolidity he had seen elsewhere. Her dark hair was braided and curled under her wimple, the stiff severity of the headgear out of place beside her laughing brown eyes.
With her was a younger woman, obviously her daughter. She had the same dark hair and sunny, warming smile which betrayed her vivacious spirit. Seeing the guests, she paused at the door, but then her eyes went to her father, and she crossed to him. Baldwin could see that she was only some fifteen years or so old, still a little coltish in her movements, and slim as a foal, but with none of the gawkiness which was sometimes so evident in girls of her age. The maid was very self-assured, and clearly knew she was being watched by four men from the way she elegantly and decorously floated across the floor to her father. Baldwin noticed that her mother had observed this too. As if in mild despair at this forward behavior, she sighed, and then grinned when he caught her eye. He had to smile broadly in return.
“Father, you promised to come and ride with me this morning.” The girl’s voice was deep, at odds with her slender figure. Though her attention was apparently fixed on Smyth, she walked to his side and turned with her hand on his shoulder so that she could study the visitors.
“Yes, but we’re busy for now, my sparrow,” he said, putting an arm round her waist. Otherwise he ignored her, frowning intently at the bailiff. Simon felt that Smyth was controlling himself with difficulty, but that was no great surprise. Nobody likes being accused of extortion and murder in the same day, he thought.
“Will you be long?” Her eyes were on Baldwin now, challenging, and the knight was not sure whether the question was aimed at him or not. Meanwhile the tinner grunted and addressed Simon.
“Who wanted Bruther dead, you asked? You need to ask the bastards he ran from, the Beauscyrs. They wanted him back to stop other villeins from leaving the Manor, and they made no secret of it.”
“But why would they kill him?”
“A warning—to show what any other runaway could expect. He was hanged, you say? The Beauscyrs must have wanted his punishment to be as obvious as possible! A short rope and a long drop. How else can they keep their Manor together? They can’t afford to let anyone leave their work and run when they want to; the Manor needs men.”
“They suggested it might have been you had him killed.”
For a moment there was no sound, and then the miner’s servant leaned on the table behind Simon, his face taut and harsh. “They said that? They dare accuse my master of—”
“Be silent, George!” The command was immediate and uncompromising, and Simon saw that Smyth’s eyes had gone black with a quick fury, but his rage died as quickly as it had flared, leaving him looking tired and oddly vulnerable, and the bailiff was reminded that this man was already old compared with most. When he spoke again, Smyth’s voice was slower, but the emotion was still there in the precision of his speech.
“Bailiff, I have lived here for many years and, as I said, I have a rough group of men to keep under control. Sometimes there have been troubles, but not very often, and each time I have kept the peace here, not like other places where even the knights have resorted to robbery. These last few years have been hard, but here on the moors I have made sure that the rule of law has survived. If I thought any of my men had killed Peter Bruther, I would see them pay. Compare that with the Beauscyr family. Look at that old fool Sir William, and his two young whelps. If you want to find the murderer, you need search no further than this family. Sir Robert Beauscyr in particular is a—”
“Father, that’s unfair!” His daughter’s outburst caught him by surprise. She spun away from his encircling arm. “Robert would never consider murder!”
“Alicia, be quiet!” His voice was not raised, but it was cold and angry. “Your views are not important; this is nothing to do with you. This is serious. Someone has done murder, and I think it may have been Robert.” He turned to Simon again, his daughter throwing him a tragic glance and walking over to George’s side as he continued: “Robert Beauscyr has always had a cruel thread running through him, and he can call on many men to assist him from his father’s men-at-arms. It would have been easy for him to have gone to the moors and killed Bruther.”
Baldwin’s eyes were on his daughter. She sat beside George, her eyes fixed on her father, while the old servant patted her on the back, his face filled with sympathy. She looked as though she was about to burst into tears, and the knight could see how close she and the heir to Beauscyr Manor had grown. They were of good ages: the boy a little over twenty, the girl ready to wed at fifteen or so, and they had presumably known each other almost all their lives, dwelling so close together here, while other settlements were far distant. There could be few others of their age nearby.
Simon was saying, “But what about you, sir? Where were you on the night Bruther was killed?”
“Me?” Disbelief faded, to be replaced by cold rage. “Here, bailiff—I was here!
And if you want to check with an independent witness, ask Sir William Beauscyr. He was here with me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to.”
He made his way to the door, but before he could leave, Baldwin said, “One thing, before you go, please. If you have no objection, could we go to your camp and ask there if any man knows what has happened to the three miners? If we can, it would be best to speak to them as quickly as possible, either to confirm their innocence in this affair, or…”
Thomas Smyth stared at him with a slight sneer. “Of course,” he said. “George will take you there and make sure your questions are answered, won’t you, George?” And then he was gone, the door slamming behind him.
H
ow long have you known your master, George?” Simon’s voice was conciliatory as they jogged their way down the incline from the house, heading southwest to the miners’ encampment. They had already left the stream far to the left, and were now passing through empty lands where the only sound came from their jingling harnesses.
Harang glanced at him suspiciously, his eyebrows almost meeting in a sandy line. Reassured by the frank openness he saw, he gave a shrug. “Some seventeen years, I reckon.”
“That was when you first came down here?”
“Yes.”
“And you began to work for him then?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve stayed with him since?”
“Yes.”
His taciturn unresponsiveness made Simon falter. He glanced at Baldwin, who said mildly, “So I suppose Alicia was born some time after you started working for Thomas Smyth?”
“Yes.”
“She must be…what—fifteen? Sixteen?”
“Fifteen. Born back in 1303. In the May time.” For the first time his voice grew softer, and his face showed the strength of his feelings for the girl.
“She looks a bright girl.”
“Very bright,” he told the knight, who now rode beside him. “Quick and alert, she is. I remember when she was young, I only ever had to tell her once what bird was singing and she always remembered afterward.”
“It’s a pleasure to be with someone who learns fast, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes, sir. And she’s nearly as strong as a lad, too. Growing up round here, she knows the moors as well as most folk know their own garden. She’s often out for hours at a time on her pony.”
“She obviously likes Sir Robert Beauscyr.”
“Why do you say that?” Suspicion darkened George’s face.
“She hardly made a secret of it, the way she leapt to his defense, did she?”
“Well…yes, they know each other,” George admitted unwillingly.
“Isn’t it…” Baldwin hesitated. “I mean, you must agree, this Robert Beauscyr, he may be wealthy, but he’s hardly a perfect example of a knight, is he? I’d have thought he’d be too dull for her.”
“That’s what I’ve said to her, but once she’s…” His face reddened as he went silent.
“A little willful, perhaps? She looked like she had her own mind.” George threw him a quick glance, then grinned suddenly and gave a definite nod. “Ah!”
“Look, sir.” George settled in his saddle. “It’s not that, see. If she’d set her cap at someone else, a farmer or someone, I doubt whether I’d have any complaint about it, but I don’t trust the Beauscyrs. I’ve known some lords in my time, and they’re never as strong as their sires, if you follow me. The sons always seem to be weaker, whether in the head or the arms, just as if the strength is reduced in the children. And that’s what I reckon has happened with the Beauscyrs. Sir William is strong enough, I can’t argue with that, he’s proved it in fighting for the King—but what of his son, Sir Robert? He’s got some brains, but he uses them all in books and reading, and that’s not natural. No, I don’t think he’s right.”
“Right for Alicia, you mean? Or do you mean he could kill?” Baldwin laughed at the man’s expression.
“Come, George. Like your master said, Robert Beauscyr had good reason to want the man back. Do you think he could murder?”
“Sir Robert Beauscyr kill Peter Bruther?” He considered, riding in silence as he thought through the implications. As he knew, the Beauscyr family had little enough reason to like Peter Bruther, but killing a man was different from disliking him. “I wouldn’t have thought he could kill, but if he had a group of men with him and they would do his bidding, he might order them to.”
“What do you know about his brother?”
“Him?” He spat. “If Robert’s got the brains, then John’s got the muscle. He’s one man I’d always want in front of me, never behind. But he’s no interest in the lands, he’s always riding out with his knight looking for more loot or spoil. Their sort are never satisfied, they always want more.”
“Their sort?” Baldwin shot him a glance, but George felt he had said enough and refused to explain himself, maintaining a reserved silence for the remainder of their journey. Luckily it was not much farther, and soon they were at the broad plateau where the miners held their camp. George led them to the blowing-house, where there was a small stable area near a slowturning waterwheel. Leaving their horses there, he took them to the house itself. “You wanted to see this last time you passed near,” he said, and motioned the knight inside.
Baldwin found it was as hot as a smithy, with two men working bare-chested at the furnace. Its flames filled the square room with an unearthly glow of angry red light. He puffed out his cheeks at the heat and winced. The air was so dry and pungent with the fumes of charcoal that it was difficult to breathe after the coolness of their ride, and with each squeeze of the bellows the atmosphere bludgeoned at him.
The building was a simple two roomed affair, built of sturdy rock and turf to keep out wind and rain. A doorway to his right led into a storeroom, and the fire was opposite, set into the wall. It looked like a series of rocks set vertically, four feet wide at most. To the left was a massive bellows, which appeared to be driven from outside by the waterwheel in the stream, and which fed air into the bottom of the hearth. Behind the rocks, George told them, was a tall clay pot, shaped like a cone standing on its point.
“We fill the clay pot with layers of charcoal and ore,” George explained when asked. “The bellows are needed to get the furnace hot enough so that the tin melts. When it does it runs into that trough at the bottom.” He indicated a deeply grooved stone under the furnace. “Then all we have to do is ladle it into an ingot, ready for coining at the stannary town.”
The temperature was too extreme. Though Baldwin would have liked to stay longer and see what else went on, he was eager to leave. “Fascinating,” he murmured to Simon outside as he wiped sweat from his forehead, “but distinctly uncomfortable!”
“Aye, but good when the snow lies on the ground,” said George cheerfully. Since seeing the room he appeared to have recovered his good humor, Baldwin thought, like a devil after receiving a brief but warming blast of hellfire.
“Can you show us where these three men used to live?” Simon asked. He was bored with seeing blowing-houses and the other machines and paraphernalia of the miners. To him it was all as exciting as watching cob dry—if a great deal more profitable.
George Harang shrugged unconcernedly and led them to a series of cottages at the southern edge of the hamlet. Stopping at one he waved a hand for them to enter, leaning against the wall with every sign of relaxation. Exchanging a glance, Simon and Baldwin ducked under the lintel and entered.
It was a miserable hovel, only ten feet by eight, and it stank of urine and smoke. A tiny hearth held a few burned twigs and pieces of wood, while a bundle of faggots stood to one side. There was a sad palliasse, bleeding straw, and a canvas sack beside it with a wooden platter and pot atop, all covered with soot. Apart from that the room was empty.
Outside, a stranger had joined Hugh, Edgar and George. Short and slight, he had the sallow skin and bright eyes of overwork. George cocked a thumb at him. “This is a friend of theirs. He used to share the cottage with them.”
Simon saw that the youth was nervous, perhaps from shyness. He said, “We would like to ask you some questions about Harold Magge, Thomas Horsho and Stephen the Crocker. Do you know where they are?”
“No, sir,” said the boy, shaking his head emphatically. “I never saw them go. They just weren’t here the day before yesterday when I went to sleep, and I haven’t seen them since.”
“Did they always sleep here?”
“Yes, sir.” The nod was as pronounced as the shake, and Simon began to wonder whether his head was firmly set on his shoulders. If not, it was likely to fly off at any moment.
“When did you last see them?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Roughly, lad. You don’t have to be precise.”
“Some days ago, sir.”
“
Where
did you last see them?”
“I can’t remember, sir.”
“Surely you can tell us whether they were here at the hut or out somewhere else when you last saw them!”
“I don’t know, sir.”
Staring at him, Simon felt the exasperation mounting until he caught a glimpse of George Harang’s face. He was resting against the wall of the cottage, exuding relaxed nonchalance as he smiled at the miner. And then Simon caught on.
“Thanks, anyway. You’ve been very helpful,” he said, and the man hurried away like a startled hart. Turning, Simon smiled at his friend. “I think we have taken up enough of George’s time, don’t you?” Seeing the disbelief on Baldwin’s face, he took him by the arm and began to walk with him back to their horses.
“Come, we need to speak to the Beauscyrs, don’t we?”
Their guide accompanied them to their horses. “I’m sorry you found out so little,” he lied cheerfully.
“Yes,” said Simon reflectively. “Just one last thing, though. Where were you on the night Peter Bruther died?”
“Me?” George smiled. “I was at the house with my master, of course. Where else would I be?”
“That was a complete waste of time!” Baldwin muttered angrily as they rode at a steady pace up the incline from the camp. Simon glanced at him, smiling.
“Not entirely, Baldwin. We have learned something from our visit. It’s clear that George Harang and Thomas Smyth do not want to help us track down any of these three men. They know exactly what their men were doing that night and don’t want us to find out—which raises some interesting points to consider. For example, if Thomas Smyth is hiding the men or preventing us from finding them, did he know that the three men were going that way? Did he tell them to go? Did he actually
instruct
them to go and beat up Henry Smalhobbe? And if he did, did he also tell them to go on to Peter Bruther’s place and attack him too?”
“He could have, from the look of him,” said Baldwin, his dark eyes brooding as he frowned at the horizon ahead. Simon followed his stare to where a man herded cattle. The knight continued, “I think Smyth would stop at little to get what he wants. He’s a man who has carved out his own empire here, and no one can tell him what to do. There are any number of men to do his bidding, and if that poor, terrified rabbit of a man was anything to go by, many of them are fearful of upsetting him. I’m sure that’s what he was scared of, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I have no doubt about it. That was why I thought we might as well leave, as we were obviously not going to get anywhere—at least, not while George Harang was hanging around in earshot. No, if we want answers from any of Thomas Smyth’s men, we’ll need to get them away from their master and his servant.”
Sir William watched the small party riding off to hunt with a sense of relief. Three retainers had joined his sons and Sir Ralph. The two boys had been niggling at each other almost from the moment John had returned, and though he was very proud of his sons, both of them, Sir William was beginning to look forward to the time when Sir Ralph and his youngest decided to leave and continue their travels abroad. Sighing, he turned back to the hall, where his wife would be waiting. Matillida too was feeling the strain of the constant sniping; she was becoming waspish.
Something was wrong with Robert, he reflected. His oldest son usually responded pragmatically to problems, but now he appeared to be incapable of seeing how to avoid conflict—indeed, he sought it out. In the past he would always have avoided an argument, preferring to get on with work, but since the affair of Peter Bruther, and especially now that his brother had come home again, he seemed to relish quarrelling. Sir William frowned. It was almost as if he had suddenly discovered a new strength of character.
And John too was a different person. Of course, a lot of that was due to his training as a warrior. Before that he had been a mere boy, but he had now returned as a man, and that was hard for Robert to understand. John had his own opinions on a number of matters where before he would have bowed to his brother’s view. No longer. He had left home a shy, quiet boy; now he was used to work and hardship after six years of steady training in service to his master. Confident and self-assured after living for years on the Scottish marches, a warrior now after fighting the border raiders, he had seen too much to be able to go back to a state of happy obedience, constantly deferring to his older brother’s wishes. Perhaps that was it. Maybe it was just that Robert could not understand that John had grown to maturity, Sir William decided.
Climbing the steps, he found his eyes being dragged back to the main gate, as if trying to look through it to the men riding off. He was still unsure of Sir Ralph. The knight had certainly trained his son well in the arts of war and chivalry, he had seen that in numerous little signs, in the way that he shared money unstintingly with the guards, in the way he offered to give alms to beggars at the door, but most of all in the way he could handle a sword. It had been impressive, Sir William admitted to himself—but troubling, as well.
The day before, John had been fretful, apparently bored, and had asked one of the guards to practice with him. One of the men-at-arms had been persuaded, Ronald Taverner, and they had used training swords built of heavy iron, with edges and points blunted. For protection they wore bucklers—small, circular shields. The idea had been to keep John in training, or so he had said, but when Sir William had gone to the stables to watch, he had been surprised by something Sir Ralph had said.
The knight had joined him, resting his forearms on the rail, a small dry smile on his face, and Sir William had said, “It’s good to see the young working to achieve the best they can, isn’t it?”
Sir Ralph had glanced at him, then back at the circling fighters. “To learn, surely the young should pick fighters as good as themselves, or better?”
Surprised, Sir William had watched the two men. It was plain what the knight had meant, and he had seen it for himself. Whereas John had demonstrated his skill, battering with his sword at any point of weakness like a good soldier, the guard had been clearly uneasy and far below John’s standard. He had held his sword well enough, but seemed not to have enough strength to use it effectively. His buckler was never quite fast enough to parry the crushing blows of his opponent’s weapon, his own blade was always just too slow to take advantage of an opening. Though John had managed to make it look as if he was having to work hard, the real effort had all been on the other side.