comfortable as night thickened and the light fled to leave the moors to the spirits.
But Henry Smalhobbe was not unduly superstitious, and he thrust all thoughts of the spirits of the moors to the back of his mind. He had learned to do that while still a small boy, leaving unproductive fears behind like so much unwanted baggage. There had been little which could upset the peaceful, even pace of his boyhood. Once he’d reached adulthood, most of his time had been spent in loyal service to his master, and the work had kept him too busy to have any terrors of ghosts or spirits. But that was before…
Stopping, he rubbed at an eye with the heel of his hand. His eyelid kept twitching – a strange but irritating quirk which had developed over the last few months, and which occasionally preyed on his mind in case it was the precursor of blindness. That thought terrified him. To be blind was to be the target of abuse, or worse. There was no protection for a blind man unless he was wealthy, and Henry Smalhobbe was not rich. If he were to lose his sight, he knew what would happen. Other miners would take over his land; he and his wife would be driven from the moors. How could a blind man find work? Their only hope would be for Sarah to earn them a living, and there was only one way she could do that.
He set his jaw and carried on. It was foolish to waste time worrying about such things. After all, there were many other dangers here on the moors. He could be bitten by a rabid animal or snake, fall into one of the bogs or catch leprosy. There were many ways to die horribly without exercising the imagination.
As if on cue, a low howl shivered on the soft breeze and he glanced at the horizon. Wolves – but a long way off, from the sound. He strode a little faster.
It was almost dark, and he was relieved to see the flickering light of the fire in his hut’s doorway. He and Sarah had built their small cottage with regular-sized stones from what appeared to be an old wall a few yards away, jamming pebbles and mud into the gaps to stop drafts, but they had only an old, thick fustian blanket to act as a door. It was little good in winter-time, but it served well enough now, in the warmth of summer. Sarah always left it open at night until he got home, to help him find his way.
The ground was flat here, with a light scattering of moorstone. One or two bushes broke the soft undulations of the grassy plain before his door, but in the main the area was empty as far as the eye could see. While some way off, Henry stopped, frowning. Up ahead, between him and his hut, a bush appeared to have changed. When he had left that morning, it had been a thin straggling plant, but now it seemed larger, and more substantial.
For a moment he felt as if his heart had stopped. All the terror of the moors struck him anew: he suddenly recalled the stories of the moorland spirits. The tales he had heard when sitting before the hearth of the inn with a quart of ale in his hand had seemed laughable then, but now, miles from anybody else, he felt defenseless. A gust of wind flicked the hair from his forehead, and in its light caress he felt the icy trickle of sweat. When the shadow- like figure slowly moved, the hairs at the back of Henry’s head rose like a dog’s hackles in a chilly spasm of fear.
Whatever it was blocked his path. He could not get to his door without passing it; could not see how Sarah was. She must surely be inside, but he dared not call to her – not for his own sake, but from fear of what the thing might do to her.
Then the fear disappeared as if blown away with the wind. The figure had coughed! Any creature which made such a mundane sound was only flesh and blood like himself. Gripping his mattock, he quietly placed his pack on the ground and crouched. Whoever it was seemed to want to remain hidden. The small explosion of sound had been stifled, as if smothered by a covering hand. It had only been the breeze, carrying the sound to him like a friendly spy, which had betrayed the man. Who he was and why he was here was a mystery, but one which Henry was keen to have answered. Carefully placing one foot in front of the other, he stalked his prey, circling widely to come upon the man from behind.
The figure slowly resolved itself into that of a squatting man, resting easily with elbows on his knees. Clad in a dark cloak, he surveyed the land ahead, occasionally glancing behind him at the hut with a cautious deliberation. Henry felt the blood hammer at his ears. This was no casual moorman, this was clearly an ambush, and the miner felt a rising anger. This man was waiting for him. There was only one reason, as Henry knew, why anyone would want to attack him, and if he could surprise the stranger, he might be able to capture him and gain the upper hand.
With infinite care, he crept toward the dark shape. Each time he saw the head begin to move he froze, holding his breath. Then, as it turned back to the path, Henry continued, his feet rising high and slow in a parody of normal motion before being carefully placed down, testing each step to make sure that it would make no sound. There were no twigs or dry leaves to betray his presence here. In a state of exquisite tension, his scalp tingling with his excitement, his hands locked like cast iron round the stave of his mattock, his mouth open to silence even his breathing, he painstakingly moved forward.
But then it all went wrong.
“Henry? Henry?”
His wife’s call, betraying a slight anxiety, came clear on the night air from the doorway. She stood peering out into the gloom. It was only because he was late. Sarah had been waiting with his food ready since dusk, for he normally returned before full dark. Now it was quite black outside as she walked to the curtain and twitched it aside. Henry was never this late, she thought to herself, and she wondered whether he could have hurt himself, maybe falling into one of the bogs which proliferated in certain areas, or perhaps having an accident while digging. But that was ridiculous. He knew all the land around here, had walked over the whole area with her to make sure that it was safe. Her husband was a careful man, she knew, and unlikely to harm himself. But though not yet worried, she nonetheless felt a vague trepidation. It was unlike him to be so late, he loathed walking across the moors in the dark.
Head thrust forward, she frowned out, staring. Up ahead there was a shadowy figure. She called, saw his face turn to her, yellow-white in the gloom, and scared, and then she saw the other form spin and rise, and the two men springing from beside the path. That was when she screamed.
Setting off from the hall, Samuel Hankyn burped gently to himself, smiling under the relaxing influence of the strong ale in his belly. He was mildly interested in what had made his master send him home so early, for it was unlike Sir William to go on without a man-at-arms, especially since he was going to meet the man who, as all in the Manor knew, he considered to be his enemy.
Samuel noted that Ronald Taverner, his companion, still wore his vague and faintly stupid expression; he gave a quick frown of exasperation. He should not have listened when Ronald suggested they should go for a drink before making their way home. After all, he had seen often enough before how little the lad could drink.
Strange, though, he reflected again, that his master should have decided to dismiss his men at the miner’s door and enter alone. After the row that afternoon he would have expected Sir William to take a strong force with him, rather than just Sir Ralph, his son John and two men-at-arms – himself and young Ronald. A show of strength would have been more in keeping with a man of his standing, and since all the men in the fort knew of the argument which had led to Sir Robert rushing out in a rage, there was even more reason to make a strong showing before the miners. If they even suspected that they had sown dissension in the ranks of the Beauscyr family, the miners might decide to ask for more, or even to take the knight hostage against a large ransom. It had happened before.
For now, though, Samuel just felt grateful at having escaped. If it came to a fight, he wanted to be far away. Knights were well-enough protected, for they had mail and armor to cover them, and if that failed and they were captured, few would kill them. Keeping them prisoner against a goodly charge for release was vastly more profitable. Not so for the poor man-at-arms. He was never wealthy, so could not afford much more than the legal minimum of arms – Samuel’s sword and helmet were paid for by Sir William – and was therefore not worth the keeping. If caught, a man-at-arms was lucky if his only punishment was a knife across the throat.
Facing the road ahead, he frowned. That was the thing that niggled at him. Sir William must know that he was riding into danger in going to the miners’ camp, so why go there unprotected? It was madness. Surely Sir William was not going to give in – that was almost incredible.
The facts spoke for themselves nonetheless. They had ridden out from Beauscyr to Thomas Smyth’s hall at the vill in the middle of the moors, and there Sir William had ordered the men-at-arms to leave him. When Samuel looked back, he saw John and Sir Ralph leaving the knight at the door and riding off on the Chagford road. They would not have left the old knight unless he knew himself to be safe, and that meant he must have been going to accept the miner’s terms – paying money to stop damage to the estate.
