father dies, you will be responsible for the Manor, and for me. This man Smyth must not perceive any weakness in you, because he will use it against you. If he thinks that each time he comes here to negotiate with you, all he need do is enrage you, he will know he can control you.”
“But he wants us to pay him not to come on to our lands!”
“I know that. For now, as you say, he wants us to pay him to protect our Manor. If we refuse, he will claim there is tin here, or he will demand that he be allowed to divert the waters from our stream for his workings, or he will cut down our trees to make charcoal for his furnaces – anything. And we know there is nothing we can do to stop him. But soon there might be something we can use against him. For now we must calm him, remain on friendly terms with him, try not to insult or demean him, and persuade him to stay away from the Manor. That is what your father and brother are doing now, trying to keep him happy. After your outburst, it was necessary. Now we will pay. We will mollify the man, befriend him, make sure he is content. Later, maybe, we will gain the advantage and make him regret his presumption!”
“How can we? He’s only a common peasant, no better than Peter Bruther, a runaway villein. Would you negotiate with him?”
“I would negotiate with the Devil himself if it would keep this Manor together!”
The words sank in slowly. For his own mother to spit out such a blasphemy stunned him, but there was no mistake. There could be no misunderstanding her words or her commitment, and suddenly he was not sure that he had ever understood her. Mumbling another apology, he took himself out of the room.
Alone again, Matillida let her breath escape slowly; her rage had dissipated. Surely the boy must understand. He had responsibilities, not merely to the land and the Manor, but to the family. Today, his behavior had endangered all that – and it was unforgivable. She was filled with a sense of approaching danger, suddenly fearful for the safety of this place and her family.
In the yard Sir Robert dragged his feet on the cobbles. He was confused, unsure of himself and even more of his mother. At least soon she would have to treat him better – like a man, not a brainless child. He paused by the stables and watched a groom assiduously rubbing sweat from his horse’s flanks with a handful of straw. Today, with luck, a new life had begun for him. Sir Robert climbed the staircase in the corner which led up to the walkway on the wall.
He was still there, out by the main gate, when two riders came into view. With dull uninterested eyes he watched them canter down the hill. They were men-at-arms, he noticed, from the Manor.
“Open the gates!” one yelled as they came closer.
“Is Sir William here yet?”
As the bolts were hauled back and the gate unbarred, Sir Robert could hear the surly response from the doorkeeper. “You should know – you were out with him. Of course he’s not back!”
“God!”
Sir Robert watched the man jump down from his horse and lead it through the second gate to the courtyard, the second trailing after, both exhausted after their ride, their mounts tired and flecked with sweat. Soon they were surrounded by a milling crowd of ostlers and guards. Something in the hushed anxiety of the scene made him hurry to the inner wall and shout down: “You! What is it? What’s the matter?”
His voice stilled the hubbub below, and he found himself peering down at a group of pale faces. One stood out. It was one of the men, who now stared back with a mixture of nervousness and suspicion. “Sir, it’s the runaway, Peter Bruther. He’s dead!”
The following afternoon, Sir Ralph of Warton was looking out at the view from a low tower, mulling over the news about Bruther, as four figures rode toward Beauscyr Manor. The bailiff of Lydford and his friend were easily distinguishable out in front, and the other two must be servants, he thought. One was close by the knight, moving at the same pace like a well-trained squire, and he caught Sir Ralph’s attention almost immediately. The man was clearly a warrior, and from the way he rode, never more than a few feet from his master’s horse, the two were used to working together. Like his master, he was clad in a light woollen surcoat, but both wore mail beneath, as the occasional glints at wrist and ankle revealed.
The last man in the group lolloped along behind the others like a grain-filled sack, radiating discomfort and misery. He was small of stature and wore a simple short-sleeved shirt with a padded jacket. Clearly this was not a man-of-war in any sense of the word – he looked like a laborer.
Hearing a step, Ralph turned to find John peering over his shoulder.
“So the bailiff and his friend are back, then. And they’ve brought guards, too. Very sensible. You can never tell where your enemies are, can you?”
Ralph gave him a frosty smile. “We need not fear each other, anyway.”
“You think so?” John faced him. “But after your humiliation by that man…”
“Don’t be ridiculous! He was a peasant, that’s all. He was not worth my anger. And certainly not the risk of being hanged for murder. Why? You don’t think that I…”
“Perhaps. It was an embarrassment, wasn’t it? I hope that the man-at-arms who was with you does not feel it necessary to tell our friend the bailiff. That could mislead him unnecessarily.”
“The man-at-arms?” Ralph surveyed him warily.
“What can he tell?”
“Only what happened, of course. But maybe I should have a word with him and see to it that his memory is… modified. The last thing you and I need is to have any suspicions raised about either of us, after all.”
He bowed and made his way down the stairs just as the first gate was opened to welcome the visitors, and Ralph found his attention drawn to the four men entering the barbican. “Yes,” he murmured, “that’s the last thing I need – I am a stranger here. But what about you, my friend? What do you want?”
In the courtyard, the four men slowly swung from their saddles. Hugh, Simon’s servant, was the last to get down. He had always hated riding. Born and raised at the northeastern edge of Dartmoor, the second son of a farmer, he had never needed to mount a horse while a boy. Nor was there an opportunity. In the small hamlet where they had lived, they had been more or less self-sufficient, bartering with travelling merchants for any goods they could not produce themselves. It was hardly ever necessary to travel anywhere.
But since he had gone into service with Simon, Hugh had been forced to get used to regularly covering long distances. And that meant learning to ride. He hated it! Horses were far too large for a man to control, he felt, and every time he clambered up and squatted uncomfortably in the saddle he found his thoughts turning to the hardness of the ground so far below. In Simon’s service he must go up to Tiverton, east to Exeter, sometimes cross the moors to visit the stannary towns of Ashburton, Tavistock and Chagford, or make the long journey down to the coast. All were, for him, excursions of despair. During the journey, all he could think of was the pain and anguish of the trip, and even when he finally reached their destination, he could not enjoy the triumph of safe arrival: his thoughts were already bent on the agonies to come while returning home.
Today, though, he did not feel so bad. The weather had been good, so his fear of getting lost in a moorland fog was unfounded, and the warmth of the sun, and regular gulps from his wineskin, had made him almost mellow. Still, he had no wish for his master to think that he was becoming used to riding, so he maintained his glower of disgust as he released his feet from the stirrups and dropped heavily from the saddle, standing rubbing his backside with both hands.
While a lad, Hugh had been sent out with the sheep, protecting the flock from thieves on either two or four legs. Much of his suspicion of people came from those days, and now, as he turned and stared at the walls of the Manor, his face set hard. All around them men bustled, some coming to take the horses, others pulling their bags from the saddles. The pair standing and talking to his master and Sir Baldwin were, he learned, Sir William Beauscyr and his son Sir Robert. Beyond more men stood watching idly, common soldiers who could have been outlaws the week before, leaning against posts or lounging with thumbs hooked into sword-belts. To Hugh they looked like executioners gauging their prisoners, and he gave a quick shudder at the thought.
The aging knight and his son greeted Simon and Baldwin, then led the way to the hall, Hugh trailing along behind. Edgar, Baldwin’s man, kept as close to his master as a shadow.
“Sir William,” Simon said as they entered the hall, “as I understand it, Peter Bruther’s death was no accident.”
The man gave a wry smile. “No, bailiff. It was no accident.”
