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
