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.
“They do look unmatched,” he had said, and had been surprised by his guest’s chuckle.
“More than a little. Any moment now John will lose interest. Ah, there it is!”
John had faltered, a foot dragged and made him stumble, and immediately the guard was on him. But as soon as he moved forward, the squire feinted to the right, then swung his buckler, knocking the man to his knees. Before he could move, the heavy sword had chopped downward, and he had collapsed, rolling in the dirt of the yard in his pain and clutching at his neck while John sauntered over to the bar and thrust his sword into the ground, casually tugging his gauntlets free.
“So, Father. I fear your guard missed my little trick.” His eyes were partly lidded, and Sir William had not been sure what expression they held. “Still, he has learned not to trust a swordsman who trips.”
“Did you have to hit him so hard? There was no need…” Three men had rushed to the rolling figure, and helped him to his feet as Sir William watched, stunned. Even when propped upright, his head dangled loose as though his neck was broken.
“Of course there was,” John said imperturbably. “If he was not hurt, how could he learn? It is only by thrashing dogs – and servants, too! – that they get the point of their lesson. He’ll be all right. Just have a headache for a couple of days.” And then he had stared at Sir Ralph, who met his gaze evenly. “Anyway, the main thing is, I won. Winning is all that matters when you hold a weapon, isn’t it? Winning and surviving.”
“John, that’s not the way of a knight. It’s not only victory that matters, it’s the honor of the match,” his father had protested.
“Perhaps, Father. But sometimes the honor doesn’t matter,” John had said, and Sir William had been shocked into silence by his cynicism. Half-shrugging, John had walked away, leaving the two men standing and watching him go. As he was half-carried away to recover, the wounded man also watched John go, and cast a baleful glare at him.
But more than the distaste which he felt for his son’s words was his shock at hearing the knight beside him murmur, “Your man should be grateful. If his sword had been real and edged, John would still have struck him.”
Now, a day later, Sir William could still recall the strange sadness in the northern knight’s voice. It was as if Sir Ralph had, with those words, confessed to himself how poorly he had trained his squire. Though a warrior should be resolute and determined in battle, he should still be loyal, honorable and courteous – to those beneath his station as well as his superiors. John’s behavior showed no chivalrous qualities whatsoever. That, Sir William felt sure, was why Sir Ralph looked so unhappy, so distressed, as if for the first time he had understood the nature of the squire he had created.
A noise at the gate made him look up, drawn once more to the present. It was the bailiff and his friend, back from their visit to Thomas Smyth. Anxiety surged through him as he watched them enter and dismount, but there was nothing he could do. If Thomas had told them, he would soon know about it. Then he drew himself up sharply. Sir Ralph could have had another reason for his black mood the day before, he thought. There was no indication of when Peter Bruther had died: Sir Ralph might think John had played a part in the villein’s death.
Simon saw the figure of the old knight slowly making his way up the stairs and nodded toward him. “This has hit him hard. Sir William looks older than when we first came here.”
“Yes. He feels his responsibilities. It is strange how death can remind a man about his own weaknesses – or those of his family.” Baldwin’s face was pensive, his eyes fixed on the now closed door.
“Should we leave him alone for a while, do you think?”
“We must question him at some point. It might as well be now,” said Baldwin, setting off for the hall.
Inside, the old knight and his wife were resting in front of the fire. Simon could see how exhausted Sir William was when he raised his eyes to the four men. “Bailiff, Sir Baldwin – please come in and have some wine.”
“Thank you,” Simon said, reaching forward to take the proffered goblet, then settling on his bench. Baldwin sat beside him, while Edgar and Hugh took their seats unobtrusively some feet behind.
“Have you had a useful morning?” asked Matillida Beauscyr graciously, and Baldwin smiled at her as he sipped some wine.
“Very, thank you,” he said. “Yes, we have been to see Thomas Smyth, and the miners’ camp. And, tell me: we saw a man on the moors near your mining camp with cattle. Are there many who use the moors for pasture?”
Sir William nodded. “There are some. It’s not the same as it used to be before the famine – then we had five thousand head or more, but there’s less than half that number now… But there are still some farmers who use their rights of pasturage. The man you saw was probably Adam Coyt. He lives over west of here. I think he’s been on the moors all his life, which has been a hard one. His wife and son are both dead, and he’s kept his little farm going alone ever since.
Baldwin said, “It must be hard for a man like him. Working all alone, and with no one to leave it to.”
“It happens all too often, I fear,” Sir William sighed. “The moors are harsh on all those who choose to live here. To be a moorman you must be as hard as the moorstone itself.”
“But your Manor is not like that!” Simon protested. “It is successful, with good crops and growing herds.” As bailiff, he knew; he saw the records of production each year. Sir William shot him a glance as if expecting an immediate tax increase.
“We have been lucky so far, bailiff. Luckier than some,” he admitted heavily.
“You must be glad you have two strong sons to leave all this to,” Baldwin continued.
“Of course. It would be difficult if I had no heirs,” and Sir William shrugged.
Baldwin did not meet his look. “Thomas Smyth has no son, does he? Could you tell us anything about him?”
Sir William stared at the fire for a moment. “I should have thought,” he said dryly, “you could have found out all you needed to know from the man himself while you were with him. Anyhow, he is not a local man, as you probably guessed. I think he came from the north somewhere, and moved here back in ’86 or ’87. He was only a lad then, of course, but enthusiastic. Well, he began mining and was lucky. Many men go for ages without finding anything, but he was one of the fortunate ones. He happened on a piece of land which bore a good quantity of metal, and he was shrewd with it, getting other men to look after it for wages while he searched for more. Soon he was not satisfied with just finding tin. He had to aim for better, more efficient ways of refining it. Most men are pleased to find tin and smelt it once, but not he.”
“Smelt it once?” asked Baldwin. It was Simon who answered, resting his elbows on his knees.
“There is a first and a second smelting, Baldwin. When miners find ore, they break it into small chunks and melt out the tin over their fires. That’s called ‘first smelting.’ There are lots of impurities in it from the charcoal and other rubbish, so it has to be smelted again to produce ‘white tin,’ which is clean enough to be coined at the stannary towns.”
“I see. And Smyth was not satisfied with that?”
Sir William gave a sour grin. “Oh no, not old Thomas. He’s too sharp. He had to build his own blowing-house. The furnace is so clean he can smelt tin faster and recover even more, and it’s all white tin. There’s hardly any dirt mixed with it. He can produce as much as he wants, and smelt other men’s metal too, so he charges them to use
