group, I suppose, Baldwin. Farmers, like Coyt himself, have been affected as well. Their moors are being dug, the water in their streams diverted, their pastures ruined.”
“Is that reason enough to kill?”
They had arrived at the clapper bridge again, and Simon let his horse pause to drink. “I don’t know. It depends on what people thought of Bruther, doesn’t it? What sort of person was he? From Sir Ralph’s story he would appear to have been a bold enough fellow, at least when he had other people with him he was. And he was rude to Robert, too, just before we first came here.”
“Yes. Most say he was a rash young man, always making enemies,” Baldwin admitted. “Though Smyth spoke well enough of him.”
“It’s not like olden times when villeins were always subservient. This man seems to have taken willfulness to an extreme. I mean, how many runaways would dare to insult two men like Sir Robert, his master until recently, and Sir Ralph, a man who is well-versed in battle and clearly prepared to defend his name?”
“He did not, though, did he?”
“No, but only because there were a number of miners there and it would have been foolish.”
“The same goes for when Sir Robert was insulted by Bruther. The fellow must have had a death-wish to have been so forthright.”
Simon stared at his friend. “Baldwin, how often have you seen people behave that way?”
“A villein, you mean? Never.”
“What about other men?”
Shrugging, Baldwin drew his mouth into a glum crescent. “For someone to be rude to a knight is mad, and…”
“You miss my point. The only time I’ve seen people intentionally demean a knight or a man-at-arms is when they knew themselves to be the more powerful!”
“Well, yes, but you are surely not suggesting that a mere serf could feel himself more powerful than, say, Sir Robert? One only has to look at them to see how different they are. One is poor and lives in a rude hovel, while the other is wealthy, the heir to a great hall and money, with a rich estate, and born into the King’s highest esteem. How on earth could a miserable peasant like Bruther think he was the equal of such a man – let alone superior.”
“But he did, didn’t he?” His horse was watered, and Simon kicked its flanks to cross the stream. “He did think he was at least equal, to have dared to speak so forwardly. He knew how he was considered by the Manor: as a runaway. And yet he faced them and bested them.”
“Only because of the men with him,” Baldwin protested.
“And why did he feel safe with them?”
“Well, because they were miners like himself, I would imagine. You yourself told me that the miners have their own laws and rules down here. No doubt he knew that with others of his kind he would be safe enough.”
“No, Baldwin. We know that Thomas Smyth is a harsh master, and he’s enforcing his will on the miners round here, that’s why Smalhobbe was beaten, wasn’t it?”
“Well, yes, but perhaps Bruther banded together with other small miners in the area for protection from Smyth?”
“If there was such a group, they failed pretty miserably, didn’t they? If you were going to organize men, and then insulted your enemies, would you leave the others and go home alone in the evenings? I doubt it! After making your mark with an enemy you’d all want to stick together for defense.”
“Yes, I suppose you are right,” said Baldwin musingly.
“So, if Bruther had so many men with him, why was he apparently alone and defenseless on the night he died? Where had the others gone, and why? Why had they left him there?”
“Perhaps they had a disagreement with him? Maybe they wanted to do something which he disapproved of, and…”
“No, no, no – do you remember how Sir Ralph described his meeting with Bruther? It was like the younger man was in charge, wasn’t it? He was the only one who spoke – none of the others did. And it was the same when he insulted Sir Robert. Bruther spoke, the others simply observed and fingered their weapons. No, I think he was in charge, but why was he left all alone? If a leader disagrees with his company, some may leave, but others will stay, even if it’s only a few.”
“Perhaps they did. There might have been others with him when Bruther was killed, but they escaped before they too could be hurt.”
“I don’t think so. Look at it like this: we are working on the assumption that there were three people on the moors nearby that night. If Bruther had even one other man there with him it would have been hard for three to take him on without one of them getting hurt or killed.”
“Well, then. Maybe they did. Maybe they killed the other and threw his body into a bog. And even if they didn’t, if it was one of the knights, they might have been happy to have simply got the man they hated and not cared about the others. You are building bricks without straw, old friend. All of this is guesswork, nothing more.”
Simon shook his head. “I don’t think so. Let’s visit Smalhobbe. Maybe he can shed some light.”
Following the trail, they were retracing the steps of Adam Coyt on the night of the murder, and Baldwin found himself glancing around with interest. The road ran reasonably straight, keeping to the lower ground. Stunted shrubs lined the roads, with occasional clumps of heather. After a short way, a small copse appeared, with hills rising on either side. When he asked, Simon told him that this area was called Believer. The main east-west road was only another mile away, and they should be able to quickly cover the ground beyond to where the outlying miners lived.
The Smalhobbes’ property looked more cheerful now. Smoke drifted idly from the roof, and the gray stone building set in the broad plain appealed to Baldwin. It was the picture of tranquillity, curiously at odds with the recent savage events.
Before the door was Sarah Smalhobbe, seated on a stool and plucking the feathers from a hen while others pecked madly and scratched at the ground. She gave them a slow smile of welcome and called for her husband. After a minute he joined them.
“Bailiff, Sir Baldwin,” he said, ducking his head to them respectfully.
“Henry, we’d like to speak with you for a little,” Simon said, climbing from his horse and passing the reins to Hugh. Smalhobbe looked very tired, he could see, but well enough apart from that. At least he could walk again. The miner was clad in a heavy leather jacket over a thin woollen shirt and short hose. A long knife was at his thick belt. His left arm was wrapped in cloth from the wrist to the elbow, and there was a bruise on one cheek and a cut over a blackened eye.
Smalhobbe sat on his wife’s stool and sighed. “It still hurts to move more than a few yards, sirs. My back is one mass of lumps and bumps where the whoresons laid into me.”
“They won’t be back,” said Simon shortly. “The men have been found, and they are being held at the miners’ camp.”
“What, by more of Thomas Smyth’s miners?” His face registered dismay. “But they were his men! You can’t trust him to keep them guarded, he’ll want them to get out and carry on.” He stared at them both, then at his wife, who stood a short way off, listening with an air of dejected concern.
“They will not, I think,” said Baldwin reassuringly. “They will have other things to occupy them. Thomas Smyth will not come out here again for quite some time, if he ever does.”
The miner did not look convinced. His eyes flitted over the horizon as if expecting to see bands of marauders approaching at any moment.
Simon tried to gain his attention. “Henry, we are finding it difficult to discover who could have killed Bruther. Who do you think might have done it? Do you think it was the same men who attacked you?”
“Harold Magge and the others, you mean?” The miner stared at him. “No, I doubt it. Beating someone up – they could do that… but killing Peter? I don’t think so.”
“You had seen no one else that night, until you were set upon?”
“No, nobody. I was at my works all day and it was quiet.”
“You never went near Wistman’s?”
“No.”
