Baldwin interrupted. “You were late home. Why?”
“I was smelting,” he said simply. “It sometimes takes time.”
Simon nodded. “Do you know who Bruther’s friends were?”
“Friends?”
Squatting before him, Baldwin held his gaze. “We know he had several men with him in the days before his death. Sir Robert Beauscyr saw them with him, so did Sir Ralph of Warton – some seven or eight men who looked as if they were miners too. Do you have any idea who they were?”
The miner looked hopelessly at his wife. “No, I don’t know.”
Baldwin saw her quick glance, the pleading expression in her husband’s eyes, and knew the man was lying. “Very well,” he said quietly. “Perhaps you can tell us this, then. What sort of a man was Peter Bruther?”
“He was a miner,” Smalhobbe said off-handedly. “He had not been here for long, and he was learning how to get tin, the same as me.”
“Yes, but what was he like? If we know what sort of man he was, we may be able to guess why someone should want to murder him.”
“He was quick, and self-assured, I suppose. It was hard for him to make friends and trust people, but he seemed happy enough.”
“Was he by nature aggressive?”
“Not that I saw. I mean, he was capable of a fight when he had been drinking, but that’s all.”
“Did he often go drinking?”
“Once or twice a week. He used to go to the Fighting Cock over toward Chagford.”
Simon frowned. “How could he afford that? Paying for ale in an inn should have been impossible for a man like him, a runaway villein now working as a miner. Where did his money come from?”
Shrugging, Smalhobbe did not answer. It was confusing to the knight watching and listening. The miner clearly knew something he was not prepared to talk about. He had been attacked by miners, his neighbor had been murdered… and yet all he could do now was shrug sulkily. Sarah Smalhobbe’s big brown eyes were still glued on her husband. She too was anxious, Baldwin could see, but he had no idea why.
Meanwhile the bailiff had moved on. “So, you say he went to the inn a couple of times a week. Who did he mix with?”
“I never went with him, so I cannot say.”
“I see. But you heard of him getting into fights?”
“Yes. He once fought a merchant who he thought had insulted him, and then there was a moorman who he said was simple in the head.”
“Was it Adam Coyt?”
“I don’t know.”
His attitude was beginning to annoy Baldwin, who leaned forward now and said harshly, “There seems to be a lot you don’t know today, Smalhobbe. Your nearest neighbor was a closed book to you. You have no idea who his friends were, you cannot recall anything about his money, rights, enemies or anything. Do you want to protect his murderer?”
Henry Smalhobbe stared at him, and now Baldwin saw his mistake. The man was not scared; the defiance in his eyes contained slyness, which spoke of self-interest. Then something occurred to the knight. He studied the chickens, and the miner began to look nervous.
“So, Henry. Who have you been to see this week? Or when did he come to see you?”
To Simon’s amazement, the little man’s face fell, and he stammered: “Who, sir? I don’t know who you mean, I…”
Baldwin rose, standing menacingly over the miner with his hands on his hips. For a moment Sarah thought the knight was going to hit him. “Enough of this lying, Henry Smalhobbe!” he thundered. “You have been paid to keep your silence, haven’t you? When we first came to see you, you had no chickens. Where have these appeared from? Someone wishing you well, I have no doubt, for it is a goodly-sized little flock. Tell us who it was.”
“No, sir, honestly, they were…”
“Henry, we have to tell them the truth!” His wife dropped to her knees before him, her hands going to her husband’s like an oath-giver, and like a man taking the homage due to him, her husband put his hands around hers as he stared into her face. “Henry, tell them! They are trying to help people like us, who live out here on the moors,” she begged. “Please, tell them!”
Smalhobbe’s eyes rose to meet the bailiff’s, and he sighed. “Very well. I’ll tell what I know.”
“Thank you,” said Simon with relief. “The men with him. Who were they?”
“Miners from the camp. They work for Thomas Smyth. They used to stay out on the plain beyond Bruther’s cottage, and help him work his plot.”
Baldwin scowled. “You are telling me that Thomas Smyth would let his men go and help a man out on the moors?”
“I don’t know why, sir. All I can say is what I know. Those men were his, and yet they helped Bruther.”
“Are you sure that they weren’t miners from farther north?” Simon asked. “Couldn’t Bruther have associated with other small tinners for all of their defense?”
“No. You see, I knew some of the men from when we first came down here to the moors. We met them during our journey to Dartmoor, and they reappeared with Bruther.”
“What were they doing there?” said Simon, puzzled.
“Protecting him. It was known that he was a runaway – oh, there are probably plenty of villeins here in the moors, it’s the best place in the world to hide – but Bruther came from a Manor close by, so he could have been caught and taken back at any time. He needed men to look after him.”
“Why on earth should Thomas Smyth protect him?” Simon demanded. “He wanted people like you and Bruther off the moors, I thought.”
“He wanted me off,” admitted Smalhobbe. “But Bruther? I don’t know. His works were some way out, deep into the moors, away from the roads and so on. Maybe Smyth didn’t care about the land up there. I know the only reason he wanted my plot was because he thought it should be his, and it was that bit closer to his camp. Maybe Bruther’s place was just too far away for it to be worth scaring a man off.”
“But still, why would he send men to protect the man?”
“Smyth would want any miner to be safe from the attacks of a foreigner,” explained Smalhobbe. “Anyone who came here to take Bruther would be stating to the world that the miners were just ordinary people, without special rights. Smyth is a strong, bold man. He would not want to have others think him weak, or any other miner on the moors, either. How many of his own men are trying to lose their pasts by coming here? How many were draw- latches, robbersmen or outlaws? How many of his miners would Smyth lose if anyone could come to the moors and take their runaways back with them? He would not want that, it could disrupt all his workings. I think he felt he had to look after Bruther, to protect the other men in his camp.”
Simon took a few minutes to consider this. He saw the knight nod slowly in agreement: it made sense. Many barons would behave in the same way, putting men in to protect a neighboring small fort, not for profit, but just to deter a possible aggressor. “Very well,” he said eventually, “but why were these men not with him on the night he died?”
“That I do not know, sir.”
“Do you have any idea why he should have been at Wistman’s Wood?”
Shaking his head, the miner said, “No.”
Baldwin asked, “You said he used to go to the inn. Could he have been on his way there?”
Turning to him, Smalhobbe shook his head again. “No, if he had been going there, he would have gone straight east. He knew that way well enough. Wistman’s is south and west from his place; there’d be no reason for him to go down there.”
“And when he was drunk he often fought with others?”
Nodding glumly, Smalhobbe sighed. “Yes. Often. He never knew when to stop. I suppose at Beauscyr he never had an opportunity to drink too much, but here he started going to the Fighting Cock regularly, and would have fought every time if it wasn’t for the men he had with him. Others swallowed his insults and boasting while his guards were protecting him.”
“And Smyth allowed this? Surely he would not want to have the locals upset by one loudmouth whose only
