Free A Moorland Hanging by Michael Jecks Page A

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