“Easily, old friend. That was a political promise,” said Baldwin cynically. “Since then he has been crowned King. After all, our own blessed monarch Edward is a vassal of France for Gascony, and yet he has not given homage to King Philip, has he?”
“Ah, but that’s different. King Edward’s an honorable man, and he’s gone to France to pay homage over the last few years – but how often should he be expected to go? Each time he returns, the French King dies, and he must turn around and go back to swear to the successor. No, it’s different with the madman of Scotland. He refuses to come and pay homage to his English King.”
“I am not so sure it is quite that straightforward, Simon. Still, we can but hope for peace. The last thing the country needs is more war.”
“Were the cardinals successful?”
“No. Not quite,” Baldwin said slowly, and then he chortled quietly. When he continued, it was in the unhurried manner which showed he was choosing every word with care. “In fact, they were somewhat incommoded on their way. They landed on our shores in July of last year, but did not, it would appear, arrive in Scotland until much later. Seemingly they were met by a group of brigands between York and Durham, and were robbed.”
“What happened to them?”
“Oh, they were unharmed. Their pride was more hurt than their persons! Of course, their horses and money were stolen, but they were not hampered apart from that. The additional exercise will probably have done the honorable cardinals some good.”
“I suppose that’ll put paid to any hint of peace. If those damned Scotch rebels dare to attack and rob the Pope’s cardinals on the way to meet their lord…”
“Ah, Simon!” The knight roared with laughter, making his friend stare at him uncomprehendingly.
“You mustn’t jump to conclusions! It wasn’t the Scots who attacked the cardinals, it was a band led by an Englishman.”
“No Englishman would dare!”
“Sir Gilbert Middleton did. He had resorted to outlawry. I hear he thought that if the King was unable to protect people up on the northern marches, he might as well take advantage of the fact. He was caught at the end of last year, and I expect his head is on a lance in London even now, for the embarrassment he has given the King.”
“How do you find out these things?” Simon muttered, torn between resentment at the laughter and an urge to join in.
“Simple,” the older man told him. “I speak to travellers. Most people are happy to tell their news to an interested man. And I still sometimes have… friends come and visit me.”
His words made them both quiet for a minute. It was more than ten years since the arrest in 1307 of the “Poor Fellow – Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon,” the Knights Templar, and here in England they were all but forgotten, their lands divided and sold off or in the hands of their rivals, the Knights Hospitaller. But neither Baldwin nor Simon could forget the Order, for Baldwin had been a member of the outlawed and disgraced group.
There was a view, commonly held in England and Scotland, that the Knights Templar were innocent of the crimes attributed to them, and were merely the victims of an elaborate plot hatched by the French King to seize their wealth. After the Order had been destroyed, many men who had been members were used by the English King as diplomats, and other warrior monks were welcomed in Scotland, where King Robert I wanted as many trained soldiers as he could find. There were reports that the “Beauseant,” the black and white banner of the Templars, had been seen at Bannockburn where the English forces were routed so disastrously. Thus there were a great number of men all over the country who had been comrades of Sir Baldwin of Furnshill in the past, before he had become Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton, and he often entertained guests at his small Manor. Though Simon knew this, he preferred not to enquire too deeply.
“So,” Simon mused after a time, “the Pope wants to see peace as well, does he? That could be helpful. Maybe he can persuade the Bruce to stop his raiding.”
“Do not place too much store on his ability to bring an end to the wars, my friend.” Baldwin smiled wryly. “The Pope has already excommunicated the Bruce, after all. And if you had been crowned King of the Scots, I doubt you would be pleased to receive a letter from the Pope addressed to ‘You, who call yourself King of Scotland!’ If Pope John wants peace, he will need to try harder than that!”
They were still chuckling at this as they rode down a shallow slope from which the sweep of the moors could be seen. For Baldwin, unused to the area, it was an awesome sight. Bright grass gleamed in the sun, some thin and cropped by cattle, some long and spindly like reeds, both sliced apart in places by silvery trails of glistening water trickling to blue pools. Their path was a dark slash meandering between softly molded hillocks surmounted with moorstones, a landscape which would have been bleak in winter, Baldwin felt, but which now seemed full of promise with the high singing of larks in the dear sky and the constant tinkling music of the water.
For several miles the knight and his friend saw no other person. The route was well – trodden, the grass flattened and in places worn away, but there was no sign of habitation. The ground became, if possible, even more profusely covered with the gray boulders. Their path took them into a low valley, and soon they were trailing around the fringes of a little wood on the steep hillside, where the trees grew among the litter of stones and boulders.
“God above! Simon, what’s happened here?”
The trees were unlike any the knight had seen before; it was as if each of the plants had been shrivelled. All were stunted, misshapen caricatures of the great boughs he knew from his own lands. None was more than twenty feet tall, and most were much shorter.
“I’m glad it’s a surprise to you,” Simon smirked. “You’re always so pleased to amaze me with your tales of foreign countries, it’s pleasant to repay the debt, if only in part.”
“But what has happened to these trees? Why are they so… deformed is the only word I can think of. These are oaks, aren’t they?”
“I think so, yes,” said Simon, his voice thoughtful as he glanced at the trees near the track. “But they only grow so high out here, in Wistman’s Wood.”
“What about other parts of the moors?”
“I’ve heard there are some other places where the trees are similar, but I haven’t been to them yet. All the other trees I’ve seen are normal.”
“They are certainly very curious. All the branches point in the same direction – had you noticed that?”
“It’s as if they’re pointing to something, isn’t it? There are rumors I’ve heard…”
“Yes?”
“Well, you remember the stories, don’t you? About the Devil and his pack of wish-hounds baying after lost souls? This is where those stories come from, Baldwin, out here on the moors. They say that the wish-hounds are heard here when the winds blow hard.”
Baldwin gave him a sour stare. “I suppose you think the hounds come here to piss on the trees? Diabolical hounds peeing on the branches kill them off, and that makes the oaks die on one side? Really, Simon, I…”
“No, of course not,” said Simon, hastily holding up a hand to stem the knight’s ironic flow. “But I know I wouldn’t want to stay here after dark.”
“No, I can see why,” said Baldwin reflectively, gazing at the trees. The atmosphere was oppressive, he thought, and it was easy to understand how people could imagine the worst of such a place, especially if the wind howled among the boughs as night fell. Baldwin did not believe in old wives’ tales himself, but it was natural for anyone to be affected by the menacing power of a place like this.
“The people here think there’s some kind of strangeness about it,” Simon continued. “Maybe that’s where the name comes from. Round here, ‘wisht’ means uncanny, or weird. Certainly these trees look it.”
“Yes, they do. But I think these trees grow this way for some mundane reason. Wish-hounds!” His voice betrayed his amusement, and the bailiff shot him
a suspicious glance.
Another mile southward, after they had breasted another hill, Baldwin at last understood why Simon had brought him this way. He reined in his horse and stared.
“This is what I wanted you to see, Baldwin. Welcome to the tin mines of Dartmoor!” Simon announced as they came to a halt.
Baldwin found himself staring at a wide encampment on a plain surrounded by low hills, the whole unmarked by wall or fence. Dotted here and there stood small, gray turf and stone cottages. One, larger than the others and set in their midst, gave off a thick plume of smoke which straggled in the slight breeze. The broad area was pitted and scarred with holes and trenches. Through the middle trailed a narrow but fast-flowing stream, from which sprang several man-made rivulets, and there was a large dam over to their right. Other leats were fed by this, tailing off into the distance, and Baldwin guessed that they led to other workings.
“With all these houses there must be many men here,” said Baldwin, eyeing the area speculatively.
“An army. Over a hundred in this camp alone,” Simon agreed, and kicked his horse on.
They had only travelled a short way when they saw a pair of men at the outskirts of the vill, and Simon smiled with sardonic amusement at their reaction-it was all too typical of the attitude of miners out here that they should be suspicious of strangers. One pointed in their direction before running off, while the other man grasped what looked like a pick and faced them resolutely. By the time the bailiff and his friend had come closer there was a group waiting for them, looking like trained soldiers to Baldwin’s military eye. The man who had run for help had returned, joined by a thickset character who looked as if he was in charge.
Simon rode up to him, smiling in a friendly manner until the tinner snapped: “Who’re you? What d’you want here?”
The bailiff sighed. It was infuriating that these miners should feel free to be so arrogantly discourteous-even more that they had the right and strength to behave so. He heard Baldwin’s intake of breath and could almost feel the waves of disapproval from the knight.
“Good day,” he replied pleasantly. “We’re on our way to visit a friend, to the east. My companion here hasn’t seen how tin is farmed, and…”
“He won’t find out today, either,” said the man firmly, and Baldwin moved his horse a little closer to Simon. The miner was short and sandy-haired, with skin tanned by the sun and wind to the color of old saddle leather. Though he looked quite old, Baldwin could not be sure whether that was a sign of the harshness of life on the moors or an indication of his age. If fitness was anything to go by, the man was not ancient. His belly was taut, the breadth of his shoulders was almost the same as his height, and the knight quickly came to the opinion that he would not want to fight such a man without a superiority in weapons. As it was, the man merely carried a long dagger at his waist, but Baldwin could see that he was wary in the way his hands rested close to its haft, his thumbs hooked into his thick leather belt.
“At least tell us how far it is to Sir William Beauscyr’s Manor,” Baldwin said sharply, and was pleased to see a quick flicker of doubt in the miner’s brown eyes.
“You’re friends of Sir William?”
“Not quite,” Baldwin said, then glanced at Simon.
“But the bailiff of Lydford and I are on our way to see him.”
“The bailiff?” His gaze moved suspiciously back to Simon.
“Yes, I’m the bailiff,” said Simon, exasperation beginning to take him over. “And yes, I’m on my way to see Sir William. Now answer my friend’s question and tell us how much farther it is to the Manor.”
Directions were grudgingly given while the other men watched, hands fiddling with mattocks and spades, and Baldwin was glad when they could finally set off once more and leave the tense little knot of miners behind. Once they had passed by the village and were making their way up the slope at the far side of the camp, he glanced back and was disturbed to see the sandy-haired man standing motionless in the same place, his eyes still fixed on them.
At a time when so many lords were finding difficulty in financing their country estates, Beauscyr Manor came as a surprise to Baldwin. The family was known to him, of course – they had rendered so many years of loyal service to the kings of England that it would have been hard not to be aware of them… yet he had not expected quite such a grand Manor. But then, as he reminded himself, Sir William Beauscyr had fought in Scotland and Wales, and spent time with the old King Edward in France. He must often have been in a position to profit, and after the manner of wealthy men who have made their own way in life, Sir William evidently enjoyed flaunting his riches.
The imposing fort lay some miles beyond the miners’ camp, out at the eastern edge of the moors toward Widecombe, on a small hillock formed in a loop of the East Dart such that the river swept around the rear of the buildings to form a narrow moat. Nearby were cottages for the servants of the household and a few of the villeins who labored in the fields, but these were dwarfed by the Manor itself. As they rode down a slight hill some way off, Baldwin could see the layout. Rectangular and built of local stone, the Manor held inside its walls all the essential buildings. One imposing section at the front, facing west, contained the main gate, behind which was a walled passage, barred with a second door to secure the compound behind. The hall was at the opposite side of the cobbled courtyard, standing high over its undercrofts, a massive structure with a solar block attached at one end where the family could retreat from their retainers. North stood the kitchen area, with what looked like rooms for the garrison, while the stables were at the south. Any attacker attempting to storm the place would have to run the gauntlet of missiles rained on them from the top of all the buildings. Even if both gates were breached, allowing access to the courtyard, the hall itself would withstand a sustained assault.
At the first gate the two men had to wait for a few minutes, but were soon admitted and gladly dropped from their saddles. The Manor was only some twelve miles from Lydford, but after all the hills on the way and the streams they had needed to ford, it felt much farther. Simon stood rubbing the small of his back, and Baldwin gave a pained grimace.
“I think I must be out of condition for journeys like that,” Baldwin admitted. “Ah, is that our host?”
At the top of the staircase to the hall a man had appeared. Seeing the two visitors, he made his way down the steps and marched over to them. Simon could see he was not the man who had sent the peremptory message demanding help in recovering his villein. Sir William was well into his fifties, while this man was only some twenty years old.
“My father asked me to greet you,” he announced. “I’m his son, Sir Robert Beauscyr. You’re the bailiff? Come with me, and…”
“No,” Baldwin interrupted quickly as the man motioned. “This is the bailiff. I am merely a friend.”
Robert Beauscyr flushed angrily as he looked at Simon, as if the bailiff had deliberately misled him. Simon’s heart fell at his haughty and dismissive glance, and the thin, tightly-pursed lips. They showed how unlikely it was that there would be any calm and logical discussion. He sighed as, with a curt wave of his hand, Sir Robert Beauscyr motioned the two men to follow him and led the way to the hall. Here, Simon knew, he would be asked to explain himself, and it was bound to be an unpleasant experience.
3
At the top of the steps, they found themselves in the narrow screens passage. On the left was an open door, leading into a buttery filled with casks and boxes, where a man was filling a jug with ale – a welcome sight after their ride. Baldwin followed the others into the hall. Here a fire smoldered in a hearth in the middle of the floor, and benches and tables stood haphazardly on the dry rushes. Tapestries darkened by age and woodsmoke covered the walls, illuminated by shafts of light from the high windows. Before him was a dais on which, round a large table, sat three men and a woman. Simon was almost at the dais, Robert Beauscyr introducing him, and as the people were named for him, Baldwin studied
them with interest.
“My father, Sir William Beauscyr.” A large man, and ungainly, was the knight’s first impression. The body was misproportioned for his short legs, and the arms swung, long and heavily-muscled as an ape’s, under the short-sleeved blue tunic. A large star-like scar marked both cheeks, as if from a lance-thrust. His brows were heavy and intimidating, while his thick mouth was a vivid pink, fleshy and sensuous in the pale-colored face. Although he had once been a fighter, it must have been many years ago. Sir William was no longer a man to instil fear, Baldwin decided, noting the heavy paunch spilling over the leather belt.
“My mother, Lady Matillida.”
Watching the elegant woman nod regally, Baldwin was impressed. She looked little older than her son, but must have been in her late thirties to have had a lad of his age. Tall, certainly not less than five feet six, and dark-eyed, she was slim and graceful, with movements as quick and assured as an eagle. She gave Baldwin the definite feeling that she had the bulk of the intelligence in her marriage.
“My brother, John.” This youth was clearly training to be a soldier. Well-formed, with lighter hair than the others in his family, he had surprisingly clear blue eyes for such a dark colored skin, which flitted over Simon and then passed on to Baldwin with an intensity the knight found curiously unsettling. Then there was one more.
“My brother’s master, Sir Ralph of Warton.” Slim and elegant in his flowing green tunic, he struck Baldwin as being a well-travelled man. It showed in his calm eyes, dark, hooded eyes under thin eyebrows. He had no visible scars, but Baldwin knew all too well that many men of war carried their battle honors under their clothes, at the points where their armor was weakest. As he studied the knight, Simon introduced them, and as his name and title were given, Baldwin was suddenly aware of his interest being reciprocated. Sir Ralph of Warton was plainly disconcerted by his presence, as if for some reason he had cause to fear Baldwin – or his position.
A Moorland Hanging aktm-3 Page 3
