“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 his fires, and that makes him even more powerful here.”

Simon stated the obvious inference. “You do not like him Sir William.”

“I do not. It is wrong for a man like him to be able to live like a lord. He is only a commoner – I don’t even know if he’s a free man. He could well be another runaway peasant like Bruther, someone who managed to escape to the moors. Just because he has accumulated money does not make him any better.”

“He told us you were with him on the night that Peter Bruther died. What were you doing there if you dislike him so much?”

Sir William stared at him, anger flaring briefly, only to be washed away by a kind of tired acceptance. “For a guest you are very inquisitive, bailiff,” he sighed. “No matter. I was negotiating: I was there to agree terms with him so that he would not damage my lands.”

“So you went to pay him not to come here?”

“Yes. If I didn’t, he promised a small army of miners, taking my water, digging on my pastures, and cutting down my trees for charcoal. They have the right, after all. We settled on a sum.”

“I see. The men who found the body, they were riding with you, were they not?”

“Yes. But I sent them off before I went in to speak to Smyth.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to talk to him without two inquisitive men-at-arms listening.”

“Were you alone with Smyth for the discussion?”

“Apart from his man, George Harang.”

“You had no men with you?” Simon’s voice was openly amazed.

Sir William looked up, frowning. “And who should I have had with me, bailiff? A son like Robert, who loathed the fact that I must negotiate with a blackmailer? Or perhaps John and his master, who travelled with me, but… Ha! Each would prefer to slice his own throat than deal with a commoner. They left me when we arrived at the miner’s house. I sent the men-at-arms back so they would not hear what I was there to discuss with Smyth. How could I let one of my guards hear that kind of talk? It would take no time at all for news to travel all round this fort that I, the master of the Manor, was being threatened by a common tinner and forced to pay up. How could the men here respect me if they heard that?”