How the spirit hated men, hated the way that the tinners dug deep into his body to bring up his riches, disturbing the gray rocks which were his bones. This might be the fourteenth century, but she could feel the weight of his disapproval, and though she was Christian, she knew better than to tempt him here in his own land.
At least her husband was back safe again. She hugged him, feeling the tears close once more, and even when she heard his short gasp of pain as she gripped him, squeezing his bruised chest, she could not let go. It was too good to be able to hold him after the loneliness of the day.
Henry caressed her fondly and kissed her head. The pain was receding, though one arm was still almost useless. He had only gone to his workings to make sure that no one else was stealing his ore, but nobody had been there all day, and he had spent much of his time merely sitting and wondering about their future here. The miners working for Smyth were becoming more violent, and he was not going to be able to protect himself and his wife from their attacks if they continued. Perhaps they should leave now, while they still could, before any fresh assault? But to do that would be to admit defeat.
As his wife’s grip tightened, he smiled through his pain. He could not bear to see her suffer, and if he was to run away with her, how could they earn a living? They had no profit yet from his workings, and they had lost all their belongings before they arrived. He gently stroked her back and led her inside the hut, where they sat and ate their bread in silence. There was no need to speak. Both knew the nature of their peril and the risks of taking to the road again. If nothing else, it was possible that one of their old enemies might discover them. At least here on the moors they were protected by the stannaries. Out in open country they could be challenged, and it was not so very far to their old home. Henry knew that they might be able to get to Cornwall, to the mining areas there, but who was to say it would be any better?
After eating, and drinking a little of the ale Sarah had brewed, he stood, stretching. Groaning with a mixture of pain and pleasure as tired and knotted muscles ground under the bruises, he smiled at her, then walked outside.
The moors glistened under a full moon, the rolling hills and plains colored silver-gray, as if illuminated by an inner light. They looked as if they were covered in a thin frost which lay as light as down over the stark landscape. Now, in the early evening, he felt aware of how ancient this land was, and how different from the pleasant woods and farmland around their old home in Bristol. He sat, his wife beside him, and they stared out together, lost in their thoughts and heedless of the world. They did not speak. There was no need, they simply sat and pondered, enjoying each other’s companionship and the coolness of the evening.
They were so engrossed they did not notice the riders making their way toward them until a hoof clattered on a stone, and then Sarah clutched her husband’s arm as Thomas Smyth bellowed and cantered toward them.
13
Supper that evening was a dismal affair, though John Beauscyr found it amusing. Simon, Baldwin and their men sat at the table on the dais with the family, and servants filled the hall beneath them, but there was a stilted quality to the atmosphere. Sir Ralph, John saw, was sullen, and moodily chewed his food scarcely aware of the others near him, as if he was already marked out as a coward or murderer. On the few occasions when he caught John’s glance, he looked away hurriedly, almost guiltily. Matillida was snappy, and short with the servants, at one point flinging a pot at a man’s head and screeching at him when he spilled wine on her dress, while Sir William ate quietly with a determined concentration, trying to avoid the gaze of his guests and family alike.
For his part, John was carefree and enjoying himself. His only cause for concern was Robert, his brother. He sat quietly but with a degree of nonchalance as he fastidiously pulled shreds of meat apart and ate them, which John found disturbing. If I were the bailiff, he thought, I’d want to know why he seems so free of all worries now. Out of the corner of his eye he kept a surreptitious watch on his older brother, looking for any signs which might explain his evident easiness, but as the meal finished and his father and mother made their way into their solar, the servants leaving for their rooms and the guards going to their duties or barracks, he was still no wiser.
Baldwin could see the boy’s interest in his brother, and wryly acknowledged his own fascination with Robert’s demeanor. The latter was apparently finding it hard to contain his amusement or joy. Something must have happened this afternoon, he thought. As the room emptied, Baldwin rose. Seeing Robert making for the door, he strolled after him, only dimly aware of Edgar, who immediately stood and followed. After so many years, Edgar’s presence was only remarkable when it was absent.
Seeing his prey in the stables patting a horse, Baldwin motioned to Edgar to wait, then walked over to join him.
“So, Sir Baldwin. Are you following me?” Robert Beauscyr raised an eyebrow as if to suggest sardonic amusement.
“No. But I thought I might as well come outside and enjoy the evening air when I saw you leave.”
There was good reason for his words. The sun was slowly dropping, and the sky had taken on a pink and mauve tint, making the fort and surrounding hills look like a varnished picture, smooth and gleaming. It reminded Baldwin of the fine silks he had seen traded in Cyprus. He felt as if he could reach out and touch the warm, vibrant colors. The sun had washed Robert in glowing hues. His face looked almost golden, transforming his normally dull features.
But it was not only the color. There was an urgency to the youth’s movements as he strolled round his horse. He was different now, more alive. Even when he spoke there was a new vitality to his voice. “More questions? Or are you just a bored guest seeking entertainment?”
Baldwin’s smile faded. He had known others who had been listless and vapid, only to become energized after violence. After the death of Peter Bruther, he wondered whether Robert’s new-found excitement had the same cause – whether Robert could have been the killer. “You had a pleasant afternoon?” he asked, and was rewarded by a quick glance.
“Yes, thank you, Sir Baldwin,” he said mockingly. “I had a very pleasant ride, uninterrupted either by my brother’s needling or your questioning. I trust you had an enjoyable time too?”
Ignoring the jibe, Baldwin stepped forward and stroked the horse’s rump. “I am sure you would have found it very boring. We asked questions of a lot of people, that is all. It is interesting, though, is it not, to speak to people you would not usually meet?”
“You’ve questioned the three we caught?” Robert peered at the knight with sudden concentration.
“Yes. Harold Magge and the others.” Baldwin was a little surprised to see that the young man had become reflective. “Who beat them?”
“Beat them? What do you mean?”
“Just that. They have been beaten severely. Did you and your brother torture them?”
Sir Robert stared in astonishment. “Why on earth would I have done that? We thought they were there so we hunted for them, but we had no time to harm them – as soon as we found them we were attacked by the others.”
Baldwin raised a doubtful eyebrow, and the young knight sighed and turned away. He looked sad now, deflated, and Baldwin was sorry to see how his happiness had fled. In a more conciliatory tone, he said, “The three were very helpful.”
“What did they have to say?” As he spoke he moved further round the horse, so that now his face was hidden in the gloom of the stable and Baldwin could not see his features.