“No, I didn’t,” said Baldwin, and his brows pulled together into a frown. “But you’re right – they did. Why should that be?”

Tossing his reins to the ostler, George Harang jumped from his horse and ran to the hall. Inside he found Thomas Smyth sitting at his chair before the fire, gripping a tankard. He looked up as his servant entered, red-faced and dirty after his ride through the light rain, his face showing his concern.

“Sir? I got your message and came as soon as I could, but what is it? The boy said that the bailiff and his friend were here, that they were asking questions – is something wrong?”

Thomas Smyth gave a weary smile. “No, old friend. Not the way you think, anyway. But I know at last who killed Peter. On the night Sir William came here to see us, he rode over here with his son, that bastard John. John left him when they reached the hall and rode on to the inn. And at the inn was Peter, the poor lad. He set off home, according to Molly, a little before John arrived.”

George frowned. “So they must have crossed on the road.”

“Yes. And afterward Peter disappeared. So who could have killed him? That runt; that bastard – John Beauscyr!”

“What do you want to…”

“Don’t be stupid!” Smyth spat the words jeeringly.

“I want his head, here, now, on my lap! That pathetic little worm killed my Peter, and probably thinks he can get away with it. The bailiff’s incompetent – or is being paid to be so by Sir William. I don’t know and I don’t care which it is; all I do know is, John murdered Peter, and he must be made to pay.”

“So you want me to tell the bailiff, then?”

“Didn’t you hear me? The bailiff is no use! We have to get him and bring him to justice. Peter was a miner, a tinner, and he came under the stannary laws. We, as miners, can obtain justice. We can’t rely on officials, they have their hands in the Beauscyrs’ purses, and have no need to see to our compensation. What does this bailiff care for our hardships? He’s no use to us, we have to catch this Beauscyr on our own. I want a force of men, all armed, to take John Beauscyr prisoner tomorrow. He’s a murderer – and he shall pay.”

George rushed from the room, his brain churning. He hadn’t had time to tell his master about his conversation with Molly at the inn, and he hesitated a moment, undecided whether to return to the hall and tell Thomas. But then he shook his head. His master had new proofs. Anything George had heard from the girl was unimportant now. He ran out to his horse.

Alone once more, Thomas Smyth turned back to his solitary vigil by the fire. Strange, he thought abstractedly, that the flames did not warm him anymore. Since Peter’s killing he had felt no rest or peace of soul, and the tiredness of inaction had eaten into his bones. Shuddering, he grinned wryly to himself. This, then, was old age, this exhaustion which sapped the will and eroded the hunger for money and power. It was not like before, when each day had been a new opportunity, a new chance to expand his mining area and enhance his wealth. Now nothing seemed to hold any interest for him.

His wife Christine opened the solar door. She saw his strained, taut features and hurried over to him, feeling as if her heart would burst. When she put her arms round him and held him, she felt the same as she had when she had rocked her children, offering protection and security; performing this little service to her man made the breath stick in her throat like the stone from a plum, and tears of sympathy sprang into her eyes. Of her children, six all told, only the one had lived. All the others had succumbed to the cold and the illnesses which assailed the young of wealthy and poor alike.

Thomas finally pulled away and looked into her tear-stained face with a sort of wonder, slowly reaching up with a hand to touch the heavy drops at either cheek; then he sighed and pulled her down on his lap in a snug embrace. While she sobbed in her own turn, gulping and moaning, he rocked her, and felt himself gain strength from her weakness. The abstraction and despair left him, and he was filled instead with a rigid determination. Come what may, he would avenge Peter Bruther.

Christine Smyth slowly felt her abject misery subsiding and the grip of her man increase as his strength returned. When she eased herself away from his embrace, in his now black eyes she saw firm purpose, and she sighed as she wiped the tears away with a hand, feeling her inadequacy anew. Taking a deep breath, she managed to say, “So you will go with the men to find his killer?” before the tears welled up once more.

“You heard us?”

“I did not eavesdrop; you spoke loud enough for the miners at the camp to hear.”

His face was serious. “We will go tomorrow.” He hated to see her vexation, but there was nothing he could do. She must understand that; he had a duty to Peter Bruther.

She gave him a brittle smile. “And you will catch John Beauscyr and hang him – lynch him like a common killer?”

“Did he treat Peter any better? Beauscyr throttled him from behind like any outlaw. What do you expect?”

“I expect him at least to be able to defend himself.”

“Why, so he can brief a lawyer for himself? What good would that do? We know he did it; no one else was there.”

“But Thomas, what if it wasn’t him?”

“It was,” he said harshly, and putting her from his lap he stood and strode from the room.

Her eyes sorrowfully followed his figure as he went. Though she dared not speak out loud, her lips framed the words again: “But what if it wasn’t him?”

17

Simon and the others arrived back at Beauscyr just as Sir William was returning from a hunt, tired and frustrated after a long day in the saddle with nothing to show for it. All the animals seemed to have disappeared. Those areas which usually guaranteed food were empty: the rabbits in the warrens had suffered from a predator; the wood pigeons appeared to have moved to another site; the fishpond was free of herons. He had finally decided to get back home and tell the cooks to kill some doves from the cotes for his guests.

Seeing the four men did nothing for his humor. To his eye they were always there whenever something was wrong, as if they brought misfortune with them. Had they helped him earlier on, when Peter Bruther had first run away, he would feel different, but the bailiff’s ineffectual response to the crisis – or, as Sir William felt, his complete lack of understanding and unwillingness to assist – had left him with a sour opinion of the man. As for his friend, he had appeared to derive amusement from the Manor’s predicament. So it was with a jutting jaw that the elderly man nodded to Baldwin and Simon. His anger was not dissipated when the bailiff immediately asked for an interview.

“Now?” he snapped. Surely the bailiff could understand that he wanted to get changed, then wash and relax for a moment before any more questions, but the bailiff was insistent, and eventually the knight agreed, but with a bad grace. Hugh and Edgar went to see to the horses while the three trooped up to the hall. Here they discovered a number of guards playing dice before the fire; they showed little desire to move to the guardrooms, which were draftier. In the end it took a furious bellow from their master to persuade them that he was not of a mood to be trifled with, and they moodily took their things and left.

“Right. What is it?”

Simon sat, and, realizing after a minute that the meeting could take some time, Sir William also dropped into a chair. Baldwin sat some feet away, watching the knight with interest. His anger was clear, and Baldwin could understand how he felt. As far as Sir William was concerned, the death of Bruther was none of his business. The murderer had saved him considerable trouble, and that was all. Conversely the law, represented by this bailiff to whom he had turned at the outset, had been of little help. He had behaved properly, calling on the King’s official when he had seen the problem, but it had given him no comfort. What had appeared to be a simple, straightforward case of a runaway snubbing the estate had become a tangled web of political maneuvering between him as the landowner, and the miners – and the bailiff had, in his eyes, taken the part of the miners in preference to his own claims. And the bailiff was still trying to find the man who had cleared away his problems like snow swept from a path. For all Sir William cared, Simon could search until kingdom come. Yet he could still be summoned to speak to the bailiff whenever the damned official wanted.