Irritably gesturing with his hand as if slapping at the suggestion, Sir Robert snapped, “Rubbish! The King knows who his real friends are. It’s the knights in the shires like us who are his real guards, the men he needs to call on in time of war, not…”
“Brother, brother, please! Can you really believe that? The King cannot be stupid enough to think it. The knights who, as you say, he calls on when there are battles to be fought, are either abroad and earning money fighting with the Pisans or the Venetians or any others who will pay, or they are loyal to their lord before their King. After all, who do most knights give their word of allegiance to? The King or their local magnate? Anyway, Edward does not even need to worry about that here. Here his choice is very clear: does he support the miners, who provide him with many tons of tin and the taxes they produce, or does he side with a few knights whose lands border the moors, and whose wealth can only be measured in a few pounds?”
“In fairness he must…”
“Oh, no! Life is not fair. The King, God bless him, is forced to look to his own and the kingdom’s good. I fear that our father – and you – weigh rather low in his estimation compared with the tin miners.”
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Sir Robert, stung by the sarcasm. “You know the King needs men like us, we’re the backbone of the kingdom. Where would he be without the knights and…”
“Who’s that?”
The sudden concentration on his brother’s face made Sir Robert wheel round to the view. A pair of riders approached down the slope from the west. He frowned as he tried to make out the figures. “Good God! It’s that miner, Thomas Smyth, and his henchman. What do they want here?”
“I have no idea,” said John imperturbably, his eyes fixed on the horsemen. “But as the heir to the Manor, I’m sure you’ll know soon enough.”
Muttering an oath, Sir Robert spun on his heel and strode to the staircase in the small tower at the corner of the stables. This was just one more cause for concern. The miners were a constant irritation, and any visit from them was unlikely to be for social purposes, as Sir Robert knew.
Curious to see how the meeting went, John remained up on the wall where he could see down into the courtyard. From his vantage point he had a clear view of the reception. The old tinner dropped from his horse, tossing the reins to his servant with a haughty flick of his wrist, plainly feeling there was no danger to him even here in the stronghold of his enemy, John saw with some surprise. Sauntering across the yard, the visitor left his servant and made his way to the hall’s steps, at the top of which stood Sir William, his face grim. They met and said a few words at the door, then passed inside. A few moments later Sir Robert emerged from the stable block, rushed to the hall and stormed inside.
It was possible to hear what was being said inside the hall from the top of the steps, and for an instant John toyed with the idea of eavesdropping. Here was an opportunity for harmless fun, the chance of overhearing something with which he could prick his brother’s pride… but the embarrassment if he was caught outweighed the potential for any advantage. He shrugged and put the meeting from his mind. It was hot on the wall, and he was about to leave and fetch himself a pint of ale when he heard the raised voices.
It was obvious that there was a heated debate going on. He could make out his father’s voice, apparently raised in an attempt to calm someone, then the hoarse bellow of his brother: “You can’t – I won’t allow it! This is madness, complete madness! You want to take this foreigner’s word – it goes against all reason! I won’t have it!”
There was more in a similar vein, and John could see that the miner’s servant found it as intriguing as he did. At the first shout, he wavered visibly, undecided whether to go to the hall or not. With one hand on his dagger, the other pulling at his bottom lip, the man soon reached a decision and began to move toward the hall, but before he could cross the yard, the door was thrown open and Sir Robert hurtled out, rushing down the steps and across the cobbles to the stables. There he shoved a slow-moving ostler to his horse. Under his bellowed orders it was saddled and bridled, and then he mounted and galloped through the gate, off up the slope before the Manor.
John watched dumbfounded until his brother had disappeared among the trees at the brow of the hill, then he turned back to the courtyard. At the top of the steps stood his father, the tinner in the doorway behind him. He could see the quick motion of the miner’s hand, the slow loosening of the servant’s grip on his dagger’s hilt, but most of all what John saw, and what made him smirk secretly to himself, was the expression of despair on his father’s face as he stared after his oldest son.
4
With the troubles caused by outlaws, Sir Ralph had decided to take the advice of his host and bring a man-at-arms with him on this ride. He was also aware, after talking to his young squire, that there was another good reason for bringing someone along with him who knew the area – for Dartmoor could be a dangerous place even in the middle of summer. Bogs proliferated, and often trapped unwary travellers as well as the sheep and cattle of the moormen. Even so, in the warm sunshine it was hard to be too fearful, and he soon threw off his feelings of caution and began to canter, enjoying the sensation of the wind pulling urgently at his cloak and the feeling of precise, elegant power in his horse’s stride. He was not dressed for war, clad only in his riding clothes of hose and a simple tunic of green wool, thin and cool. There had been no need to bring his great horse. Today he rode his palfrey, a light-framed roan mare who ate up the miles with eager joy.
His guard, a cheerful young man called Ronald Taverner, was happy enough with the ride. It was good to be out from the Manor for once. He had no knowledge of this knight, but he was an optimistic soul, eager to please Sir William and keen to impress any friend of the Beauscyr family. Right now the wish uppermost in his mind was that they might be able to stop off for a while and buy some drink, and for that he was taking the knight out north and west, toward the alehouse where the Dart River crossed the east-west road over the moors. The farmer there always made too much ale for himself, and was happy to sell it on to any passerby.
They had gone some four or five miles when they found themselves at the edge of a low cliff; they reined in and peered into the valley formed by a tight loop of an old river bed. Below them were the remains of what must have been a powerful watercourse, now reduced to a little stream, trickling down in a narrow rivulet between rocks, curving sharply away to their left and right. All around was a mess of gray moorstone and mixed gravels, with here and there a small bush or stunted tree. There was also a man, who stood as the two figures appeared over the brow above him and shielded his eyes against the sun behind them as he peered up.
Sir Ralph ignored him. Clearly the man was merely one of the tin workers, and thus of little importance. But then he heard the sudden hiss as the man-at-arms drew in his breath.
“What is it?”
“That man there. It’s Peter Bruther, the runaway from my master’s Manor.”
“Is it?” Ralph looked back. He saw a man in his late twenties, thin and worn, dressed in a faded brown tunic and what looked like a shabby fustian cloak. Dark eyes held his, but not with suspicion or fear, merely with a kind of vague curiosity. After a minute, he shrugged and began scraping muck from the stream and tipping it into a leather bucket. Somehow Ralph felt let down. From what he had heard, this villein was the embodiment of evil, and yet the reality was rather pathetic. Making a quick decision, the knight smiled to himself. Spurring his horse on, he rode down the slope to where the man stood.