A Moorland Hanging by Michael Jecks Page A

master chose to ignore the comment.

    At the Smalhobbe holding they found a small and neat square stone cottage. Sarah immediately ran to the door and entered while the men dismounted. Inside it was tiny. By the light of a guttering candle, which made the air rank with the foul smell of burning animal fat, Simon could see the slim figure lying on a palliasse at the far end of the room, his wife kneeling beside him. On their appearance, the miner lurched up to sit, his brown eyes showing anxiety—but not fear, Baldwin noted approvingly. The man looked unwell, his gaunt features bruised, but though he was slight of build, Smalhobbe looked wiry and fit.
    “My wife says you are trying to find out what happened last night,” he said, his voice weary and strained.
    Baldwin glanced round the room, then sighed as he realized there were no chairs or benches. He squatted. “Yes. Peter Bruther was killed, as your wife has presumably told you. We understand you were attacked as well.”
    Henry Smalhobbe watched as Simon crouched down beside the knight. The miner’s expression was reserved and suspicious, but Simon thought he could detect a degree of hope there, as if the man had been praying for some relief and now felt he could see the approach of rescue. Simon cleared his throat. “Could you tell us what happened last night? Maybe we can help you at the same time as clearing up the matter of who killed Peter Bruther.”
    “Maybe,” said Henry Smalhobbe quietly, and sank back on to an elbow. His face was now in darkness, below the level of the candle in the wall, so that his expression was difficult to read; Simon wondered whether the move was intentional. He chewed his lip in concentration as the miner continued: “There’s not much to tell. I was out all day, same as normal, working the stream a little to the south of here. When I came back it was just before dark. Well, I was almost home when I saw a man hiding outside. He must have been waiting for me.” He spoke dispassionately, as though recounting another man’s misfortune. “After I heard Sarah call out, I had to look at her and make sure she was all right. Well, before I could turn round, something caught me across the back of my head.” He broke off and gingerly touched his scalp. “I fell down, and someone whispered in my ear, said that if I didn’t go and leave this land to the one it belonged to, I could die. And my wife…”
    “I understand. Please, what happened then?” said Simon softly.
    “They beat me. Someone was kicking me, another had a cudgel, I think, and hit me all over—my legs, back, head, everywhere. I passed out when they got to my head.” He spoke simply, not trying to embellish his tale, and Simon felt sure he could be believed.
    It was Baldwin who leaned forward and asked: “Did you see any of these men?”
    “I didn’t need to, sir. I know them all. There’s three of them: Thomas Horsho, Harold Magge and Stephen the Crocker.” He explained briefly about their previous visits, how they’d threatened him and his wife.
    “Usually George Harang is there too, when these men go out to scare people, but last night it was Harold who spoke. If George had been there, it would have been him.”
    “Did you hear them say anything about Peter Bruther? Any comments at all?”

    “No, sir, not that I recall. I’d tell you if I did.” His voice carried conviction.
    “Have you heard of anybody else being attacked recently? Do you know if anybody else was hurt last night?”
    “No, sir,” said Smalhobbe, glancing at his wife for confirmation. She shook her head too, her eyes huge in her concern.
    Baldwin subsided, and Simon stiffly rose to his feet, his knees cracking. “Thanks for all that. We’ll see what we can do. If you’re prepared to accuse these men, perhaps we can get them punished.”
    “Oh no, sir!” Sarah Smalhobbe’s face was twisted with fear. “We can’t! What will happen to us if we do that? You can see what the men