Hearing their approach, Bruther straightened again and watched as they splashed through the stream, glancing behind him once as if expecting a sudden attack, then waiting patiently. Ralph smiled at the look. Even if he wanted to, there was nowhere for him to run to – and little point in trying to escape from men on horseback, the knight reasoned.

“Are you Peter Bruther?”

On hearing his words, Bruther straightened and stared up at him. “I am a miner.”

Ralph felt his mouth twitch. It was pleasing that the man had a defiant spirit. “I assume that means you are, then. You are the runaway from Sir William Beauscyr’s estates.”

“I used to be one of his men,” Bruther confessed with an air of calm; if he had been admitting to owning a sack of corn for sale he could not have been more casual.

Studying him, Ralph was suddenly aware of a certain dry humor in his intelligent eyes. It was unsettling. As a knight, he was used to a range of expressions on the faces of peasants: usually anxiety and trepidation, often outright fear. Never before had he seen the open contempt which was now evident in the curl of the man’s lip and the raised eyebrow. Fury welled up in him. In a merchant or another freeman it would have been disrespectful. In a runaway, it was blatantly impudent. Ralph spurred his horse closer.

“If there is something which amuses you, share it with me.”

“Oh, no. Not until you have explained why you want to speak to me. You are the trespasser here, after all, not me.”

“Trespasser!” The knight spat the word, astonished by the daring of this insignificant little man. Beside him, he heard the intake of breath from the man-at-arms.

“Sir Ralph, I think we should return…”

“No,” he interrupted, his eyes fixed on the slight figure before him. “I think we should take this man back with us. If for no other reason, his insolence deserves punishment. And it would be a good turn to Sir William for the hospitality he has shown me. After all, the Beauscyr family cannot be held responsible for me bringing the man back in error, can they? And I will soon be gone. Once he is back on the Manor’s land, he can be punished as a runaway. Tie him and give me the end of the rope – he can come back with us to the Manor and explain his amusement there. If he will not walk, we can drag him.”

“Sir Ralph…”

This time it was Peter Bruther who stopped the man-at-arms. “It’s Sir Ralph, is it? You know that I am a tinner – you see my tools here? You must know that I am responsible to the King now and am bound by stannary law, and yet you want to take me hostage?”

Ralph smiled bleakly. “I know you are a runaway villein from Beauscyr and that is all that matters to me.” He turned. “I told you to tie him…”

His voice faded at the sight which met his surprised gaze. Where before there had been an empty sweep of river bed, now there was a group of eight men. From the mattocks and shovels gripped in their grimy fists, they must be miners, and he realized too late that they must have been working further upstream, round the bend. There was no doubt in his mind, as he looked them over, that they were prepared to fight. Unconsciously, his hand fell to his sword, but at the movement he saw the point of a pick rise threateningly. He took his hand away, but kept it close. “Leave us alone,” he hissed.

“But, you see, these men are my friends – other miners like me. I think you should leave, though. This land is stannary land. Our land. You have no rights here.” Bruther was almost at his horse’s head now, peering up at him. His voice took on a harsh, jeering tone. “Go on, sir knight. Leave us. Or do you prefer to try to take me back, like you threatened?”

“You’ll regret this!” Ralph leaned low in his saddle and glared at Bruther, eyes wide in impotent fury. But there was nothing he could do. Viciously yanking the reins round, so that the metal bit cut into his mare’s mouth, he whipped and spurred her up the slope. Before Taverner could chase after him, Bruther snatched his pony’s bridle, and stood smiting up at the nervous man-at-arms. While his men laughed, the miner slipped the thong on his small coil of rope, then weighed it in his hands.

“You tell your Sir Ralph that I’ll keep this,” he said mockingly, and chuckled. “Tell him he can come and get me whenever he wants. I shall always keep it handy. If he wants me, he can come and tie me up and take me back with him.” He slapped the pony’s rump and Ronald clattered off after the disappearing knight.

But the man-at-arms had to travel a long way before the jeers and laughter of the men behind him had at last died away.

Straightening up, Henry Smalhobbe groaned and rubbed at his back. The sun was low in the western sky, and as he winced at it, face screwed into a walnut of wrinkles, he could see it was late. He should return to his hut; it would be dark in another thirty minutes or so. In Bristol the hills and trees all round quickly blotted out the sun and its light, but here twilight crept slowly toward true night, the stars gradually flaring above like tiny diamonds.

Shouldering his small leather sack of rocks, he hefted his shovel and pick and began to make his way homeward. The ground rose shallowly from the old river bed, and he had to climb the slope to the flat plain above, cutting straight across country to get to the hut and Sarah. It was a path he had trodden every day for some weeks now, and he knew it well. There were no dangerous marshlands, providing he walked carefully and kept the gray mass of Higher White Tor before him and Longaford Tor to his left, and the way was easy, being fairly level and grass-covered. There were few rocks.

The stream chuckled merrily behind him as he clambered upward, and he soon missed the sound as he walked on. Apart from the birds, his only company during the day had been the trickling water. At this time most of the birds were nesting, and the moors were quiet. Only the soft whispering of the wind could be heard. It made him shoulder his pack and frown ahead. There were too many stories here of Crockern for any man to feel entirely comfortable as night thickened and the light fled to leave the moors to the spirits.

But Henry Smalhobbe was not unduly superstitious, and he thrust all thoughts of the spirits of the moors to the back of his mind. He had learned to do that while still a small boy, leaving unproductive fears behind like so much unwanted baggage. There had been little which could upset the peaceful, even pace of his boyhood. Once he’d reached adulthood, most of his time had been spent in loyal service to his master, and the work had kept him too busy to have any terrors of ghosts or spirits. But that was before…

Stopping, he rubbed at an eye with the heel of his hand. His eyelid kept twitching – a strange but irritating quirk which had developed over the last few months, and which occasionally preyed on his mind in case it was the precursor of blindness. That thought terrified him. To be blind was to be the target of abuse, or worse. There was no protection for a blind man unless he was wealthy, and Henry Smalhobbe was not rich. If he were to lose his sight, he knew what would happen. Other miners would take over his land; he and his wife would be driven from the moors. How could a blind man find work? Their only hope would be for Sarah to earn them a living, and there was only one way she could do that.

He set his jaw and carried on. It was foolish to waste time worrying about such things. After all, there were many other dangers here on the moors. He could be bitten by a rabid animal or snake, fall into one of the bogs or catch leprosy. There were many ways to die horribly without exercising the imagination.

As if on cue, a low howl shivered on the soft breeze and he glanced at the horizon. Wolves – but a long way off, from the sound. He strode a little faster.