They had started toward the house when another man appeared through the door. “Ah!” said Baldwin. “I think our meeting is about to get interesting.”

Looking up, Simon saw that it was the same man who had warned them to leave the miners’ camp alone on their first visit. Recognition was mutual. The sandy-haired man hesitated, staring at the group advancing toward him; he glanced around at the doorway, then faced them once more, his face fixed into a distrustful scowl. Somehow this made Simon more cheerful.

“Hello – I think we’ve met before,” he said heartily.

“Aye. Maybe.”

“Of course. You were the man who helped us find our way to Sir William’s Manor, weren’t you?” The man glowered at him without speaking. “We’re here to see Thomas Smyth. Is this his house?”

The man sneered as he looked Simon up and down. “I don’t reckon he’ll want to see you. ”

“I think he can judge that better than his servant,” said Simon shortly, moving to walk past him. To the bailiff’s surprise, he found his path blocked. The miner stood before him, hands stuck into his belt.

“What do you want to see him about?”

Baldwin watched with interest as different emotions chased each other across the expressive features of his friend. Stunned outrage was closely followed by dry amusement, but both were chased away by a sudden attack of anger. Simon’s face reddened and his jaw clenched, and Baldwin had to move quickly to his side.

“I think we should tell your master what we want to discuss with him,” he said hurriedly, and smiled. As he did so, Edgar stepped beside him, his hand already grasping his sword hilt. “So, your master,” Baldwin continued. “Where is he?”

George Harang stared at him. He was unused to having his will thwarted. No miner would dare to defy him like this, but with the bailiff and his friend, he was unsure how to respond. Steeling himself, he was about to bellow for help, when a voice came from behind him.

“What’s all the noise about?” Looking up, Simon saw a newcomer leaning on the doorframe. He was scruffy-looking but cheerful, and wore a genial smile.

To Simon he looked like Baldwin’s mastiff – though less ugly. A short man with grizzled hair to his shoulders and eyes like chips of coal, glittering with amusement, he could have been a poor serf; there was nothing about his clothing to denote wealth. His leather jerkin was scarred and worn, his shirt a simple woollen shift, torn and darned in many places, and the only personal adornment the bailiff could see was the gold ring on his forefinger. Ostentatious display was unnecessary, for from his demeanor he could only be the master of the house.

Straightening, he motioned to his dumbfounded servant. “Out of the way, George. Of course I’ll see these guests. I can’t turn the bailiff of Lydford away, can I?” And he waved them inside, Hugh scuttling after the knight and Simon while Edgar stood staring at George; only when the guard’s gaze wavered did Edgar stride inside after the others.

As Baldwin had expected, the house was magnificent. The door gave on to a panelled screens passage, above which was a minstrels’ gallery, while beyond was a long hall with high windows throwing immense pools of light on to the rush-strewn floor. The fireplace was a huge circle of packed earth in the middle of the floor and an enormous log lying smoldering on the bed of glowing ashes hissed and crackled softly. Tapestries sheathed the walls and kept in the warmth, while all the visible woodwork was richly carved. Two wolfhounds lay by the fire, rising at the noise of the visitors’ entrance and watching their master.

Thomas Smyth walked to his dogs and rested his hands on their two heads briefly. Immediately, as if at a signal, the animals dropped down again and rested. Nearby was a bench at a table, and Smyth sat, waving a hand for the others to do likewise.

Simon found himself assailed by sudden doubts. This man did not have the look of a brutal extortioner – far less a killer. He looked calm and reasonable, with the self-assured aura of wealth. He watched as Baldwin stepped over to the hearth and crouched before the dogs, stroking their heads. When Hugh walked too close, one stared at him and there was a perceptible rumble, making the servant scurry to a bench and sit, but the animals submitted to Baldwin’s patting with apparent pleasure. The bailiff shook his head. Somehow Baldwin always had that effect on dogs.

“So, bailiff. What can I do for you?” Thomas Smyth sat easily, his hands on his knees, the very picture of amiable friendliness.

“How did you know I was the bailiff?”

“Ah well, when someone as important as you and your friend pass through the moors, you’re bound to be noticed. And my men cover a wide area here. After all, I have over a hundred men working for me.”

“Of course,” said Simon, but he was aware of the implied threat in those innocuous words. Only a rich man assured of his power could afford to have so many men in his pay, and this miner was pointing out the numbers he could count on. As if to emphasize the fact, Smyth glanced casually at the other three men before his eyes rested on Simon again. But then, seeing the understanding in Simon’s face, he grinned, as if this was all a game, and since both knew it, why not get on with it and to hell with verbal fencing. And with a feeling of faint disgust, Simon found himself liking the brash confidence of the man. He decided to approach the true aim of their visit obliquely.

“There was an attack yesterday,” he began. “Why did your men beat Henry Smalhobbe and tell him to leave his works?”

“Who?”

“Henry Smalhobbe. He named your men.”

“That’s a serious allegation, bailiff,” Thomas Smyth said, his eyes hardening into black ice. There was an intake of breath behind him, and Simon turned to see that the doorman had followed them into the hall and now stood near at hand. He glared angrily at the bailiff.

“Very serious,” Simon agreed mildly, turning back to the miner.

“Did this man say exactly who beat him?” This time the miner affected a display of surprise.

“Harold Magge, Thomas Horsho and Stephen the Crocker. All your men.”

“George?” Smyth looked at his servant.

“Sir,” he said, “they’ve all left the mines. They must’ve gone the day before yesterday.”

“Ah. So, you see, bailiff, they’ve all left my camp. They must be doing something on their own if they attacked this – who did you say it was?”

Simon ignored the question. “Why would they have left your camp?”

“Ah, well now, bailiff,” said Smyth, shrugging expansively and smiling. “There’re as many reasons for a man to leave as I have men working for me. I’m a master tinner, I’ve got a controlling interest in many works over the moors, and it’s hard to keep track of all the men who labor in my mines. There’re all sorts: journeymen paid by the day, laborers contracted to me yearly, and many others. Do you really expect me to know all of them personally? It’s impossible! And then, of course, there are foreigners, men who aren’t local and grow to dislike the moors – or get scared by them. They often get depressed by living out there, and just leave.”

“Others have suggested that you keep very close control of your men – and your mines.”

“Oh, yes. Well, of course I do.” His affable smile widened as if in sympathy that this was the best that Simon could do. “I have to control them with vigor. The men are a tough bunch, bailiff. They need considerable… let’s say ‘supervision,’ shall we? Out here, there are many who might not wish their past to come under too close a scrutiny. Quite a large proportion, I’m sure, only came to Dartmoor because they knew that they would then fell under stannary law, and be safe from any embarrassments they wished to leave behind. That doesn’t mean I know them all by name.”

“You mean you’ve outlaws working for you?” Simon asked bluntly.