“Bailiff, please! Do you expect me to ask all the sheriffs and reeves in the land about the past life of every man who comes to me asking for a job? Anyway, most of them will never return where they came from, so you could almost say that I am helping the law by stopping them from being outlaws! While they are here, working for me, they aren’t living in the woods and robbing merchants – if they ever did, that is.”

Baldwin stood, grunting. “These three men – were they outlaws?”

“I’ve no idea. I didn’t ask them,” said Smyth.

“Is it true that you have been trying to force Smalhobbe and others from the moors?”

“Force?” He paused, head on one side as he stared at the knight as if astonished.

“Yes, force them from the moors. By threatening them, suggesting that their wives could be raped or widowed…”

“Oh, really! I already have widely spread works, I don’t need more.”

“And yet a man is wounded and holds you responsible – and another is dead.”

“Dead?” The look he threw at George Harang was not faked, Baldwin was sure. There was genuine surprise there.

“Yes, a man called Bruther,” Simon said shortly.

“Who did you say? Peter Bruther’s dead?” The tinner was transfixed, staring in disbelief.

“Murdered,” said Simon. “Someone hanged him. Do you have any idea who could have wanted Bruther dead?”

Smyth’s expression was wooden. The bailiff could not know the truth, he thought. If he did, that question would never have been asked. Before he could collect his wits and respond, there was an interruption.

The door banged open, and Baldwin came face to face with a pair of women. One was a cheerful, contented-looking lady of forty at most, a matter of ten years or so younger than Smyth, and the knight guessed from her smile that she must be his wife. She was short and plump, with the clear, fresh complexion he associated with moorland dwellers, but with none of the dour stolidity he had seen elsewhere. Her dark hair was braided and curled under her wimple, the stiff severity of the headgear out of place beside her laughing brown eyes.

With her was a younger woman, obviously her daughter. She had the same dark hair and sunny, warming smile which betrayed her vivacious spirit. Seeing the guests, she paused at the door, but then her eyes went to her father, and she crossed to him. Baldwin could see that she was only some fifteen years or so old, still a little coltish in her movements, and slim as a foal, but with none of the gawkiness which was sometimes so evident in girls of her age. The maid was very self-assured, and clearly knew she was being watched by four men from the way she elegantly and decorously floated across the floor to her father. Baldwin noticed that her mother had observed this too. As if in mild despair at this forward behavior, she sighed, and then grinned when he caught her eye. He had to smile broadly in return.

“Father, you promised to come and ride with me this morning.” The girl’s voice was deep, at odds with her slender figure. Though her attention was apparently fixed on Smyth, she walked to his side and turned with her hand on his shoulder so that she could study the visitors.

“Yes, but we’re busy for now, my sparrow,” he said, putting an arm round her waist. Otherwise he ignored her, frowning intently at the bailiff. Simon felt that Smyth was controlling himself with difficulty, but that was no great surprise. Nobody likes being accused of extortion and murder in the same day, he thought.

“Will you be long?” Her eyes were on Baldwin now, challenging, and the knight was not sure whether the question was aimed at him or not. Meanwhile the tinner grunted and addressed Simon.

“Who wanted Bruther dead, you asked? You need to ask the bastards he ran from, the Beauscyrs. They wanted him back to stop other villeins from leaving the Manor, and they made no secret of it.”

“But why would they kill him?”

“A warning – to show what any other runaway could expect. He was hanged, you say? The Beauscyrs must have wanted his punishment to be as obvious as possible! A short rope and a long drop. How else can they keep their Manor together? They can’t afford to let anyone leave their work and run when they want to; the Manor needs men.”

“They suggested it might have been you had him killed.”

For a moment there was no sound, and then the miner’s servant leaned on the table behind Simon, his face taut and harsh. “They said that? They dare accuse my master of…”

“Be silent, George!” The command was immediate and uncompromising, and Simon saw that Smyth’s eyes had gone black with a quick fury, but his rage died as quickly as it had flared, leaving him looking tired and oddly vulnerable, and the bailiff was reminded that this man was already old compared with most. When he spoke again, Smyth’s voice was slower, but the emotion was still there in the precision of his speech.

“Bailiff, I have lived here for many years and, as I said, I have a rough group of men to keep under control. Sometimes there have been troubles, but not very often, and each time I have kept the peace here, not like other places where even the knights have resorted to robbery. These last few years have been hard, but here on the moors I have made sure that the rule of law has survived. If I thought any of my men had killed Peter Bruther, I would see them pay. Compare that with the Beauscyr family. Look at that old fool Sir William, and his two young whelps. If you want to find the murderer, you need search no further than this family. Sir Robert Beauscyr in particular is a…”

“Father, that’s unfair!” His daughter’s outburst caught him by surprise. She spun away from his encircling arm. “Robert would never consider murder!”

“Alicia, be quiet!” His voice was not raised, but it was cold and angry. “Your views are not important; this is nothing to do with you. This is serious. Someone has done murder, and I think it may have been Robert.” He turned to Simon again, his daughter throwing him a tragic glance and walking over to George’s side as he continued: “Robert Beauscyr has always had a cruel thread running through him, and he can call on many men to assist him from his father’s men-at-arms. It would have been easy for him to have gone to the moors and killed Bruther.”

Baldwin’s eyes were on his daughter. She sat beside George, her eyes fixed on her father, while the old servant patted her on the back, his face filled with sympathy. She looked as though she was about to burst into tears, and the knight could see how close she and the heir to Beauscyr Manor had grown. They were of good ages: the boy a little over twenty, the girl ready to wed at fifteen or so, and they had presumably known each other almost all their lives, dwelling so close together here, while other settlements were far distant. There could be few others of their age nearby.

Simon was saying, “But what about you, sir? Where were you on the night Bruther was killed?”

“Me?” Disbelief faded, to be replaced by cold rage. “Here, bailiff – I was here! And if you want to check with an independent witness, ask Sir William Beauscyr. He was here with me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to.”

He made his way to the door, but before he could leave, Baldwin said, “One thing, before you go, please. If you have no objection, could we go to your camp and ask there if any man knows what has happened to the three miners? If we can, it would be best to speak to them as quickly as possible, either to confirm their innocence in this affair, or…”

Thomas Smyth stared at him with a slight sneer. “Of course,” he said. “George will take you there and make sure your questions are answered, won’t you, George?” And then he was gone, the door slamming behind him.

How long have you known your master, George?” Simon’s voice was conciliatory as they jogged their way down the incline from the house, heading southwest to the miners’ encampment. They had already left the stream far to the left, and were now passing through empty lands where the only sound came from their jingling harnesses.