“I don’t know, sir.”

Staring at him, Simon felt the exasperation mounting until he caught a glimpse of George Harang’s face. He was resting against the wall of the cottage, exuding relaxed nonchalance as he smiled at the miner. And then Simon caught on.

“Thanks, anyway. You’ve been very helpful,” he said, and the man hurried away like a startled hart. Turning, Simon smiled at his friend. “I think we have taken up enough of George’s time, don’t you?” Seeing the disbelief on Baldwin’s face, he took him by the arm and began to walk with him back to their horses.

“Come, we need to speak to the Beauscyrs, don’t we?”

Their guide accompanied them to their horses. “I’m sorry you found out so little,” he lied cheerfully.

“Yes,” said Simon reflectively. “Just one last thing, though. Where were you on the night Peter Bruther died?”

“Me?” George smiled. “I was at the house with my master, of course. Where else would I be?”

“That was a complete waste of time!” Baldwin muttered angrily as they rode at a steady pace up the incline from the camp. Simon glanced at him, smiling.

“Not entirely, Baldwin. We have learned something from our visit. It’s clear that George Harang and Thomas Smyth do not want to help us track down any of these three men. They know exactly what their men were doing that night and don’t want us to find out – which raises some interesting points to consider. For example, if Thomas Smyth is hiding the men or preventing us from finding them, did he know that the three men were going that way? Did he tell them to go? Did he actually instruct them to go and beat up Henry Smalhobbe? And if he did, did he also tell them to go on to Peter Bruther’s place and attack him too?”

“He could have, from the look of him,” said Baldwin, his dark eyes brooding as he frowned at the horizon ahead. Simon followed his stare to where a man herded cattle. The knight continued, “I think Smyth would stop at little to get what he wants. He’s a man who has carved out his own empire here, and no one can tell him what to do. There are any number of men to do his bidding, and if that poor, terrified rabbit of a man was anything to go by, many of them are fearful of upsetting him. I’m sure that’s what he was scared of, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I have no doubt about it. That was why I thought we might as well leave, as we were obviously not going to get anywhere – at least, not while George Harang was hanging around in earshot. No, if we want answers from any of Thomas Smyth’s men, we’ll need to get them away from their master and his servant.”

Sir William watched the small party riding off to hunt with a sense of relief. Three retainers had joined his sons and Sir Ralph. The two boys had been niggling at each other almost from the moment John had returned, and though he was very proud of his sons, both of them, Sir William was beginning to look forward to the time when Sir Ralph and his youngest decided to leave and continue their travels abroad. Sighing, he turned back to the hall, where his wife would be waiting. Matillida too was feeling the strain of the constant sniping; she was becoming waspish.

Something was wrong with Robert, he reflected. His oldest son usually responded pragmatically to problems, but now he appeared to be incapable of seeing how to avoid conflict – indeed, he sought it out. In the past he would always have avoided an argument, preferring to get on with work, but since the affair of Peter Bruther, and especially now that his brother had come home again, he seemed to relish quarrelling. Sir William frowned. It was almost as if he had suddenly discovered a new strength of character.

And John too was a different person. Of course, a lot of that was due to his training as a warrior. Before that he had been a mere boy, but he had now returned as a man, and that was hard for Robert to understand. John had his own opinions on a number of matters where before he would have bowed to his brother’s view. No longer. He had left home a shy, quiet boy; now he was used to work and hardship after six years of steady training in service to his master. Confident and self-assured after living for years on the Scottish marches, a warrior now after fighting the border raiders, he had seen too much to be able to go back to a state of happy obedience, constantly deferring to his older brother’s wishes. Perhaps that was it. Maybe it was just that Robert could not understand that John had grown to maturity, Sir William decided.

Climbing the steps, he found his eyes being dragged back to the main gate, as if trying to look through it to the men riding off. He was still unsure of Sir Ralph. The knight had certainly trained his son well in the arts of war and chivalry, he had seen that in numerous little signs, in the way that he shared money unstintingly with the guards, in the way he offered to give alms to beggars at the door, but most of all in the way he could handle a sword. It had been impressive, Sir William admitted to himself – but troubling, as well.

The day before, John had been fretful, apparently bored, and had asked one of the guards to practice with him. One of the men-at-arms had been persuaded, Ronald Taverner, and they had used training swords built of heavy iron, with edges and points blunted. For protection they wore bucklers – small, circular shields. The idea had been to keep John in training, or so he had said, but when Sir William had gone to the stables to watch, he had been surprised by something Sir Ralph had said.

The knight had joined him, resting his forearms on the rail, a small dry smile on his face, and Sir William had said, “It’s good to see the young working to achieve the best they can, isn’t it?”

Sir Ralph had glanced at him, then back at the circling fighters. “To learn, surely the young should pick fighters as good as themselves, or better?”

Surprised, Sir William had watched the two men. It was plain what the knight had meant, and he had seen it for himself. Whereas John had demonstrated his skill, battering with his sword at any point of weakness like a good soldier, the guard had been clearly uneasy and far below John’s standard. He had held his sword well enough, but seemed not to have enough strength to use it effectively. His buckler was never quite fast enough to parry the crushing blows of his opponent’s weapon, his own blade was always just too slow to take advantage of an opening. Though John had managed to make it look as if he was having to work hard, the real effort had all been on the other side.

“They do look unmatched,” he had said, and had been surprised by his guest’s chuckle.

“More than a little. Any moment now John will lose interest. Ah, there it is!”

John had faltered, a foot dragged and made him stumble, and immediately the guard was on him. But as soon as he moved forward, the squire feinted to the right, then swung his buckler, knocking the man to his knees. Before he could move, the heavy sword had chopped downward, and he had collapsed, rolling in the dirt of the yard in his pain and clutching at his neck while John sauntered over to the bar and thrust his sword into the ground, casually tugging his gauntlets free.

“So, Father. I fear your guard missed my little trick.” His eyes were partly lidded, and Sir William had not been sure what expression they held. “Still, he has learned not to trust a swordsman who trips.”

“Did you have to hit him so hard? There was no need…” Three men had rushed to the rolling figure, and helped him to his feet as Sir William watched, stunned. Even when propped upright, his head dangled loose as though his neck was broken.

“Of course there was,” John said imperturbably. “If he was not hurt, how could he learn? It is only by thrashing dogs – and servants, too! – that they get the point of their lesson. He’ll be all right. Just have a headache for a couple of days.” And then he had stared at Sir Ralph, who met his gaze evenly. “Anyway, the main thing is, I won. Winning is all that matters when you hold a weapon, isn’t it? Winning and surviving.”