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Clambering up the long, shallow gradientto the mass of rock at the summit, thelast thing on Thomas Smyth's mind wasthe man who was shortly to die. Smythwas concentrating solely on the dull pain of hisstrained muscles, and wondering how much farther hemust go.
Just before the last slope he had to pause to rest, hishands on his hips as he panted. It was becoming cooleras evening approached, a relief after the day's searingheat. Glowering at the tor above, he gave a brittlesmile. After this expedition he knew he must accept hewas no longer a young man. Though his mind was thesame as when he had first come here, a lad of not yettwenty, that was more than thirty-two years ago now.Thomas was well past middle age.
Gazing around him, he saw thin feathers of smokerising eastward in the still evening air: the straggle ofcrofts on the Chagford road were settling for the night.He could hear a dog barking, a man shouting, shuttersbeing slammed over windows, and an occasional lowgrumble from oxen in the byres. After the misery of1315 and 1316, when the whole kingdom had been struck with famine, it sounded as if the country had returnedto normal. This little vill in the middle of Dartmoorstood as proof of the improvement in theweather, which now, in 1318, promised healthy harvestsat last.
But Smyth's anger, never far from him now, wouldnot let him survey the view in peace. He felt his gazebeing pulled back. South and east, he knew the graymists were caused by his new blowing-house, whosecharcoal furnace melted the tin which was the primarycause of his wealth. It was the other fires northwardwhich made him set his jaw and glare, the fires fromthe other men, the miners who had arrived recently andstolen his land.
He himself had not been born here. It was manyyears ago, while serving as a soldier in the Welsh wars,that he had first heard tell of the huge wealth to beamassed from working the ore that lay so abundantlyon the moors. Thus, when the battles were done, hehad meandered southward, intending to take his share.
Back then, in 1286, he had been a gangling nineteenyear old—a poor man with no future. In those days, alarge part of this area around the West Dart River hadbeen uninhabited, and only a few tinners struggled towork the land for profit. Taxes were crippling, raisedwhenever money was needed for wars—and it was rarefor the old King not to be at war. Many had already leftthe land by the time Thomas arrived, allowing him toincrease his works for little cost, and though it hadtaken some years he had steadily built up his interestsuntil now he was the wealthiest tinner for many miles,employing others to keep the furnaces lighted and themolds filled with tin. If he did not own the land, thatwas merely a technicality—and a financial saving. By all the measures he valued, the land was his: he couldfarm tin and take the profits; he could bound tracts ofland wherever he wanted; he had a seat at the stannaryparliament. These were the ancient rights of the stannersof Devon, and he made full use of them.
But others had come, stealing parcels of land heconsidered his own, working it to their own advantage,ruining his efforts and making him look foolish infront of his neighbors. It was intolerable.
With a last baleful glare, he set his face to the hillonce more and continued climbing.
Behind him, George Harang smiled in satisfaction.He had caught a glimpse of Thomas' expression, andknew what it signalled. At last the old tinner had madeup his mind; he was going to defend his land and investments.From George's perspective, the retaliationwas long overdue—not that he would ever have said soopenly. He respected his master too much.
They were ascending the southern side of LongafordTor, and soon George could see the yellow glow of afire up near the conical mound of stone at the top. Noddingtoward it, he walked a little ahead, his hand on hisknife, but there was no need for caution. The three menwere waiting for them in the shelter of the small naturalbowl in the grass as agreed. Barely acknowledgingthem, Thomas Smyth's servant strode past the littleband, to stand with arms folded as the discussionbegan.
Watching his employer, George could see that theinner strength he had admired as a lad had not diminished.Though he was only some five feet six inchestall, Smyth had the build of a wrestler, with massivearms and thighs, and a chest as round and solid as awine barrel. He had a natural way with the men who worked for him, a commander's ability to put all atease in his company. As always he squatted with themby their fire, his square chin jutting in aggressivefriendliness as he spoke, dark eyes alight, thick eyebrowsalmost meeting under the thatch of graying hair.In the kindly light of the flames, George felt sure hismaster could have been mistaken for a man of ten,maybe even twenty, years younger. The fierce glitter inhis eyes, the sudden stabbing movements of his handsas he spoke, the quick enthusiasm in his words, allseemed to indicate a man in his prime, not one whowas already one of the oldest for miles around.
When Thomas had finished speaking, his eyes heldthose of the other men for a moment as if to confirmthat he had selected the right group. Then, satisfied, heclapped the two nearest on their backs ....
Excerpted from A Moorland Hanging: A Knights Templar Mystery by Michael Jecks All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
