A Moorland Hanging Read Online Free PDF

tales himself, but it was natural for anyone to be affected by the menacing power of a place like this.
    “The people here think there’s some kind of strangeness about it,” Simon continued. “Maybe that’s where the name comes from. Round here, ‘wisht’ means uncanny, or weird. Certainly these trees look it.”
    “Yes, they do. But I think these trees grow this way for some mundane reason. Wish-hounds!” His voice betrayed his amusement, and the bailiff shot him a suspicious glance.
    Another mile southward, after they had breasted another hill, Baldwin at last understood why Simon had brought him this way. He reined in his horse and stared.
    “This is what I wanted you to see, Baldwin. Welcome to the tin mines of Dartmoor!” Simon announced as they came to a halt.
    Baldwin found himself staring at a wide encampment on a plain surrounded by low hills, the whole unmarked by wall or fence. Dotted here and there stood small, gray turf and stone cottages. One, larger than the others and set in their midst, gave off a thick plume of smoke which straggled in the slight breeze. The broad area was pitted and scarred with holes and trenches. Through the middle trailed a narrow but fast-flowing stream, from which sprang several man-made rivulets, and there was a large dam over to their right. Other leats were fed by this, tailing off into the distance, and Baldwin guessed that they led to other workings.
    “With all these houses there must be many men here,” said Baldwin, eyeing the area speculatively.
    “An army. Over a hundred in this camp alone,” Simon agreed, and kicked his horse on.
    They had only travelled a short way when they saw a pair of men at the outskirts of the vill, and Simon smiled with sardonic amusement at their reaction—it was all too typical of the attitude of miners out here that they should be suspicious of strangers. One pointed in their direction before running off, while the other man grasped what looked like a pick and faced them resolutely. By the time the bailiff and his friend had come closer there was a group waiting for them, looking like trained soldiers to Baldwin’s military eye. The man who had run for help had returned, joined by a thickset character who looked as if he was in charge.
    Simon rode up to him, smiling in a friendly manner until the tinner snapped: “Who’re you? What d’you want here?”
    The bailiff sighed. It was infuriating that these miners should feel free to be so arrogantly discourteous—even more that they had the right and strength to behave so. He heard Baldwin’s intake of breath and could almost feel the waves of disapproval from the knight.
    “Good day,” he replied pleasantly. “We’re on our way to visit a friend, to the east. My companion here hasn’t seen how tin is farmed, and—”
    “He won’t find out today, either,” said the man firmly, and Baldwin moved his horse a little closer to Simon. The miner was short and sandy-haired, with skin tanned by the sun and wind to the color of old saddle leather. Though he looked quite old, Baldwin could not be sure whether that was a sign of the harshness of life on the moors or an indication of his age. If fitness was anything to go by, the man was not ancient. His belly was taut, the breadth of his shoulders was almost the same as his height, and the knight quickly came to the opinion that he would not want to fight such a man without a superiority in weapons. As it was, the man merely carried a long dagger at his waist, but Baldwin could see that he was wary in the way his hands rested close to its haft, his thumbs hooked into his thick leather belt.
    “At least tell us how far it is to Sir William Beauscyr’s Manor,” Baldwin said sharply, and was pleased to see a quick flicker of doubt in the miner’s brown eyes.
    “You’re friends of Sir William?”
    “Not quite,” Baldwin said, then glanced at Simon.
    “But the bailiff of Lydford and I are on our way to see him.”
    “The