A Moorland Hanging

Michael Jecks

A MOORLAND HANGING

1996

1

Clambering up the long, shallow gradient to the mass of rock at the summit, the last thing on Thomas Smyth’s mind was the man who was shortly to die. Smyth was concentrating solely on the dull pain of his strained muscles, and wondering how much farther he must go.

Just before the last slope he had to pause to rest, his hands on his hips as he panted. It was becoming cooler as evening approached, a relief after the day’s searing heat. Glowering at the tor above, he gave a brittle smile. After this expedition he knew he must accept he was no longer a young man. Though his mind was the same as when he had first come here, a lad of not yet twenty, that was more than thirty-two years ago now. Thomas was well past middle age.

Gazing around him, he saw thin feathers of smoke rising eastward in the still evening air: the straggle of crofts on the Chagford road were settling for the night. He could hear a dog barking, a man shouting, shutters being slammed over windows, and an occasional low grumble from oxen in the byres. After the misery of 1315 and 1316, when the whole kingdom had been struck with famine, it sounded as if the country had returned to normal. This little vill in the middle of Dartmoor stood as proof of the improvement in the weather, which now, in 1318, promised healthy harvests at last.

But Smyth’s anger, never far from him now, would not let him survey the view in peace. He felt his gaze being pulled back. South and east, he knew the gray mists were caused by his new blowing-house, whose charcoal furnace melted the tin which was the primary cause of his wealth. It was the other fires northward which made him set his jaw and glare, the fires from the other men, the miners who had arrived recently and stolen his land.

He himself had not been born here. It was many years ago, while serving as a soldier in the Welsh wars, that he had first heard tell of the huge wealth to be amassed from working the ore that lay so abundantly on the moors. Thus, when the battles were done, he had meandered southward, intending to take his share.

Back then, in 1286, he had been a gangling nineteen year old – a poor man with no future. In those days, a large part of this area around the West Dart River had been uninhabited, and only a few ti

But others had come, stealing parcels of land he considered his own, working it to their own advantage, ruining his efforts and making him look foolish in front of his neighbors. It was intolerable.

With a last baleful glare, he set his face to the hill once more and continued climbing.

Behind him, George Harang smiled in satisfaction. He had caught a glimpse of Thomas’ expression, and knew what it signalled. At last the old ti

They were ascending the southern side of Longaford Tor, and soon George could see the yellow glow of a fire up near the conical mound of stone at the top. Nodding toward it, he walked a little ahead, his hand on his knife, but there was no need for caution. The three men were waiting for them in the shelter of the small natural bowl in the grass as agreed. Barely acknowledging them, Thomas Smyth’s servant strode past the little band, to stand with arms folded as the discussion began.

Watching his employer, George could see that the i

When Thomas had finished speaking, his eyes held those of the other men for a moment as if to confirm that he had selected the right group. Then, satisfied, he clapped the two nearest on their backs, rose and started off back down the hill, moving more quickly now, George following behind him.

“They’ll do it,” Thomas said meditatively, gazing eastward with his hands hooked into his thick leather belt as they walked south to their horses.

“Yes, sir,” George agreed, and was surprised when his master spun round to stare at him, frowning in concentration.

“You think they’re right for this, don’t you?”

George nodded with conviction. “Harold Magge, he’d do anything you’d ask,” he said firmly while the almost black eyes held his. “And Stephen the Crocker and Thomas Horsho’ll do what Harold tells them.”

Thomas turned back to the view. “Good,” he said softly. “I’ve had enough. I want my land back.”

South and east of them as the two men descended, Adam Coyt was putting the last of his cattle in through the gate, and setting off with his dogs to stroll round the old moorstone enclosure while he checked for weaknesses in the wall.

He had spent all his life on the moors. As a boy he had played out on the open lands, the huge rolling plains between Lydford and Chagford, watching the creatures through the seasons. Rabbits, deer and hart, wolves and foxes, he knew them all as well as he knew the animals on his own farmstead. A moorman, he had known no other life. His father had lived here and his father before him, all the generations working in the cruel climate which so often broke those who did not respect it.

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