A Moorland Hanging

Baldwin gri

This time it was frustration at being sent to mediate between two parties whose views and wishes were so utterly at odds with each other. From the little Baldwin had heard, there was no likelihood of Simon being able to please both groups. The needs of the miners and the landowners in the moors were too intertwined and yet mutually exclusive to permit of an easy resolution – the King himself would have to rule an agreement. He studied his friend sympathetically for a moment.

“Still, Simon, I was pleased to see that your own Peter has thrived.”

The bailiff threw him a quizzical grin at the mention of his son. “Thanks for changing the subject,” he said. “Yes, Peter is fine, thanks to God! And Hugh is devoted to him.” The boy was a long-awaited blessing. Simon and Margaret, his wife, doted on their daughter Edith, but both had longed for a brother for her. Their wishes had finally been fulfilled the previous year, and Simon’s servant Hugh had taken to the baby immediately, a fact which occasionally led to arguments between him and Simon’s daughter as they bickered over who should look after him.

Some way farther on, Baldwin shifted in his saddle. “Have you heard about affairs on the Scottish marches?” The bailiff threw him a baffled glance as he continued: “It seems that the Pope has been so infuriated by the wars between the Scottish and English that he sent two cardinals to try and negotiate a peace.”

“A peace between the Bruce and Edward? Never!” Simon snorted. “None of the King’s men in England want to see the Bruce keep what he’s stolen, and he’s unlikely to agree to give it all up.”

“It may become easier. Now that the Irish have begun to force his men back, he may accept that over there, his conquests have stretched as far as they are going to. Perhaps he will think about agreeing to peace at last.”

“I’m not so sure. A man like that’s got no honor. He swore fealty to the King’s father when he was Earl of Carrick – how could he be trusted again?”

“Easily, old friend. That was a political promise,” said Baldwin cynically. “Since then he has been crowned King. After all, our own blessed monarch Edward is a vassal of France for Gascony, and yet he has not given homage to King Philip, has he?”

“Ah, but that’s different. King Edward’s an honorable man, and he’s gone to France to pay homage over the last few years – but how often should he be expected to go? Each time he returns, the French King dies, and he must turn around and go back to swear to the successor. No, it’s different with the madman of Scotland. He refuses to come and pay homage to his English King.”

“I am not so sure it is quite that straightforward, Simon. Still, we can but hope for peace. The last thing the country needs is more war.”

“Were the cardinals successful?”

“No. Not quite,” Baldwin said slowly, and then he chortled quietly. When he continued, it was in the unhurried ma

“What happened to them?”

“Oh, they were unharmed. Their pride was more hurt than their persons! Of course, their horses and money were stolen, but they were not hampered apart from that. The additional exercise will probably have done the honorable cardinals some good.”

“I suppose that’ll put paid to any hint of peace. If those damned Scotch rebels dare to attack and rob the Pope’s cardinals on the way to meet their lord…”

“Ah, Simon!” The knight roared with laughter, making his friend stare at him uncomprehendingly.

“You mustn’t jump to conclusions! It wasn’t the Scots who attacked the cardinals, it was a band led by an Englishman.”

“No Englishman would dare!”

“Sir Gilbert Middleton did. He had resorted to outlawry. I hear he thought that if the King was unable to protect people up on the northern marches, he might as well take advantage of the fact. He was caught at the end of last year, and I expect his head is on a lance in London even now, for the embarrassment he has given the King.”

“How do you find out these things?” Simon muttered, torn between resentment at the laughter and an urge to join in.

“Simple,” the older man told him. “I speak to travellers. Most people are happy to tell their news to an interested man. And I still sometimes have… friends come and visit me.”

His words made them both quiet for a minute. It was more than ten years since the arrest in 1307 of the “Poor Fellow – Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon,” the Knights Templar, and here in England they were all but forgotten, their lands divided and sold off or in the hands of their rivals, the Knights Hospitaller. But neither Baldwin nor Simon could forget the Order, for Baldwin had been a member of the outlawed and disgraced group.

There was a view, commonly held in England and Scotland, that the Knights Templar were i

“So,” Simon mused after a time, “the Pope wants to see peace as well, does he? That could be helpful. Maybe he can persuade the Bruce to stop his raiding.”

“Do not place too much store on his ability to bring an end to the wars, my friend.” Baldwin smiled wryly. “The Pope has already excommunicated the Bruce, after all. And if you had been crowned King of the Scots, I doubt you would be pleased to receive a letter from the Pope addressed to ‘You, who call yourself King of Scotland!’ If Pope John wants peace, he will need to try harder than that!”

They were still chuckling at this as they rode down a shallow slope from which the sweep of the moors could be seen. For Baldwin, unused to the area, it was an awesome sight. Bright grass gleamed in the sun, some thin and cropped by cattle, some long and spindly like reeds, both sliced apart in places by silvery trails of glistening water trickling to blue pools. Their path was a dark slash meandering between softly molded hillocks surmounted with moorstones, a landscape which would have been bleak in winter, Baldwin felt, but which now seemed full of promise with the high singing of larks in the dear sky and the constant tinkling music of the water.