[Roger the Chapman 02] - The Plymouth Cloak (11 page)

One of the laundrywomen emerged from the laundry, carrying a basket of washing under one arm. She gave me good-day and followed me under the arch into the meadow, where she began spreading out the wet clothes on the grass to dry. I went on my way towards the belt of trees, plunging down the track which led to the river's edge, slowing my pace and peering cautiously from one side to the other. The bright sunlight paled and dimmed, struggling to penetrate the interlaced branches overhead. The leaves were already turning, and occasionally the breeze would shake some loose, floating them to earth like delicate flakes of beaten copper.

Gripping my cudgel more firmly, I left the track and began to explore among the undergrowth, where last year's leaf mould still clung about the trunks and roots of stunted young trees, unable to force their way upwards into the light.

It was very quiet and from time to time I paused, hearing nothing but the thudding of my heart. Once, from the path now hidden from my view, I heard the rumble of a cart and the shout of the carter to his assistant to, 'mind that those logs at the back are tied securely!'; firewood for the coming winter was being carded from the saw-pit up to the house.

I had no sense of being watched, only a feeling of being completely alone. In spite of what I myself thought I had seen at the ferry crossing, I was seized by the growing conviction that Philip had in fact seen nothing, and that he had deliberately got me out of the way while he went in search of Isobel Warden. It would now be an object with him to revenge himself upon the bailiff, and in what better way could he do that than by seducing his wife? Common sense told me that even Philip Underdown would not be so foolish, yet I found myself crashing through the trees and running up the track to the gatehouse as though the Green Man himself were at my heels. I ran across the courtyard and the great chamber, took the stairs three at a time and burst into our room...

Philip was sprawled, sound asleep and snoring, on the bed.

Feeling extremely foolish and more than a little ashamed of my suspicions, I gently closed the door on his recumbent form and wondered what to do next. It seemed pointless to return immediately to the woods to carry on my search. If there had indeed been anyone there, he would have withdrawn long ago, disturbed by my noisy exit. I realized that although it was probably less than an hour since breakfast, my walk had made me hungry again, so I made my way to the kitchen in the hope of finding something more to eat.

The courtyard was bustling now, with people coming and going about their daily work, but the kitchen was temporarily deserted by everyone except Janet Overy, who was standing at a long table at the far end of the room, checking the day's produce which had evidently been brought by one of the men from the walled garden at the back of the house. She turned when she heard me come in and smiled.

'Are you hungry?' she asked, wiping her hands on a cloth and advancing towards me.

'How did you guess?' I asked sheepishly. 'I must have eaten enough for two at breakfast.'

She laughed. 'Get away with you! A great lad like you needs constant sustenance. I know. I was married to one myself.' She bade me sit down, producing bread and cheese and a plate of almond milk doucettes, which she told me she had baked freshly that morning. Then she filled a mazer with ale, drawn from a cask in the comer, and sat down to keep me company at the table. She looked hot and flushed from the warmth of the kitchen, and I guessed she was glad to rest for a moment. 'You remind me somewhat of my husband,' she added.

'Have you been widowed long?' I asked through a mouthful of bread and cheese.

Sorrow veiled her face. 'Eight or nine years. Maybe more.

Time passes so swiftly, it's not always easy to keep track of its flight. Hugh was a fisherman - he owned his own boat.

He and two of his men were drowned at sea a week before our son was born.'

I paused in the act of raising the mazer to my lips and stretched out a hand to lay it over hers. 'I'm sorry. But the boy must be a great comfort to you.'

I knew I had said the wrong thing by the look on her face.

It was like the shadow of death as it fans from chin to brow, flattening the features and emptying them of all animation.

'I lost him,' she said, 'when he was five years old. One of the loveliest children you ever saw, as fair-haired and blue-eyed as you are. But that's enough of me and my affairs.' She spoke with a fierce, determined cheerfulness, daring me to pursue the subject. 'Tell me about yourself. What are you doing with Master Underdown? You're too young to have been with him in the old days.'

I had foreseen the question and had been wondering just how much of the truth I could impart if she asked it. There was no doubt that Alwyn the steward had been the recipient, to some extent, of Philip's confidence, and I was unsure how far he could be trusted to say nothing at all to Mistress Overy, his nearest in rank and importance among the servants.

Besides, if Philip and I had been followed from Plymouth, extra vigilance from additional pairs of eyes could do us no harm and might even forestall any danger. Moreover, the responsibility for my companion's safety was beginning to weigh heavily on my shoulders. The two days which the Duke had imposed on me had stretched now to five, with more yet to come. I needed to share my burden with someone, and Mistress Overy, although of course younger, reminded me very much of my mother. She had the same air of serenity, of having all life's answers, that my mother had possessed; the ability to lure secrets out of you, even when you have determined to say nothing, I knew I should probably confide in no one, but the desire to talk was overwhelming.

I looked over my shoulder to make sure that we were still alone, gave a nervous glance a! the open door and window, lowered my voice almost to a whisper and plunged into my story.

CHAPTER 9

When I had finished speaking, Janet Overy rose and refilled my mazer, then resumed her place at the table, folding her hands in front of her.

'A remarkable story,' she said, 'with another behind it that you haven't told me, or why would so important a personage as the King's own brother have picked on you for such a mission? Rest assured, I shall certainly keep my eyes open for any strangers about the manor. As for Silas Bywater, I think I know the man you mean. I recollect seeing him once in Master Underdown's company when I went to Plymouth for stores. My son was with me at the time.' She changed the subject abruptly, balking at memories which were too painful to bear.

'You'll keep what I've told you to yourself,' I urged. 'Although I think Alwyn may know something.'
 

She smiled. 'I don't gossip with kitchen-maids... What was that?' She rose suddenly from the table, one finger held up in warning. On silent feet, she crossed to the door and looked outside, while I watched her anxiously. After a moment or two she turned round with a shake of her head.

'There's no one there. I'm hearing things. In any case,' she added optimistically, 'I don't think anyone could have overheard us. We've been keeping our voices low.' Relieved, but not quite convinced, I went outside to see for myself. The courtyard was still busy - the logs which I had earlier heard being carted up the track were now safely unloaded and stowed beneath the undercroft - but there was no one near the kitchen. I went back inside to finish the last of the doucettes. As I did so, I remembered something and opened the pouch attached to my belt, pulling out the limp, withering stem of knotgrass.

'This is what Silas Bywater asked me to give Master Underdown. Does it mean anything to you?'

The housekeeper picked it up and stared curiously at it before shaking her head. 'It's just knotgrass, as you told me. It's a common enough weed.'

'My mother once told me that it was poisonous.' Mistress Overy looked doubtful. 'I've never heard that said of it. But I don't know everything,' she admitted cheerfully, 'and your mother could have been right.' She put her head on one side, considering me. 'I thought you said Philip Underdown threw it away after you'd shown it to him. If that was the case, how do you still come to have it?'

'I picked it up and put it in my pouch when he wasn't looking. Don't ask me why. I suppose I was just curious about it and the effect it had on him. I could see that it meant something, even though he strenuously denied it. I'd forgotten about it until just now. Here, I'll get rid of it.'

I carried the grass to the door and tossed it outside. A small breeze caught it, whirling it up into the air, then dropping it in the dust of the courtyard.

'I'm keeping you from your work,' I said. 'Thank you for the food and for listening to me. I'll go now.'

'Get some rest,' she advised me, 'like your so-called master. James and Luke should have taken the truckle-bed up to your room by now. I'll send one of them to wake you if I see or hear anything suspicious. After being up all night, you must be tired.'

I acknowledged the fact and thanked her yet again. I was glad I had told her the truth. Janet Overy was a capable woman, and I trusted her ability to do as she had promised.

Furthermore, there was a good stout lock on the bedroom chamber door and a key to go with it. Neither Philip nor I could be surprised by anyone, provided I shut the window, for the vine worried me a little. When I reached the room, I found that the truckle-bed had indeed been set up against one wall, but its arrival appeared not to have disturbed my companion, who was still snoring lustily.

I laid down my cudgel, kicked off my boots and, without even stopping to remove my jacket, dropped on to the narrow mattress and was soon as soundly asleep as Philip. And, for all I know, as loudly snoring.

The sun was high in the sky when I awoke, and pouring in through the leaded panes of the window. Philip was sitting up on his bed, watching me closely.

'Ah,' he said, swinging his feet to the ground, 'you're awake at last, are you? I've been thinking.'

I was barely attending to his words, caught as I was by the sudden realization that I had exchanged one prison for another; the Turk's Head for Trenowth Manor, and that there was still a week of Philip Underdown's company to be endured before I was finally relieved of my charge. More, perhaps, if the situation on St Michael's Mount convinced King Edward that the
Falcon
must remain where she was. I thought longingly of my own company, the open road and freedom from care as I peddled my wares from one village to another. If only I had decided against visiting Exeter last Thursday morning, I should not now be wet-nursing a man I found it increasingly difficult to like.

I became aware that Philip was thrusting something at me. 'So here,' he said, 'you take it.'

'W-what?' I stuttered, trying to gather my thoughts together.

He almost spat in exasperation. 'You haven't listened to a word I've been saying. I want you to keep the King's letter until it' s time for me to embark at Plymouth next week - if all goes well, that is.' His reservations uncomfortably echoed my own. 'Put it somewhere safe.'

'Why?' I demanded, making no move to accept the letter from him.

'Because, as I have just explained, while your wits were plainly woolgathering, if - which St Michael and all his angels forfend! - anything should happen to me, it could be the first thing my attacker would look for about my person.

No one,' he sneered, 'would think of you carrying it. Put it in your pouch and guard it with your life.' The look he gave me implied that this was not a very valuable commodity.

I could see the force of his argument and was faintly surprised that he should show so much concern and foresight for his mission. Until now, he had behaved, in spite of all that had happened to him, as if he were immune to danger.

But at last he was beginning to act like a sensible man, conscious of his responsibilities. It was not therefore for me to discourage him. I took the letter, sealed with the royal seal, and put it into my pouch as he requested. I felt weighed down even further, as though my burden had increased tenfold.

It suddenly occurred to me that he had not asked about the stranger he swore he had seen that morning from the window. An odd omission for someone who had displayed so much anxiety at the time. And now I came to think of it, it was also strange that he had not stayed awake long enough for my report, but had fallen asleep on the bed. My earlier uneasiness returned. What had he been up to in my absence?

'Isobel Warden,' I began abruptly, then hesitated. 'what about her?'

'It would be foolish to antagonize the husband. We have other enemies to think about. To make another, deliberately, of the bailiff would be courting unnecessary trouble.' The curl of his lip became more pronounced. 'Do you think I'm a fool? I can work that out for myself.' 'I think you're rash and can be hasty when provoked. Although in this case, it was you who offered the provocation.'

He turned his head so that the light from the window fell on his bruised lip and swollen jaw. 'You don't call this provocation?'

'No. Retaliation. You knew the lady was married before you touched her.'

Philip laughed and sat down on the edge of the bed. 'Holy Mother preserve us! What a prudish, pious young man you are, Roger Chapman! And if you think Isobel Warden is a lady, let me tell you you're mistaken. That woman is a harlot if ever I saw one. Before their marriage is much older, her husband will have more to get angry about than one arm around her waist and a gentle squeeze.'