[Roger the Chapman 02] - The Plymouth Cloak (13 page)

He yawned cavernously and stretched his arms above his head until the bones cracked. 'As little as possible. That I am an agent for the Government, that I need asylum for a few days, and that my friend Sir Peveril, as a true adherent of the House of York, would wish me to stay here. So now, all I have to do is to keep myself amused for a week. That shouldn't be too difficult.'

'If you're thinking of Isobel Warden -' I began, but he interrupted me with a vicious snap of his fingers.

'How I entertain myself is my affair, so keep your nose out of it. It's your job to see that nothing happens to me, no more.

I can look after myself when it comes to women.' He gave an ugly grin. 'God knows, when it comes to jealous husbands I've had sufficient practice.'

I saw that he was in no mood to be reasonable, so I decided to say nothing further for the time being. Indeed, I had no energy left for argument. Our journeying of last night and the events of today had made me very tired. I was now stripped down to my shirt and hose and suggested that we get to sleep. Philip was agreeable, so I crossed to the chest against the wall to blow out the candle. As I stooped to do so, I noticed that someone had placed a small nosegay of daisies alongside the candlestick, and in the middle of the bunch was the stem of knotgrass. I knew it for the same one I had thrown away earlier because it was dry and limp and shrivelled.

I must have made a noise of some sort - a quick intake of breath or a murmur of dismay - for Philip asked sharply: 'What's the matter?'

I thought swiftly. Better by far to let him rest soundly tonight and delay telling him about my find until the morning.

'Nothing,' I said. 'A drop of wax from the candle fell on my hand, that's all.'

I dropped the flowers down between the wall and the side of the chest and returned to bed, pulling the blankets up around my chin, but the discovery worried me. I lay stating into the darkness, full of uneasiness and foreboding. Who had rescued the stem of knotgrass from the courtyard and taken the trouble to place it in our room? What was its significance to Philip? And why had whoever it was picked the daisies? Added to these worries was the memory of my dream; although I comforted myself with the belief that its message was not necessarily of an event which had to happen, but a warning of something which might be prevented. Who was the stranger at the ale-house in the village? My mind was whirling.

Philip called softly: 'Roger!'

'What?' My tone was abrupt. I had just begun to doze and I was irritated at having been awakened.

'I want you to keep watch outside the door tonight. I'll feel happier. If anyone tries to get in, he'll have to get past you first and you can raise the alarm.'

If I had had all my wits about me I might have protested, or smelt a rat. But finding the knotgrass had disturbed me. I pushed back the covers and swung my feet to the floor.

'Mind you lock the door behind me, then.' I put on my jerkin for warmth, made certain that my pouch, containing the letter, was safely bestowed with the rest of my belongings, and picked up my mattress and blankets. I also bent down for my cudgel, but decided against it. If I were attacked in the dark, it would be too unwieldy a weapon with which to defend myself in the confined space of the corridor. I tucked my knife into my belt instead.

A few moments later, having settled my mattress and myself on the stone flags of the passageway, I heard Philip turn the key and then remove it from the lock as an added precaution. After that, silence descended. I covered myself once more with the blankets and tried to keep awake.

It was, of course, impossible. I dozed, woke and dozed again. Eventually, I fell into a troubled sleep and a jumble of nonsensical dreams. Then, suddenly, I found myself sitting bolt upright, my ears straining. All was quiet. I pressed my ear against the keyhole. Silence reigned...

My heart began to beat a little faster. The silence, surely, was too profound. Philip Underdown was a man who snored, as I had learned to my cost during our nights spent in the same room at Buckfast Abbey and the Turk's head. And why had I said yes so readily to his suggestion that I sleep outside the door? I had been all kinds of a fool ever to agree to it, I could see that now. I called through the keyhole: 'Philip!' There was no reply. I called again, louder, but there was still no answer. At last, after several more attempts, I threw caution to the wind and shouted his name, at the same time hammering loudly on the door. The noise I was making should have awakened the dead, and I was thankful that we were housed on the opposite side of the courtyard from the servants. Frantically, I lifted and rattled the latch, but of course it was useless. The door was locked from within.

Cursing myself for the greatest idiot unhung, I clapped one eye to the keyhole, but was unable to see anything except a paler darkness. I was locked out of the room and something had happened to Philip.

It was then I remembered the knife in my belt and Nicholas Fletcher, one of my fellow novices at Glastonbury.

Nicholas, in his green years, had travelled with his mother in a troupe of jugglers and dancers, often thrown into the company of rogues and vagabonds. From one of these he had learned how to pick locks and, in an idle moment, had passed on that knowledge to me. I had never expected to find a use for it, but now I slid the knife from its sheath and inserted the blade into the lock. For a desperate moment, I could not recall exactly what to do, but my retentive memory stood me in good stead and within seconds, I heard the wards slide free. I flung open the door and fairly hurled myself inside the room.

The bed was empty, the covers thrown back, and both the window and the shutter swinging wide on their hinges. I pushed the leaded glass in its iron frame back against the inner wall and sent the wooden shutter clattering against the outer. My eyes were now accustomed to the dark, and by leaning over the sill I could just make out the damage done to the vine where Philip had used it as a ladder. He had patently gone of his own free will, to keep some appointment or assignation of which I knew nothing. But where? The woods or the river bank were the obvious answers, for there was no way he could re-enter the courtyard without a key to unlock the gate, and that was in the safe-keeping of the steward. I was sure I was right, for apart from being a natural assumption, there was also the memory of my dream...

I prayed desperately that I should be in time to prevent its fulfilment. I had congratulated myself this morning for having the sense to recognize the vine as a means of entry into the bedchamber, but I had overlooked the fact that it could equally well be used as a means of escape. And I should have foreseen that possibility as soon as Philip set eyes on Isobel Warden. How Isobel would manage to get free from the locked compound I did not at that moment pause to examine very closely, but the Trenowth manor house was not fortified, and there were undoubtedly many ways of getting in and out after the gates were locked if you knew them. Such considerations, however, could wait. The only thing which concerned me now was to find Philip and bring him back safely to the house.

I turned and felt beside the flame of the truckle-bed for my cudgel, intending to throw it out of the window ahead of me and retrieve it when I reached the ground. But it had gone, and I realized that Philip must have taken it. Cursing under my breath, I clambered on to the window-sill, leant sideways, managed to get a grip on the vine and cautiously allowed my legs to swing free until they, too, found a toe-hold among the branches. Minutes later, my feet came into contact with solid earth and I knew that I was down. With a quick, whispered prayer of thankfulness, I trod across the grass to the track leading to the mill, the saw-pit, the river and the village, set amongst its surrounding swathe of trees.

*
 
*
 
*

A freshening breeze stirred the branches which arched and interlaced above me. I could feel the unevenness of the path beneath my feet and hear the scuffiings of some small, nocturnal animal as it hurried to safety beneath a tangle of briers and bushes. My apprehension was turning to fear for Philip's safety as I padded slowly forward, my feet making no sound, except for the occasional snapping of a twig. I raised my eyes for a moment, glimpsing the crescent moon riding cold and high between the gathering clouds. The weather was changing, an autumnal squall blowing in from the sea.

Below me, where the bank dropped sheer and the bushes thinned, I could see a glint of the Tamar. Several times I stopped to glance back over my shoulder, listening intently for any noise which might indicate Philip's whereabouts, although common sense suggested that I should find him with Isobel Warden among the long grass bordering the river. I was conscious of a prickle of sweat across my shoulder-blades.

I paused at each twist and bend of the path, scanning the darkness ahead. Once an owl swooped low across my line of vision, gliding silently from one perch to another. The sudden movement startled me and I stood stock-still, my breath coming short and fast, my heart pounding in my breast. Then, carefully, I resumed my walk, aware that I had almost completed the descent, and in a few more moments I was standing level with the river. There was a break in the trees and I was able to make out the broad expanse of water stretching to the farther bank, silvered fleetingly with moonlight.

I called softly: 'Philip! Philip, are you there?' Receiving no answer, I prowled warily forward, the tall grasses reaching half way up my legs. The owl hooted in the trees behind me..

The toe of my left boot stubbed against some large object lying half hidden amongst the vegetation. The hairs on the nape of my neck rose in horror, and I glanced down just as the fragile crescent moon emerged once more from behind the clouds, allowing me to make out the shape of a body. 'Mary, Mother of God,' I prayed fervently, 'don't let it be Philip.' On trembling legs, I forced myself to stoop and peer more closely.

He was lying face down. I put out a hand and touched the back of his head, then withdrew it quickly. I felt the wet stickiness on my fingers which could only mean blood.

Philip's skull had been beaten in. I had broken my dream.

I sat back on my heels, trying to stop the shaking which seemed to possess every part of my body. My brain had ceased to function and I have no idea how long I stayed like that, without any awareness of the passage of time, devoid of all sensations. All too soon, however, the numbness passed, plunging me into a whirlpool of conflicting and panic stricken emotions. But gradually these too were brought under control and I forced myself to try and think clearly. I crossed myself, then began feeling the earth around the body, searching for anything which might possibly have been dropped by the murderer and so give me a lead to his identity.

I found it, but it was not what I had hoped for or expected.

With mounting horror my fingers identified the boles and knot-holes of my own stout cudgel, and one end of it was still wet with blood. My mind raced, darting frantically from side to side like a squirrel in a cage. Philip had brought it with him to his assignation as a protection against attack, but it had been wrenched from him and used to kill him. So much was clear to me, but what was even clearer was that if I left it here and raised the alarm, I myself might come under suspicion. And in order not to betray the Duke of Gloucester's trust in me completely, I should now have to take Philip's place aboard the
Falcon
and carry King Edward's letter to the Breton court. I must return immediately to the house, taking my 'Plymouth Cloak' with me, and leave Philip's body to be discovered by someone else.

But Philip had come to meet another person, and I had no doubt in my mind that it was Isobel Warden. So what had happened to her? Had she changed her mind and not kept her assignation? Had she, on the other hand, been present when Philip was murdered and seen who did it? A moment's swift consideration, however, dismissed this second notion: surely she too would have been killed had this happened. And had she been nearby, yet not close enough to have been noticed by the attacker, then she would be unable to identify him because of the enveloping darkness. In any case, she was unlikely to come forward as a witness, an action which would involve an explanation as to how she came to be abroad in the middle of the night with Philip Underdown.

No, even if she were still lurking, terrified among the trees somewhere, I had nothing to fear from her if I practised my deception.

Rising slowly and cautiously to my feet, I picked up my cudgel and carried it the few feet to the river's edge, the bank in this spot being no more than two feet high. By lying flat on my stomach I was able to trail the end stained with blood in the water, holding it in the swiftly flowing tide. That done, I once again got up and, in a sweat of fear, glancing continuously behind me, retraced my steps to the house and re-entered the way I had left it.

CHAPTER 11

Once back in the room I had shared with Philip, I closed the shutter and secured the window from inside. I made two unsuccessful attempts to light the candle, the first time letting the tinder-box slip through my trembling fingers, the second failing to make sufficient spark between steel and flint to ignite the tinder. On the third occasion, however, I managed to produce a flame and soon had the candle burning.

After that, I was forced to pause for several moments, kneeling beside the chest while the strength returned to my legs, and only then was I able to open the door and retrieve my mattress and blankets from the passageway.