[Roger the Chapman 02] - The Plymouth Cloak (12 page)

'That's as may be,' I answered, swallowing my resentment at his reading of my character. 'But that's between him and her. Our priority is to make as little stir here as possible. If Edgar Warden starts complaining about you in the local alehouse, your whereabouts will soon be common property. We need to lie low. And since you have still failed to ask, I found no one in the woods this morning.'

'What?' He stared at me for a moment, obviously puzzled.

Then he recollected. 'Oh... Yes.' He seemed disconcerted, unsure how to reason away his forgetfulness. 'I came to the conclusion, after you had gone, that I had been mistaken.

What I saw was no more than a shadow of some branches moving in the breeze.' It was a lame explanation and he knew it. Before I could cavil, he got swiftly to his feet.

'Judging by the sun, it must be nearly noon. Dinner will be eaten and cleared away if we don't hurry.'

I let the matter drop, but resolved to keep an even closer eye on Philip and not let myself be duped again. But the suspicion that he had used my absence for some purpose of his own was stronger than ever.

The rest of the day passed as I feared much of the week before us must pass, eating and dozing and eating again. The life of the manor went on around us, but we had no active part to play. Philip attributed the servants' lack of curiosity about us to whatever explanation o four presence the steward had seen fit to give them.

'For you must know," he said, 'that I felt it necessary to tell Alwyn at least some of the truth.'

'I guessed as much.' I forbore to mention that I had imparted the whole story, including some bits of it which I was sure he would rather not have had told, to Janet Overy.

If the lady kept her counsel, as I felt certain she would, I saw no need to excite his anger. The only thing which worried me was Janet's fear that we might have been overheard, in spite of her later conviction that we could not have been.

Neither of us strayed from the courtyard, spending the afternoon with our backs propped against a wall of the house, basking in the frail warmth of the October sun and waiting until it should be four o'clock and supper-time. I guessed Philip was beginning to realize, as I had already done, that Trenowth Manor offered little more in the way of diversion than the Turk's head, and hoped that he would become reconciled to the fact. Otherwise, he was likely to try and make his own amusement, an attempt which would inevitably, in my view, involve Isobel Warden.

We attended Vespers in the manor chapel, which, on this Eve of St Faith, was conducted by the parish priest in the absence of the Trenowth chaplain, who had accompanied his master and mistress to London. He came fussing across the churchyard, hot and flustered and with apologies for being late, just as we were sitting down to supper. His rheumy old eyes brightened at the sight of the laden table, and there was no possibility of his refusing to stay and share it after the service. When we were all once more assembled in the kitchen and seated round the table, the first rumblings of hunger appeased by boiled chicken, bacon and peas, he allowed his attention to wander, settling it on Philip and myself.

'Alwyn has been telling me that you are a friend of Sir Peveril,' he said to Philip, 'and that you are travelling in this part of the country.' He raised his shaggy eyebrows, plainly inviting further confidences, but Philip merely grunted and continued eating. The priest went on unctuously: 'Sir Peveril is a good man. A great benefactor of the church." 'A very fine fellow,' Philip agreed and helped himself to a second portion of chicken.

'As for you sir,' the priest, whom the others addressed as Father Anselm, persevered, 'may I say how pleasant it is to find a gentleman who does not object to taking his meals with the lowlier members of the household and a humble parish priest, such as myself.'

'I don't like eating alone,' Philip answered brusquely, cramming his mouth with food and so preventing himself from speaking further.

Father Anselm smiled thinly, accepting that he was being bested in a game at which he normally excelled; extracting information from other people. 'Nevertheless, I regard it as praiseworthy that you do not hold aloof from your fellow men, unlike the other stranger in our midst who arrived at the ale-house in the village this morning. Not only did he not come to church for Vespers, but Thomas Aylward, the landlord, tells me that he has not deigned to leave his room since his arrival, and must have all his meals carried up to him by one of the serving wenches.'

I saw Philip's hand waver as it conveyed more food to his mouth, and my head jerked up.

'A stranger?' I demanded. 'In the village?' Village was perhaps too dignified a description of Trenowth, through which we had passed at first light that morning. A cluster of cottages grouped around church and hostelry served those families who worked on the manor but did not live in the house itself. The hamlet was set back from the water's edge on a spit of land embraced by the sheltering arm of a small tributary of the river. It had looked prosperous enough in the rosy light of dawn, and plainly benefited from the protection of Sir Peveril and his lady.

Father Anselm must have heard the note of alarm in my voice because he looked surprised and a little curious.

'I admit we are isolated here, and out of the mainstream of events, but strangers are not unknown, as you and your master bear witness. And with the news which reached us yesterday, that the Earl of Oxford has taken St Michael's Mount, I should imagine that we may expect some coming and going of authority even in this backwater.' Philip had cleared his mouth by now and recovered his self-control. He kicked me sharply under the table.

'You are quite right, Father. Such a serious event is bound to make traffic on the roads. This haughty gentleman staying at the inn sounds as though he might well be about the King's business.' He deftly changed the conversation, deflecting the priest's interest with a query that took my breath away. 'Will you be hearing confessions before you leave us?'

'Of course, my son.' Father Anselm was immediately reminded of his parish duties. 'For all those who wish to make them, I shall be in the chapel after supper.' I could not imagine Philip Underdown wishing to cleanse his soul, but I could appreciate the sleight of hand by which he had made good my blunder. Too much interest shown in the stranger lodging at the ale-house could be reported to the landlord, who, in his turn, might reveal our presence to his guest. Personally, I had very little hope of the fact being kept secret for any length of time, and if the visitor were indeed our gentleman of Buckfast Abbey he must already have a pretty good idea of our refuge. But he might also be a perfectly innocent traveller, and until I had confirmed his identity by some careful reconnaissance on the morrow, it would be as well to allay Father Anselm's curiosity and to curb his obvious propensity to gossip.

I glanced around the table. Apart from the priest, Philip and myself, the only other people present were Janet Overy, the steward, two of the little kitchen-maids, who slept in the kitchen at nights, snug on straw pallets by the warmth of the fire, and Isobel and Edgar Warden, who were housed in the servants' quarters along with the housekeeper and Alwyn.

Everyone else had homes in the village and would walk up to the house each morning as soon as the gates were open. I caught Janet Overy' s eye and looked away quickly. Only she, except my companion and myself, had realized the possible significance of the stranger's presence at the inn because I had told her the whole story, and that indiscretion I had to keep secret from Philip at any cost: I could weather his anger, but not his scorn. Of the rest, Alwyn plainly knew too little to scent any danger, Isobel Warden kept her eyes sullenly on her plate - the badge of her husband's wrath showing in a dark bruise on one side of her face - while Edgar was preoccupied with his own thoughts, none of them happy ones, judging by the venomous glances he kept darting at Philip.

When the meal was at last finished and cleared away, Father Anselm said that he would hear confessions as soon as possible, as the October evenings were drawing in and he wished to get back to the presbytery before twilight. He bustled off across the courtyard to the chapel, which was situated in the comer, between the laundry and the great chamber.

I grinned and hissed in Philip's ear: 'The biter bit. I'm afraid you have no choice but to go first.' We were standing at the kitchen door, looking out at the thin veil of blue dusk which was beginning to shroud the buildings. I added on a more serious note: 'This stranger, do you think he's our attacker?'

'My attacker!' was the abrasive answer. 'That's why I've given you the letter. D'you have it safe?' I nodded and he went on: 'It may be that we were followed after all. But we saw no one, and I'm inclined to doubt it. We are beginning to look for trouble where none exists and jump at our own shadows. You would have had the priest agog with curiosity but for my timely intervention.' He said on an ugly note: 'And now thanks to your stupidity I'm committed to making my confession, something I've avoided doing these many years.' He laughed mirthlessly. 'I could tell a tale which would make the poor man die of fright, but I shan't. What's the point? No penance he could give me would wipe away my sins. When I die, I'm going straight to Hell.'

CHAPTER 10

It had been one of those pearled, iridescent evenings when the sky seemed to have sucked all the colour from the earth into one vast lake of shimmering whiteness in the heavens.

But when I emerged from the chapel, the day, surely one of the longest of my life, was drawing to its close. Torches were being lit, licking the growing darkness with bright tongues of flame. I had been the last to make my confession, and Father Anselm followed me out, making his hurried farewells to Janet Overy and the steward, who bolted and barred the great gates after him, the housekeeper finally locking the wicket door on the left-hand side.

Philip was waiting for me, a sardonic grin on his face.

'Cleansed and purged,' he said, laughing. 'Two Hail Mary's and I'm as good as new. How easy it is to fool these priests.' 'But not God,' I answered quietly, expecting the vials of his scorn to be poured upon my head.

But instead, his features were wiped clean of all expression and he made no reply. We walked the few steps to the great chamber door, both of us ready for bed, even though it was still early. The housekeeper and the steward called good night and returned to the kitchen, no doubt to chat and drink mulled ale until they, too, felt sleepy. I again felt a stab of guilt when I thought of the revelations I had made to Janet Overy. What, after all, did I know of her? I sighed. The Duke should never have placed his trust in me. I was not cut out for such a devious and underhanded business. Once more, I was tempted to make a clean breast of my indiscretion to Philip, and once morn my courage failed me.

We mounted the staircase and entered our room at the end of the short corridor. I laid my cudgel down alongside the truckle-bed and went to the window to shut it. As I leaned out, I cast an anxious glance around, but all seemed quiet, and at the same moment the light finally trembled and died, turning cold and ashen under a darkening sky. I secured the wooden shutter, then closed the window from inside. As I pushed it to, it squeaked slightly on its iron hinges. I sat down on the edge of my bed and pulled off my boots. Philip had already removed his and was unlacing his jerkin.

'You think I was a fool to come here, don't you?' he asked abruptly.

I was startled. It was the first time in the five days we had known one another that he had shown any interest in my opinion, or indeed intimated that I should have one.

'I think we should have done as well to remain in Plymouth,' I answered cautiously. 'We had as much protection there as here, and you would have known as soon as the
Falcon
put into harbour.'

There was silence for a moment, before he said with suppressed violence: 'I cannot bear to be cooped up! It frets me to be in a confined space for very long.' He stumbled slightly over 'frets' and it occurred to me that he had almost used the word 'frightens'. He forced a laugh. 'Folly, of course, but I get nightmares about being chained up in the dark.'

I could see that he immediately regretted this admission, and realized that he had made it as a sort of aftermath to his confession to the priest. I said quickly, to put him at his ease: 'I, too, have bad dreams at times, usually the consequence of too much ale or sour bread. And you thought that here, at least, we should have the run of the house and not be confined to one room as at the Turk's Head.'

He nodded, apparently relieved that I had made light of his weakness. 'I heard of Trenowth Manor some years ago, one summer when my brother and I were working the hamlets and villages on the Devon side of the river, and I came across the Tamar to see if Sir Peveril had any valuable piece of jewellery or silver he might wish to sell. It was the time of Princess Margaret's marriage to the Duke of Burgundy, and many of the lesser gentry were finding it hard to raise enough money in order to ingratiate themselves with a suitable wedding present.'

'And did he?'

Philip gave a dry laugh. 'I did not even gain access to the courtyard on that occasion, but was sent about my business by Alwyn - who obviously has no recollection of the incident.'
 

'Just as well, since you had to convince him that you are a friend of his master.' I ran my fingers over the stubble on my chin. 'What exactly did you tell him?'