The Plymouth Cloak

PROLOGUE

With some part of my mind, I knew that I was still asleep. I could feel the roughness of the hard stone floor on which I lay; the bundle of hay which served me as a pillow tickled my cheek; the coarse grey blanket, provided by the Hospitallers of St Cross rubbed against my cheek. At the same time, my dream was very real; so real that I could feel the wind in my face as it soughed through the branches of the trees which arched and interlaced above me; feel the unevenness of the path beneath my feet; hear the scuffiings of some small nocturnal animal as it hurried to safety among the tangle of briers and bushes which bordered the track.

I also knew that I was afraid, although of what I was as yet unsure. Apprehension was turning to fear as I padded slowly forward, my boots making no sound on the soft, damp earth, except for the occasional snapping of a twig. If I raised my eyes, I could now and then glimpse the crescent moon, riding cold and high between the clouds. Below me, every once in a while, where the bank dropped sheer and the bushes thinned, I could see the glint of water. Once or twice I hesitated, glancing back over my shoulder as though listening for something or someone, and at these moments I was divorced from my body, a watcher in the shelter of the trees. But almost immediately I was myself again, seeing with my own eyes, my ears straining after every sound, conscious of the prickle of sweat across my shoulder-blades.

I descended slowly, stopping at each twist and bend of the path, scanning the darkness ahead, looking anxiously for something, yet scared of finding it. 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 nearly completed my descent and was standing on a level with the river. For as the path flattened out and the trees drew back, I was able to see the broad expanse of water stretching to the farther bank, silvered fleetingly with moonlight.

I prowled warily forward, the tall grasses which fringed my side of the river reaching half way up my legs. The owl hooted in the trees behind me. Suddenly, the toe of my left boot stubbed against something; some large object lying half hidden among the vegetation. The hairs on the nape of my neck rose, and I knew that I had stumbled on whatever it was I had been so fearful of discovering. I glanced down just as the moon appeared once more from behind the clouds, and I could make out the shape of a body. Whose body it was I had no idea, whether man or woman, young or old; although through the clinging mists of my dream, I somehow knew that I already had this knowledge. I stopped and, overcoming my reluctance, peered more closely.

The person was lying face down. I put out a hand to touch the back of the head, then withdrew it quickly. I felt the wet stickiness on my fingers which could only mean blood. The back of the skull had been beaten in, and whoever it was, was dead …

The scene dissolved around me, and I was lying in a state of sweat and panic on the floor of the almshouse of the Hospital of St Cross in Winchester, where I had been given asylum for the night.