The Plymouth Cloak

CHAPTER 4

Abbot John Kyng was a pleasant, courteous man. At least he seemed so to me, and I cannot recall ever having heard anyone speak ill of him, although I suppose there may have been those who disliked him. At that time, in the year 1473, he had been Abbot of Buckfast for almost nine years and was to remain so for another quarter of a century. A distinguished scholar, he had formerly been Proctor of St Bernard's College, Oxford, and had written several theological treatises which had found favour in Rome.

He rose to greet us as Philip and I entered his cell, the white Cistercian robes hanging loosely on his spare frame. 'I am informed you are on the King's business and need a bed for the night.'

Philip glared at me. 'It is not supposed to be generally known, Father. My companion here was over-zealous in his desire to make certain of our accommodation.' I had the grace to blush. My tongue had indeed run away with me and I had forgotten the need for caution. We should of course have taken our chance with the rest of the travellers and revellers besieging the Abbey for shelter and not drawn attention to ourselves in this manner.

The Abbot, sensing my discomfiture, gave me a reassuring smile. 'The lay brother who brought you to me finishes his present spell of duty at the Abbey tonight and is returning to his farmhouse at first light tomorrow. He is extremely trustworthy and keeps his own counsel. You need have no fear that he will repeat what you told him. As far as anyone else is concerned, you have delivered a message to me from Bishop Bothe, and it will therefore not be thought remarkable if I ensure you have a bed for the night. The Infirmary is unoccupied at present. I will speak to our Brother Infirmarian about your sleeping there. But it will be advisable for you to eat with our other guests. It will give you the necessary opportunity to allay any suspicions which may have been aroused by your preferential treatment. No irreparable harm has been done.'

'No thanks to you,' Philip hissed in my ear as we made our way to the refectory, where the monks were starting to dispense the evening meal. 'I knew I'd have done better on my own.'

I said nothing; partly because there was no real excuse I could offer — I had been careless and that was all there was to it — and partly because I still found it disconcerting to discover that not all churchmen felt themselves bound by the rule of strict truth. They bowed the knee to expediency far oftener than they would like you to think. I suppose I was very green in those days to have expected otherwise. We stood in line to collect our bowl of broth, slice of black bread and wedge of pale, goat’s milk cheese, before going to sit down at one of the long trestle tables. To my relief, no one seemed interested in us or commented on the fact that we had been granted an interview by the Abbot, and I was forced to the conclusion then, as I have been many times since, that generally people are too wrapped up in their own concerns to be fully aware of what is going on around them.

My companion was grumbling morosely about the quality of the food and cursing the Duke's insistence that we started our journey that afternoon instead of waiting for daybreak tomorrow. 'With hard riding,' he added, 'we could have reached Plymouth by nightfall.'

'I couldn't,' I retorted. 'And maybe His Grace thought you were safer out of Exeter. Besides, there's nothing wrong with this broth. It's excellent.'

It was fish soup, hardly surprising with the River Dart so close at hand and plentifully stocked with freshwater fish.

The brothers could take their rods and lines to the banks every day.

Philip Underdown snorted but made no further comment, merely shovelling the food into his mouth as fast as possible.

He was growing bad-tempered again, my presence proving a constant source of irritation to him. I decided to say as little as I could for the rest of the meal and contented myself with looking about me at my fellow diners. Most of them, as the village woman had said, were revellers left over from St Michael's fair, recovering from the effects of too much cider.

Tomorrow, they would wend their way home, north, south, east and west, to various parts of the moor, even as far afield as Plymouth or Exeter, to tell those unfortunate enough to be left behind what an enjoyable time they had had. The drunken stupor of today, the headaches, the blurred vision, would all be forgotten. There were, however, a few bonafide travellers, like ourselves: a couple of mendicant friars — Franciscans, judging by their grey habits — and a soberly dressed, middle aged man sitting at the end of a table near us, saying nothing to his neighbours and keeping his eyes fixed on his plate. I stared at him long and hard, but there was no possible way of knowing if this was the man I had seen on the moor earlier in the day. Once, as though conscious of my scrutiny, he half turned his head and raised his eyes fleetingly to mine, but his features remained expressionless. If he had any interest in me and my companion, he gave no sign.

We had almost finished our meal, when there was a sudden commotion behind us, as of someone swearing and rising clumsily to his feet. A moment later, a hand descended on Philip Underdown's shoulder and a voice rasped, 'I thought it was you!'

Philip, who was cleaning out his bowl with the last of his bread, slewed round and glanced up. The man standing over him was short and stocky, with light sandy hair and lashes, a straggling beard slightly more reddish in colour, and a leathery, weather-beaten countenance in which the most striking feature was a pair of very bright blue eyes. His tunic of rough wool was patched and dirty, the brown faded in places nearly to white. A strip of grubby linen wound about his neck served him in place of a shirt and the hand gripping my companion's shoulder was roughened with callouses.

The ferocity of his gaze was sufficient to make me flinch, but Philip Underdown, after a single brief glance, calmly resumed his supper.

'What do you want.'?' he demanded.

'You know damn well what I want!' The man lowered his head until it was on a level with Philip's and I could smell his sour breath. 'I want what's due to me.'

'You got what was due to you two years ago. I paid you off, Silas Bywater, the same as I paid off the others.' 'You promised us more. You said that if we got that rotting hulk of yours safely into port, you'd give every man aboard two gold angels apiece. All we got was a shilling.'

'And lucky to get that.' Philip spoke roughly, his patience wearing thin. 'How could I pay you more until I sold the cargo?' He was anxious now to be shot of this unwelcome acquaintance. They were beginning to attract attention. Heads were craning at adjacent tables in an attempt to see what was going on. He tried to shrug off the hand on his shoulder, but without success. 'Leave me alone!'

The man addressed as Silas Bywater hissed: 'You appointed a time and date and place for us to meet you, so you could give us our share of the proceeds, but you never turned up. The other poor sods decided to make the best of a bad job and went off home to Plymouth. Some of 'em even believed you hadn't been able to get rid of the cargo, but I knew you better than that. I stayed on in London a while and made inquiries. And it was just as I thought. You'd made a nice little profit. Done very well for yourself, and then you'd vanished. You never intended paying me and the rest of the Speedwell's crew any more, did you, you lying bastard?'

One of the brothers hurried across, attracted by the raised voices, his round-cheeked face pink with anxiety, his manner flustered. 'Please cease this bickering immediately,' he said. 'Remember that you are in the House of God.'

'Then get this idiot off my back,' Philip protested. 'The argument's none of my making. I just want to be left alone.'

'I'm not going until I get what's due to me,' Silas Bywater snarled. 'Two years I've been dreaming of this meeting and now, quite by chance, it's here. And to think I nearly didn't come up to the fair! Don't plead poverty, either! You look prosperous enough.'

'I've told you!' Philip roared, losing his temper. 'You'll get nothing from me, not ever! So slink back to whatever kennel you've crawled out of and let me be!'

I decided it was time to take a hand. The little monk was making ineffectual noises and looking around him for reinforcements, but none was forthcoming. His fellows were either in their cells preparing for Compline or about their allotted tasks, and no one else seemed inclined to interfere. I swung my legs over the bench and rose slowly to my feet, pulling myself up to my full height as I did so. Reaching out, I forced Silas Bywater's hand from my companion's shoulder, gripped both his wrists and spun him round to face me.

'Leave my friend alone," I told him quietly, 'or you'll have to deal with me as well.'

He swore furiously and tried to free himself, but in my youth I had enormous strength in my hands. No matter how much he writhed and squirmed, I was still able to hold him without much difficulty. In the end, he had to admit defeat and stared up at me, panting from his exertions. Philip had also risen and was standing beside me, a look of such contempt on his face that I was not surprised when my captive made one last effort to break away. In his shoes, the object of such scorn, I, too, would have wanted to lash out with my fists. I tightened my grip until I heard one of his bones crack. Silas shrieked with pain and I let him go, to sink down on a bench, nursing his injured wrist and pouring forth a flood of imprecations. The little monk pressed both hands over his ears in horror.

I turned to Philip Underdown. 'Let's get out of this. We're attracting too much attention. We've an early start in the morning. It's time we were asleep.'

He nodded, and I gathered my black-handled knife from the table and my bundle and cudgel from beneath the bench, where I had placed them at the start of the meal. In silence, but uncomfortably aware of everyone's eyes upon us, we made our way to the refectory door. As we reached it, Silas Bywater shouted: 'Don't think you've heard the last of this, Master Underdown! I know things about you that you wouldn't want made common knowledge, and don't forget that! I'll get you yet, you hell-hound!'

It was already dark and the bells were ringing from the Abbey church for the last office of the day. I should have liked to share in the brothers' worship, but I dared not leave my companion's side, and instinct told me that Philip Underdown was not a religious man. Of course, he believed in Heaven and Hell like the rest of us, but I guessed that he would have to be in extremis before he seriously considered the state of his soul.

'Do you know where the Infirmary is?' I inquired.

He shook his head. 'No, but we can always ask.' One of the brothers, late for Compline, flapped towards us out of the gloom. In answer to our query, he pointed towards a building which stood a little apart from the others and confirmed that, at present, all the beds were empty, the aches and chills and agues of autumn not yet having begun to take their toll of the community. We thanked him, and I led the way across the courtyard. The door of the Infirmary creaked slightly as I opened it and edged inside.

The interior was very dark, and the only thing I could make out immediately was the cruciform window at the farther end. But as my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, I could just discern the shape of a trestle, set back against the wall to the right of the doorway; and it was only a matter of moments before my groping fingers encountered what they were seeking, a rush-light in its holder and, nearby, a tinderbox. I managed to strike the flint against the steel and the tinder burst into flame. I lit the rush-light and held it aloft, its flickering, uncertain beam faintly illuminating the two rows of beds which faced each other down the length of the room.

As I knew only too well, the single concession religious houses made to ill health was a thin palliasse fitted inside the wooden frame.

Philip Underdown advanced and began prodding one of these straw-filled mattresses with an air of disdain. He made no comment, however, probably reflecting that we at least had our privacy, and that the Infirmary cots were better than the floor of the Abbey guest-house, surrounded by the smells and sounds of our fellow diners. He removed his doublet and shoes, relieved himself in a comer of the room, checked the contents of the leather pouch attached to his belt and flung himself down on one of the beds, all without saying a word.

I followed suit, but before lying down checked that my knife and cudgel were both to hand, and dragged the trestle across the door, which opened inwards.

My companion snorted derisively. 'You're not afraid of that windbag, Silas Bywater, are you? He's all bluff and always has been. He'll do me no harm. I'll see to that. But in fact, he won't even try.'

'It's not a chance I'm prepared to take,' I answered, trying to adapt my bulk to the narrow frame of the bed. 'The Duke trusts me to see you safely to Plymouth, and I have no intention of betraying that trust if I can help it.' I had blown out the rush-light, but I did not need its pallid rays to see the sneer on Philip Underdown's face. I understood him well enough by now to know that he despised feelings such as loyalty and friendship. What he did, he did for money and for no other reason. I went on quickly: 'You're familiar with these parts, then. Plymouth and its neighbourhood.'

'What makes you say that?'

'Silas Bywater. You recruited him and the rest of the Speedwell's crew from here. Or did I misunderstand him?' There was a slight pause before he replied: 'No. My brother and I traded out of Plymouth as well as Bristol and London. We took on a fresh crew each time, because months, perhaps even a year or more, could elapse between voyages while we assembled a full cargo. Dwarfs were the items that fetched most money, and, as you surmised, they were not always easy to find. Sometimes it meant scouring the country as far north as the Scottish Border. It would have been impractical to keep a regular crew kicking their heels all that while.'

'And when you were in France or Italy? You had to keep your men idle then.'

'Those trips were necessarily shorter. A matter of weeks only. We sold what we'd brought and used the money to restock the ship'. If we found someone like Paolo, as we did that last time, we considered ourselves in luck, but the demand for dwarfs has never been so great in this country as it is abroad, particularly in Italy. But I've told you all this before, although God knows why! You're here to protect me, not pry into my affairs. So I suggest you hold your tongue and go to sleep.'

He hunched himself sideways on his pallet, turning his back towards me. I linked my hands behind my head and stared up at the dimly-seen ceiling. I did not like Philip Underdown and there was something about him which made me uneasy. But I was tired. It had been a long day since I awoke in the shelter of someone's barn, just outside Exeter, early that morning; a day which had not gone as expected, but which had set me instead on the road to Plymouth in the company of this unpleasant man. I dropped one arm over the side of the cot and my fingers closed comfortingly around the handle of my knife, where it lay on the floor beside my cudgel. My senses were swimming and I, too, turned on my side, disposing my long limbs as best I could and nestling my shoulder into the mattress. I was almost across the borderline of sleep when my eyes, flicking open for a brief moment, informed me that there was another door at the opposite end of the Infirmary from which we had entered. There was quite likely a trestle there also, with a rush-light and tinder-box on it, and I knew I should get up and investigate, barring that door as well, if possible. But my body refused to respond when I willed it to rise. My arms and legs were still aching in every sinew and craved rest. If I were to mount that rouncey, now fed and watered and asleep in the Abbot's stables, tomorrow morning, with anything approaching cheerfulness, I had to sleep. My eyes shut obediently, and once again I headed towards the brink of unconsciousness. Philip Underdown was already snoring…

I have no idea what woke me, but suddenly my eyes were wide open. It was impossible to tell how long I had been asleep; long enough, fortunately, to turn on to my other side, facing in Philip Underdown's direction. Someone, a man, was standing over his sleeping form, the right arm raised, the hand holding a knife. Even in the darkness, I could see the pallid gleam of the blade.

I was out of bed before I was even conscious of what I was doing, my right arm locked about the assailant's throat, my left knee in the small of his back. He gave a kind of choking cry and dropped his knife with a clatter on to the stone floor, waking Philip, who immediately sat up, reaching for his dagger. Before he could come to my assistance, however, the man I was holding gave a sudden kick backwards with his right foot, catching me, more by luck than judgement, full in the genitals and causing me to loosen my grip. While I was doubled up in pain, he wrenched free, eluded Philip Underdown's lunging arm and fled for the open doorway at the far end of the Infirmary. A moment later the heavy door slammed to behind him and we were alone.