![[Roger the Chapman 02] - The Plymouth Cloak](https://fs.collectorofbookboyfriends.com/477967/thumbs/152x264/roger-the-chapman-02-the-plymouth-cloak.jpg)
Philip on board and carry him safely to Brittany.
As I settled myself as comfortably as I could in the saddle, I reflected that today must be the first of October and tomorrow was therefore my birthday. The Duke of Gloucester's also. We would both be twenty-one years old, but there the similarity ended. He was Constable and Admiral of England, Warden of the West Marches towards Scotland, Great Chamberlain and Steward of the Duchy of Lancaster beyond Trent. He was the King's strong fight arm, a husband and a father. Whereas I was a humble chapman, a failed monk with no kith nor kin to call my own. Yet our paths had already crossed twice. Perhaps our lives were destined to intertwine.
My reverie was interrupted. 'Are you going to sit there all day, like a stuffed chicken?' my companion demanded rudely. 'For God's sake, let's be off.'
I nodded and dug my heels into the rouneey's sides, but just at that moment the gate into the stableyard burst open and Silas Bywater appeared. He reached up and grabbed Philip's bridle.
'You haven't seen or heard the last of me, you know, so don't think it. Here! I've got this for you.'
He was trying to push something into the other man's hand, but Philip hit him in the face, sending Silas sprawling in the dirt, jerked his horse's head around and vanished through the gateway, calling to me to follow. Before I had sufficiently gathered my wits to do so, however, Silas was on his feet again and standing at the cob's head. He raised one hand to mine, his battered features contorted with rage and hatred.
'Here, you give it to him,' he said. 'Tell Philip Underdown one day I'll catch up with him and then he'll be sorry. I know too much about him.'
Once more I gave my horse the office to start, but as the animal moved forward, I glanced down curiously at the thing in my hand. It was a trailing plant stem, with small clusters of white flowers at intervals along its length. Being country born and bred, I recognized it immediately as a common weed of most cultivated ground, which flowered from midsummer until late into the autumn. And it was because of the arrangement of those flowers that it was known as knotgrass.
We reached Plymouth by mid-afternoon, having travelled harder and faster than the day before. In other circumstances, I would have protested and insisted on taking more rest; but with our nameless adversary probably close behind us, I did not dare, and put up with my aches and pains as best I could.
I cursed that I had not asked the fellow his name, but Philip shrugged and said it would have been pointless.
'He would only have given you a false one, which he will change when he gets to Plymouth, so that any inquiries you might make will meet with no success. Forget it. We shall lie at the Turk's Head, where the landlord is a good friend of mine and will see that no one comes near us. He will bring us word, too, the moment the Falcon drops anchor.' With this I had to be content, and in any case conversation was necessarily limited. I was forced to concentrate on guiding my mount along the rutted Dartmoor tracks, if I were not to fall off and hinder our progress by injury. It was a beautiful day, as clear and transparent as a bubble, the October sun rimming the tots and distant uplands with fire.
Occasionally we passed an isolated farm or tiny hamlet, whose turf-thatched dwellings threw black wedges of shadow across the sunlit grass. The plaintive call of a solitary bird could now and then be heard high above us. We met very few fellow travellers, and then only those coming in the opposite direction. No one overtook us; and although I kept glancing back over my shoulder, the moor remained empty of pursuers.
Of necessity, we stopped at midday to answer calls of nature and to buy bread and cheese and ale from the goodwife of a nearby cottage. While we ate and drank, sitting in the sun, our backs propped against the rough grey stone wall which surrounded the enclosure, I showed Philip
As I settled myself as comfortably as I could in the saddle, I reflected that today must be the first of October and tomorrow was therefore my birthday. The Duke of Gloucester's also. We would both be twenty-one years old, but there the similarity ended. He was Constable and Admiral of England, Warden of the West Marches towards Scotland, Great Chamberlain and Steward of the Duchy of Lancaster beyond Trent. He was the King's strong fight arm, a husband and a father. Whereas I was a humble chapman, a failed monk with no kith nor kin to call my own. Yet our paths had already crossed twice. Perhaps our lives were destined to intertwine.
My reverie was interrupted. 'Are you going to sit there all day, like a stuffed chicken?' my companion demanded rudely. 'For God's sake, let's be off.'
I nodded and dug my heels into the rouneey's sides, but just at that moment the gate into the stableyard burst open and Silas Bywater appeared. He reached up and grabbed Philip's bridle.
'You haven't seen or heard the last of me, you know, so don't think it. Here! I've got this for you.'
He was trying to push something into the other man's hand, but Philip hit him in the face, sending Silas sprawling in the dirt, jerked his horse's head around and vanished through the gateway, calling to me to follow. Before I had sufficiently gathered my wits to do so, however, Silas was on his feet again and standing at the cob's head. He raised one hand to mine, his battered features contorted with rage and hatred.
'Here, you give it to him,' he said. 'Tell Philip Underdown one day I'll catch up with him and then he'll be sorry. I know too much about him.'
Once more I gave my horse the office to start, but as the animal moved forward, I glanced down curiously at the thing in my hand. It was a trailing plant stem, with small clusters of white flowers at intervals along its length. Being country born and bred, I recognized it immediately as a common weed of most cultivated ground, which flowered from midsummer until late into the autumn. And it was because of the arrangement of those flowers that it was known as knotgrass.
We reached Plymouth by mid-afternoon, having travelled harder and faster than the day before. In other circumstances, I would have protested and insisted on taking more rest; but with our nameless adversary probably close behind us, I did not dare, and put up with my aches and pains as best I could.
I cursed that I had not asked the fellow his name, but Philip shrugged and said it would have been pointless.
'He would only have given you a false one, which he will change when he gets to Plymouth, so that any inquiries you might make will meet with no success. Forget it. We shall lie at the Turk's Head, where the landlord is a good friend of mine and will see that no one comes near us. He will bring us word, too, the moment the Falcon drops anchor.' With this I had to be content, and in any case conversation was necessarily limited. I was forced to concentrate on guiding my mount along the rutted Dartmoor tracks, if I were not to fall off and hinder our progress by injury. It was a beautiful day, as clear and transparent as a bubble, the October sun rimming the tots and distant uplands with fire.
Occasionally we passed an isolated farm or tiny hamlet, whose turf-thatched dwellings threw black wedges of shadow across the sunlit grass. The plaintive call of a solitary bird could now and then be heard high above us. We met very few fellow travellers, and then only those coming in the opposite direction. No one overtook us; and although I kept glancing back over my shoulder, the moor remained empty of pursuers.
Of necessity, we stopped at midday to answer calls of nature and to buy bread and cheese and ale from the goodwife of a nearby cottage. While we ate and drank, sitting in the sun, our backs propped against the rough grey stone wall which surrounded the enclosure, I showed Philip
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