![[Roger the Chapman 02] - The Plymouth Cloak](https://fs.collectorofbookboyfriends.com/477967/thumbs/152x264/roger-the-chapman-02-the-plymouth-cloak.jpg)
Underdown the stem of knotgrass and asked him what it meant. He stared at it for a moment, then spat.
'How do I know? The man's mad and should be locked up. He tried to give it to me before I took my hand to him. And that's what you should have done, not meekly accepted such rubbish.'
His vehemence, bordering almost on fury, told me that the knotgrass did mean something to him, something he would rather not be reminded of; but as I had little hope of discovering what that was, it was better to hold my tongue. I stared down curiously at the weed I was holding and tried to remember what, if anything, I knew of its properties. The only memory which came to mind was that of my mother seizing a stalk from my mouth when, boy-like, I had started to chew it. 'Don't,' she had said, 'it's poisonous.' But my mother had not always been correct in her knowledge. Like many country women, she had been extremely wise in some things, but also a prey to all kinds of old wives' tales, passed on from generation to generation, accruing a little more misinformation with each retelling. And I had never, either before or since, heard knotgrass spoken of as poisonous.
Suddenly, the plant was snatched from my hand as Philip tossed it away.
'I told you,' he reiterated fiercely, 'Silas Bywater's mad! Forget him. He won't trouble us again. I'll be gone from Plymouth before he can catch up with us. He's on foot. It'll take him all of today and much of tomorrow to get home.'
'Was what he said true?" I asked. 'Had you promised him and the Speedwell's crew more money?'
I expected him to turn on me again, but he only shrugged and laughed.
'You'd promise the Devil your soul when you're battling up the Channel with a leaky ship in a storm. Only a fool would take you seriously.' He added, cutting the conversation short: 'Come on. If we go now, we can be in Plymouth in time for supper. The food at the Turk's Head is plain, but plentiful, and I'm hungry. Return the beakers to the goodwife and let's be going.'
I resented his tendency to treat me as a servant, but suppressed my anger. The Duke trusted me to see that his letter got safely to Brittany and that was all that mattered.
We reached Plymouth just in time for supper. The fourth hour of the afternoon was being cried as we entered at one of the gates. The town has no walls, its only danger coming from sea-borne invasion, of which there has been much in the past hundred years. But the four main roads converging on the place all lead to gateways with short stockades on either side, so that people entering and leaving can be noted by the porters, and undesirable elements turned away. This of course is the theory, but in practice there are a dozen paths in and out of the town, and all sorts of rogues and vagabonds come and go at will. Most of the buildings lie along the edge and to the west of Sutton Pool, and the Turk's Head stands in one of the maze of narrow alleys close to the harbour. Its landlord in those days was a Comishman from across the Tamar, John Penryn; a black-haired, taciturn man, who made it his business to give good service, but never to inquire into the concerns of his guests. He knew nothing, saw nothing and heard nothing. As long as he was paid in full, that was all that mattered. Even if murder was committed beneath his roof, the Sheriff and county officers would receive no help from him.
Philip Underdown greeted him as an old friend, and I gathered that their association went back a long way, to the years when Philip and his brother were trading in and out of the town and had used the inn as their headquarters. There was a great deal of noise coming from the ale-room as we passed, but we were shown upstairs to a decent-sized chamber whose only door immediately faced the stairhead.
'You'll be comfortable enough here,' the landlord said, and I fancied there was a hidden meaning to his words.
Philip Underdown nodded. 'We'll take supper and breakfast in our room, if it's all the
'How do I know? The man's mad and should be locked up. He tried to give it to me before I took my hand to him. And that's what you should have done, not meekly accepted such rubbish.'
His vehemence, bordering almost on fury, told me that the knotgrass did mean something to him, something he would rather not be reminded of; but as I had little hope of discovering what that was, it was better to hold my tongue. I stared down curiously at the weed I was holding and tried to remember what, if anything, I knew of its properties. The only memory which came to mind was that of my mother seizing a stalk from my mouth when, boy-like, I had started to chew it. 'Don't,' she had said, 'it's poisonous.' But my mother had not always been correct in her knowledge. Like many country women, she had been extremely wise in some things, but also a prey to all kinds of old wives' tales, passed on from generation to generation, accruing a little more misinformation with each retelling. And I had never, either before or since, heard knotgrass spoken of as poisonous.
Suddenly, the plant was snatched from my hand as Philip tossed it away.
'I told you,' he reiterated fiercely, 'Silas Bywater's mad! Forget him. He won't trouble us again. I'll be gone from Plymouth before he can catch up with us. He's on foot. It'll take him all of today and much of tomorrow to get home.'
'Was what he said true?" I asked. 'Had you promised him and the Speedwell's crew more money?'
I expected him to turn on me again, but he only shrugged and laughed.
'You'd promise the Devil your soul when you're battling up the Channel with a leaky ship in a storm. Only a fool would take you seriously.' He added, cutting the conversation short: 'Come on. If we go now, we can be in Plymouth in time for supper. The food at the Turk's Head is plain, but plentiful, and I'm hungry. Return the beakers to the goodwife and let's be going.'
I resented his tendency to treat me as a servant, but suppressed my anger. The Duke trusted me to see that his letter got safely to Brittany and that was all that mattered.
We reached Plymouth just in time for supper. The fourth hour of the afternoon was being cried as we entered at one of the gates. The town has no walls, its only danger coming from sea-borne invasion, of which there has been much in the past hundred years. But the four main roads converging on the place all lead to gateways with short stockades on either side, so that people entering and leaving can be noted by the porters, and undesirable elements turned away. This of course is the theory, but in practice there are a dozen paths in and out of the town, and all sorts of rogues and vagabonds come and go at will. Most of the buildings lie along the edge and to the west of Sutton Pool, and the Turk's Head stands in one of the maze of narrow alleys close to the harbour. Its landlord in those days was a Comishman from across the Tamar, John Penryn; a black-haired, taciturn man, who made it his business to give good service, but never to inquire into the concerns of his guests. He knew nothing, saw nothing and heard nothing. As long as he was paid in full, that was all that mattered. Even if murder was committed beneath his roof, the Sheriff and county officers would receive no help from him.
Philip Underdown greeted him as an old friend, and I gathered that their association went back a long way, to the years when Philip and his brother were trading in and out of the town and had used the inn as their headquarters. There was a great deal of noise coming from the ale-room as we passed, but we were shown upstairs to a decent-sized chamber whose only door immediately faced the stairhead.
'You'll be comfortable enough here,' the landlord said, and I fancied there was a hidden meaning to his words.
Philip Underdown nodded. 'We'll take supper and breakfast in our room, if it's all the
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