Kate Sedley - The Plymouth Cloak

Philip laughed harshly. 'You're imagining things.' 'There was somebody there,' I protested. 'I saw him as plainly as I see you.' I reached for my cudgel and stood up.

'Wait here. I'm going to investigate.'

'And leave me all alone?' he mocked. 'Is this how you obey the Duke's instructions? I might be spirited away by the fairies while you're gone.'

Two could play at that game. 'If you're afraid,' I answered coolly, 'stand with your back against the boulder, then no one can surprise you from behind. If you need me, shout. I shan't be far away.'

He swore at me. 'I'm coming too.'

'By all means, if you're nervous at being left alone.' I did not wait for his reply, but set off across the intervening ground, taking the steep slope at a run, my aches and pains temporarily forgotten. At the top, between the two rock formations, I paused, looking cautiously around me, but there was nothing to be seen. I prowled around both outcrops, expecting at any moment to come face to face with some hired assassin, but there was no one. I glanced back to where Philip Underdown was still standing beside the horses. He shrugged and spread his arms, indicating that he, too, could see nothing. I began to wonder if the incident had indeed been a figment of my imagination.

Then, in the distance, I heard the thud of a horse's hoofs, hardly more than a faint vibration of the ground. I spun round, screwing up my eyes against the light as I peered in the opposite direction. It was difficult to see, but I thought I could just make out some movement. Then, for a few seconds, a small cloud obscured the face of the sun and a horseman was plainly visible, galloping southwards in the direction of Buckfast Abbey. I cursed under my breath, blaming myself for a tardiness of action which had allowed the man to get away. I returned to Philip Underdown.

'There was somebody there all right. I saw him riding away in the distance. I should have been quicker.' Philip shrugged. 'He would have seen you coming. You wouldn't have caught him. And there's nothing to say he wasn't a perfectly innocent traveller, taking his rest as we were.'

'In that case, why would he climb the tot? He would hardly have put himself to so much trouble and effort simply to take his ease. No; he was spying on us. No doubt he had been following us at a distance ever since we left Exeter.'

'How did he pass us without us noticing?'

'There must be dozens of tracks on every part of this moor, which, if you know them, can be taken without detection. He was probably able to overtake us at any moment he pleased. I think we had better be moving on.

We need to reach the safety of the Abbey before dusk, and it grows dark early this time of year. If there is another stranger staying at the Abbey, we shall know to be on our guard.'

'I doubt if they will have many visitors at this season.' Philip mounted his horse and settled himself in the saddle.

'As you say, the days are getting short, and only those who have to travel are still on the roads of Dartmoor.' As I struggled to mount my own horse, still placidly eating and completely undisturbed by my clumsy efforts, it occurred to me that my companion was more shaken by what had happened than he cared to admit. The bantering, sneering tone had gone, and in its place there was an edginess which betokened strain. Philip was growing worried, whatever impression he might wish to give to the contrary. I hoped it would last. The onus of overseeing his safety would not then fall entirely to me. I prayed that the Abbey guest-house would prove to be unoccupied on our arrival. That way we could have it all to ourselves.

My prayer was not destined to be answered. As we crossed Buckfast Bridge, it became apparent that the whole vicinity of the Abbey was awash with humanity. As we passed along the village street, I reined in the cob and called to a woman leaning from an upstairs window of one of the houses.

'What's going on? We were hoping to find lodging at the Abbey, but it looks as if we may be disappointed.'

'Strangers, are you?' The Devon burr was strong in her voice. 'Yesterday was the Feast of St Michael, and the Abbey has a licence to hold a fair on Brent Tor that day and the two days previous. A lot of people who came for it are still here, recovering from the effects of the Abbot's cider. Very potent stuff that be, my dear, as you'll find out soon though if you try any. Although a great lad like you should be able to hold his liquor.' Her bold eyes slid appreciatively from me to Philip Underdown. 'And that goes for you, too, my handsome.'

He laughed, the worry and tension of the past hour dropping from him as easily as a snake sloughs its skin. He raised himself in his stirrups and, reaching up, grasped the woman's hand, pulling her down towards him until he could plant a resounding kiss on her cheek. She laughed and returned it with interest.

As we pushed our way through the crowds of people, I remarked: 'She was a bit old for you, wasn't she? She had more than a few wrinkles, and what I could see of her hair beneath her cap was turning grey.'

Philip turned his head and grinned. 'When you know me better — which Heaven forbid! — you'll discover that I like women of all ages. A woman would have to be in her dotage, or extremely ugly, to repel me. Thin, fat, tall, short, young, old — I'll lay them all if they'll let me. And most of them will.' I didn't doubt it. He was a man who took what he wanted, without scruple; ruthless in his determination to get his own way. Human life and dignity was cheap in his eyes, as he had already demonstrated. I said nothing and urged my horse forward to the Abbey gates, where one of the lay brothers was on duty.

'We're on the King's business,' I said. 'My friend here will show you his letter of credence. We need asylum for the night.'

'You and half a dozen others,' he grumbled, but he let us in without asking for any identification. 'You'd best see Father Abbot if you're who you say you are. Wait here and I'll go and find out if he's at liberty. The guest-house is full, but he'll accommodate you somewhere. Probably in his own quarters. '

While he bustled away, Philip and I dismounted. As I stooped to unfasten my saddle-bag, I experienced a strong sense of being watched, but when I turned my head, everyone seemed intent on his own business. Nevertheless, the feeling persisted and my uneasiness returned.

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.'