Kate Sedley - The Plymouth Cloak

'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.'