[Roger the Chapman 02] - The Plymouth Cloak Read Online Free PDF Page B

indicated where rain had collected in dents and hollows of the underlying granite. The sudden bark of a raven was all that disturbed the quiet.
    Mid-afternoon, we left the track, dismounted and turned the horses loose to crop the stunted grass. Philip Underdown and I sat, the sun on our faces, our backs against a convenient boulder, letting the last of the day's warmth seep into our bones. I badly needed the rest, although I would have suffered torture rather than admit it. But the truth was that every muscle and sinew of my thighs and buttocks felt as if it were being tom apart by red-hot pincers. My arms and shoulders ached with the effort of controlling even so placid a mount as mine. I leaned my head against the rock and briefly closed my eyes watching red and orange suns roll up under my lids, thankful that my companion seemed preoccupied with thoughts of his own and disinclined to mock at my discomfort.
    I have no idea what suddenly jerked me out of my doze, propelling me forward, my spine stiff with tension, my hands pressed hard down beside me on the ground; some interaction of the senses, perhaps, as when an animal scents danger. My eyes flicked swiftly from left to right, trying to locate the source of my fear. On the skyline, where the moor shelved steeply upwards, were two enormous outcrops of granite, common to that part of the world. And standing between them, clearly outlined against the rays of the dying sun, was the figure of a man...
    I must have let out an oath because Philip Underdown, lounging beside me, his eyes half closed, sprang to his feet, his fingers already clasped about the handle of the dagger in his belt. 'What is it?' he demanded.
    'A man,' I whispered. 'Up there! Between those two piles of rocks.'
    I raised my hand, but when we both looked there was nothing to be seen, only the blurred distances and the sunlight striking against the granite, and the empty, silent path o f tuff.
    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