Doctor Who_ The Roundheads Part 12

The Doctor smiled and whispered, 'Very good.'

Cromwell did not react for a moment, then his ruddy face broke into a broad smile. 'Good. Good!' he said happily. 'I would talk more with this remarkable pair, John. Let them be given quarter here until I need to consult them again.'

He rose and bowed to the Doctor and Jamie, then clamped his hand over his backside, grunting with the pain from his boil.

Muttering to himself, he stomped out of the chamber.

Thurloe clicked his fingers and a young secretary came running inside. With a suspicious glance at the time travellers, he whispered in the secretary's ear and then turned to the Doctor and Jamie.

'Very well, then. You shall be quartered here until the general decides to see you again. I hope we can make you comfortable.' He gave a short, incredulous laugh and strode out, his cloak trailing behind him.

Jamie stuck out his tongue at Thurloe's back and noticed that the secretary was already leading the Doctor away. He raced after them into a long, dark, panelled corridor which led into another much smaller apartment.

As the secretary opened the door, the Doctor moved to let him pa.s.s and there was a minor collision.

The Doctor apologised profusely but the secretary told him to think nothing of it. He ushered them inside.

The room was plainly and functionally furnished with two beds, a dresser, and a long mirror on a stand.

The secretary bowed and exited. As soon as they were alone, Jamie jumped on to the bed and lay down, sighing with contentment. The Doctor made straight for the door and tried the heavy iron handle.

He turned to Jamie and frowned. 'It's locked.'

Richard Cromwell was making his way down the corridor the Doctor and Jamie had just pa.s.sed through. He gazed absently at the paintings that hung from the panelled walls, though they held no interest for him. The battle of this, the siege of that. It was all so tiresome. He couldn't understand what his father saw in it.

He yawned. Perhaps he would go outside and see the snow. Yes, that would be splendid. A walk in the gardens and then dinner.

Suddenly happy, Richard walked on. As he pa.s.sed the door to the Doctor and Jamie's room, he pulled up sharply.

There was something lying on the floor, a smooth, rectangular shape with a picture on it. It looked like a book, but Richard had never seen such a book before.

He bent down on one knee and gingerly picked up Every Every Boy's Book of the English Civil Wars. Boy's Book of the English Civil Wars.

CHAPTER 4.

The small man with the huge brown eyes ate the last of his breakfast and pushed the china plate away from him. He dabbed at the comers of his mouth with a richly brocaded handkerchief, wiping away the traces of the plain and not very pleasant meal.

Water would be good now, he thought. Perhaps he should call for some.

He lifted his hand and then, with a small, sad cluck in his throat, dropped it heavily to his lap. How easy it was to forget.

There were no servants around him now. No one to antic.i.p.ate his every whim. No one to execute his orders.

Execute.

The word seemed to ring around his mind like the echo of a sharp knife against a flint wheel. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply.

King Charles was not used to such treatment. From birth, he had been pampered and indulged, both by his father, the slovenly James, and his elder brother, Prince Henry. Then, after Henry's unexpected death, the beloved and wonderful Duke of Buckingham had taken the underdeveloped, rather sombre Charles and groomed him for the throne.

Thus it was he who had taken on the burden of ruling the kingdom, as fairly, he judged, as his father or any monarch before him.

For many years his had seemed a perfect state. His marriage to the Queen, Henrietta Maria, was, after a difficult start, solid and loving. He had wonderful children and perhaps the most elegant and sophisticated court in Europe. The country was prosperous and seemingly content. Nothing could spoil things. Nothing except Parliament.

Of course, they were a necessary evil. After all, he had to raise taxes and get his money from somewhere. But they refused to accept that only the King could summon such an a.s.sembly into being and dissolve it just as easily. He had done without the rabble for eleven whole years before those bothersome, uncontrollable Scots had forced him to raise an army against them.

But Parliament had struck, struck like a viper to his heart, suddenly demanding all kinds of reforms. They wanted to take control of the Army away from him. Away from the King!

Charles remembered his own words, thundering through the Palace of Whitehall that far-off day. 'By G.o.d, not for an hour!

You ask of me what was never asked of any king!'

And they were not content with that, oh no. Now they wanted religious reform. They objected to the beautification of his country's lovely churches undertaken by Archbishop Laud.

Should worship really be as plain as a milkmaid's face?

Aye, the Puritans demanded and Charles had lost Laud to them. Lost him to charges of crypto-papistry, and they had cut off his head to prove their point.

And then there was Strafford, who had fought so loyally for the King in Ireland and urged him to take on his rebellious Parliament, else he be no King at all.

Charles laid a trembling hand across his brow. They had taken Strafford's head too and Charles had felt the death almost as though it were his own. It was too cruel a blow. Too cruel.

And so the wars had come. There was no way to avoid them. It was either King, with a mandate to rule which came from G.o.d himself, or Parliament, with a much more parochial mandate altogether.

Charles rose from his chair and crossed to the great window. His rooms were small but comfortable. Thickly carpeted with rugs which had been a present to his late father from some exotic potentate and hung with tapestries from the royal collection.

Through the thick gla.s.s, the dreary course of the Solent could be seen, winding past the castle like a gigantic grey snake.

Charles watched the water in silence, the December light bleaching the colour from his grave, n.o.ble face, creating dark hollows in his cheeks and making him look far older than his forty-eight years.

Well, well, he thought. It seemed that G.o.d had made up His mind. The Royalist armies had been roundly defeated and now he, the King, was a prisoner. He didn't doubt that soon the Roundheads would be calling for his head.

Execute.

Charles felt a pang of terror grip at his bowels. He sank down to the floor and clasped his hands together in prayer.

There was little else left for him to do.

Polly stood by the banks of the Thames, enjoying the feel of the cold drizzle on her face. She breathed in and the air felt crisp and good. What would a lungful of air be like inhaled in the same spot three hundred or so years from now? she thought absently. Filthy, acrid, polluted.

Yet there was terrible degradation here, too. She had seen it as she made her way through the city the squalor, the filth and the back-breaking labour that seemed to be the common lot of most of the inhabitants of Stuart England.

Polly rubbed her face and eyes and shook her head as though to clear it. Her fine, straight hair was becoming matted and rather greasy and she longed for a hot bath. But the TARDIS and the Doctor seemed a long way off. She was no nearer to finding anyone or anything she knew.

A wheezing splutter close by made her turn and she stepped back as two men struggled by at each end of an ornate sedan chair. Their faces were almost purple with effort, sweat streaming into their eyes. Polly caught a brief glimpse of an exquisitely dressed man, all burnt-orange velvet and frills, gazing absently out of the chair's little window. He seemed bored and completely unaware of the efforts being made to keep him out of the mud.

Polly scowled but then checked herself. Was it any different from someone of her own time having a chauffeur?

Perhaps it was just a shock to her twentieth-century sensibilities. After all, this place was as alien as another planet, despite the superficial similarities to her own time.

There was a monarch and Parliament but...

She froze a moment as a thought occurred to her. If she knew the Doctor, he wouldn't be content to hang around waiting for her and Ben to turn up. He'd be doing something.

Using the opportunity to get a closer look at this period of earth's history. And, given the tumultuous time they had landed in, he would trying to get close to either the Royalists or the Roundheads. Yes! Surely that was it. She'd lay odds that even now the little man would be close to the centre of some kind of power, probably dragging a protesting Jamie in tow. She smiled to herself, a little cheered, and crossed the snowy road, jumping over the muddy furrows scored into it by pa.s.sing traffic.

Where could she turn for help, though? It would be unwise to go around asking strange questions the Doctor had warned them all to be circ.u.mspect, as had the man at the inn.

Polly stopped in her tracks and let out a little chuckle, delighted at her second revelation of the morning. The men at the inn particularly the rather handsome young one, had been fairly kind to her. She could tell they felt some guilt over Ben's disappearance. Perhaps she could use that to get them to ask around about the Doctor and Jamie. Restored to her friends, she felt sure they could find Ben. With a gladdened heart, Polly set off for Kemp's inn at a brisk run.

She moved so swiftly, indeed, that Christopher Whyte had trouble keeping up with her.

Making her way stealthily along the corridor, Frances Kemp held her breath. The shadows were lengthening and the inn was beginning to lose itself in darkness. Soon her mother would be flitting about the place, lighting the lamps and preparing for the evening's custom. But perhaps Frances could take advantage of this dim hour to find out what was going on and the ident.i.ty of her father's guests.

She was close to the room now and could see the old door rattle as her father spoke urgently with his mysterious visitors.

Frances crept over the bare boards and gently pressed her ear against the door, straining to hear the conversation within.

Several voices reached her but she couldn't separate them.

Only her father's low grumble seemed recognisable. A point was being debated, she could tell from the rising tone of his voice. But what was it, and why all this secrecy?

After a time, some conclusion seemed to be reached and the voices became more audible and conversational. Chairs were sc.r.a.ped back and Frances ran swiftly to the other side of the corridor, closing her hand on the doork.n.o.b of her own room.

But she had not quite managed to slip inside when her father appeared from the opposite chamber. Turning back towards him, she closed her eyes and braced herself for his wrath.

'Frances?'

She spoke without turning round. 'I'm fetching darning thread for Mother,' she said quickly.

'Yes, yes,' said Kemp with a chuckle. 'Good girl.'

She turned to face him and was astonished to see a broad smile plastered over his face. She hadn't seen her father look so happy in years. What could the men in the room have done to effect such an unlikely transformation?

Kemp patted her fondly on the head and turned away.

'Now then, we have an inn to run do we not?' he cried happily, and set off down the corridor.

Frances frowned and cast another curious glance at the closed door opposite.

Lamps were lit the length of the Commons chamber, the sound of their flickering flames combining to produce a faint whispering sound, as though the debating chamber beyond were still full of honourable members.

This place, set off the main room, was a brown, heavily panelled area, so stained with age that the whole atmosphere seemed affected by it. A sepia tinge hung over the a.s.sembled men, giving their concentrated faces a pallor like tobacco stain.

Around the table, like knights at a solemn Camelot, sat a fair proportion of the members of Parliament not recently expelled by Colonel Pride.

The soldier himself and Lord Grey of Groby were there, along with the others of like mind, determined to press for the King's head. The Presbyterians had been purged, as had John Lilburne and his troublesome Levellers. Now this 'Rump'

remained, and the Rump would see justice was done, Cromwell was sure of it.

The general sat at the head of the table, Thurloe by his side, fiddling with his none-too-clean collar and scanning an impressive doc.u.ment spread out before him.

Something about the portentously elaborate style of the writing betrayed its purpose as an instrument of state.

Cromwell read it over in his head several times, before running a hand through his thinning grey hair.

'Well, gentlemen?' he said at last.

Groby held up a gloved hand. 'By your leave, General, I think I speak for us all when I ask that the charge be read aloud.'

Cromwell shifted in his seat, uncomfortable because of the boil on his b.u.t.tock, but also because he was almost painfully aware that he was not only living through a moment of great historical import, but actually creating it.

There was no joy, however, no triumph in his voice as he lifted the paper closer to his eyes and began to speak.

'Charles Stuart,' he began, 'the now King of England, is accused of entertaining a wicked design totally to subvert the ancient and fundamental laws and liberties of this nation, and in their place to introduce an arbitrary and tyrannical government.'

Cromwell paused and looked down the length of the table.

To a man, the members sat with heads bowed.

'And that, besides all other evil ways and means to bring his design to pa.s.s, he hath prosecuted it with fire and sword, levied and maintained a cruel war in the land.'

Cromwell stopped again, letting the impact of his words sink in. The room was hushed, save for the sputtering of the lamp flames.

Then, as though from miles away, the sound of approaching footsteps became audible. They were coming from the adjacent corridor and their owner was in something of a hurry. His boots rang off the stone floor.

Cromwell looked up expectantly as the double doors were thrown open and Sir Thomas Fairfax stood framed there, his arms spread wide.

'So this is where it is done, Oliver?' he spat. 'In the shadows, like knaves?'

Cromwell didn't react at first. His heavy, warty face remained impa.s.sive and then, with a sniff, he looked at Fairfax with something like pity.

'I can think of few places more public than this chamber,'

he said quietly. 'With Parliament close by.'

Fairfax shot a look at Colonel Pride and laughed derisively. 'Aye, what's left of it.'

Cromwell looked at the floor and then glanced at Thurloe, who indicated, with a small movement of his hand, that it was perhaps wise for the other members to leave.