Doctor Who_ The Roundheads Part 16

Frances closed and locked the door and then turned round, her jaw dropping open as she saw Polly's minidress and boots for the first time.

She waved her hand up and down, struggling to find words. 'Do you... do you not feel the cold, Polly?'

Polly laughed. 'That I do. You couldn't fix me up with something when we get back to the inn, could you?'

'Surely.' Frances shook her head in disbelief. How could a lady dress so indecently? She sighed and moved to the table.

'But first we must leave the message for my Tom.'

She found some paper, a quill and a bottle of ink and sat down to write.

Polly glanced at the window and, for a moment, thought she caught sight of a face, pressed to the gla.s.s. Then she realised it was her own bedraggled reflection and grimaced.

'Oh, what I wouldn't give for a hot bath.'

Frances didn't look up. She was concentrating hard on the note.

Polly sat down and rubbed at her grimy face. 'If Tom's doing so well, then what's the problem?' said Polly.

'The problem is the King, or, rather, my father's allegiance to him,' murmured Frances.

'But the King's been defeated, hasn't he?'

Frances nodded. 'That he has. And is like to die before long. But domestic affairs do not change, Polly. I would require my father's permission to marry. And he would never grant it to one of Cromwell's lieutenants.'

Polly looked impressed. 'Goodness. Your Tom is doing well.'

Frances paused in her writing and stared into s.p.a.ce. 'I almost wish he were not.' she lamented. 'A commoner man might be less of a problem.' She smiled suddenly as though to disguise her fears. 'But at least it means he may be able to help you.'

Picking up the note, she folded it in half and, crossing the room, hid it inside a large brown jar. 'He will return tonight.

This is where we always leave our little letters.'

Polly thought this very touching. 'And he'll keep an eye out for my friends?'

Frances nodded. 'If any strangers have come into Cromwell's circle, then Tom will know about it. Come, let's get back to the inn before my father misses me.'

Polly leaned over the table and squeezed her hand. 'Thank you, Frances.'

Frances shook her head. ''Tis nothing. People should be kinder to one another. If they were, then we would not have to suffer as we have done.'

A look of profound sadness swept over her lovely face and she turned away quickly towards the door. Polly grabbed her cloak and followed her out of the bakery.

The warm room remained undisturbed for several minutes until a loud cracking sound began to come from the relocked door. The woodwork around the mechanism splintered and, in a matter of seconds, the door was forced open.

Christopher Whyte swept boldly inside and looked rapidly around the room. He had been watching Polly and Frances through the window and went straight to the jar, which he tipped upside down. Frances's note fluttered out.

Whyte put the jar back where he had found it, then rapidly read the note. Without hesitation, he slipped it inside his coat and marched swiftly outside, leaving the bakery door swinging loosely on broken hinges.

Hands shaking and mouth hanging open, Richard Cromwell turned the brittle pages of the book on his knee.

He was lying in his bedchamber, the coverlet drawn up to his chest, a lamp burning brightly at his side.

After finding the book, he had hurried back to his chambers, where some tiresome state business had kept him occupied for almost four hours. It was only when absolutely sure that he would remain undisturbed that he had retired to bed and taken the strange book from his coat.

He spent a long time simply stroking the smooth cover and marvelling at the picture which, by some alchemy, had been printed there. It showed a Cavalier and a Roundhead fighting, each on horseback, one with a pistol, the other a sword.

Richard traced his finger over the t.i.tle and then carefully opened the book, marvelling at once at the quality of its pages and the neat, precise way in which the words were set out.

Even the best-printed works he knew were rough affairs, their pages mismatched and ragged, their print higgledy-piggledy and erratically s.p.a.ced.

When, at last, he had recovered from the sheer novelty of the thing, Richard set himself to begin reading.

It was not an easy matter. Although there were many words which were familiar to him, the spelling was very strange and he squinted as he tried to make sense of it.

Deciding that it was wiser to start with the easy bits, he flicked through the book and looked at the pictures.

Almost at once he came upon a picture of his father a rather splendid etched print which showed Oliver in armour, standing before the ma.s.sed ranks of his New Model Army.

Below his outstretched arm lay the royal arms, a laurel-wreath crown, a felled stag and a mask, as used in dramatic entertainments.

The symbolism of all this eluded Richard but there were words inscribed upon the objects and Richard traced them, speaking each letter in turn in his head before repeating them out loud. 'Oliver Cromwell,' he murmured, '1599 to 1658.'

Richard looked up, astonished, and then scrutinised the page again to make sure he had read it correctly. He mouthed the dates and gulped nervously. According to the strange book, his father would die in ten years' time!

Quickly, he read on. 'Lord Protec- Lord Protector of England, Scotland and Ireland.'

Richard felt his pulse quicken and a strange, buzzing in his ears. His father, then, would rule the kingdom, alone. As something called Lord Protector.

Richard laid the book down on the blanket and shivered.

What could it mean? Where had the strange volume come from?

'Perhaps some prophecy,' he muttered to himself.

He picked up the book again. It was unlike anything he had ever set eyes on before. He knew that it was somehow special.

A fragment of some conversation sprang into his mind. Of course! The Scotch seer and his doctor. He had heard of the strangers Thurloe had uncovered. Perhaps the book had something to do with them.

Resolving to investigate further in the morning, Richard was about to put the book aside and go to sleep when a thought struck him.

Gingerly, he began to leaf through the pages. What if he were in there, too?

Captain Sal Winter's peg leg made a hollow clopping sound on the cobbles as she and Ben followed Stanislaus and G.o.dley.

Ben gritted his teeth, convinced that the noise would be heard, but they kept their distance through the labyrinthine streets and, though more than once they thought they had lost the two men, they eventually came to a halt in a small, tumbledown courtyard.

It was dominated by a vast, sloping roof which came down from the highest building in the yard and continued to the ground, a kind of rough barn having been erected in its shelter.

Next to this was a collection of ramshackle houses with high gables and broken lead guttering. One of these, smaller than the rest with elaborate but faded blue tiles on its walls, had a lamp burning in a window.

Ben and Winter kept well back, crouching down by the barn and watching as Stanislaus approached the house.

He looked behind him furtively and then laid his hand on a wire bell pull.

There was a soft, resounding tinkle and the sound of someone stirring within. G.o.dley swept his hat from his head and he too looked back the way they had come, his big brown eyes shining in the starlight After a moment a bolt was drawn back and the door opened, revealing an extraordinarily tall figure standing in the porchway. From their vantage point at the entrance to the courtyard, Ben and Winter could make out nothing of the man's features. He inclined his head slightly, as though in greeting, and Stanislaus and G.o.dley went inside.

As soon as the door was closed behind them, Ben crept out from his hiding place and, keeping close to the walls of the houses, made his way to the tiled residence.

Once he was below the window he sat down on the cold ground and beckoned urgently to Winter. The woman began to hobble across the courtyard and Ben winced at the steady clatter of her false leg.

Winter gasped as she slid her bulk down next to Ben and the young man held up his finger in a gesture of silence. There was more light coming from within the house now and they could see the shadows of the three men moving about.

After a time, all three sat down and Ben p.r.i.c.ked his ears in the hope of catching a fragment of their conversation. If only the weather had been warmer, he thought ruefully, perhaps the window would have been propped open. But it was cold now and he drew his cloak closely about him as the night air grew ever more chill.

Ben beckoned to Winter, who slid across the cobbles on her voluminous backside.

'What else do you know about this Stanislaus bloke?'

asked Ben in a low whisper.

Winter's huge shoulders contracted in a shrug. 'He's no better than a pirate,' she spat. 'And treats his men no better than beasts.'

Ben frowned. 'Then why do they stay with him?'

Winter grunted. 'Pirates pay well. They get to supplement their wage with whatever booty they can strip off other ships.'

Ben nodded to himself. 'But if he's just a kind of mercenary, why's he so loyal to the King?'

Winter smiled. 'He fancies he has blue blood himself, do you see? Claims to have been sired by the King of Poland.'

Without thinking, the big captain let out a loud chortle.

Ben clamped his hand over Winter's mouth but it was too late. Shadows moved inside the house and footsteps hurried to the door.

Ben hauled Winter to her feet and they clattered as fast as they could across the courtyard and around the corner of the barn.

The door of the house flew open and Stanislaus stood framed there. His head moved from side to side like that of a great lizard as he scanned the darkness.

Ben and Winter pressed themselves flat against the wall, scarcely daring to breathe.

Then Ben's concentration shifted as he felt a strange, heavy warmth on his foot. He looked down but couldn't make anything out in the darkness. He almost gasped as he felt a warm, furry something brush past his leg.

Looking down hard, he make out a shape, a patch of blackness that was distinct from the night. There was a gentle, insistent clicking and Ben felt a shudder run through him.

Whatever it was was gnawing at his shoe.

Suddenly, some way off, a lamp was lit in another house, providing the exterior of the barn with just enough illumination for Ben to see that a big black rat was sitting on his foot.

It was incredibly long, obscenely fat, and sleek with moisture. Its scaly black tail was wrapped around Ben's heel.

He let his breath stream out through his teeth, feeling his stomach flip over.

If only he could kick out his leg and throw the thing off...

But he knew that would be fatal. Stanislaus would see them and the game would be up.

The next breath he took, he held, as the rat began to draw closer to his trouser leg. He could feel its bristly fur poking through the material of his trousers and his hair stood on end at the horror of it.

He rolled his eyes and bit into his lower lip, screaming silently inside. If the rat got any closer he would have to cry out, have to smash the vile thing against the wall, anything to get it away from him.

The horrid weight on his foot shifted as the rat sat up on its hind legs and sniffed at Ben's shin, its whiskers twitching.

Ben steadied himself. There was nothing he could do. No choice. He had to be rid of the disgusting creature...

Suddenly he saw the iron-capped end of Winter's leg hove into view. The captain took aim and then swung her leg in a vicious kick which sent the rat flying across the courtyard.

It hit the ground squealing and scurried instantly into the darkest recesses of the place.

Stanislaus saw it and smiled grimly. He nodded to himself, then withdrew into the house, apparently satisfied. The door was closed and bolted after him.

Ben turned and winked at Winter. Then he sank back against the wall, sweat dribbling down his face.

Christopher Whyte swept his hat from his head and entered the room above the inn, a rectangle of yellowy light from the corridor spilling inside and revealing Sir John Copper, sitting in the darkness. Whyte hovered in the doorway until Copper spoke.

'I am not asleep, Chris. Come inside. Quickly.'

Whyte closed the door and moved swiftly across the room while Copper lit the lamp. The older man looked up inquisitively. 'Well?'

Whyte threw himself down in a chair and sighed. 'I've had quite day,' he said with a grin, flinging his hat into the comer and lifting his weary legs on to the table.

Copper smoothed his white moustache. 'The girl?'

Whyte nodded. 'She spent the night in St James's Park and then wondered around like a lost thing until she came back here.'

'Here?'

'Aye. She ran into our landlord's daughter and they went off on a little errand.'

Copper frowned and leaned forward. 'Does she know anything?'