Doctor Who_ The Roundheads Part 17

Whyte's face fell a little. 'I don't know. She certainly hasn't found that friend of hers, whoever he was.' He closed his eyes and smiled. 'You don't know how hard it was not to offer her a bed last night.'

Copper grinned himself. 'The ladies can wait until we've saved the King, my lad.'

He rose and paced the room, hands behind his back. 'I'm sorry to have sent you out on a fool's errand, Chris. I thought we might be on to something.'

Whyte's eyes flicked open and he flashed Copper his most charming smile. 'Ah, but we might be.'

Copper stopped and turned. 'What do you mean?'

Whyte took Frances's note from his tunic and laid it down on the table. 'Do we know a... Thomas Culpeper?'

Copper shook his head. 'Should we?'

'He's only one of Cromwell's lieutenants,' said Whyte.

Copper nodded. 'The name is familiar now you say it. One of Henry Ireton's cronies, is he not?' Whyte shrugged. 'Well, what of him?' asked Copper, puzzled.

Whyte stretched out his legs and dug his hands into the pockets of his breeches. 'Our friend Mistress Polly may or may not be all innocence, but her friend, the landlord's daughter, is engaged in an... affaire du coeur affaire du coeur with said Master Culpeper. What do you think about that?' with said Master Culpeper. What do you think about that?'

Copper sank down into a chair and swallowed, his eyes blazing with excitement. 'Go on.'

'Well,' said Whyte, relaxing into his story. 'Young Frances Kemp left a note for her dearest, asking if he has heard anything about the whereabouts of Polly's friends. He's obviously close to the general. I wonder if we can't make use of it.'

Copper nodded eagerly. 'I think we can. Where are they now? The women I mean?'

Whyte pointed to the floor. 'They're here. I think Mistress Polly intends to rest her bones in the tavern for the night.'

Copper rubbed his chin. 'I must consider this news, Chris.

The link with the boy Culpeper could prove decisive. You must bring Frances to me later. She must be made to understand her duty to the King.'

Whyte nodded slowly. 'And we still go ahead as planned?'

'Of course,' said Copper. 'Our first priority must be to free His Majesty. All other considerations are secondary.'

Whyte dragged his feet from the table and stood up. 'Very well. I'll bring the girl once the household is asleep. What about Polly?'

Copper smiled. 'Well, you did say something about a bed for the night...'

Whyte smiled and turned on his heel.

Thurloe entered Cromwell's apartments to find the general still awake, poring over a letter. His eyes were moist with tears and a strange grin was fixed on his flushed face.

Remaining in the doorway, his cloak swaying in the breeze from the open window, Thurloe reflected on the strange contradictions of the great man to whom he was so loyal. It was extraordinary but one who invoked such awe and fear, one so determined and single-minded, could yet be reduced to weeping by the slightest act of tenderness. Thurloe had seen the general with tears rolling down his cheeks as he listened, utterly transported, to some pa.s.sage of sweet music. And he had wept when he had witnessed the King's reunion with his royal children, moved beyond words by the King's emotion.

Perhaps it was his own losses that made him so tender-hearted in that direction.

Cromwell looked up and beckoned to him, wiping the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. 'John. Here a moment.'

He thrust the letter under Thurloe's nose. 'It's from my daughter, Bridget.'

Thurloe nodded, not a bit surprised. 'All's well, I trust?'

Cromwell nodded and smiled. 'Oh, yes, yes. And that husband of hers is giving no trouble. Not that Bridget would ever let him, eh?'

He chortled merrily and ThurJoe smiled back. 'You desired to see me, General?'

'Mmm,' said Cromwell, placing his arm on Thurloe's shoulder. 'Please sit down.'

Thurloe did so in a high-backed, uncomfortable chair.

Cromwell took his accustomed seat, adjusting the cushions to take account of his bothersome boil, and sat forward, holding his hands together as though in prayer.

'John, I am most vexed by what Sir Thomas Fairfax has said.'

'Vexed?'

'Aye,' said Cromwell with a frown. 'And he is not alone in saying that we can't walk about cutting off our monarch's head.'

Thurloe sighed. 'With respect to Sir Thomas, General, the King has not yet stood trial.'

'Oh, fie, John!' cried Cromwell. 'The King will be found guilty, we all know that. d.a.m.n it, we all want that.'

'All but Sir Thomas Fairfax, it seems,' said Thurloe quietly.

Cromwell waved his hand. 'There is no treachery, John.

You have been too long among spies and agents. Fairfax is as brave and honourable man as ever I have known. And I listen to him because of that.'

Thurloe pinched the bridge of his nose wearily. 'We gave the King every chance to come to an honourable peace, sir.

You now that better than any other. Yet, whilst he pretended to study our demands, did he not make secret plans to bring in foreign troops to sh.o.r.e up his discredited throne?'

Cromwell's large head nodded slowly. 'And now we say he must pay with his life. But what then, John?'

Thurloe looked up. 'Then?'

'I am no Republican. You know that,' said Cromwell.

'What are we to have if we have no King?'

Thurloe was becoming concerned. 'A council of state, as we proposed. Then no more will we be ruled by the whim of one man.'

Cromwell stared into s.p.a.ce. 'This seer and his Doctor.

They see an empty throne.'

'Naturally.'

'But I must know more,' said Cromwell urgently. 'Will the throne remain empty, or will one of Charles's heirs s.n.a.t.c.h it back within the twelvemonth?'

Thurloe smiled. 'You must ask them, not me.'

'I will John, I will.'

Thurloe shifted his weight on the uncomfortable chair.

'Am I to understand that you think a council of state an inadequate replacement for Charles Stuart?'

'Nay,' said Cromwell abruptly. 'But to govern... to govern this land of ours is a Herculean labour. Some say it must have a figurehead. Of sorts.'

Thurloe looked Cromwell directly in the eye. 'Who says this?'

Cromwell's eyes dropped evasively. 'I have many advisers, John. You know that.'

Thurloe slapped his hand across his knee. 'It's Henry Ireton, is it not? And that lad Culpeper?'

Cromwell nodded and held up the letter. 'My Bridget's letter is full of it. She says her Henry talks of nothing else.'

Thurloe rose crossly to his feet. 'I may not have any influence over your son-in-law, sir, but I would certainly argue the toss with Culpeper. He thinks far too highly of himself and gives you ill counsel.'

Cromwell said nothing, merely staring into s.p.a.ce.

Thurloe bent towards him, his face right by the general's ear. 'Ruling this country is, as you say, a Herculean labour, General. And we must ensure we are up to the job.'

He bowed and swept from the room, leaving Cromwell staring broodingly into the fire.

Much to her relief, Polly was able to bathe and change once she returned to the inn. Frances made her very welcome in her little bedroom and, though the bath was a tiny, cramped, tin affair placed in front of the fire, the hot water was a blessed relief.

She lay and soaked in it for as long as she dared and then changed into a simple white nightdress. The clean, fresh material was like a soothing balm.

Frances had gone down to help her mother clear up in the kitchen and Polly was just eyeing the large, soft bed with its plump pillows when there was a quiet knock at the door.

Not quite sure what to do, Polly hesitated. The knock came again and she moved swiftly to the door.

She opened it just enough to see that her handsome stranger was on the other side. Christopher Whyte averted his eyes at once.

'Oh, forgive me, mistress,' he mumbled apologetically.

Polly looked down at her nightdress and smiled. If only such chivalry still existed in 1966!

'Just a sec,' she said and closed the door. She quickly slipped on the green woollen dress which Frances had laid out for her, and then opened the door wide.

Whyte smiled broadly, looking her up and down with an appreciative eye. 'Forgive me, Mistress Polly...'

'That's all right,' said Polly with a smile. 'And you can just call me Polly.'

'Can I?' He seemed astonished. 'Oh. Very well.'

Polly stepped to one side. 'Come in.'

Whyte shook his head. 'Nay, that would be improper.'

Polly frowned, rather disappointedly. 'Oh, yes. I suppose it would. Well, what can I do for you, Mr... ?'

He swept his hat from his head and bowed, his shining hair falling forward in curls.

'I am Christopher Whyte, lady.'

Polly was enchanted. 'What can I do for you, Christopher Whyte?'

Whyte cleared his throat. 'It is rather more what I can do for you.'

Polly smiled cheekily. 'Oh, yes?'

'Yes. You see, I have news of your friends.'

Polly almost seized him by the collar. 'You do? Where?

Where are they?'

Whyte smoothed down his tunic and stepped back a little.

'I have word that they are close by. In a castle on the Solent.'

Polly's mouth turned downward. 'On the Solent? What are they doing there?'

Whyte shrugged. 'I know no more. But I can take you to them. Tomorrow.'

'Why not now?'

Whyte shook his head and his hair rustled over his lacy collar. 'No, no. It's far too late. But they are safe, I swear to it.