Doctor Who_ The Roundheads Part 2

She thought it the most wonderful thing she had ever read and clasped the crisp white paper to her breast, her heart full of joy.

The door to her bedroom opened and her father stood there, his pale face sullen, his mouth turned down in a permanent look of disapproval.

Frances managed to hide the letter beneath the bedclothes before he could notice it and turned her face to him, her delicate features fixed into a sweet smile.

'Why do you mooch about here, girl?' rumbled Kemp.

'Your mother would not object to help in the kitchens, I'll warrant.'

Frances got to her feet and adjusted the little white cap that crowned her golden hair. 'Yes, Father.'

Kemp grunted and she squeezed past him through the door. He stayed a moment, looking around the plainly furnished room with its framed embroidered mottoes and heavy furniture.

Then, sniffing dismissively, he shuffled back into the corridor and made his way downstairs into the inn.

The troopers had come to a final halt outside a huge, ornate building that resembled a Gothic cathedral. Its two towers were crowded with stone niches in which statues of saints had been placed. Some were missing a head or a limb or even missing altogether but the overall effect, combined with the ma.s.sive central window between the towers, was as impressive as befitted Parliament House.

Colonel Pride swung his legs from the saddle and dismounted, immediately barking orders for his men to remain on horseback but to arrange themselves into ranks before the arched entry to the Commons.

As the troopers moved to obey, their swords and armour clanking like ancient machinery, Pride took up position by the left-hand side of the arch, directly below a statue of St Stephen.

He glanced up at the stoic face of the martyr and sighed.

What it was to have such faith.

A soft crumping in the snow hailed the arrival of a newcomer and Pride steadied himself as a tall, prematurely grey haired man with sharp blue eyes and an intelligent, if weary, face sauntered into view. He nodded to the colonel and then looked up at the statue.

'Stone me, eh?'

Pride frowned. 'My Lord?'

Lord Grey of Groby managed a thin smile. 'St Stephen. A pun, Colonel.'

Pride nodded. 'You will forgive me if I do not share your levity, sir.'

Grey suddenly felt very foolish and shivered despite the thick layers of bulky clothing he wore. He took off his hat and narrowed his eyes as he looked at the a.s.sembled troopers.

'A grim day for it, eh?'

Pride looked straight ahead, his mouth set into a thin, determined line.

'If the sun were to shine as summer, this day would be grim enough, My Lord.'

His shaky voice betrayed his emotion and he cleared his throat rapidly in an effort to hide it. 'Never did I think to find myself in such a position.'

He fixed Grey with his milky eyes. 'Do you have the list?'

Grey nodded and pa.s.sed him two sheets of rolled parchment. Pride scanned the names that had been carefully inscribed on them. Snowflakes fell and began to seep into the paper, blurring the names until they seemed written in black blood.

Sighing, Grey wrung his gloved hands. 'To face down a tyrant king is one thing,' he lamented. 'But now to vilify the very men who helped in his defeat...'

He trailed off miserably.

Pride rolled up the parchment and tapped Grey on the shoulder.

'We must be resolute, My Lord. This discredited Parliament must go. It must be purged. Else all our labours, all our... sacrifices, have been in vain.'

Grey's head snapped up as three men approached. One was very plainly dressed, wearing a black jerkin, breeches and stockings beneath a brown cloak; the others were rather more splendidly attired, their long, curly hair falling on to lacy collars, the sleeves of their richly coloured coats slashed to reveal the shirts beneath. Both wore large hats with gorgeous, ostrich-feather plumes projecting from the brim, although the heavy snow had rather dampened the effect.

'Look sharp, Colonel,' announced Grey curtly. 'Here comes the first of 'em.'

One of the men, stroking his chestnut-coloured beard with one hand and holding his other hand on his hip, approached, his jaw dropping open as he caught sight of the soldiers, three ranks deep.

Pride held up his hand before the astonished man's face.

'By your leave, sir, return to your home. You shall not pa.s.s today.'

The man turned to his colleagues as if seeking confirmation that he had heard right.

'Do you know to whom you speak, sir?' he managed at last. 'We are Parliament's elected representatives. On whose authority do you deny us access?'

Pride pulled himself up to his full, imposing height. 'In the name of G.o.d and the Army, sir, You have forfeited your right to represent the people of England.'

'Forfeited our right!' spluttered the newcomer. 'This is an outrage!'

Grey stepped forward out of the shadow of St Stephen.

'No doubt,' he muttered in a quiet, dangerous whisper. 'But you will do as the colonel says.'

The second of the men c.o.c.ked an eyebrow. 'Grey? Is that you? 'Sblood! What goes on here?'

Grey's n.o.ble face twisted into a sneer. 'Would you insult us with your feigned ignorance?' he spat. 'We have waged a war against Charles Stuart, King of England. A war that has cost us dear. Yet now you would make a dishonourable peace with this wicked man. How can you claim to represent-the people?'

With a snarl, he grabbed the parchment from Pride's hand, found the members' names, and scored them out with a thick piece of charcoal. Then he turned back, his blue eyes glittering with rage. 'Get ye gone!'

The Doctor managed to find an orange-seller sheltering under the entrance to the World Turn'd Upside Down and bought four rather splendid specimens from her. After some time spent fiddling with the extraordinary amount of junk inside his capacious pockets, he finally found a fat leather purse of coins which appeared to be of the correct period. The orange-seller thanked him and tapped the brim of her snow-covered hat before scuttling away.

The Doctor tossed an orange to each of his companions in turn and dug his thumb into the thick peel of his own.

'It's a bit complicated, I'll admit,' he said, squeezing the soft flesh of the fruit and jamming a segment into his mouth.

'Didn't you study this period of your history at school? I seem to remember Susan was very keen on it.'

Jamie looked up from contemplating his orange. 'Who's Susan?'

But the Doctor did not seem to have heard him.

Ben bit into his orange and juice sprayed out all over his hands and cloak. He shook his hand dry and spoke between gulps. 'I was just saying to the d.u.c.h.ess, Doctor, history's not my strong point. I always get the kings and queens mixed up.

There's so many of 'em. All those wives Henry Five had.'

The Doctor sighed. 'Eight.'

'Was it as many as that?' said Ben in genuine surprise.

The Doctor shook his head. 'No, no. Henry the Eighth, not the Fifth, Ben. And it was six wives.'

'Divorced, beheaded, died,' cried Polly brightly.

'Divorced, beheaded, survived,' concluded the Doctor with a grin.

Jamie gave them both a puzzled look and the Doctor sighed, turning to face Polly as though she were his last chance. 'What about you, Polly?'

Polly shrugged and brushed her blonde fringe from her eyes. 'Well, I seem to remember the King fell out with Parliament, didn't he? He thought he could do pretty much anything he wanted because his power came directly from G.o.d.'

The Doctor nodded. 'That's it. Divine Right, they called it.'

Ben gave a rueful smile. 'Have you got a rhyme for that, too?'

Polly poked out her tongue at him and then continued with a giggle. 'Anyway, there was a civil war and the Roundheads cut King Charles's head off.'

'Blimey!' cried Ben.

Polly finished her orange and wiped her hands on her cloak. 'It always made me rather sad,' she said. 'Poor old Charles.'

The Doctor cleared his throat. 'Yes, quite.' He stuffed the orange peel into his trouser pocket and turned to Jamie. 'And what about you, my lad?'

The Highlander pulled a face and looked away. 'Oh, I'm like Ben,' he said. 'I never fashed myself much about history.'

The Doctor looked appalled. 'But this only happened a hundred years before your time, Jamie. You should be giving us the history lesson.'

Jamie's face clouded. 'Aye, well. I was a piper, wasn't I? I never had much time to look at school books.'

The Doctor gave a little smile and winked at Ben and Polly. 'Well,' he said at last, 'I've an idea. As we might spend some time here perhaps we should be a little better prepared.'

'How'd you mean?' asked Ben.

The Doctor twiddled his thumbs and looked up at the sky.

'The fact is, I'm not quite the fount of all wisdom which you think me.'

'Oh aye?' said Jamie with a chuckle.

'No,' continued the Doctor. 'I think a little refresher course in the customs, manners, and politics of this time wouldn't go amiss.'

Polly pulled a face. 'That's not like you, Doctor. We normally just go blundering into things.'

'Eh?' snapped the Doctor testily.

'What she means,' said Ben placatingly, 'is that we don't normally prepare for these things. Isn't that half the fun?'

The Doctor smiled. 'Of course. Of course it is. But this was a very dangerous time. We must be careful.' His expression grew suddenly grave, emphasising the deep lines on his face. 'Loyalties are in a state of constant flux. This conflict tore apart friends and families and it wasn't unusual for fathers and sons to fight on opposite sides.'

Polly's mouth turned down. 'A civil war in every sense.'

'Exactly. So we don't want to upset anyone or get ourselves into trouble needlessly because we're ignorant of what's going on. I'll pop back to the TARDIS. There's bound to be just the sort of thing we need in the library.'

Jamie nodded. 'All right, Doctor. We'll wait here.'

The Doctor headed back the way they had come, his cloak flapping behind him. 'Shan't be a tick. Don't talk to any strangers.'

The three of them watched him disappear into the dark alley.

'I hope it's got lots of pictures,' said Jamie with a groan.

William Kemp stamped his feet on a rough twig mat as he entered the rear of the inn. Snow fell from his shoes and on to the stone floor like powder. He gave the kitchen the benefit of his scowl, ignoring the pleasant atmosphere of busy cooking which permeated the room.

Huge copper pots were affixed to the walls, hanging above cheeses, meats, and preserves of all kinds. Dried, salted fish were stacked in a pile on top of three or four long wooden tables, their surfaces blotched and cracked with wear.

Kemp closed the door behind him, shivered, and made straight for the large fire blazing in the kitchen hearth. Before it stood the firedogs, great iron constructions on which spits turned incessantly, dripping hot fat into a row of black tins.

Just in front of these, about to thrust a tray of oat clap bread into the brick oven, stood Kemp's wife, Sarah.

Despite her daughter's looks, she was as plain as her own dress, a simple, red affair with a full-sleeved white blouse and ap.r.o.n. Her thick auburn hair was tucked up under a lacy cap.

She turned as her husband entered and gave him one of her ready smiles. Which he ignored.

Sarah could remember a time when William had considered her beautiful, had been unable to keep himself from embracing her, even as she cooked. She imagined what it would feel like to have him come up behind her now and nuzzle, laughing at her neck, calling her his 'little goose' the way he used to.

Her face was flushed and strands of her hair kept falling into her eyes as she bent down to open the oven.

'I heard there were soldiers,' she said quietly.

Kemp said nothing and seated himself at the kitchen table.

He grabbed a hunk of bread and began to chew noisily on it, glancing around at the cluttered parameters of the small, warm room.

Sarah Kemp stood back from the oven and closed the big iron door. She decided to try another tack with her husband.