Doctor Who_ The Roundheads Part 25

'Halt!' he barked hoa.r.s.ely. 'What do you want?'

Polly put on her sweetest smile. 'It's only the King's food,' she said simply. 'We can't have him starving, now, can we?'

The guard kept his pike in place. 'Where's Margaret?'

Polly was prepared. 'Oh, she's taken on bad, she has.'

The other guard stepped forward. 'Oh, no,' he said with genuine concern. 'Poor Peg? What ails her?'

Polly let out a fearful moan. 'An ague, it is. Shivering like all the snows of the north had settled on her bed.'

She smiled inwardly, rather pleased with the simile. The guard's pike drooped in response. 'I'd not heard,' he said in a low whisper.

His companion let out a cruel little laugh. 'Why, Sam. And you meant to be engaged to the girl!'

Polly felt a little lurch in her stomach, immediately regretting the elaborate nature of Margaret's feigned illness.

'Oh, no. Don't take on so. She'll be fine, I'm sure. She's gone to her bed and will see no one. I shouldn't take it personally.'

The guard called Sam lifted up his visor and his face was full of anxious concern. 'Do you really think so?'

Polly nodded confidently. 'You know what's she's like.

She wouldn't want the man she loves to see her in such a state.'

The other guard laughed raucously. 'Aye, that's true enough, Sam. Your Peg'll not be seen without a dollop of rouge and powder all over her pretty face.'

They seemed satisfied and Polly made to move towards the door, but the first guard didn't move. He lowered his pike but shifted his armoured bulk a few inches to block her path.

'So, no Margaret but a new young la.s.s instead, eh?' Polly nodded demurely. 'And who might you be?' asked the guard, lifting his own visor. His gaze travelled rapidly and appreciatively over Polly's figure.

'I'm Master Spufford's niece. Polly.'

The guard grinned. 'Why, who'd've thought the dry old sticks in Spufford's brood would have juice in their loins enough to sire a kiddie? Never mind such a bonny one as this.'

He reached out with his gloved hand and gently caressed Polly's cheek. She stopped herself from brushing him away and fluttered her eyelashes instead. Lord, the things she did for the Doctor!

'What's your name?' she asked flirtatiously.

The guard shot a quick look at his friend Sam and smiled.

'Daniel, lady. Daniel Ancrom.'

Polly c.o.c.ked her head. 'Well, Daniel Ancrom, you just let me take this lot to His High and Mightiness in there and then, mayhaps, I'll come out and see you again.'

Ancrom licked his heavy lips and grinned boyishly. Polly moved past him but Sam flattened his hand against the door.

'You're sure my Peg is all right?'

Polly felt bad about deceiving him but she knew she had to get on with this if she was to rescue the Doctor and get away.

'It's nothing, Sam. Honestly. Now let me take this in before the King dies of thirst.'

Daniel Ancrom grimaced sourly. 'Let him, I say. 'Twould save us the trouble of a trial.'

He and his colleague laughed heartlessly. Then, as Polly had hoped, he grabbed the jug of wine and raised it to his mouth. 'I'll have some of this before he does.'

He gave a throaty chuckle and narrowed his eyes as he looked at Polly. ''Twill be something to tell our children, eh, Polly? That their father supped the late King's wine?'

Sam found this very amusing and slapped his armoured side. Ancrom took a hefty swig from the jug and offered it to his friend. To Polly's chagrin, Sam refused. 'Better to spit in it, I say.'

Ancrom shook his head. 'Nay, Sam. Better to drink it and then spit in it.'

They broke into a renewed gale of laughter. Polly sighed.

She couldn't take much more of this bonhomie.

Sam drank deeply of the wine and then spat back into it.

He handed the jug back to Ancrom, who added his own gobbet of saliva before plonking the jug back on to the tray.

He bowed to Polly and opened one of the doors. 'Now, Mistress Polly, just you hurry up in there with Master Charles ruddy Stuart and get your sweet little rump back out here, double quick.'

As Polly swept past him, he patted her on the backside.

She dashed quickly through the doors, which at once closed behind her.

The chamber beyond was plunged in a warm, chocolate darkness, the orange glow of the fire which dominated the room throwing shimmering abstract shapes over the heavily tapestried walls.

Polly caught glimpses of familiar faces sewn into the threads. One showed King Henry Eighth astride a horse that seemed almost as ma.s.sive as himself. Another, the delicate features of Henry's only son, the boy king, Edward Sixth. Yet another, the chalky, imperious features of Queen Elizabeth.

These were all figures familiar to Polly from countless school lessons, their lives and loves doc.u.mented in dry detail on far-off dusty afternoons.

Another figure from those days suddenly stepped into the glow emanating from the fire. He was small and slight, his grave face and neat beard almost lost in shadow.

King Charles moved towards Polly and spoke in his stammering Scots burr. 'Is it t-time?'

Thurloe chose his own chambers for the appointment. It was important that he feel at ease and in control and there was nowhere that produced such an effect better than his own rooms.

He had always liked the place the cool tiled floor, the grandiose fireplace, the high ceilings and richly patterned drapes. In the summer it was quite the most temperate and equable place in Parliament and many an important measure had been agreed within its four walls by some sweating member or other.

Thurloe sat by the fire, gazing up at the huge painting that hung above the mantel. It depicted a scene from cla.s.sical times: the murder of Julius Caesar. Thurloe's gaze flickered over the two-dimensional forms of the conspirators, daggers raised. In the foreground stood Brutus, his blade coated with his Emperor's blood. Next to him was Caesar himself, in his death throes, a look of astonishment on his face.

It wasn't a terribly good picture. But Thurloe had always liked it. It seemed curiously appropriate for the business he was in.

There was a sharp rap at the door.

Thurloe immediately contrived to look busy, setting his hand to a sheaf of doc.u.ments which littered his broad desk.

'Come!' he called.

The door opened and Thomas Culpeper strode inside.

Striking and handsome in his Roundhead uniform, he carried his helmet under one arm and bowed to Thurloe as he crossed the threshold.

'Ah,' said Thurloe, 'Captain Culpeper. Please come in, come in.'

Culpeper did as he was bidden, taking up a position by the fireplace. 'You may sit if you wish,' offered Thurloe, extending a hand.

Culpeper looked straight ahead. 'I prefer to stand, sir.'

Thurloe nodded and sat back in his chair, crossing his hands over his chest. 'I won't delay, Culpeper,' he said suddenly. 'I do not like you and you, I know, have little but contempt for me.'

'Sir ' began Culpeper.

Thurloe held up a gloved hand. 'Please, do not insult my intelligence by protesting. You regard me as an interfering old fool who gives General Cromwell all manner of bad advice. Is it not so?' Culpeper looked straight ahead. 'I have my opinions, sir, and am ent.i.tled to them.'

Thurloe nodded and smiled smoothly. 'Quite so, quite so.'

He picked up a piece of paper from his desk and tapped it. 'Do you know what this is?'

'Sir?'

'It is a draft copy of John Lilburne's new pamphlet.'

Culpeper laughed shortly. 'That hot-head. His Levellers are a spent force '

'Don't interrupt me!' barked Thurloe with sudden ferocity.

He rubbed his hand over his brow. 'You underestimate them, sir. These Levellers are a strong force. Their crazed ambitions for manhood suffrage and republicanism are but a heartbeat away.'

Culpeper frowned. 'What has all this to do with me?'

Thurloe leaned forward urgently. 'Do you not see, man, that the Levellers are claiming Cromwell wants the crown?

That the whole conflict was engineered that he might s.n.a.t.c.h the bauble from Charles's head?'

Culpeper shook his head. 'That is a silly falsehood.'

'Naturally!' cried Thurloe with a sigh. 'But these things have a habit of gaining ground, do they not? We all know that Charles must die, yet if popular opinion be persuaded that we are simply exchanging one king for another, what might the consequences be?'

Culpeper looked at Thurloe for the first time. 'We must have strong leadership. A figurehead.'

Thurloe jumped to his feet and stalked towards the soldier, shaking his fist angrily. 'And does not the general provide such leadership? Have you cause to complain?'

'No but-'

'Then, sir,' spat Thurloe, his voice almost choked off with fury, 'cease your prattling counsel. We shall have a council of state in place of the King. And that is the end of the matter.

Good day.'

Culpeper put out his hand. 'Thurloe, I never meant '

'Good day!' snapped Thurloe.

With a frustrated sigh, Culpeper turned on his heel and strode to the door. As he opened it, Thurloe spoke again. 'You are an ambitious man, Thomas Culpeper. I have watched you as I watch everything that comes within the general's circle.

Take care that I do not crush you.'

Culpeper hovered impotently in the doorway for a second and then stalked out, slamming the door behind him.

Thurloe smiled, pleased with his performance.

He walked back to the desk and picked up the piece of paper he had brandished earlier. The stuff about Lilb.u.me's pamphlet had done the trick admirably, although the doc.u.ment in his hand was nothing of the sort. It was a death warrant for Thomas Culpeper which Thurloe had had the foresight to draw up some months before.

He opened a drawer in his desk and carefully placed the warrant inside. You never knew when these things might come in handy.

Tearing like a greyhound across the deck of the Teazer Teazer, Ben didn't pause for breath.

He and Winter had managed to lash together tarry ropes from the ship's rigging which they fixed to the metal capstans which studded the outer hull of the vessel. Then, half-wriggling half-crawling, they had dragged themselves across to the Teazer Teazer splitting up as soon as they crashed onto her deck. Ben's task was to ascertain whether Stanislaus was aboard or had joined the attack on Winter's ship, while the lady captain headed straight for the Pole's cabin. splitting up as soon as they crashed onto her deck. Ben's task was to ascertain whether Stanislaus was aboard or had joined the attack on Winter's ship, while the lady captain headed straight for the Pole's cabin.

'If I know him, he'll be as far from the fight as possible'

she'd said. 'And now they've set sail, he must have this blessed package with him!'

Reluctantly, Ben had agreed with the plan but tried to cover the length and breadth of the ship as quickly as he could in order to rejoin his friend. After all, she had lost an arm, a leg, and her nose, so she probably needed all the luck she could get.

Ben was conscious of the sound of his own breathing as he ran across the deck, crouching low as he moved, his shoes slapping against the wet planks.

He cried out and jerked backwards as a slew of men suddenly charged right past him, arms flailing as they fought, shirts and sashes creating a blur of colour. There was sharp tang in the air as steel rang against steel, and Ben threw himself down to avoid getting caught up in the fighting. He encountered a dozen or more of the Demeter Demeter's crew who had taken the fight to the enemy ship, their swords clashing as they took on the Teazer Teazer's band of pirates.

Sorely tempted though he was to come to the aid of Sal Winter's crew, he knew he wouldn't help the captain by getting himself pointlessly killed. So he pulled himself snugly into the shadows as hooted feet raced by and the air was filled with rallying yells. He carefully avoided them all and, though he saw many he recognised, there was no sign of Captain Stanislaus.