Doctor Who_ The Roundheads Part 4

The attic room was a low, dark place which William Kemp normally kept empty. It was used occasionally to put up a guest if the inn was unexpectedly full, in which case a shaky old bed and mattress would be disinterred for the purpose.

Today, though, Kemp stooped beneath its rafters, pouring ale into a heavy jug which sat upon a table which he had spent most of the previous afternoon trying to manoeuvre inside.

Half a dozen men were sitting around it, champing anxiously on clay pipes and, as a consequence, wreathed in a tug of tobacco.

A few moments before, they had been arguing fiercely, but now Kemp's arrival had stilled their voices. He finished his work and the man at the top of the table, an imposing, silver-bearded figure, nodded to him.

'Will there be anything else, sir?' Kemp asked, hoping to be privy to the conversation.

Silver Beard shook his head. 'Nay, Will. We will call if anything is required.'

Kemp bowed disappointedly and withdrew, looking quickly at the other figures before closing the little wooden door after him.

When they were sure Kemp's footsteps had faded, the group began at once to speak again in tones of barely concealed fury. The silver-bearded man, Sir John Copper, held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

'Peace, peace, gentlemen, I pray you.'

By his side sat Christopher Whyte, a handsome, c.o.c.ky young fellow of thirty-three with long, flowing chestnut hair and brilliant-blue eyes. His face, fixed in a sardonic half-smile, managed to look interested and indifferent simultaneously.

Sitting just across the table was the sweating, flushed form of Benedict Moor and it was he who chose to speak now, lowering his voice in deference to Copper's gesture.

'Turned out!' he croaked. 'Turned out of the Commons!

And by Thomas Pride. G.o.d save us, he was a drayman before the wars.'

Whyte shook his head, his long hair brushing over the velvet collar of his coat. 'If the Commons required us all to be of n.o.ble birth, Ben, then it would hardly live up to its name.'

Moor scowled at him. 'You know what I mean, lad.'

Copper turned to Whyte and patted his hand amusedly.

'Yes, you do, Chris. And do not play merry with Master Moor's feelings.'

Moor banged his fist on the table, making the ale in the jug slosh about. 'By what authority would they try their King?

Have they taken leave of their senses?'

Sir John Copper stroked his beard and looked down at the table, his almond-shaped eyes unreadable.

'You know what they would say, Ben,' he said, his voice measured and calm. 'Fairfax and Cromwell have got it into their heads to depose their monarch and that's all there is to it.'

Moor sank back into his seat, his gaunt features pooling into shadow. ''Sfoot. I never thought it would come to this. I fought Charles, aye, fought him because he thought to rule this land without recourse to us, his Parliament. I cheered when we beat him because I thought... I thought...'

Christopher Whyte poured himself a mug of ale and contemplated its foamy weight in his hand. 'You thought the Army would be content with that. A chastened King. But you underestimated their ambition, sir. The Army chiefs are set to be more the despot than ever Charles was.'

He drained the gla.s.s in one draught and wiped his clean-shaven face with the back of his hand.

Copper looked sideways at Whyte and gave a small smile, his gimlet eyes crinkling at the comers. Then he turned back to Moor. 'You were away from the House the other day, Ben.

You know Fairfax has given orders to move him?'

Moor looked up. 'His Majesty? Aye. To Hurst Castle, is it not?'

Copper nodded. 'On the Solent.'

Moor gnawed at his knuckle and looked around the room at the other men. The weather and the winter made the place depressingly dark.

'My friends,' he murmured earnestly. 'What are we do do?'

Whyte and Copper exchanged glances, then the older man spoke, his voice still calm but betraying a measure of contained excitement.

'Never fear, Ben. There are ways and means. The Queen awaits His Majesty in France. Let us see if there is not some way they can be reunited.'

He smiled broadly, as did Whyte, leaving Moor and the others frowning in puzzlement.

'Now then,' said the Doctor cheerily. 'What say we have a little look around?'

He had returned to find his companions just as he had left them, which was something of a relief as they often tended to go astray.

It had stopped snowing at last and the sky had brightened considerably, lending the street a sparkling, virginal charm.

The Doctor looked around, breathed deeply of the crisp air, and sucked absently on his finger. 'Jamie and I will head towards the river, I think.'

'Oh,' said Polly. 'Shouldn't we stay together?'

The Doctor waved his hand airily. 'Oh, it should be alright if you're sensible. Anyway, Ben, wouldn't you like some sh.o.r.e leave?'

Ben shrugged. 'Suppose so.'

'Well then,' continued the Doctor, 'that's settled.'

Polly wasn't so 'sure. 'What about all that stuff about getting acclimatised?'

The Doctor cleared his throat and pulled his cloak more tightly about him, as though he feared discovery of the children's book in his pocket.

'Yes, well. I didn't have a lot of luck there, as I've explained. I'm sure we'll get along all right. Just watch your tongues and be circ.u.mspect.'

'Eh?' said Jamie.

The Doctor patted him on the shoulder. 'Yes, you come with me, Jamie.'

Polly held up her hand. 'Hang on, Doctor. We don't even know what year it is. We could be slap bang in the middle of the Civil Wars.'

'I don't like the sound of that,' lamented Ben.

'Och,' said Jamie, his Jacobite mettle showing. 'Where's your pluck, man? And you a sailor, too.'

Never one to resist a little baiting, Ben set his face determinedly. 'All right. We will. Come on, d.u.c.h.ess.'

The Doctor clapped his hands together and gave a quick glance up and down the street. 'We'll meet you back at the TARDIS at sunset. All right? Come along, Jamie.'

Jamie turned to him. 'Where're we going?'

'Come along,' said the Doctor firmly, tugging at his sleeve.

Now the snow had ceased, the street was beginning to crowd again with carts and people, hurrying through.

'What was all that about?' said Ben with some asperity.

'"I think it'd do us all good to spend some time on our own."'

Polly laughed. 'I don't know. Perhaps our constantly harping on about getting back to 1966 is getting on his nerves a bit.'

Ben rubbed his chin. 'Yeah but he's not on his own, is he?

He's got Jamie.'

Polly smiled. 'Mm. Haven't you noticed he prefers having someone around who doesn't ask too many awkward questions?'

Ben ruffled his blond hair. 'I hope we haven't hurt his feelings. I mean, not everyone gets the chance to go back in time, do they?'

'You're dead right, sailor,' said Polly. 'Come on. Let's get on with it.'

They began to thread their way through the s...o...b..und London streets, gazing about in a mixture of awe and amus.e.m.e.nt, peering into every shadowed corner.

The streets, now teeming with people, were extraordinarily narrow. Houses with twisted, distorted beams leaned across towards each other like freakish trees struggling to reach the sun. Twice, the travellers had to step aside as the contents of a chamber pot were unceremoniously dumped out of an upstairs window on to the white drifts below.

Ben had once told Polly that he could handle Daleks and Cybermen and all the futuristic horrors that went with them, but what really sent his senses reeling was seeing their own history replayed before their eyes.

Polly's face was beaming as she watched a little girl with ginger curls jump out into the snow and begin to fling it into the air. She let out a peal of giggles and threw a hastily a.s.sembled s...o...b..ll in Ben's direction.

'You know,' said Polly, 'I was just thinking. When I was at school I used to love reading about the Cavaliers. I remember pictures of them. All frills and velvet and lace. Not like that misery guts Cromwell and his pals.'

'Oh, yeah?' said Ben, absently throwing a s...o...b..ll back at the little girl.

Polly warmed to her theme. 'Oh, he was a terrible killjoy.

You know, he even banned Christmas?'

Ben looked rueful. 'Yeah. Well, if his family were anything like mine that was probably a very good idea.'

Richard G.o.dley hated the gulls. He hated their swooping, irritating presence. Hated their harsh, shrill cry. Hated the way they seemed to single out his richest and most attractive coats to defecate upon.

He shot them a poisonous glance as he hurried towards the wharf, keeping his face well covered beneath a thick scarf.

G.o.dley clattered down a flight of rickety spiral steps, their wooden surface slick with snow and wet weed, and threaded his way through the timber yard to the ship.

She lay in her berth, rocking gently in the swell, a monster of a man o' war, four decks deep with rigging so vast and complicated that it resembled a spider's web. Her sails were folded now and her ensigns fluttered gently in the biting wind.

G.o.dley walked cautiously on to the gangplank, the tails of his blue velvet coat wafting behind him. He glanced about quickly, almost nervously, aware of the jauntiness with which he would once have done this thing.

But it was all different now. Even he had to admit that.

Ignoring the shouts of the coopers and merchants who were slinging sacks of provisions on board, he strode across the deck towards the huge, elaborately carved stem, where he knew the captain's cabin to be located.

As it was, the captain saved him the trip, emerging from his room and blinking in the bleak white light of day.

'Ah!' he cried. 'You are here!'

His voice was clipped and heavily accented. G.o.dley marched up to him, still looking shiftily over his shoulder.

'Captain Stanislaus,' he murmured with a small bow.

'When do we sail?'

Stanislaus let out a small, musical giggle. 'You must not be so afraid, my friend. There is nothing to fear. We sail upon the next tide.'

'And when is that?'

Stanislaus sighed and shrugged. He was an uncommonly tall man with a shock of raven-black hair. His features were strong and faintly swarthy, with black brows and beard, deep-brown eyes and a huge, charming smile. He was dressed in a big, three-quarter-length red coat, its lapels bristling with silver b.u.t.tons, and a broad black hat was jammed on to his head.

'Some time this evening,' he said to G.o.dley. 'Alas, we are a little short-handed so I have men out looking for... er...

volunteers.'

G.o.dley laughed. 'More desertions, my dear Captain?

Really, you will be getting yourself a reputation.'

Stanislaus's smile froze on his lips. 'I have a reputation, sir,' he said coldly. 'And no man ever deserts my ship. Not alive, anyway.' G.o.dley pulled down the scarf from his face.

He was a dashing, handsome young man with huge brown eyes and a thin, aquiline nose. His dimpled chin showed a suggestion of beard.

'Have a care, sir,' he warned Stanislaus in a whisper. 'This is no pleasure cruise. And no pirate's endeavour. You will obey my orders. And mine alone. Is that clear?'

Stanislaus smiled his shark's smile and then, without a word, turned on his heel and went back to his cabin.