Doctor Who_ The Roundheads Part 13

When Cromwell and Fairfax were alone, they stood in brooding, angry silence. Then Cromwell dragged the charge sheet across the table and thrust it under Fairfax's nose.

'You would object to what this doc.u.ment says?'

Fairfax shook his head. 'It is true. I know it.'

Cromwell's blue eyes blazed with righteous ire. 'Then what ails you?'

The commander sighed. 'It is all true. But we have gone too far, Oliver. We cannot... we must not kill our King.'

Cromwell rolled the doc.u.ment up and held it in his hand like a dagger. 'We gave him every chance, Thomas, every chance. He chose to repay our trust with the basest treachery.'

Fairfax looked pleadingly into Cromwell's face. 'But there must still be another way '

'There is no other way,' said Cromwell in a dangerous whisper. 'If we let him slip again, our cause is finished, Thomas. We might as well call ourselves serfs and have done with it. We must cut out this poison at its source.'

Fairfax shook his head. 'And have history condemn us as regicides?' Cromwell turned away. 'I have no care for history.

I am concerned with the present.'

Fairfax looked at his old friend, the soldier alongside whom he had fought so long and so bravely. He let out a long sigh that was more like the last breath of a dying man. 'Then you must face the consequences alone, my friend. I shall have none of it.'

He turned smartly and went out of the room without looking back.

Evening came fast and, as the Teazer Teazer approached the winking lights of Amsterdam, Ben s.h.i.+vered. Ahead, he could just make out a rather splendid skyline of tall public buildings, churches, and, inevitably, windmills. approached the winking lights of Amsterdam, Ben s.h.i.+vered. Ahead, he could just make out a rather splendid skyline of tall public buildings, churches, and, inevitably, windmills.

Ashdown and the other men were busy making fast the sails as the s.h.i.+p lurched into the harbour, the black water slopping like oil around her hull.

Aware that to tarry would attract attention, Ben set to work, doing his best not to eavesdrop as Captain Stanislaus and G.o.dley emerged from their cabins.

The pa.s.senger straightened his clothes and donned a broad, black, feathered hat as the captain approached him.

'We are safe,' murmured G.o.dley.

The Captain smiled, his teeth glinting in the glow of the lamps. 'Unlike some I could mention,' he said quietly.

G.o.dley's monkey chose that moment to leap from the cabin and land on his master's shoulder, making both men turn and become aware that Ben was leaning just a little too close to them.

G.o.dley caught sight of him, frowned, and jerked his head rapidly upward as a sign to Stanislaus. Ben was immediately grabbed by the scruff of the neck.

'What is this?' hissed the captain. 'Do we have an spy aboard, Master Ashdown?'

Ashdown hurried across the deck, flapping his arms placatingly.

'Oh, no, no, Captain,' he cried. 'This is the new lad, sir, the new lad. He's just getting to know the ropes. Expect he's curious about what you and the gentlemen are doing here.'

Stanislaus gave Ashdown a dark look. 'I should not worry about that, sir. This gentleman's business is no concern of yours. You content yourself with the workings of this s.h.i.+p, is that clear?'

Ashdown and Ben nodded silently.

Stanislaus let Ben go and smoothed down his cravat. 'Or else you'll all get to know the ropes. Intimately.'

He glared at his crew and set a free rope that hung from the sail swinging, leaving no doubt as to his threat.

The rope cast a snaking shadow over the men as G.o.dley and Stanislaus made their way down the creaking gangplank and on to the sh.o.r.e.

There were already sounds of uproar and general merriment coming from the port and, after a moment's silence to make sure the captain and his pa.s.senger had gone, Ashdown gave Ben a friendly pat on the arm.

'We were lucky there, Ben,' he said. 'The captain's got a terrible temper on him. I've known him flog the skin off a man for less.'

Ben peered after the retreating Stanislaus and G.o.dley.

'Wonder why he didn't. And who's that bloke?'

Ashdown smote his forehead. 'Will you not listen, man?

The captain has told us not to pry and we must not. Now, what say we finish our work and then spend a few hours on sh.o.r.e, eh?'

But Ben was far more interested in what he had heard.

'They said something about a package...'

Ashdown began to lead Ben by the elbow. 'I know a girl with hair like spun gold,' he said lyrically. 'And lips like a rosebud...'

Ben laughed. 'All right, mate. You've convinced me.

Come on.'

They went back to their work and for another hour or so laboured at readying the s.h.i.+p for sail.

Finally, bone-weary but anxious for distraction, the crew of the Teazer Teazer slipped ash.o.r.e into the cold Amsterdam night. slipped ash.o.r.e into the cold Amsterdam night.

The King was dreaming of faraway days at Hampton Court when a sound outside his door made him stir. He opened his heavy lids and blinked up at the ceiling, his ears p.r.i.c.ked.

But all was silent, save for the sound of his own breath and the ticking sound of saliva on his parted lips as he opened his mouth.

He sat up in the darkness and listened attentively.

The room was black except for the tiny oil flame that burned by his bed and a sliver of light from the corridor beyond that seemed to bob and weave, throwing strange shadows into the room, as though someone with a candle were hovering indecisively outside.

Charles pulled back the bedclothes as quietly as he could and stole across the room in his bare feet. He crouched down and tried to make out any sound in the corridor beyond, but he heard nothing.

The light under the door moved again and then diminished.

Charles waited a moment or two, fiddling with the coils of his long hair, and then crept back towards the bed.

He found a wax taper, which he lit from the flame close by. Then, after lighting a candle, he went back to the door.

There was a square of folded paper lying on the elegant rug. Carefully, Charles stooped and picked it up. He walked back to the bed and sat down on the counterpane.

Holding the candle in one slightly shaky hand, he unfolded the paper and peered at the message it contained.

A short time later, an unaccustomed smile found its way on to his grave features. He paused, lost in thought, tapping the paper against his chin, then he let the candle flame catch at its edge.

Soon the paper was alight and he dropped it carefully to the floor and watched it burn, the red-orange flames licking satisfyingly at the parchment, then curling it up into a black ball.

Charles slid back into bed, pulled the blankets over himself and extinguished the candle with his fingers.

It was, Ben decided, only fair that he allow himself a little relaxation. The past couple of days had been trying, to say the least, and, as he knew there was no opportunity of returning to England until the morning, he decided to enjoy himself.

Ashdown led him through the streets of Amsterdam, talking nineteen to the dozen about the strange and wonderful sights that awaited them.

'Your Dutch, you see, are a queer breed,' he expounded, gesticulating as he walked. 'They're p.r.o.ne to drunkenness 'cause of them having to live among all the stinking vapours and chills of these here bogs.'

Ben laughed. 'Is that what it is? I thought they just knew how to have a good time.'

Ashdown cackled merrily. 'That they do, Ben, that they do. I know a place where they have a great tun, a barrel that you can sit in! Aye, with thirty-odd of your fellows and they keep the ale coming from dawn to dusk!'

Ben didn't reply. He was too caught up in the very real beauty of the city, which was different again from the narrow, cramped streets of old London.

They walked through streets that still bustled, despite the lateness of the hour. The houses seemed new, almost freshly minted, and imposingly tall. Some were three or four storeys high and topped with the familiar Dutch gable. Surrounding them were shops of every description, their entrances cl.u.s.tered with fine porcelain, silks, and linen. Fat cheeses and churns of b.u.t.tery milk were set out on the pavement, like bait to entrap the salivating visitor.

Ben found himself smiling. It was just like the sensation he had visiting any new port with his own s.h.i.+p, full of new sights and smells and an exciting expectation of what might be to come.

They had entered a vast, open s.p.a.ce which was bordered at two sides by rows of elegant houses and trees. In the centre stood a huge new building with a dome, a spire, and a clock which seemed to Ben like a glorious folly made up of the most familiar parts of a town hall, a cathedral, and a bell tower.

Ashdown explained that it was the new church on the Botermarkt and that it meant they were close to a certain establishment of his acquaintance. The church, like the houses and roads that surrounded it, was wet and sparkling with new rain and Ben was grateful that Amsterdam was at least a little warmer than London.

They pa.s.sed through a cross street and Ben looked up to see the tiled nameplate which identified it as the Heiligeway, whatever that might be.

He became aware of a strange sound, a sort of combined grumbling and moaning, as though he'd accidentally stumbled on the entrance to purgatory.

Ben stopped dead and listened. The sound was desperate, so awful that it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

He grabbed Ashdown's shoulder and turned him round.

'What's that?'

Ashdown looked glum and shook his head. 'Don't you pay no mind to that, Ben. It ain't a thing to think about too hard.'

Ben looked across the street. The sound seemed to be coming from a big, red-roofed building with a large, columned portico as its entrance. Above this was cut a bas-relief showing a charioteer viciously las.h.i.+ng at his bridled team of lions and wolves. A motto in Latin was inscribed below it.

' Virtutis est domare quaecuncti pauent Virtutis est domare quaecuncti pauent,' read Ben slowly.

He turned to Ashdown, hoping for enlightenment, and, to his astonishment, the sailor translated, looking down at the ground as though in fear. '"It is a virtue to subdue those before whom all go in dread",' he said, his face set into a frown.

'How do you know that?' asked Ben.

Ashdown fixed him with a miserable glare which made him shrink. 'Because I have been shut up in there, my friend.

'Tis the Tugthuis. The House of Correction.'

Ben felt suddenly humbled and wanted to offer some words of comfort to Ashdown, but the sailor merely grinned and patted him on the shoulder. 'But come, lad. Are we not on pleasure bent?'

Ashdown marched off ahead, cackling and in high spirits, though Ben detected a strong desire to put as much distance as possible between himself and the fearsome Tugthuis.

Polly sat down heavily on the bench by the bar of Kemp's inn.

After her initial enthusiasm, she had been systematically worn down by a whole day of disappointments. First, she had great trouble locating the inn among the maze of filthy, decrepit buildings which made up the city. It would be a good thing for one and all, she thought, when the Great Fire came and cleared all those slums away. Then her questions about the men who had captured her had been met with blank incomprehension and then downright hostility from the surly customers.

She had asked to speak to the landlord but was told he was unavailable and his wife denied the inn even possessed an upstairs room, never mind had guests there.

Dejected and alone, Polly had traipsed off and spent another fruitless day searching for her missing friends. She had eaten well, at least, after finding a few of the coins from Ben's purse rattling around in the pockets of her cloak. She had found a stall selling oysters and gorged herself on a dozen or so. They were delicious, salty and fresh with a hint of nutmeg and thyme. She topped this with several hunks of good brown bread and now she was back at the inn, was.h.i.+ng it all down with a kind of hot toddy that took the edge off her loneliness.

The place was noisy with the clatterings and clangings of pots as food and ale were dished out to the rough clientele.

Men with foamy beer dribbling down their beards and on to their collars were laughing and shouting, occasionally taking the chance to grab at a pa.s.sing girl.

Polly glanced anxiously across the crowded room at the little niche recently occupied by her and Ben. It wasn't safe for her to remain here alone.

Suddenly, and to her own great surprise, she began to cry.

Looking down at her dress to avoid prying eyes, she heaved a great sigh and let the hot, salty tears drop on to her lap. She wanted nothing more than to be away from this place. To see Ben, Jamie, and the Doctor again.

Her next breath came out as a ragged sob and she hastily wiped her eyes. What was wrong with her, for goodness'

sake? Couldn't she even manage one day alone?

She thought of what her old friend Rosie would say now.

They had both worked in an office in Bond Street what seemed like an eternity ago and had become great pals. The older Rosie, tall and striking with a jet-black twenties-style bob, was heavily involved with the fledgeling Women's Liberation Movement and had taken Polly under her wing, transforming the shy young girl into something of a swinger.

Polly could picture Rosie now, looking at her the day she had left to become Professor Brett's secretary at the Post Office Tower. Rosie had given her a big hug and then held her out at arm's length. 'Let me look at my monster,' she'd said, with a sad smile. 'Yes. You'll do.' Then they'd walked together arm in arm to the entrance to the great s.h.i.+ning new building. 'You keep your chin up, girl,' Rosie had said.

'Remember, you can manage on your own. I know you can.'

Polly let the images of that warm day wash over her the flashy cars and ozone stink of Oxford Street, the Tower glittering in the sunlight, Rosie standing before her.