Doctor Who_ The Roundheads Part 7

The Doctor looked worried. 'Oh, lor. The law.' He fixed a cheery grin on to his face. 'I beg your pardon?'

The newcomer looked the little man up and down.

'There's been a lot of queer things happens in this city of late.

And I've been told to keep me eyes peeled for anything out of the common.'

'Well, we may be uncommon,' said the Doctor with a small smile, 'but there's nothing odd about us.'

'That's right,' chimed in Jamie. 'What is he, Doctor? A sheriff?'

'Something like that.' said the Doctor without switching off his smile. He pulled himself up to his full, not very considerable height and peered at the watchman. 'Now look here, my good fellow. We're late for an appointment.'

'An appointment?'

Jamie put on his most superior expression. 'Aye. We're meeting friends and then we have to see someone. On important matters of state.'

The watchman c.o.c.ked his head to one side. 'You're a Scot, are you?'

Jamie folded his arms proudly. 'That I am.'

The Doctor sighed. 'Oh, dear.'

The watchman nodded to himself. 'I think you two'd better come with me.'

Holding up his hands in protest, the Doctor began to look about for a quick exit. 'Now don't do anything hasty. We're perfectly respectable.'

The watchman was decidedly unconvinced. He lowered his pikestaff so that the blade was uncomfortably close to the Doctor's throat. 'What's this important state business then?'

The Doctor hesitated a fraction too long and Jamie blurted out, 'We're to see Mr Nathaniel Scrope.'

The watchman looked at him as if he were mad and then burst out laughing, his florid smile widening like the spread of melting fat in a pan. 'Are you now?' he chuckled. 'Well, you come along with me and we'll see if we can't find Mr Scrope for you.'

The Doctor almost stamped his feet in frustration. 'But you don't understand,' he pleaded. 'Mr Scrope is engaged on vital Parliamentary matters!'

'Hold your tongue!' barked the watchman. 'Are you lunatic? Nat Scrope's a saltpetre man.'

'A what?'

'A saltpetre man!' shouted the watchman. 'He's paid to dig up the privies and chicken runs.'

Jamie frowned. 'That explains why he smells so bad.'

'Saltpetre, you say?' said the Doctor.

The watchman nodded. 'Of course. For the gunpowder.

There's never enough.' He laughed again. 'Aye, that's state business, for sure!' He moved his pikestaff so it threatened both Jamie and the Doctor. 'Now move!'

The time travellers began to shuffle away from the river, their feet sinking deep into the snow drifts.

The Doctor held his hands above his head and sighed deeply. 'So much for our friends in high places.'

As the shadows had lengthened, the atmosphere in the inn improved considerably. The fire in the grate had been stoked up to huge proportions and an a.s.sortment of people warmed themselves around it. A couple of mangy-looking dogs had wandered inside and were snuffling under the tables in search of sc.r.a.ps and there was a not unpleasant haze of pipe smoke hanging in the air. Above all, there was chatter, some about the activity outside Parliament, some concerned with more mundane matters.

Polly tried to listen in as discreetly as she could while Ben sat by her side, sinking slowly into warm, rum-induced oblivion.

Turning away from the fire, Polly smiled and shook her head as she took in the slack, distant look on her companion's boyish face.

'I can't believe we've wasted the whole day in here,' she said with a sigh.

Ben let out a short chuckle and patted her hand affectionately. 'Don't fuss, Pol.'

She glanced over his shoulder and out of the mullioned window. She could see little in the darkness, just a few cold citizens struggling home. 'It's not everyone who gets a chance to walk around their own history. And what do we do? Spend the afternoon in the pub!'

Examining his empty gla.s.s, Ben shrugged. 'Well, it's a little bit of normality, innit, d.u.c.h.ess? You have to admit, it's not often we get to do something like this.'

Polly smiled. 'No. No, I suppose not. Anyway, drink up, you. It's time we were on our way.'

Ben nodded and sat up, disguising a burp with the back of his hand. He tossed a few coins on to the table and looked up at Polly. 'D'you reckon that's enough?'

'Probably the heaviest tip they've ever had,' said Polly, edging around the table and heading for the door.

Ben pulled on his cloak. 'I've always fancied running a pub.'

Polly opened the door of the inn and stepped out into the wintry darkness. Ben stopped her on the threshold. ''Ere!' he cried happily. 'Maybe I could buy this one now and pick up the deeds when we get back to 1966.'

Laughing, Polly wagged her finger at him. 'I'm sure the Doctor would have something to say about that!'

They stepped outside. The narrow street seemed almost unnaturally peaceful under its thick blanket of snow. It was unlit save for the light spilling through the door of the inn and, with its pools of blue shadow under the drifts, it looked more like a pathway through a dark wood than a main thoroughfare.

Ben pointed along the street. 'That way, innit?'

As they moved off, one of the shadows on the wall of the inn detached itself and stood, breathing quietly, nearby. It was the same leathery-faced individual who had followed them earlier.

He watched as the couple began to make their way up the street. In his hand he carried a heavy cosh, a kind of cloth bag packed tight with hard sand. He tested its weight and slapped it against his palm, then cursed as it stung his skin.

Just as he was about to follow Ben and Polly, three other men appeared from around the comer. All were burly and dressed in heavy winter coats which m.u.f.fled their faces.

Ben and Polly stopped in their tracks, warily eyeing the strangers. Ben glanced quickly around and indicated that Polly should move behind him.

'All right, Pol,' he muttered out of the side of his mouth,

'don't panic. Let's see if we can make it back to the pub.'

The three men began to approach them and Ben immediately positioned himself in front of his friend. Polly let out a little shriek as the first of the men revealed a vicious-looking club from inside his coat, which he proceeded to swing to and fro like a pendulum.

Ben looked behind him and was just working out the odds of reaching the tantalisingly close door of Kemp's inn when the man with the club rushed at him.

Ben neatly sidestepped and tripped him up, sending him cras.h.i.+ng into the snow. The second man ran across, threw himself at Ben, and landed a solid punch on his jaw. Ben staggered and fell to his knees.

'Run, Pol!' he gasped, as the first man came at him again, spitting snow and mud from his mouth and swinging the club high above his head.

'Not likely!' shouted Polly, hurling herself at Ben's attacker. She leapt on to his back and tried to wrestle the club from his hand but the third man dragged her off and pinioned her arms behind her back.

She called out for help just as the first man cracked Ben behind the ear with his club.

Ben felt a painful nausea rise in his belly and a white flash, like distant summer lightning, dazzle his eyes.

Just then, the leathery-faced man ran out from his hiding place, waving his own cosh and shouting for help.

Sensing that their game was up, the three attackers began to withdraw, dragging Polly with them. She tried to cry out but a big, dirty hand was clamped over her mouth.

Ben struggled to his feet and then collapsed senseless, his mouth and nose slopping into the wet ground.

The three men moved off with Polly. She dug her heels into the soft ground, leaving furrows in the snow, struggling desperately. She could smell tobacco on her abductor's thick fingers and tried in vain to sink her teeth into his tough flesh.

In the blink of an eye, however, the three men had succeeded in spiriting her away.

Ben's rescuer watched them go and then strode swiftly towards the sailor, helping him to sit up.

'Are you well, mate?' he asked in a thick, West Country accent.

Ben tried to focus on the newcomer's tanned face but the image kept swimming in and out of focus. 'Polly... ' he croaked. 'They've taken Polly. Help... me.'

The man patted Ben on the head as he sank back into unconsciousness. 'Don't you fret, my friend. You stick with Isaac Ashdown. All will be peachy. Just peachy.'

He smiled strangely and began to drag Ben to his feet.

Frances Kemp slipped out of the inn, her angelic features disguised beneath a long, grey, hooded cloak. Her cheeks were flushed from an evening spent helping her mother by the kitchen fire but there was an altogether more intangible warmth burning inside her. Something that made her forget the chill of the night altogether.

She made her way swiftly through the maze of narrow alleys which led off the main street, until she approached the baker's shop she knew so well.

Ever since she had been old enough, she had carried a hefty sack of flour from the shop to the inn twice weekly.

Once it had been an onerous task, staggering back through the filthy lanes in all weathers, but now Frances did it with a glad heart.

Making her way around to the back of the darkened shop, she stood at the door and craned her neck to see the upstairs windows. One long, diamond-patterned pane was aglow with candlelight from within.

Frances bent down and, with her ungloved hands, pressed some snow together to form a ball. She carefully aimed it at the window and looked around quickly. Then she threw it and winced as it made a louder-than-expected thud on the leaded gla.s.s. Nothing happened.

She was preparing to throw another s...o...b..ll when there was a noise just inside the shop and the heavy back door was opened. A figure stood framed in the doorway for a moment and then two arms emerged and dragged Frances inside into a fervent embrace.

'Oh, Tom!' cried Frances ecstatically. 'Tom! Is it really you?'

The young man crus.h.i.+ng her in his arms was a tall and striking figure. His face was strong and handsome with neat blond brows and grey eyes. His hair was cut quite short for the time, just curling under his ears.

'Yes, my little dove, it's me,' murmured Tom Culpeper, grinning.

Frances planted kisses on his hands and face. 'But when did you return? Your father told me this afternoon that they did not expect you back for a week!'

Tom clasped his hands over hers and pressed them to his chest. 'All is changing, Frances. The general brought me back with him. Something... something is afoot here in town.'

Frances leaned her face close to his, revelling in the warmth from his body. 'Whatever is happening, I am glad it has brought you back to me.'

Tom grinned again and kissed her. They gazed into each other's eyes until he finally spoke again. 'Does he know yet?'

Frances shook her head. 'Nor will he if G.o.d's willing.'

Tom let their hands drop. 'But he must one day, my dear. I mean to marry you. I am proud of you. I will not have this thing done in a corner.'

Looking down sadly, Frances's face was made even more pale and lovely in the soft glow of the candle. 'There is only one way you could earn my father's favour Tom,' she said quietly.

Tom looked long and hard at the woman he loved and then sighed heavily. Then he gathered Frances once again into his arms. They kissed with the pa.s.sion of long-separated sweethearts until the candle flame sputtered and died.

The night sky was rolling over and over, the stars cartwheeling like a projection in a planetarium.

Ben looked up, vaguely aware that he was lying on his back on a broad, flat, wooden floor. The only light, a flaring orange glow, came from a flickering torch close by.

He knew he was outside and there was a strong odour of tar and salt. Trying to sit up, he felt nausea overwhelm him and a blinding pain leapt across his eyes.

Then there was a terrible drowsiness. If he could only sleep, he thought fuzzily, then everything would be peachy.

Just peachy...

As he slipped into sleep once more, his instincts told him that something was very wrong. The wooden floor beneath him was rocking slowly back and forth...

The leathery-faced Isaac Ashdown appeared out of the darkness with a rough blanket. He threw it over Ben, smiled grimly and then sat back on the deck of the s.h.i.+p, a barrel at his back, looking over at the distant lights of London. The sound of the sea swell was oddly comforting.