Doctor Who_ The Roundheads Part 8

Ashdown glanced down at Ben and gave a humourless chuckle. 'Well, my friend,' he muttered, 'that's the last either of us'll be seeing of old London for a while.'

Captain Stanislaus's s.h.i.+p ploughed on into the black night.

CHAPTER 3.

Much to her surprise, Polly did not find herself taken to some den of Stuart iniquity, sold into slavery or, as she had half feared and half expected, burnt as a witch. Instead she was ferried around the comer of the inn, taken through the now-empty kitchen and upstairs to the chamber where Sir John Copper and Christopher Whyte sat alone.

As she was dragged in and pushed roughly down into a chair, she quickly looked about for an escape route. But the room was now so dark that she could make out little except the candlelit features of her captors.

The leader of the thugs who'd kidnapped her exchanged some whispered words with Copper and then held out his hand, palm upward.

Copper slid some coins over the table. The three men looked at Polly, laughed to themselves and, bending their burly frames, exited through the low door.

'What on earth do you think you're doing?' cried Polly indignantly, '

Copper held up a neatly manicured hand. 'Patience, mistress,' he purred. 'We mean you no ill.'

'Oh really?' she almost shrieked. 'What about my friend back there?'

'He sustained a b.u.mp on the head, I gather. He'll be all right.'

Polly glared at him. 'Is that a professional opinion?'

Christopher Whyte leaned forward across the table and smiled at her. Despite herself, Polly couldn't help but feel slightly rea.s.sured by the handsome stranger.

'What's your name?' he asked gently.

'Why do you want to know?' She hoped she sounded defensive and strong but was rather afraid the question sounded almost flirtatious.

Copper steepled his fingers and looked up at the darkened eaves.

'You were overheard in the inn discussing... certain matters. Matters of interest to us.' He turned his cold eyes on to Polly. 'Now, what is your name?'

She sighed. It was going to be a long night. 'Polly Polly Wright.' She smoothed back her hair with one hand.

Whyte's grin grew wider and he unconsciously ran his hand through his own long hair, as though preening himself.

Copper's face remained impa.s.sive. He leaned forward and pointed his finger at Polly in an uncompromisingly hostile manner. 'Now, Mistress Polly, you will tell us all you know about the King and exactly when Parliament intends to cut off his head!'

Jamie sat with his head sunk low on his chest, wondering why he seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time in dungeons of one sort or another.

The latest was an incredibly cramped affair of brown stone walls and ceiling that ran with unappealing, slimy green deposits. There were heaps of filthy straw cl.u.s.tered in the comers and big iron rings projecting from the walls themselves, their purpose unknown, their fastenings stained with rusty water.

The Doctor, who was sitting against the opposite wall playing a repet.i.tive tune on his recorder, had explained that the damp was caused by their cell's proximity to the river.

Jamie thought briefly of the happy time they had so recently spent on the same river, of the colourful mummers and the fire-eater. Then his thoughts drifted off into contemplation of warmth in general and of his own cosy, comfortable room back in the TARDIS.

With a start, he suddenly realised that he had begun to consider the eccentric time machine his home. He had grown used to its Winding network of corridors and the surprises its infinite size had to offer. Polly, Ben, and the Doctor were his family now, even if they sometimes annoyed him, as families were wont to do. He glanced over at the little man, who seemed entirely unconcerned at their current predicament.

'I dinnae believe this, Doctor,' he complained with a wry smile. 'We seem to get locked up everywhere we go.'

The Doctor tootled on his recorder. 'Occupational hazard,'

he muttered between notes. 'They're just a bit jumpy.'

Jamie stood up and began pacing up and down the little cell. It was so small that it was hardly worth the effort. 'But why pick on us?'

The Doctor pocketed his recorder and stared up at the ceiling. 'I suppose we might look a bit unusual,' he conceded.

'And then there's the question of your nationality.'

Jamie frowned. 'What d'you mean?'

'Well, you see, the Scots fought on the King's side for much of the conflict. They've recently changed their minds, according to the book.'

He fished out the little volume and flicked rapidly through its pages. Jamie caught a glimpse of the yellowed pages with their faded colour plates showing hors.e.m.e.n, musketeers, and battling troopers.

The Doctor nodded. 'Yes. The Scots have changed sides.'

He clapped the book shut and looked up at Jamie worriedly.

'And n.o.body likes a turncoat, if you see what I mean.'

'I'm no turncoat!' protested Jamie.

'I know that,' said the Doctor, patiently 'but our captors don't.'

'So the English don't trust us?'

'In a nutsh.e.l.l, yes.'

Jamie smiled. 'Just like old times.'

Footsteps began to echo in the corridor beyond and then the door rattled as a key was slid into its ma.s.sive iron lock.

Jamie and the Doctor looked up as the watchman slid his bulk through the narrow door, panting and gasping with the effort. 'Why did I put 'em here, I ask?' he muttered. 'I'm a fool to meself. Can't expect to go getting into these here cells if I care not how many gooseberry creams I have.'

His little lecture to himself over, the watchman straightened up and fixed his prisoners with a baleful glare.

Behind him came a small, hatchet-faced man with brutally cropped hair and a large, livid scar across his forehead. He slipped easily and quickly through the door like a ferret.

'Well, my fine fellows,' said the watchman. 'I fear we've had no luck with your friend Master Scrope.'

'Scrope, no,' said his companion with a strange, high-pitched giggle.

'But there's another gentleman here who wants to ask you a few questions.'

The cropped-haired man moved forward, brandis.h.i.+ng a long and vicious-looking knife. 'Questions, yes,' he hissed, grinning all over his sinister face.

The Doctor and Jamie exchanged worried glances.

In the room above the inn, Polly was beginning to feel the effects of her afternoon spent with Ben. A kind of drowsy numbness was warming the back of her skull and she wanted nothing so much as to lie back in her chair in the dark room and go to sleep.

. Her captors seemed amiable enough and, apart from their incessant questions, didn't seem to const.i.tute too much of a threat. She had to admit she quite enjoyed sparring with the younger one. In fact, if she'd run into him back at the Inferno Club in Chelsea, she might have considered him quite a dish.

Smiling to herself at this incongruous thought, she forced herself to concentrate and began again.

'Look, I've told you. We were just talking. I don't know anything about any plots, real or imagined.'

Copper's eyes narrowed. 'Do not play pell-mell with' us mistress. Your companion was heard to say something about cutting off His Majesty's head.'

Polly thought quickly. 'Well... isn't that what they're bound to do? I mean, there were soldiers outside Parliament this morning turning people away. Everyone knows something's going on.'

Copper seemed to consider this.

Whyte flashed her his most winning smile. 'Your speech is strange, Mistress Polly. Where are you from?'

'Chelsea, as it happens. But I've... I've been away. Out of the country you might say.'

Copper laid a finger to his lip and tapped it thoughtfully, then turned to his companion. 'She's no common woman.'

'Indeed, no,' purred Whyte.

Copper turned back to Polly. 'Do you have contacts in France? With the Queen, perhaps?'

Polly sighed. 'I wish I did. She might get me out of here.

But, no. I've been travelling some time. Great distances.'

'Have you indeed?' said Copper. He inclined his head towards Whyte and they spoke in whispers for several moments, the older man occasionally nodding.

'Well, Mistress Polly.' he said at last. 'I have decided to let you go.'

'That's very magnanimous of you,' said Polly sharply.

'But I would advise you and your friend to keep your tongues still in future. These are dangerous times.'

Polly stood up. 'You're telling me. What did you do with Ben?'

Whyte frowned. 'Your companion? Nothing. He was left where he fell.'

Polly was appalled. 'What? I thought you must have kidnapped him too!'

'Nay, my dear,' said Whyte, genuinely concerned. 'I'm sorry.'

Polly ran to the doorway. 'I've got to find him!' she cried, throwing open the door and clattering downstairs to the inn.

Copper looked at Whyte. 'Well, Chris?'

Whyte smiled and held up his hands. 'She's a strange one, indeed. But harmless, I'm sure of it.'

Copper stroked his silvery beard. 'Perhaps, but I think it can do no harm to follow her for a while.' He nodded towards the door.

Whyte picked up his hat. 'It will not be an onerous task,'

he said, bowing low and then slipping out of the door after Polly.

Copper crossed to the window and sat down on the sill. He saw Polly emerge into the street and begin to look wildly around. Then Whyte stole outside and concealed himself within a doorway, his attention fixed on Polly.

Copper grunted, satisfied, and turned back to the table and the sheaf of doc.u.ments that covered its surface. On the uppermost one was drawn a large, detailed map of a fortified building, the thin body of water that snaked by it etched out in thick black ink.

'It's the bull's pizzle for you!' laughed the watchman. 'Or maybe the Water House.'

He swung round to face his small, scarred jailer companion. 'What say you, Jem? Or are such things too good for 'em?'

The man with the knife giggled horribly. 'Too good for 'em, yes,' he repeated.

The Doctor was practically hopping with frustration. He stood at Jamie's side while Jem the jailer threatened the young Scot with the vicious-looking blade.

'Look ' began the Doctor.

''E can speak for 'isself, can't 'e?' spat the jailer, his yellowy eyes blazing.

The Doctor held up his hands. 'Well, naturally. But, you know, with all the confusion...'

The jailer frowned, and his brows sank unpleasantly over his eyes. 'Confusion? Who are you anyway?'

'I'm... I'm his doctor.' said the Doctor sheepishly.

The watchman pressed his fat body back against the door of the cell. 'It's not catching, is it?'

'No, no,' smiled the Doctor, 'nothing like that.'

'Right, then. Shut your face,' said the jailer, turning back to Jamie. 'Now then, master Scotchman. You tell me what you're doing in London?'