Doctor Who_ Battlefield - Marc Platt [67]
It was the same sense of wonder, the Doctor decided, that explorers experienced at the discovery of every archaeological site from Telos to the Valley of the Kings.
Seals were broken, dust was disturbed and heaven knows what was unleashed.
Ace and the Brigadier exchanged glances as the young knight launched into a tour guide spiel: ‘Lord Merlin grew this mighty ship in a great embryo vat for Arthur’s final campaign...’
‘Yes, yes, Ancelyn,’ said the Doctor, ‘but there are more important matters to attend to. Don’t imagine that Morgaine will give up so easily.’
‘Is that why we’re going to wake up old uncle Arthur then?’ said Ace.
‘Just gather round,’ complained the Doctor. ‘This isn’t a school outing.’
He led the way towards the bier at the far end of the hall. A single shaft of water-dappled light fell across the recumbent shape of the High King encased in dusty armour.
He was relieved that Ancelyn did not actually fall to his knees at the sight of the sleeping monarch. They each simply took up places around the obsidian slab.
The Doctor took his hat off.
Now Ancelyn, replace Excalibur and King Arthur will arise.’
Ancelyn smiled gravely and passed the sword. ‘I think the honour belongs to the Brigadier,’ he said.
‘No, the Doctor should do it,’ Lethbridge-Stewart blustered.
Ancelyn was persistent. ‘No my lord, you were the victor.’
‘Give me that,’ said Ace. She took the sword from the knight and planted it back in the stone.
‘Ace, have you no sense of ceremony?’ complained the Doctor.
‘No,’ she said.
Immediately the lights came up.
The ribbed arches of the great ship, covered in veins like scrollwork, lifted out of darkness for the first time in centuries. Coloured screens like tapestries. Panels slipped open on a vast window of murky green water. Everything lay under a grey snow of dust. There was a sound of deep movement in the walls.
‘Listen,’ cried Ancelyn. ‘She is alive.’
The King did not stir.
They waited.
‘This is very odd,’ said the Doctor eventually.
‘You put him here,’ said Ace.
‘I "will" put him there.’
He reached out and touched the helmet. A trickle of dust slipped out from behind the visor. There was rust on his fingers. ‘What is it, Professor?’
The Doctor pulled the helmet away from the body.
Apart from dust, it was empty.
‘Good Lord,’ said the Brigadier.
‘Where is the King?’ asked Ancelyn.
Ace caught at a brown piece of parchment that tumbled with the dust from the helmet. It had a thin spidery script in what looked like ancient felt tip.
‘This is for you, Professor,’ she said.
He looked uncomfortable. ‘What does it say?’
The parchment was so brittle it started to crumble in her hands. ‘Dear Doctor, King died in final battle, everything else propaganda.’
‘Who signed it?’
‘Mine sincerely, the Doctor.’
Bother, thought the Doctor. ‘I’m sorry, Ancelyn. The present rarely lives up to expectations.’
They stood silently for a moment, the Doctor moved by the death of a friend he had yet to encounter. ‘And who’s going to tell Morgaine?’ he said.
Ancelyn looked startled. ‘I have left my lady Winifred unguarded.’
He bowed to them and ran from the hall.
The Doctor looked at his other old warrior friend. ‘I could have given myself a bit more warning. You two can see to this ship.’
‘Explosives, Ace?’ asked the Brigadier.
‘Now you’re talking,’ she said.
The Doctor turned to go. ‘We’ll give Arthur a warrior’s burial.’
Brigadier Bambera sat in the temporary comfort of her Command Vehicle. She tugged at the fresh field dressing on her arm. Others of her unit had been less lucky. Eight dead, seventeen injured. It was what Ancelyn called ‘a good fight’.
She tapped her pen irritably on her desk, but the right words to start her report eluded her. There was a rig on the way to move the missile at last. And they were having trouble keeping the press away.
But what preyed on her mind most was wondering how long Ancelyn would stay. She put down her pen and yelled