Doctor Who_ Bunker Soldiers - Martin Day [20]
Yevhen grinned.
‘... but I am mindful of the Doctor’s arguments,’ Isaac concluded.
Unable to contain himself Yevhen banged the table with his fist, leaping to his feet. ‘This Jew offered hospitality to these travellers! He may even be working with them, and the Tartars, to save his own skin!’
‘Sit down, adviser Yevhen!’ boomed Dmitri. ‘This unseemly outburst does you little credit.’
Yevhen looked about the debating chamber, clearly realising he had gone too far. He sat down, his irritation and anger still blazing behind his eyes. ‘I am sorry, Governor,’ he said through gritted teeth.
Dmitri paused, considering what he had heard. ‘It would seem that we do have a murderer in the city. We must not be distracted from our primary task, but if this matter does involve the Tartars it will be well worth our investigation. We shall go with the Doctor to inspect the body.’
‘But, my lord...’ hissed Yevhen.
Dmitri glanced in his direction. ‘Until we are satisfied that Steven is an innocent man, however, he shall be kept in prison.’
He turned to Steven. ‘If you are innocent, then I am sorry to have to do this.’ His voice hardened. ‘But if I consider you guilty, then I will execute you, and your friends, publicly, within the hour.’
Lesia looked anxiously up and down the crowded marketplace. A subdued feeling of excitement reminded her that there was one face she wanted to observe amongst the sea of people going about their work – so beautiful a face, so noble and handsome!
The worried knot in her stomach reminded her that there were many folk she would rather avoid.
Lesia had come to welcome Dodo’s presence: in terms of outlook and character they had much in common, and each therefore looked to the other for support and encouragement.
When Dodo was busy with her own business, however, and Lesia found herself on her own, she had instead to dig deep to find her own reserves of fortitude and confidence. Until the death of her mother, Lesia had never even imagined that such reserves existed.
She watched as a leatherworker made delicate repairs to a pair of old shoes. Behind him were suspended a host of leather tankards and bottles; wooden pattens, which were worn over shoes when the ground was muddy, rested on a bench to one side, along with rolls of cattle hide and pieces of goatskin. The skins had been dyed – red, yellow, green – and formed a bright point of colour against the drab browns of the stall, like an alpine flower furiously growing on a bare mountainside.
The skins symbolised, she supposed, the hope that burned in the midst of despair. She remembered that certain city officials had questioned the validity of continuing to hold the markets while the Tartars carved their way through the countryside towards Kiev, but the feeling was that the people needed something to cling to, a reminder of their lives before the threat from the east. As long as the markets bustled there seemed to be every chance that life would continue as always, and that perhaps even the Mongols would pass by and leave the people of the city to their business.
‘Does my lady require new pattens, new shoes?’ asked the leatherworker, looking up from his work.
Lesia shook her head. ‘What I have will last.’
He returned to his sewing, disappointed.
‘If my lady would only be mine,’ came a whisper at her ear, ‘I would buy her the finest shoes, the softest stockings, that money could buy.’
She turned to embrace Nahum. ‘Why would you do that,’
she queried with a smile, ‘when your interest would only be to remove them?’
Nahum’s face reddened, but he held her gaze as if drinking from her beauty. ‘You suspect me of the basest of motives,’ he said. ‘But am I wrong?’
Nahum shook his head. ‘Good lady, do not force me to answer!’
Lesia kissed him lightly on the lips, ‘I know your every action is rooted in love,’ she said. ‘I consider that noble, not base.’
The body had been pulled away from the pile of stones and covered in a makeshift shroud. Isaac watched as the Doctor tugged back the cloth and set to work.