Doctor Who_ Nightshade - Mark Gatiss [32]
moor... the wind. It’s not the most beneficial of
‘No. Thank you, but no. I’m not here to get involved.’
environments.’
‘As you wish,’ said Winstanley, pouring another glass of The Doctor turned interested eyes on Winstanley who port.
avoided his gaze.
The Doctor sipped his drink and returned to his
‘You seem like a good listener, Doctor. Tell me...’ The contemplation of the fire. Winstanley began to hunt Abbot rolled the stem of his glass between pudgy fingers.
amongst his bookshelves.
‘Tell me, do you have faith?’
‘Perhaps you’d be interested in this, Doctor?’
‘Faith?’
The Doctor glanced at his pocket watch. It was a little Winstanley nodded.
after seven. He mustn’t forget his appointment with Ace.
The Doctor inclined his head slightly, throwing his face A small, vellum-bound book, dwarfed by the Abbot’s into deep shadow.
sausage-fingers, was pressed into his hand.
‘I used to think ... I used to think I had faith. Faith in what
‘Local history,’ said Winstanley. ‘And decidedly colourful was right and wrong. What was just.’
too.’
‘And now?’
‘Now I’m not so sure.’
The Abbot turned towards the fire, his eyes glistening as though he were crying. ‘Yes. I believe I know what you mean.’
The Doctor sat up sharply as if to break the mood of melancholy. ‘Tell me about your radio telescope.’
‘Oh, that’s a recent addition, Doctor. Five or six years old.
We’re tuned in to messages from the stars.’
‘Have they had any luck?’
Winstanley chuckled. ‘Not to my knowledge. They seem a nice lot up there, though. I’ve met Dr Cooper and Miss Kidd.
And Mr Degun often pops in. I believe he’s fascinated by 90
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DOCTOR WHO: NIGHTSHADE
DOCTOR WHO: NIGHTSHADE
The Doctor began to turn the brittle yellow pages which were crowded with crabbed print. Wide-bordered pictures appeared every once in a while, showing Saxon serfs labouring in the fields or building rudimentary houses on Chapter Four
the moorland. The Doctor recognised the village church, without its later embellishments, and finally came upon a splendid print showing a large, heavily fortified Norman castle, narrow flags spiking its battlements.
‘Marsham Castle,’ said the Abbot over his shoulder. ‘Built by Sir Brian de Fillis in - let me see now - 1156. Yes, 1156.’
He ran a hand over his shaved head. ‘Gone now, of course.’
In Phillip Jackson’s view, the day had already dragged on
‘One of the ruins that Cromwell knocked about a bit,’ said long enough. Now the night was hot and still, the cloying the Doctor smiling.
perfume of wild summer flowers mingling with wisps of
‘You’re closer than you think. Read on.’
gunsmoke. Overhead, the sky, smooth and unperturbed as The Doctor settled back, holding the small volume an upturned tea cup, was a rich collage of dark blue and between his hands.
sunset crimson.
This great victory upon the moor of Marston, given unto He laid back his handsome head and enjoyed the soft Parliament by the grace of our Lord Jesus, did result in the rout of pressure of the heather tangling in the shining black locks of Prince Rupert and his men. God did make them as stubble to his hair. It had been a good day.
Cromwell’s sword. Brave Ironsides, notwithstanding a grave Jackson’s belief was strong: to fight for true democracy, injury, beat the Prince’s horsemen into retreat and sent Captain the freedom to worship as he chose, and not to labour under Phillip Jackson in pursuit.
the tyrannical rule of an unworthy king. Today’s victory Coming upon a troop of the Royalists in the castle of Marsham, had been sweet indeed but Jackson knew well how soon he in the county of York, Jackson reported that the King’s Men did would be called upon to fight again. Had he not promised experience such ghastly terrors and phantoms that they cried Cromwell to pursue the Royalists to perdition