Doctor Who_ The Infinity Doctors - Lance Parkin [7]
‘I’d remind you, son, that this “bloke”, whatever we might think of him, is still a member of the High Council. Show some respect.’
To his credit, Peltroc straightened. ‘Sir.’
There was a large fireplace on one wall, the light from it filled half the room. Two pictures in heavy frames hung above the mantel. The smaller painting was of a couple: the man was powerfully built with rugged features, a weathered face with dark eyes; the woman was a redhead, a little plump.
Pride of place, though, was a large informal portrait of a beautiful lady with short black hair and a straight golden gown. Her shoulders were bare, she wore a necklace with a blue gem pendant and held a scroll in her hand. Facing the fire – and the pictures – was a large, high-backed chair.
‘Who?’ Peltroc grunted, gazing across at the pictures.
Raimor nudged Peltroc and indicated the chair. ‘Never mind that,’ he whispered. ‘I think we’ve tracked him down.’
Raimor stepped across the room and over to the fireside.
It was warmer over here, comfortable. Next to the chair was an occasional table. On it rested a wooden tray, and on that was a neatly arranged collection of silver jugs and pots.
There were also three bone china cups.
‘My Lord?’ Raimor asked, bending over the chair. A rather bemused grey cat stared up at him. It blinked and stretched, in a calculated effort to appear unconcerned, even bored, with the guard.
A second later Raimor was upright again.
‘He’s not here.’
At the other end of the room, Peltroc tried to help by checking behind a tapestry, but all he found was the alcove containing the food machine. Tutting to himself, Raimor turned his attention back to the table. Steam was rising from the spout of the tallest jug. He could only have been gone a moment or so.
‘Good evening, gentlemen. How can I help you?’
Raimor started, and turned.
He was standing between them, square in the middle of the room. He wore a thick cotton night-gown. His long face was oval, with an aristocratic nose and a full mouth. He had a high forehead, emphasised by his close-cropped hair. He had sad blue eyes, and he was clutching an old book.
The Doctor.
‘Sorry to wake you, sir.’
The Doctor was staring at him as he walked over. Raimor could almost feel him looking into his soul, but all the old Watchman could think was that the Doctor wasn’t as tall as he looked. He stopped inches away from Raimor.
Then he smiled. ‘No, no, no, you didn’t disturb me. I was finding it difficult to sleep. I was just reading. The Iliad. Have you ever read it?’
‘No, sir.’ Peltroc had made his way to Raimor’s side.
‘You should, you should.’ An wave of realisation passed over his face. ‘Here,’ he said, pressing the book into the Captain’s hand. ‘Take it. I’ve not finished it, but I can work out how it ends. And take a seat. Shoo, Wycliff.’
The Doctor carefully placed the cat in his box and took his place in the chair. As it dragged itself around to face the room rather than the fire, the Captain made a show of examining his gift. This edition was recent, perhaps a millennia old.
From the crest on the spine it was clear that it had been commissioned by one of the minor college libraries. If he had been addressing anyone other than a member of the High Council, the Captain might well have asked how it had ended up in private hands. Instead he merely thanked the Doctor.
‘It’s Captain Raimor and Constable Peltroc, isn’t it?’ the Doctor asked softly. Peltroc had found a rather rickety wooden chair, and it quickly transpired that this was the only other seat. Raimor declined the Doctor’s suggestion that he sit on the rocking horse, choosing to remain standing.
‘Tea?’ the Doctor offered.
The two Watchmen nodded, although neither was sure what they had just been asked. As they took their places, the Doctor leant over the table, selecting the smaller of the two jugs. Deftly he splashed a little white liquid – nothing more exotic than milk, by the look of it – into each china cup.
Pausing to smile up at his guests, he replaced the small jug with the