Doctor Who_ The Roundheads - Mark Gatiss [14]
‘You’re dead right, sailor,’ said Polly. ‘Come on. Let’s get on with it.’
They began to thread their way through the snowbound London streets, gazing about in a mixture of awe and amusement, peering into every shadowed corner.
The streets, now teeming with people, were extraordinarily narrow. Houses with twisted, distorted beams leaned across towards each other like freakish trees struggling to reach the sun. Twice, the travellers had to step aside as the contents of a chamber pot were unceremoniously dumped out of an upstairs window on to the white drifts below.
Ben had once told Polly that he could handle Daleks and Cybermen and all the futuristic horrors that went with them, but what really sent his senses reeling was seeing their own history replayed before their eyes.
Polly’s face was beaming as she watched a little girl with ginger curls jump out into the snow and begin to fling it into the air. She let out a peal of giggles and threw a hastily assembled snowball in Ben’s direction.
‘You know,’ said Polly, ‘I was just thinking. When I was at school I used to love reading about the Cavaliers. I remember pictures of them. All frills and velvet and lace. Not like that misery guts Cromwell and his pals.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ said Ben, absently throwing a snowball back at the little girl.
Polly warmed to her theme. ‘Oh, he was a terrible killjoy.
You know, he even banned Christmas?’
Ben looked rueful. ‘Yeah. Well, if his family were anything like mine that was probably a very good idea.’
Richard Godley hated the gulls. He hated their swooping, irritating presence. Hated their harsh, shrill cry. Hated the way they seemed to single out his richest and most attractive coats to defecate upon.
He shot them a poisonous glance as he hurried towards the wharf, keeping his face well covered beneath a thick scarf.
Godley clattered down a flight of rickety spiral steps, their wooden surface slick with snow and wet weed, and threaded his way through the timber yard to the ship.
She lay in her berth, rocking gently in the swell, a monster of a man o’ war, four decks deep with rigging so vast and complicated that it resembled a spider’s web. Her sails were folded now and her ensigns fluttered gently in the biting wind.
Godley walked cautiously on to the gangplank, the tails of his blue velvet coat wafting behind him. He glanced about quickly, almost nervously, aware of the jauntiness with which he would once have done this thing.
But it was all different now. Even he had to admit that.
Ignoring the shouts of the coopers and merchants who were slinging sacks of provisions on board, he strode across the deck towards the huge, elaborately carved stem, where he knew the captain’s cabin to be located.
As it was, the captain saved him the trip, emerging from his room and blinking in the bleak white light of day.
‘Ah!’ he cried. ‘You are here!’
His voice was clipped and heavily accented. Godley marched up to him, still looking shiftily over his shoulder.
‘Captain Stanislaus,’ he murmured with a small bow.
‘When do we sail?’
Stanislaus let out a small, musical giggle. ‘You must not be so afraid, my friend. There is nothing to fear. We sail upon the next tide.’
‘And when is that?’
Stanislaus sighed and shrugged. He was an uncommonly tall man with a shock of raven-black hair. His features were strong and faintly swarthy, with black brows and beard, deep-brown eyes and a huge, charming smile. He was dressed in a big, three-quarter-length red coat, its lapels bristling with silver buttons, and a broad black hat was jammed on to his head.
‘Some time this evening,’ he said to Godley. ‘Alas, we are a little short-handed so I have men out looking for... er...
volunteers.’
Godley laughed. ‘More desertions, my dear Captain?
Really, you will be getting yourself a reputation.’
Stanislaus’s smile froze on his lips. ‘I have a reputation, sir,’ he said coldly. ‘And no man ever deserts my ship. Not alive, anyway.’ Godley pulled down the scarf from