Doctor Who_ The Roundheads - Mark Gatiss [33]
She scooped the boy up into her arms and he smiled delightedly. ‘There now, my boy,’ she said. ‘It is time for your bed. Say goodbye to Master Oliver.’
The boy frowned and shook his head.
The woman wagged her finger at him. ‘Say goodbye, now, Charles.’
He buried his head in her breast and, muffled by her apron, he stammered, ‘G-goodbye.’
The nurse smiled, shook her head and gave Cromwell a little wave and turned back towards the house.
Cromwell remembered thinking the boy was very rude indeed. He had no thought then – how could he? – that one day he would be putting that boy, that prince, on trial for his life.
Opening his eyes, Cromwell found John Thurloe standing before him.
‘Yes, John?’
Thurloe, a middle-sized, extremely neat man with a horsy face and sparse beard, gave a little bow. ‘They have arrived, General.’
‘Who?’ frowned Cromwell.
Tliurloe coughed into his gloved hand. ‘The prisoners.
The... er, seer and his doctor.’
Cromwell’s face lit up. He felt immensely cheered already.
‘Oh! Yes. Yes, bring them in.’
He rubbed his hands together. For a rational, God-fearing man Cromwell was inordinately fond of the mystical. He had recently taken much notice of a wise woman from Cornwall who had predicted that the whole of London would be destroyed by a plague of angry cats within the century. She had been very convincing.
Cromwell adopted his most sagacious-looking pose on the chair and let his chin rest on his hand. No, no, no, too contrived, he thought.
He sat back and opened his legs, resting his hands on the heavily carved arms of the chair. Too regal.
He heard Thurloe returning and made a snap decision to stand by the globe. He set it spinning and then leaned over it, his lower lip jutting out thoughtfully, his hands behind his back.
Thurloe swept in moments later with a young man and a funny-looking fellow with untidy black hair. Both wore long black cloaks and had a somewhat sheepish air about them.
Cromwell looked up and tapped his finger against his chin.
‘Well now,’ he mused. ‘What do we have here?’
The fire was burning a little low in the kitchen grate when Frances Kemp entered the room. She made straight for the range, ignoring the hunched figure of her father, who was staring broodingly into the flames. There was a large tray of ale and cheese on the table before him, covered by a fresh cloth.
Frances set to work at once to revive the fire, twisting to avoid the spits on which four suckling pigs were skewered.
Kemp turned his head and scowled at her. ‘Do you not have a word for your father, girl?’
Frances reflected wryly that she had several words for him, but none that he would like. ‘Good afternoon,’ she said at last.
Kemp grunted. ‘A good afternoon is it that sees a king to be put on trial for his life?’
‘I meant-’
‘I know what you meant,’ growled Kemp, hawking up a ball of phlegm and spitting into the fire.
Frances tugged nervously at her knuckles. ‘The King is to stand trial, then?’
Kemp nodded and then raised his head a little arrogantly.
‘I have it on the best authority.’
Frances looked up at the ceiling. ‘From your friends upstairs?’
With sudden and startling ferocity, Kemp leapt to his feet and grabbed his daughter by the front of her dress. He pushed her against the kitchen wall and pressed his face close to hers, his eyes flashing with menace.
‘You would be well advised, daughter, to keep all thoughts of my visitors out of your head.’ Frances felt herself shaking and cowered from Kemp’s wrath. ‘Is that understood?’ he hissed.
She nodded and Kemp let her go, stumbling to his chair.
Frances rapidly rearranged her clothes just as a bell began to clatter in the corner of the kitchen. Kemp looked up and then shot a dangerous glance at Frances. He got to his feet, picked up the tray, and backed towards the door, exiting without another word.
Frances sat down heavily and rubbed her throat. She felt tender and vulnerable.