Doctor Who_ The Roundheads - Mark Gatiss [47]
‘The problem is the King, or, rather, my father’s allegiance to him,’ murmured Frances.
‘But the King’s been defeated, hasn’t he?’
Frances nodded. ‘That he has. And is like to die before long. But domestic affairs do not change, Polly. I would require my father’s permission to marry. And he would never grant it to one of Cromwell’s lieutenants.’
Polly looked impressed. ‘Goodness. Your Tom is doing well.’
Frances paused in her writing and stared into space. ‘I almost wish he were not.’ she lamented. ‘A commoner man might be less of a problem.’ She smiled suddenly as though to disguise her fears. ‘But at least it means he may be able to help you.’
Picking up the note, she folded it in half and, crossing the room, hid it inside a large brown jar. ‘He will return tonight.
This is where we always leave our little letters.’
Polly thought this very touching. ‘And he’ll keep an eye out for my friends?’
Frances nodded. ‘If any strangers have come into Cromwell’s circle, then Tom will know about it. Come, let’s get back to the inn before my father misses me.’
Polly leaned over the table and squeezed her hand. ‘Thank you, Frances.’
Frances shook her head. ‘’Tis nothing. People should be kinder to one another. If they were, then we would not have to suffer as we have done.’
A look of profound sadness swept over her lovely face and she turned away quickly towards the door. Polly grabbed her cloak and followed her out of the bakery.
The warm room remained undisturbed for several minutes until a loud cracking sound began to come from the relocked door. The woodwork around the mechanism splintered and, in a matter of seconds, the door was forced open.
Christopher Whyte swept boldly inside and looked rapidly around the room. He had been watching Polly and Frances through the window and went straight to the jar, which he tipped upside down. Frances’s note fluttered out.
Whyte put the jar back where he had found it, then rapidly read the note. Without hesitation, he slipped it inside his coat and marched swiftly outside, leaving the bakery door swinging loosely on broken hinges.
Hands shaking and mouth hanging open, Richard Cromwell turned the brittle pages of the book on his knee.
He was lying in his bedchamber, the coverlet drawn up to his chest, a lamp burning brightly at his side.
After finding the book, he had hurried back to his chambers, where some tiresome state business had kept him occupied for almost four hours. It was only when absolutely sure that he would remain undisturbed that he had retired to bed and taken the strange book from his coat.
He spent a long time simply stroking the smooth cover and marvelling at the picture which, by some alchemy, had been printed there. It showed a Cavalier and a Roundhead fighting, each on horseback, one with a pistol, the other a sword.
Richard traced his finger over the title and then carefully opened the book, marvelling at once at the quality of its pages and the neat, precise way in which the words were set out.
Even the best-printed works he knew were rough affairs, their pages mismatched and ragged, their print higgledy-piggledy and erratically spaced.
When, at last, he had recovered from the sheer novelty of the thing, Richard set himself to begin reading.
It was not an easy matter. Although there were many words which were familiar to him, the spelling was very strange and he squinted as he tried to make sense of it.
Deciding that it was wiser to start with the easy bits, he flicked through the book and looked at the pictures.
Almost at once he came upon a picture of his father – a rather splendid etched print which showed Oliver in armour, standing before the massed ranks of his New Model Army.
Below his outstretched arm lay the royal arms, a laurel-wreath crown, a felled stag and a mask, as used in dramatic entertainments.
The symbolism of all this eluded Richard but there were words inscribed upon the objects and Richard traced them, speaking each letter in turn in his head before repeating