Doctor Who_ The Roundheads - Mark Gatiss [51]
‘All but Sir Thomas Fairfax, it seems,’ said Thurloe quietly.
Cromwell waved his hand. ‘There is no treachery, John.
You have been too long among spies and agents. Fairfax is as brave and honourable man as ever I have known. And I listen to him because of that.’
Thurloe pinched the bridge of his nose wearily. ‘We gave the King every chance to come to an honourable peace, sir.
You now that better than any other. Yet, whilst he pretended to study our demands, did he not make secret plans to bring in foreign troops to shore up his discredited throne?’
Cromwell’s large head nodded slowly. ‘And now we say he must pay with his life. But what then, John?’
Thurloe looked up. ‘Then?’
‘I am no Republican. You know that,’ said Cromwell.
‘What are we to have if we have no King?’
Thurloe was becoming concerned. ‘A council of state, as we proposed. Then no more will we be ruled by the whim of one man.’
Cromwell stared into space. ‘This seer and his Doctor.
They see an empty throne.’
‘Naturally.’
‘But I must know more,’ said Cromwell urgently. ‘Will the throne remain empty, or will one of Charles’s heirs snatch it back within the twelvemonth?’
Thurloe smiled. ‘You must ask them, not me.’
‘I will John, I will.’
Thurloe shifted his weight on the uncomfortable chair.
‘Am I to understand that you think a council of state an inadequate replacement for Charles Stuart?’
‘Nay,’ said Cromwell abruptly. ‘But to govern... to govern this land of ours is a Herculean labour. Some say it must have a figurehead. Of sorts.’
Thurloe looked Cromwell directly in the eye. ‘Who says this?’
Cromwell’s eyes dropped evasively. ‘I have many advisers, John. You know that.’
Thurloe slapped his hand across his knee. ‘It’s Henry Ireton, is it not? And that lad Culpeper?’
Cromwell nodded and held up the letter. ‘My Bridget’s letter is full of it. She says her Henry talks of nothing else.’
Thurloe rose crossly to his feet. ‘I may not have any influence over your son-in-law, sir, but I would certainly argue the toss with Culpeper. He thinks far too highly of himself and gives you ill counsel.’
Cromwell said nothing, merely staring into space.
Thurloe bent towards him, his face right by the general’s ear. ‘Ruling this country is, as you say, a Herculean labour, General. And we must ensure we are up to the job.’
He bowed and swept from the room, leaving Cromwell staring broodingly into the fire.
Much to her relief, Polly was able to bathe and change once she returned to the inn. Frances made her very welcome in her little bedroom and, though the bath was a tiny, cramped, tin affair placed in front of the fire, the hot water was a blessed relief.
She lay and soaked in it for as long as she dared and then changed into a simple white nightdress. The clean, fresh material was like a soothing balm.
Frances had gone down to help her mother clear up in the kitchen and Polly was just eyeing the large, soft bed with its plump pillows when there was a quiet knock at the door.
Not quite sure what to do, Polly hesitated. The knock came again and she moved swiftly to the door.
She opened it just enough to see that her handsome stranger was on the other side. Christopher Whyte averted his eyes at once.
‘Oh, forgive me, mistress,’ he mumbled apologetically.
Polly looked down at her nightdress and smiled. If only such chivalry still existed in 1966!
‘Just a sec,’ she said and closed the door. She quickly slipped on the green woollen dress which Frances had laid out for her, and then opened the door wide.
Whyte smiled broadly, looking her up and down with an appreciative eye. ‘Forgive me, Mistress Polly...’
‘That’s all right,’ said Polly with a smile. ‘And you can just call me Polly.’
‘Can I?’ He seemed astonished. ‘Oh. Very well.’
Polly stepped to one side. ‘Come in.’
Whyte shook his head. ‘Nay, that would be improper.’
Polly frowned, rather disappointedly. ‘Oh, yes. I suppose it would. Well, what can I do for you, Mr... ?’
He swept his hat from his head and bowed, his shining