Doctor Who_ The Roundheads - Mark Gatiss [54]
‘How grateful?’ said the Doctor evenly.
‘Your freedom,’ said Thurloe. ‘Money.’
The Doctor waved his hand impatiently and the candle flame flickered in the draught. ‘I don’t want money. But I would like to ask a favour.’
Thurloe rose from the casement. ‘We will discuss this later. First you have to convince the general that you and the boy are the genuine article.’
He moved back across the room and disappeared into the darkness. A man of the shadows, thought the Doctor. Yes, that’s where he belongs.
Thurloe’s voice drifted back as he opened the door.
‘Charlatan or enemy of the state. As to which of these you are, Doctor, we shall see upon the morn.’
The door closed behind him with a solid thud.
Polly was sound asleep, her curled back rising and falling gently.
Frances was lying next to her, but the landlord’s daughter was awake, blinking slowly in the darkness, her mind fizzing with thoughts.
The room was chilly now, its fire long since extinguished, and Frances was grateful for the thick blankets and the warmth of her new friend, lying beside her. She wondered longingly how it might feel to have Thomas’s arms around her now, holding her tightly, pressing her to his chest.
Unconsciously, she folded her arms over her own body and squeezed herself, imagining the pressure of her love’s strong body. But would such a day ever come? How could there ever be a reconciliation between her father’s views and those of Thomas? There could be only one outcome to this: a final and devastating schism between herself and William Kemp.
At least her mother understood. She knew how a young girl’s heart could melt and be enslaved by a noble creature like Thomas Culpeper. Hadn’t she said as much about the days her father had spent courting her? Sometimes Frances found it hard to believe that her parents had ever been young, that they had spent lovely, carefree days simply enjoying each other’s company. Her father must have been handsome then, full of fun and vigour, not the bitter, misanthropic figure Frances had come to loathe.
There was a soft creak of wood from close by and Frances suddenly knew she was not alone in the room. She reached out to clasp Polly’s arm but a broad, warm hand was suddenly clamped across her mouth. She looked round wildly in the darkness and started as her father’s voice hissed out.
‘Don’t be afraid, my dove. But get up now. Your father has business for you.’
He moved his hand from her face and Frances hastily drew on a gown and slippers.
‘What is it, Father?’ she asked in trepidation. ‘Is something the matter?’
She could see her father’s bulk looming in the darkness.
‘Nothing’s wrong, Frances. Just be quick now and follow me.’
He opened the door and crept out into the corridor.
Frances felt a thrill of fear run through her. And yet her father had been in such a different mood all day. Perhaps this had something to do with it.
As she followed her father, Frances heard a distant church bell toll three in the morning.
Keeping close behind Kemp, she realised they were ascending the stairs towards the upper room, the room she had so wanted to see inside. Now she desired none of it, wanted only to run back to bed and hide beneath the blankets. What if the men Polly had spoken about were still there? Might they question her too?
Kemp knocked gently on the door and a man’s voice told him to enter.
The room she saw was lit by three or four candles and Frances found herself shivering in the unaccustomed brightness.
An imposing-looking man with a white beard sat at the top end of the table, studying a sheaf of papers. He didn’t look up as Frances entered but the other occupant of the chamber did.
He was every bit as handsome as Polly had said and smiled kindly as Kemp led Frances to a chair.
‘Father,’ she said quietly. ‘What is it? What’s amiss?’
Kemp laid a heavy hand on her