Doctor Who_ The Roundheads - Mark Gatiss [6]
She had a face like an angel, Thomas said, and he should know. Why? she asked. Because he loved her. Loved her above all things. Above any girl he had ever known. Loved her and planned to marry her. He had said so every time they met, including the day a week or so back, when she had dropped the neat little watch he had given her as a present.
The beautiful silver thing had slipped from her hand and fallen clean through a sheet of ice into a puddle.
Now the watch had been returned to her and, in the privacy of her room above the inn, Frances, daughter of William Kemp, read and reread the accompanying letter.
Mistress,
The artificer having never before met with a drowned watch, like an ignorant physician has been so long about the cure that he hath made me very unquiet that your commands should be so long deferred. However, I have sent the watch at last and envy the felicity of it, that it should be so near your side, and so often enjoy your eye, and be consulted by you how your time shall pass while you employ your hand in your excellent works.
But have a care of it, for I put such a spell into it that every beating of the balance will tell you ’tis the pulse of my heart, which labours as much to serve you and more truly than the watch; for the watch, I believe, will sometimes lie, and sometimes perhaps be idle and unwilling to go, having received so much injury by being drenched in that icy bath that I despair it should ever be a true servant to you more.
But as for me (unless you drown me too in my tears) you may be confident I shall never cease to be,
Your most affectionate, humble servant, Thom. Culpeper
She thought it the most wonderful thing she had ever read and clasped the crisp white paper to her breast, her heart full of joy.
The door to her bedroom opened and her father stood there, his pale face sullen, his mouth turned down in a permanent look of disapproval.
Frances managed to hide the letter beneath the bedclothes before he could notice it and turned her face to him, her delicate features fixed into a sweet smile.
‘Why do you mooch about here, girl?’ rumbled Kemp.
‘Your mother would not object to help in the kitchens, I’ll warrant.’
Frances got to her feet and adjusted the little white cap that crowned her golden hair. ‘Yes, Father.’
Kemp grunted and she squeezed past him through the door. He stayed a moment, looking around the plainly furnished room with its framed embroidered mottoes and heavy furniture.
Then, sniffing dismissively, he shuffled back into the corridor and made his way downstairs into the inn.
The troopers had come to a final halt outside a huge, ornate building that resembled a Gothic cathedral. Its two towers were crowded with stone niches in which statues of saints had been placed. Some were missing a head or a limb or even missing altogether but the overall effect, combined with the massive central window between the towers, was as impressive as befitted Parliament House.
Colonel Pride swung his legs from the saddle and dismounted, immediately barking orders for his men to remain on horseback but to arrange themselves into ranks before the arched entry to the Commons.
As the troopers moved to obey, their swords and armour clanking like ancient machinery, Pride took up position by the left-hand side of the arch, directly below a statue of St Stephen.
He glanced up at the stoic face of the martyr and sighed.
What it was to have such faith.
A soft crumping in the snow hailed the arrival of a newcomer and Pride steadied himself as a tall, prematurely grey haired man with sharp blue eyes and an intelligent, if weary, face sauntered into view. He nodded to the colonel and then looked up at the statue.
‘Stone me, eh?’
Pride frowned. ‘My Lord?’
Lord Grey of Groby managed a thin smile. ‘St Stephen. A pun, Colonel.’
Pride nodded. ‘You will forgive me if I do not share your levity, sir.’
Grey suddenly felt very foolish and shivered despite the thick layers of bulky clothing he wore. He took off his hat and narrowed his eyes as he looked at the assembled