Doctor Who_ The Roundheads - Mark Gatiss [67]
Then she thought about seeing the Doctor and Jamie again and maybe even Ben. She knew that together they could sort out any mess. And the Doctor was her only hope of escape from this strange world.
She nodded quickly. ‘All right. What do you want me to do?’
Whyte came suddenly forward and kissed her on the cheek. She almost stepped back, still not trusting him, surprised by his sudden warmth and the tingle that raced through her body.
Copper opened his saddlebag and produced the map of the castle, which he had been studying back at the inn. Moor stepped forward with a lantern and the four of them stooped to examine the parchment by its pale glow.
Jamie shot the Doctor an anxious look and felt a cold wave of fear wash over him. ‘Are you sure about this, Doctor?’
The Doctor stood on the windowledge outside their room, trying not to look down, his boots scraping on the frosty stonework.
‘We can’t wait for Richard Cromwell’s permission any longer, Jamie,’ he said with regret. ‘I have to get that book back from him no matter what. The consequences are unthinkable. We could be in terrible trouble.’
He glanced down and saw the snow-covered ornamental gardens spread out like a doily pattern below. He snapped his eyes shut and flattened himself against the bricks. ‘Possibly terminal trouble,’ he added.
Jamie had watched him open the big, leaded window and scramble out with the enthusiasm of a child and the agility of a monkey. But the treacherous conditions outside and the height of their room on the third storey seemed to have somewhat quelled the Doctor’s appetite for escape.
‘Why don’t you let me try?’ asked Jamie helpfully.
The Doctor shook his head and moved his feet a fraction.
‘Don’t argue. I’ll be able to accomplish far more when I’m on the other side of the door.’
His right foot slid across the ledge and he dug his fingers into the wall, feeling his nails scrape against the powdery mortar.
Some four feet away was another window, identical in design but slightly ajar. The Doctor had taken careful note of the layout of the third storey on their way back from their audience with Cromwell. He was confident that the open window would lead him into the corridor and, from there, he could organise Jamie’s escape and find Richard Cromwell’s room.
As the darkness stole over the scene, the Doctor breathed a sigh of relief that he was not only practically invisible to an onlooker but that he could see less and less of the ground below.
He reached out his hand and began to slide further. Jamie looked on helplessly, his hands describing anxious little circles as he leaned out of the window.
The Doctor took a deep breath and made three or four quick steps. His boots rang off the frozen stone but his grip on the wall didn’t falter. He looked back to wink at Jamie but the boy’s image was disappearing in the dusk.
Turning back to face straight out, the Doctor steadied his breathing and shuffled his feet again. He could see the casement of the next window only a few feet away.
Emboldened by this, he began to move more rapidly, hoping to get the whole process over and done with. Reaching for the elaborately carved exterior of the window, he shifted his left foot and suddenly slipped.
A great, lurching, sickening rush raced through him as his foot met empty air and he struggled to right himself. His fingers scrabbled at the brickwork, desperate to find purchase, but there was nothing bulky or strong enough to take his weight.
In a second he had fallen.
The Doctor’s breath was knocked out of him as his chest connected with the stone ledge. He hung in silence for a moment, wondering how on earth he had been saved.
Jamie’s voice came sailing through the dusk. ‘Are you all right, Doctor?’
The Doctor felt the cold wind streaming over his, back and realised that his cloak had caught on the windowsill as he fell.
It was ripped from the bottom almost to his shoulder and it was the only thing keeping him from falling.
‘Doctor?’
He dug his fingers in and pulled at the ledge, trying to hoist himself