Doctor Who_ The Roundheads - Mark Gatiss [71]
‘What’s your name?’ she asked flirtatiously.
The guard shot a quick look at his friend Sam and smiled.
‘Daniel, lady. Daniel Ancrom.’
Polly cocked her head. ‘Well, Daniel Ancrom, you just let me take this lot to His High and Mightiness in there and then, mayhaps, I’ll come out and see you again.’
Ancrom licked his heavy lips and grinned boyishly. Polly moved past him but Sam flattened his hand against the door.
‘You’re sure my Peg is all right?’
Polly felt bad about deceiving him but she knew she had to get on with this if she was to rescue the Doctor and get away.
‘It’s nothing, Sam. Honestly. Now let me take this in before the King dies of thirst.’
Daniel Ancrom grimaced sourly. ‘Let him, I say. ‘Twould save us the trouble of a trial.’
He and his colleague laughed heartlessly. Then, as Polly had hoped, he grabbed the jug of wine and raised it to his mouth. ‘I’ll have some of this before he does.’
He gave a throaty chuckle and narrowed his eyes as he looked at Polly. ‘’Twill be something to tell our children, eh, Polly? That their father supped the late King’s wine?’
Sam found this very amusing and slapped his armoured side. Ancrom took a hefty swig from the jug and offered it to his friend. To Polly’s chagrin, Sam refused. ‘Better to spit in it, I say.’
Ancrom shook his head. ‘Nay, Sam. Better to drink it and then spit in it.’
They broke into a renewed gale of laughter. Polly sighed.
She couldn’t take much more of this bonhomie.
Sam drank deeply of the wine and then spat back into it.
He handed the jug back to Ancrom, who added his own gobbet of saliva before plonking the jug back on to the tray.
He bowed to Polly and opened one of the doors. ‘Now, Mistress Polly, just you hurry up in there with Master Charles ruddy Stuart and get your sweet little rump back out here, double quick.’
As Polly swept past him, he patted her on the backside.
She dashed quickly through the doors, which at once closed behind her.
The chamber beyond was plunged in a warm, chocolate darkness, the orange glow of the fire which dominated the room throwing shimmering abstract shapes over the heavily tapestried walls.
Polly caught glimpses of familiar faces sewn into the threads. One showed King Henry Eighth astride a horse that seemed almost as massive as himself. Another, the delicate features of Henry’s only son, the boy king, Edward Sixth. Yet another, the chalky, imperious features of Queen Elizabeth.
These were all figures familiar to Polly from countless school lessons, their lives and loves documented in dry detail on far-off dusty afternoons.
Another figure from those days suddenly stepped into the glow emanating from the fire. He was small and slight, his grave face and neat beard almost lost in shadow.
King Charles moved towards Polly and spoke in his stammering Scots burr. ‘Is it t-time?’
Thurloe chose his own chambers for the appointment. It was important that he feel at ease and in control and there was nowhere that produced such an effect better than his own rooms.
He had always liked the place – the cool tiled floor, the grandiose fireplace, the high ceilings and richly patterned drapes. In the summer it was quite the most temperate and equable place in Parliament and many an important measure had been agreed within its four walls by some sweating member or other.
Thurloe sat by the fire, gazing up at the huge painting that hung above the mantel. It depicted a scene from classical times: the murder of Julius Caesar. Thurloe’s gaze flickered over the two-dimensional forms of the conspirators, daggers raised. In the foreground stood Brutus, his blade coated with his Emperor’s blood. Next to him was Caesar himself, in his death throes, a look of astonishment on his face.
It wasn’t a terribly good picture. But Thurloe had always liked it. It seemed curiously appropriate for the business he was in.
There was a sharp rap at the door.
Thurloe immediately contrived to look busy, setting his hand to a sheaf of documents which littered his broad desk.
‘Come!’ he called.
The door opened and Thomas Culpeper strode