Doctor Who_ The Roundheads - Mark Gatiss [9]
Just in front of these, about to thrust a tray of oat clap bread into the brick oven, stood Kemp’s wife, Sarah.
Despite her daughter’s looks, she was as plain as her own dress, a simple, red affair with a full-sleeved white blouse and apron. Her thick auburn hair was tucked up under a lacy cap.
She turned as her husband entered and gave him one of her ready smiles. Which he ignored.
Sarah could remember a time when William had considered her beautiful, had been unable to keep himself from embracing her, even as she cooked. She imagined what it would feel like to have him come up behind her now and nuzzle, laughing at her neck, calling her his ‘little goose’ the way he used to.
Her face was flushed and strands of her hair kept falling into her eyes as she bent down to open the oven.
‘I heard there were soldiers,’ she said quietly.
Kemp said nothing and seated himself at the kitchen table.
He grabbed a hunk of bread and began to chew noisily on it, glancing around at the cluttered parameters of the small, warm room.
Sarah Kemp stood back from the oven and closed the big iron door. She decided to try another tack with her husband.
‘Many in?’
Kemp swigged some water from a pewter cup and scowled. ‘That girl not back yet?’ he said gruffly, ignoring his wife’s question.
Sarah brushed the hair from her eyes and began kneading a lump of dough which sat on a marble slab before her. ‘No. Not yet.’
‘Can’t see what could keep her,’ growled Kemp. ‘An errand’s an errand. She should be making better time now she’s grown, not worse.’
Sarah Kemp bit her lip. She knew that the truth was bound to come out sooner or later. But, oh Lord, let it be later. She couldn’t bear to see her little Frances upset. And with William in this kind of mood, anything might happen. Of course, he was perpetually in this mood, nowadays, since... since...
She moved quickly as hot tears sprang into her eyes.
Kemp did not notice. ‘I ask you,’ he said, holding his big hands palms upward, ‘how long can it take to bring back a sack of flour?’
Sarah sank her hands into the dough and worked on.
‘Expect she got to talking with someone. You know what girls are like.’
‘Aye,’ said Kemp. ‘I do. When there’s work to be done and not time to waste in idle gossip –’
He broke off as the door opened and Frances came inside.
She looked first at her mother and smiled broadly, then, as she noticed her father, her expression changed. She took off her cloak and laid it over a chair by the fire, where it began to steam in the heat.
She smoothed back the hair from her delicate, rather otherworldly face and sat down opposite her father. He banged his fist on the table, setting the cheese rocking on its plate.
‘Where’s the flour?’ asked Kemp, his sour expression unchanging.
‘In the outhouse, of course.’ said Frances quietly. ‘And where, might I ask, have you been all this time?’
Sarah Kemp looked across the table and caught Frances’s eye. She shook her head imperceptibly and Frances nodded her understanding.
‘All this time?’ she said with feigned indifference. ‘Why, I’ve not been more than half an hour, Father. And I needs must be careful in this weather. I’m sure you wouldn’t want your flour spilled all over the highway.’
She flashed him her sweetest smile and Kemp grunted. He swigged more water and stuffed the remainder of the bread into his coat pocket, then got up, the chair legs scraping on the floor.
‘I’ve got word that we’re to expect guests, Sarah,’ he said, looking his wife directly in the eyes.
‘Guests?’
‘Aye. So you’ll see the upstairs is made up good and proper, won’t you?’ He crossed the kitchen and, without looking back, threw open the inner door and went into the tavern.
Sarah and Frances exchanged glances.
‘Guests?’ said Frances at last. ‘What kind of guests?’
In the queasy yellow light of a lamp, the man cut a noble figure. His face was long