Doctor Who_ The Roundheads - Mark Gatiss [97]
And never return!’
Copper got to his feet with as much dignity as he could muster. Then he snatched the scroll from the table and moved to the door. He turned as he departed.
‘You are a fool, Kemp. I could have helped you and your wretched family. Now you have nothing. And I warn you, if you attempt to disrupt our plans I will bring down ruin and destruction upon your head.’
His face, already swollen from Frances’s attack, contorted into a snarl and he stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him.
For a long moment, Frances remained sprawled on the floor. Then she picked herself up and sat down at the table.
She avoided her father’s look, not sure how to take this new development. Hands shaking, she began to rearrange her hair beneath her cap.
Kemp walked slowly to the table and sat down opposite her. He looked at her delicate face, flushed with emotion.
‘Frances...’
She glanced quickly upward and held out her hands across the table. Kemp took them gratefully in his own and then swung himself around so that he was able to embrace her.
‘Oh, my child,’ he sobbed. ‘My little child.’
The Doctor, Jamie, and Polly were patiently awaiting the arrival of Thurloe’s promised transportation when the door to theirTower cell was opened again and Richard Cromwell was ushered inside.
He nodded at the jailer just as Thurloe had done before him but with such fumbling indecision that the jailer wasn’t at all sure what Richard wanted him to do.
‘That’s all,’ explained Richard. ‘I’ll call when I need you.’
The door was slammed shut and Richard jumped a little at the crash it made. He advanced meekly into the room.
Polly frowned. ‘Who are you?’
The Doctor intervened. ‘This is Richard Cromwell, Polly.
Son of Oliver and one day to be Lord Protector of England.’
Richard heaved a huge sigh. ‘Don’t try to humour me, Doctor. It really doesn’t matter what becomes of me.’
The Doctor rushed forward and took him by the arm.
‘Matter? Of course it matters. Whatever gave you that idea?’
Richard shook his head. ‘I cannot please my father, no matter what I do. He won’t even look at the book.’
Sniffing to himself, he took Every Boy’s Book of the English Civil Wars from his cloak and handed it to the Doctor.
‘Here,’ he said feebly, ‘have it back. It is no earthly use to me.’
The Doctor took the book and pressed it to his chest like an old friend.
He grinned from one ear to the other and patted Richard on the shoulder.
‘Now you just listen to me, Richard Cromwell.’
Richard looked up, defeated. ‘Hmm?’
The Doctor tapped the book and frowned seriously. ‘It isn’t given to all of us to be great men. Sometimes it’s more important to play your part in the whole great tide of history.
You’ll be important in all sorts of ways that haven’t even occurred to you yet.’
Richard wasn’t convinced. ‘Like what?’
The Doctor looked at Jamie and Polly, momentarily flummoxed. ‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘The Protectorate will end with you. Your side will realise too late that they should not have used the hereditary principle and Charles the Second will be invited to take the throne.’
Richard snorted. ‘And I should be happy to be remembered as that? ‘Sblood, I’d rather die in obscurity.’
The Doctor stuffed the book into his pocket and walked towards Richard. ‘Sit down, please,’ he said calmly.
Richard sat down on the end of the straw mattress and folded his arms.
‘Now then,’ murmured the Doctor. ‘You must understand that it’s always hard for the children of great men and women.
So much to live up to. Such expectations.’ His voice was soothing and regular, like a steady pulse.
‘Yes,’ said Richard. ‘Such expectations.’
The Doctor came closer and looked deep into Richard’s eyes. ‘And you’re doing very well, you know. Very well. I don’t see how you manage. Such a burden on your shoulders. I don’t know when you find time to sleep.’
‘Sleep,’ muttered Richard, his eyelids drooping.
‘Sleep,’ repeated the Doctor. ‘Time to sleep.’
‘Time to... sleep,’ said Richard in a drawl.
His head fell forward on to his chest.
Polly got up and crossed