The Ghosts of N-Space - Barry Letts [28]
‘What blood is he? To bear the name of the Emperor – a German name – would seem to be unlikely. I think it false –
as false as the man himself.’
The man rose to his feet in evident irritation. Sarah shrank further back into the shadows. The Doctor held up a warning hand.
‘What can I do, woman? He came bearing letters from the Spanish court! Would you have me eject the man by force?’
‘I expect nothing from you, my Lord. A man who would watch his own son, his heir, walk to his death and lift no hand to stop him?’
They were obviously hearing the replaying of an old tune; the opening yet again of an ancient wound. The man was shaking his head as if in disbelief.
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‘It was his Christian duty; his duty to his father to his Lord and to his God.’
‘What were the Moors to us? Was my son Castilian?
Better that their most Catholic Majesties’ – she spat the words – ‘should lose a thousand towns than I should lose my-my baby.’
‘Guido was a man. The taking of Granada was a crusade most worthy to be fought. Aye – and to die for.’
Sarah glanced across at the Doctor. Was all this of any use? Surely not.
He caught her eye. It was time to go.
‘Fourteen ninety-two.’
‘What about it?’
‘What happened in fourteen ninety-two?’
They were on their way home. Old hands now, they were travelling across the variegated landscape of N-Space chatting as casually as commuters on the 8-15.
‘In fourteen hundred and ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue!’
‘Why, so he did,’ said the Doctor. ‘I’d quite forgotten that. What else?’
As well as she could in the circumstances, Sarah shrugged. She hadn’t a clue.
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‘Their most Catholic Majesties, Ferdinand of Aragon and Isabella of Castile –’
‘Columbus’s pals.’
‘Columbus’s pals. In fourteen ninety-two they managed to kick the last of the Arabs out of Spain. Granada was the last town to fall.’
So that was it. He was finding out the period.
‘Exactly. If that sad lady – I doubt if she was fifty years old – if her son died in the battle for Granada, our visit must have been somewhere near the turn of the century. And that’s near enough for the TARDIS to be able to take me back there. See?’
‘Mm.’
Not me, mate; us.
‘Oh, and by the way – when we get back into our usual bodies, I shan’t be able to read your mind any more.’
Sarah grinned. She couldn’t get away with anything.
‘I shall be honoured to have you come along,’ said the Doctor.
‘Why we gotta go to San Stefano Piddle-in‐the-Wind, honey? Why can’t we go to Palermo? You could take me to that Rosario’s again.’
Maggie looked up from her handmirror. He wasn’t even listening. Just standing there by the guard rail staring 100
through those goddam glasses, with that creep Nico at his shoulder as usual.
‘What’s with this castello, anyway?’ She returned to the looking glass, tilting the yachting cap to an even more nineteen-thirtyish saucy angle on the blonde bubbles.
It was a day for going to sea, especially on the mini-liner which was Max Vilmio’s yacht, with its expanses of silver white deck, striped awnings, chrome-plated fittings and Art-Deco saloons. It was a day for having champagne for breakfast; for swimming topless in the deck pool; for displaying bronzed limbs to a covertly admiring crew of libidinous seamen; all of which she had done with alacrity and glee.
‘Get some more clothes on,’ he grunted. ‘We’re going to tie up to the quay.’
She stood up and walked to the doorway which led below. She turned back. ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s going on, sugar? P’raps I could help.’
She could feel his dead eyes running up and down her; she stood silent, hand on tilted hip, chin up, tits out, letting her body do its work.
‘Maybe you could at that,’ he said at last.
Jeremy watched the huge boat come alongside with a delicacy which wouldn’t have cracked an egg, and 101
considered whether it would be a good idea to have another cioccolata sorpresa.
The little gelateria had come up trumps. Just when he’d really felt the absolute necessity of having an immediate ice-cream fix, it had opened