Doctor Who_ The Roundheads Part 10

Ashdown clapped him on the shoulder. 'What's your name, son?'

'Ben Jackson.'

'Well, Ben Jackson, don't you fret. Captain Stanislaus was just a bit short for this voyage. I was in charge of... er...

recruitment last night. I saw you with your lady and I thought, aye, aye, there's a likely lad if ever the opportunity should come my way. Which, as you know, it did. And you were hardly in a position to refuse, were you now?'

Ben shook his head and scowled as a sharp pain scorched through his brow.

Ashdown smiled kindly. 'You're free to go when we reach land.'

A little rea.s.sured, Ben turned his mind to Polly. 'What happened to the girl? The one I was with. Did you see?'

Ashdown looked away evasively. 'Can't say as I did, lad.

When I found you, you was lying in the road.'

Ben nodded to himself. 'I have to get back as soon as I can. Anything could've happened to her.' He turned back to Ashdown. 'You say I can get off at our first port of call?'

Ashdown gave a sly smile. 'Aye.'

'And where's that?'

Ashdown began to chuckle. 'Amsterdam,' he said.

The London morning was cold and unpleasant, a fine rain blowing in sheets from the river and pocking the snow that still lay all around. The swans and geese that squawked and waddled through St James's Park did not seem overly concerned, however, emerging into the light and sliding comically over the thick sheets of ice that covered the park's waterways. There were cattle, too, huddled together at one end of the park, s.h.i.+fting miserably from hoof to hoof.

Emerging from his hiding place, Christopher Whyte stretched and groaned, feeling the muscles in his back pop and strain. His evening's vigil had been more than a little unpleasant. He had followed the woman Polly around what seemed like half the capital, yet she had seemed to have little idea where she was going.

At first she had made straight for the street outside the inn where her friend had last been seen but, finding nothing, had then run like a mad thing towards a narrow alley some way off. She had waited there for the best part of an hour before giving up and, finding herself near the park, had managed to grab a few hours' sleep in one of the small gardeners' shelters.

Whyte had followed at a discreet distance. More than once he had wanted to intercede, to offer her food and a comfortable lodging for the night, but his job was to keep an eye on the woman, not woo her. She might yet prove to know more than she was saying and no interference could be tolerated with Copper's plans at such an advanced stage.

Rubbing his stiff neck, Whyte kept a weather eye on the sleeping Polly and tried to ignore his grumbling belly. He had stayed awake much of the night, as keen to avoid the attentions of the young Ganymedes who frequented the park as to ensure Polly did not elude him.

He had spent much of this time contemplating the current situation. Unlike Sir John Copper, he was no disgruntled Parliamentarian, He had fought bravely for the King throughout the conflict as a captain. Wounded at the Battle of Edgehill, he had carried on the Royalist cause as best he could, as an agent for His Majesty, travelling incognito about London and bringing back his reports to the Royalist base in Oxford. It was while going about his secretive business that Sir John Copper had approached him, almost as a molly might in the park, thought Whyte with a smile. Though initially suspicious, he had soon warmed to the older man's rhetoric. Copper feared that the army had gone too far, that they would tilt the land into utter chaos unless the sensible thing was done and the King restored to his throne.

To his surprise, Whyte found that not so much separated them as he would have thought. War made strange bedfellows.

On the mildewed bench inside the gardeners' shelter, Polly stirred and Whyte dropped back into the foliage out of sight.

The young woman stretched and blinked, then grimaced, obviously recalling where she was.

Swinging her legs off the bench, she got unsteadily to her feet and pulled her cloak tightly around her. Then, with a quick look around, she set off to face the day.

Christopher Whyte waited a few moments and then followed close behind her.

The Doctor threw up his hands in exasperation. 'Do pay attention, Jamie,' he sighed. 'You're supposed to be an oracle.'

'I am?' said Jamie with a frown. 'I thought that was a kind of wee boat.'

'No, no. An oracle. A fount of wisdom. And it'll do us a fat lot of good if Cromwell turns up and finds that you know next to nothing about the Civil Wars.'

Jamie folded his arms defensively. The schoolboy's book lay on the cold stone floor at his feet.

'I know what Polly said. About the King ruling without Parliament.'

The Doctor gave a soothing smile. 'That's right. And he did it, too. For eleven years until he ran out of money.'

Jamie nodded. 'What did he need the money for?'

The Doctor looked up at the low ceiling of the cell. 'Oh, a war against the Scots.'

Jamie let out a snort of disbelief. 'Hang on, Doctor. I thought you said the Scots were on his side.'

'Yes. But that was later on. This was before the wars broke out.'

Jamie slid glumly down the wall. 'Och, I'll never get it.

Why couldn't you be the oracle?'

The Doctor clasped his hands together. 'Yes, well, we weren't fortunate there, were we?'

The cell door rattled and then creaked open, revealing the bulky form of the watchman. He didn't seem keen to come any nearer to his prisoners and looked at them with something like fear. 'Very well, you two,' he said. 'They're ready for you.'

It was, Ben thought, the very definition of a motley crew.

Aside from Isaac Ashdown, the rest of the s.h.i.+p's complement seemed united by only one thing: their oddness. There were Moors, Turks, a hook-handed African and a vast, flame-haired Irishman called O'Kane who seemed to put the fear of G.o.d into the rest of them.

Most were now a.s.sembled in a sweating, heaving line as they pulled with great effort on one of the s.h.i.+p's tarred ropes.

With a cry of satisfaction, the topsail they'd been hoisting slotted into place, flapping in the stiff North Sea wind.

At their head squatted Ben and Ashdown, brows speckled with beads of perspiration.

Ben fell back on to the deck with a groan and rubbed his aching arms. Struggling to speak between heaving breaths, he turned to Ashdown.

'What's our cargo, mate?'

The older sailor shrugged. 'Wool. Flour. Suet. Odds and sods.'

Ben let his gaze range over the deck and out across the wild grey sea. 'And the s.h.i.+p is definitely coming back to London?'

'Certainly. Eventually,' said Ashdown with a smile. 'But that's for the captain to decide, ain't it?'

He got up and pointed to a thick coil of rope which ran through an iron ring fixed to the side of the s.h.i.+p.

''Ere, grab a hold of that, Ben. And tie it up on the capstan yonder.'

Ben did as he was instructed, hauling on the thick rope and feeling its rough texture against his hands. As he grappled with the rope, he glanced over the s.h.i.+p's rail and his eye caught a name etched carefully into the woodwork of the hull.

It was painted gold on black in a highly ornate style that was almost Elizabethan. It said 'Teazer'.

Ben started to laugh, quietly at first and then with increasing force. Ashdown looked puzzled. 'What ails you?'

Ben laughed loudly. 'Oh, you wouldn't understand, mate.

It's a long story. It's pretty ironic, that's all.'

Ashdown frowned. 'What do you mean?'

Ben glanced at the s.h.i.+p's name again and shook his head.

'I've been trying to get back to my s.h.i.+p all this time... This isn't exactly what I had in mind.'

He thought briefly of his own Teazer, sleek, grey, metal, the peak of modem twentieth-century naval warfare. How these lads would gasp if she were to appear out of the North Sea fog banks now.

At that moment, a cabin door opened and Captain Stanislaus emerged, wolfishly handsome even in the cold light of the morning.

O'Kane, the Irishman, stood upright and stiffened.

'Captain on deck!' he yelled.

The entire crew, with the exception of Ben, stood to attention. Ashdown leaned over and jabbed Ben in the stomach.

Realising his folly, Ben straightened up just as Stanislaus walked by him, his red coat flapping in the wind.

He looked right through Ben and walked towards another cabin, pausing on the threshold, blinking in the bleak daylight.

He turned back, scanning the crew with cold eyes, and nodded.

'Thank you, Master O'Kane. Carry on.'

He tapped gently on the cabin door.

'That's Stanislaus?' whispered Ben.

Ashdown kept his head down. 'Aye,' he hissed out of the comer of his mouth. 'Look busy, or there'll be h.e.l.l to pay.'

Stanislaus knocked again.

'Mr G.o.dley?' he said, his voice deep, his accent thick and guttural. 'Me G.o.dley, sir. Are you awake?'

The door opened to reveal an even more exotic sight than the vulpine captain.

G.o.dley emerged, his n.o.ble bearing disguised in plain, spartan black. He was carrying a monkey on his shoulder. It was a tiny, spindly thing, all limbs and tail, its bright eyes like beads of blood in its fragile skull. It chittered and scuttled over G.o.dley's shoulder as he stepped out on deck.

Stanislaus recoiled from the pet instantly and took an involuntary step backward as G.o.dley steadied himself on the rolling deck.

'Good day, Captain,' said G.o.dley with a small, tight smile.

Stanislaus nodded. 'I trust you slept well.'

G.o.dley patted his stomach. 'I've never been the best of sailors, I fear.'

The monkey hopped from G.o.dley's shoulder and scampered over the deck towards a tin dish which had been set aside for it. It began to feast on the beef and fish sc.r.a.ps inside the bowl, looking up and down from its food to the crew with nervous speed.

Taking his pa.s.senger gently by the arm, Captain Stanislaus began to move towards the stern of the vessel.

'How is all progressing?' asked G.o.dley.

Stanislaus looked around as they walked. He seemed a little more nervous and anxious than before, his head jerking about like G.o.dley's monkey.

'All my communications are favourable, Mr G.o.dley,' he said, struggling to be heard over the sound of the swell.

G.o.dley c.o.c.ked his head inquisitively, 'And the package?'

'Is safe in Amsterdam,' said the captain. 'Come.'

He steered G.o.dley away and they disappeared around the corner.

A big wave crashed over the deck and Ashdown prodded Ben. 'Come on, my friend. Don't slacken. The captain sees everything.'

Ben frowned. 'What was all that about?'

Ashdown shook his head. 'Best not to know. This is not a s.h.i.+p for inquisitive men.'

'I wonder what they're bringing back from Amsterdam,'

said Ben, looking down the length of the s.h.i.+p.

Ashdown shook his head then bent down and busied himself.

Ben smiled. 'Oh, well. Maybe it's just tulips.'

'Please do not say it again, Father,' pleaded the young man. 'I do not think I could stand it.'

Oliver Cromwell pinched the bridge of his bulbous nose and sighed. A very bad, thudding headache was lurking in the back of his brain. 'Say what again, Richard?'

The boy was in his twenties, long-haired and rather thin with a pale, waxy complexion. He looked appealingly at his father. 'That I... I disappoint you.'