Part 2 (2/2)

But the Doctor did not seem to have heard him.

Ben bit into his orange and juice sprayed out all over his hands and cloak. He shook his hand dry and spoke between gulps. 'I was just saying to the d.u.c.h.ess, Doctor, history's not my strong point. I always get the kings and queens mixed up.

There's so many of 'em. All those wives Henry Five had.'

The Doctor sighed. 'Eight.'

'Was it as many as that?' said Ben in genuine surprise.

The Doctor shook his head. 'No, no. Henry the Eighth, not the Fifth, Ben. And it was six wives.'

'Divorced, beheaded, died,' cried Polly brightly.

'Divorced, beheaded, survived,' concluded the Doctor with a grin.

Jamie gave them both a puzzled look and the Doctor sighed, turning to face Polly as though she were his last chance. 'What about you, Polly?'

Polly shrugged and brushed her blonde fringe from her eyes. 'Well, I seem to remember the King fell out with Parliament, didn't he? He thought he could do pretty much anything he wanted because his power came directly from G.o.d.'

The Doctor nodded. 'That's it. Divine Right, they called it.'

Ben gave a rueful smile. 'Have you got a rhyme for that, too?'

Polly poked out her tongue at him and then continued with a giggle. 'Anyway, there was a civil war and the Roundheads cut King Charles's head off.'

'Blimey!' cried Ben.

Polly finished her orange and wiped her hands on her cloak. 'It always made me rather sad,' she said. 'Poor old Charles.'

The Doctor cleared his throat. 'Yes, quite.' He stuffed the orange peel into his trouser pocket and turned to Jamie. 'And what about you, my lad?'

The Highlander pulled a face and looked away. 'Oh, I'm like Ben,' he said. 'I never fashed myself much about history.'

The Doctor looked appalled. 'But this only happened a hundred years before your time, Jamie. You should be giving us the history lesson.'

Jamie's face clouded. 'Aye, well. I was a piper, wasn't I? I never had much time to look at school books.'

The Doctor gave a little smile and winked at Ben and Polly. 'Well,' he said at last, 'I've an idea. As we might spend some time here perhaps we should be a little better prepared.'

'How'd you mean?' asked Ben.

The Doctor twiddled his thumbs and looked up at the sky.

'The fact is, I'm not quite the fount of all wisdom which you think me.'

'Oh aye?' said Jamie with a chuckle.

'No,' continued the Doctor. 'I think a little refresher course in the customs, manners, and politics of this time wouldn't go amiss.'

Polly pulled a face. 'That's not like you, Doctor. We normally just go blundering into things.'

'Eh?' snapped the Doctor testily.

'What she means,' said Ben placatingly, 'is that we don't normally prepare for these things. Isn't that half the fun?'

The Doctor smiled. 'Of course. Of course it is. But this was a very dangerous time. We must be careful.' His expression grew suddenly grave, emphasising the deep lines on his face. 'Loyalties are in a state of constant flux. This conflict tore apart friends and families and it wasn't unusual for fathers and sons to fight on opposite sides.'

Polly's mouth turned down. 'A civil war in every sense.'

'Exactly. So we don't want to upset anyone or get ourselves into trouble needlessly because we're ignorant of what's going on. I'll pop back to the TARDIS. There's bound to be just the sort of thing we need in the library.'

Jamie nodded. 'All right, Doctor. We'll wait here.'

The Doctor headed back the way they had come, his cloak flapping behind him. 'Shan't be a tick. Don't talk to any strangers.'

The three of them watched him disappear into the dark alley.

'I hope it's got lots of pictures,' said Jamie with a groan.

William Kemp stamped his feet on a rough twig mat as he entered the rear of the inn. Snow fell from his shoes and on to the stone floor like powder. He gave the kitchen the benefit of his scowl, ignoring the pleasant atmosphere of busy cooking which permeated the room.

Huge copper pots were affixed to the walls, hanging above cheeses, meats, and preserves of all kinds. Dried, salted fish were stacked in a pile on top of three or four long wooden tables, their surfaces blotched and cracked with wear.

Kemp closed the door behind him, s.h.i.+vered, and made straight for the large fire blazing in the kitchen hearth. Before it stood the firedogs, great iron constructions on which spits turned incessantly, dripping hot fat into a row of black tins.

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 ap.r.o.n. 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.

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