Part 9 (2/2)

'The McCrimmon knows!' said the Doctor. 'The McCrimmon knows all.'

The jailer leaned forward, his chin jutting out threateningly. 'Aye. Maybe you know because you're a Royalist spy!'

The watchman, who had been superst.i.tious ever since, as a boy, he'd seen a three-headed lamb delivered on his family's farm, laid a hand on his colleague's shoulder. 'No, no, Jem.

Peace. I think we'd better tell someone about this.'

Uneasy, the jailer bit his lip. 'Very well. But who?'

The watchman regarded their two charges with renewed interest. 'I can get a message to John Thurloe,' he mused.

'Who knows? Even General Cromwell may be interested.'

The Doctor's eyes flashed with excitement.

The jailer moved to the door. 'We will return,' he muttered.

The Doctor nodded his head sagely. 'Very well. The McCrimmon and I will await you.'

The two men backed out of the room, the jailer cannoning into the watchman as he squeezed his ma.s.sive b.u.t.tocks through the doorway. They both cast final, fearful glances at their prisoners through the little barred window in the door and then, after turning the key in the lock, vanished.

At once the Doctor began to laugh cheerfully and rubbed his hands together. He took out his recorder from his coat pocket and began playing a little jig.

'Oh, Doctor,' lamented Jamie, 'what did you want to go and say all that nonsense for? If they think we're important, we'll never get away.'

The Doctor looked slightly affronted. 'Well, I had to do something, didn't I, Jamie? And I think we'll have a far better chance of pleading our case to Cromwell than to those two thugs. Besides ' he gave a mischievous smile 'I've always wanted to meet him.'

The standard fell. Fell and was trampled into the mud, its supporting pole snapped beneath the feet of the advancing Roundhead force. Its motto was obscured but its pictures still plain enough: a Bible, the countryside, a sword, a laurel wreath, a crown...

They swept forward, pikes bristling like huge wooden fangs before them, bellowing their battle cry, as men seethed and fought around them.

Their armour glinted dully in the daylight, dazzling those they faced whose eyes were already confused by the riot of colour. Here, the broad orange sashes that were tied around the soldiers' waists. There, the belching black smoke of exploding powder kegs. Elsewhere, the livid crimson of spilled blood, soaking into the Yorks.h.i.+re earth.

Hot now it was. Summery hot with woodsmoke smells mingling with the stink of the dog daisies that covered the field of battle.

The constant thrum-thrum of the drums was like blood pounding in the ears. Or the sound of the troopers' mud-caked boots as they ran at full pelt across the field.

Horses thundered by, musket shots rang out, and the horses fell, whinnying in pain, cras.h.i.+ng to the hard soil, crus.h.i.+ng their riders.

And now here was a new sound. Unexpected, eerie, almost beautiful. It was singing. The Roundheads were singing psalms as their dragoons roared into the Royalist flank.

The boy stepped bravely forward, facing the Roundhead troopers, the red sash around his waist a proud symbol of is Royalist allegiance. He thrust his pike forward and charged, his mouth stretching into an 'O', his throat already hoa.r.s.e from shouting.

The musket ball seared the air as though it were a comet, striking the boy cleanly between the eyes. He stood stock still for a moment, his senses too shocked to realise that he was already dead.

The pike slid from his grip and he toppled backward into the mud. At once, the troopers advanced over him, their feet smas.h.i.+ng his delicate face into bloodied pulp...

William Kemp jerked awake and almost fell out of the narrow bed. He was breathing as though he'd run a mile and his calico nights.h.i.+rt was drenched in sweat.

He put his head in his hands and tried to focus his eyes in the pitch-dark room.

Beside him, Sarah slept on, but Kemp could see nothing but the boy's face. The boy from the dream. His own boy, Arthur.

He had been a brave little soldier all who knew him had said and had joined the King's side without a moment's hesitation, despite his youth. His commander had been a man called Sir Harry Cooke who had nothing but praise for the young Kemp, something that filled his father with pride.

But it had all come to an end. All of it. On a field called Marston Moor, hundreds of miles from home.

The Roundhead musket ball had taken away Kemp's son but created something else. Inside William Kemp, a hard, black ball of bitter poison had begun to grow.

Pitch and roll... pitch and roll.

As dawn broke, Ben slept on, seemingly oblivious of the sickening, lurching movement of the s.h.i.+p in the heaving winter sea.

Beneath his rough blanket, he turned on his side, his mouth hanging slackly open until, out of nowhere, a torrent of sea water splashed over the s.h.i.+p's rail on to his face.

He woke with a cry, spluttering and gasping, then looked rapidly around, trying to orientate himself.

In quick succession he saw the rolling grey sea, the deck, the full, billowing sails, and the two dozen or so men who were streaming over the s.h.i.+p, working busily at ropes, pumps and stores.

Ben groaned as he recalled the events of the previous night. How on earth had he got himself into this mess? He rubbed his weary brow and sighed.

The leathery-faced Isaac Ashdown walked carefully across the wet deck towards him, a pleasant smile on his tanned face.

'Ah,' he said. 'So now you know, my lad.'

Ben managed to struggle to his feet, despite the dull pain in his head. 'Know? Know what?'

Ashdown shrugged. 'Where you are.'

Ben gave a short, humourless laugh. 'That's pretty obvious, isn't it? Even if I wasn't a sailor.'

Ashdown looked delighted. 'You're a sailor already!

That's a novelty indeed. The sc.u.m we usually get are somewhat unsuited to life at sea.' He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 'At first.'

Ben repositioned himself so that his legs were wider apart.

Trying to stand upright on the deck was proving difficult.

'You can't force me to stay here, you know,' he shouted above the noise of the spray. 'I haven't taken the Queen's sh-the King's s.h.i.+lling or anything.'

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