He ushered Polly away from the strange scene and the biting wind which was surging through the narrow precincts of Parliament.

Unseen by either of them, a skinny man with a face like an old saddle, slipped out of a doorway and watched them pa.s.s.

His eyes remained fixed on Ben and, nodding to himself, he began to follow.

The Thames took many twists and turns along its course.

Some, like the wharf where Captain Stanislaus's vessel lay moored, were fast-flowing and full of traffic; others, like the broad bend where the Doctor and Jamie found themselves, were much more sluggish. In such temperatures as that December of 1648 produced, the old river was wont to freeze and, to the Doctor's undisguised delight, a fair was being held on its solid, white surface.

'Are you sure it's safe, Doctor?' queried Jamie, setting one foot gingerly off the snow-covered bank.

The Doctor had no such qualms and launched himself on to the frozen river, jumping up and down to show how thick and deep the ice went. 'See? Solid as a rock. Londoners were used to it at this time. Something of a mini Ice Age, I think, Now come along, we're missing all the fun.'

From one bank of the river to the other, a motley collection of stalls and tents had been erected. Some were rather plain, like simple market stalls which had simply migrated to the river; others, gaily patterned and bearing flags, betrayed their theatrical origins.

There were people everywhere, bustling and chattering and laughing. Children wheeled great iron hoops across the ice and some were daring each other to slide, scrambling and falling on their backsides, only to get up, giggling, and do it all again.

Men, huddled in knots, played dice or skittles, b.a.l.l.s of one kind or another in permanent motion over the frozen surface of the river. Everywhere, there was food and drink, steaming in great copper pans, ladled into tumblers, a smell of rich spice and gin. Ginger, cloves, nutmeg; Jamie found himself grinning from ear to ear as he and the Doctor made their way through the crowds.

Suddenly there was a shout and laughter. A little fellow in ludicrous breeches that were three times too big for him ran across their path, hooting and whinnying like a mad beast. He carried a stick with some kind of bladder attached to the end and proceeded to beat himself over the head with it. Everyone laughed and turned to watch.

The Doctor pulled Jamie to one side. 'Mummers,' he whispered.

Jamie frowned. 'Is that bad?'

The Doctor laughed. 'Not at all. Well, I suppose it depends on your sense of humour.'

The little jester threw up his arms. He was wearing a costume of pale green, embroidered with ribbons, scarves, and laces. He wore gold earrings and there were other rings attached to his clothes as well as scores of bells on his legs so that he jangled whenever he moved.

'Pray silence!' he called. 'For the Lord of Misrule!'

Another man emerged from a tent, wearing a paper crown and fluttering coloured handkerchiefs in both hands. Behind him came a man on a hobbyhorse, a drummer, a piper, and several figures who looked very like Robin Hood and his Merry Men.

'What's it all about?' asked Jamie in some bewilderment.

The Doctor stuck out his lip in mock seriousness. 'Being silly, I think. These poor people have been through an awful lot lately. They're letting their hair down. And,' he said, slipping away into the throng, 'I think we should join them.'

Jamie followed after him, pa.s.sing straight through the mummers' pageant. The Doctor was already at a stall, buying what looked like a fruit cake.

He tore it in half and gave the larger portion to Jamie, grinning and stuffing his share into his mouth.

'Now eat that up and we'll find ourselves something to drink.'

Jamie suddenly felt thrilled with excitement, like Christmas when he was a boy. The wintry afternoon was already darkening and, now the snow had gone, the sky was a rich, midnight blue, speckled with stars.

Somewhere a man's rich baritone was singing 'Adam Lies Y'Bounden', a carol Jamie could remember his mother singing as he sat at her side by the hearth at home.

Goodwill seemed to pour out of these people as though, as the Doctor had said, they were throwing off the miseries of the recent conflict.

Jamie saw jugglers, a performing monkey on a striped pedestal, and something that looked very like a primitive Punch and Judy show with Italian marionettes executing a strange, wild dance.

He caught up with the Doctor at another stall and this time he was handed a cup of steaming liquor. The Doctor sipped his drink and gave a little burp.

'Oh, I say,' he murmured. 'It's rather potent, isn't it?'

Jamie was cold and took a deep draught of the stuff. He felt immediately warmed and not a little woozy, turning to see a great burly man who seemed to be swallowing hot coals.

'Look at that!' he cried excitedly.

The Doctor turned and clapped his hands appreciatively as the man placed a coal on his tongue and then a raw oyster upon that. His a.s.sistant then placed bellows in the man's mouth and pumped air into him until tiny flames and sparks whooshed from between his lips.

The crowd were astonished and delighted and then the fire-eater opened his mouth and spat the oyster neatly into his hand.

'He's cooked it!' said the Doctor, clapping again. 'Bravo!'

Jamie shook his head. 'Aye. But I wouldn't want to eat it.'

The Doctor smiled and then they were off again, laughing and talking at the tops of their voices.

In the warmth of the World Turn'd Upside Down, the atmosphere was very different. The chill of the weather seemed to have crept like a living thing into the interior of Kemp's Inn, settling over the groups of long-faced customers, most of whom were staring either into their tankards or into s.p.a.ce. Their voices were lowered to a steady mumble, like the drone of sleepy bees.

The place itself was rather cheerfully designed, a reddish-brown colour that was made almost amber by the mult.i.tude of beer stains that covered the walls. The ceiling was supported by thick oak pillars which branched out into beams. Stools and tables were scattered haphazardly about and candles, set in great, wax-covered pots, were everywhere.

William Kemp stood behind the small wooden bar, indistinguishable from any landlord in any age, his mean face settled on his hand, staring ahead.

Ben drained a tumbler of rum and looked about warily. He and Polly were sitting in a little nook by the blazing hearth and the flickering flames lent their faces a warm, orange glow.

'Blimey, Pol,' said Ben under his breath. 'I'm glad this place isn't my local. I've never seen such a miserable lot.'

Polly gazed around the cramped, dark room and sighed.

'Don't forget they've been fighting a war, Ben. The Doctor said loyalties were divided. It must've been hard on all of them.' She frowned and looked down. 'I never really thought about it like that before.'

Ben shrugged and lined up his next tot of rum. 'Well, it's still a bit of a muddle to me. Cavaliers and Roundheads.' His face brightened and cracked into a wide grin. ''Ere!' he cried.

'If we're lucky we might see them cut old King Charlie's head off!'

The inn went suddenly and devastatingly quiet. Like little lamps springing into life, several pairs of eyes suddenly widened and scrutinised them closely.

Kemp straightened up and stared directly at them, his eyes narrowing. He seemed to think deeply for a moment and then, with a glance back at Ben and Polly, he disappeared into the back of the inn.

'Ben!' hissed Polly between clenched teeth.

The young sailor pulled a face. 'Why do I suddenly feel like I'm in a western?' he said mournfully.

Polly grasped his hand under the table. 'You clot! Keep your voice down. We don't know what year it is, remember?

We could be years off the King's execution. And you might be speaking treason.'

Ben slid the tumbler of rum away from himself. 'Sorry, love. It's the booze. Always gets me a bit lively.'

Polly gave him her most rea.s.suring smile. 'Yes, well go easy. We have to get back to the TARDIS soon to meet the others. And I'm not carrying you back half cut.'

Ben gave a throaty chuckle and winked. 'Not half as cut as the King, eh, d.u.c.h.ess?' he whispered.

Polly laughed in spite of herself and returned her attention to the flagon of ale on the table before her. Neither noticed Kemp and the slim figure of Christopher Whyte as they entered the room.

Kemp pointed towards Ben and Polly. 'There. That's them.'

Whyte examined the newcomers. 'They're not regulars of yours?'

Kemp shook his head. 'Never seen 'em before.'

Shrugging, Whyte turned to go back up the stairs to the room above the inn. 'Well, it may be nothing. I shall consult with Sir John.'

He gave Kemp a small, tight smile. 'You did well to bring this to our attention, Kemp. Thank you.'

Kemp gave an obsequious little bow and made his way back to the bar. He watched Ben and Polly warily. They were odd-looking all right, he thought, odd enough to be friends of Noll Cromwell or those stinking Levellers. What reward might be his if they turned out to be Parliamentarian spies?

The brisk December wind was still whistling around the weathered stonework of the Commons as Colonel Pride struggled wearily on to his horse.

Lord Grey of Groby, already mounted, was slumped in his saddle, his face a mask of weighty responsibility. They were alone now, the ranks of troopers having been finally dismissed as the winter sun sank low over the rooftops.

Pride turned his face to the drifts of snow which draped the entrance like dustsheets.

'I shall return tomorrow,' he said at last. 'Our work is not yet done.'

Grey spoke without looking up. 'What news of Cromwell?'

Pride fastened the clasp of his cloak around his neck.

'He's returning from the North. I dare say today's events will not displease him.'

Grey nodded to himself. The cold was stinging his cheeks and he longed to rest his bones in his own bed, but there was a question he knew he had to ask of Pride.

'Well, Thomas,' he said, rising in his saddle. 'What now?'

Pride looked up, his milky eyes full of cold purpose.

'Now, My Lord? Now we must draw up a charge against the King so that the remains of this Parliament might vote it through.'

Grey shook his head with infinite sadness. 'A charge?

What charge can we levy against our monarch?'

There was a sudden increase in the violence of the wind, as though a bottled tempest had been unleashed. Grey struggled to hold on to his hat and craned his neck as two hors.e.m.e.n appeared quite suddenly out of the wintry shadows.

The first was a young captain of perhaps twenty-five whom Grey knew to be Thomas Culpeper. The other, much older, spoke in a voice ringing with authority.

'We must cease to regard him as our monarch, My Lord.'

The speaker's horse clopped slowly forward, revealing its uniformed rider in the failing light of dusk. He was a stocky, powerful-looking man with a ruddy complexion and thinning, shoulder-length hair. His nose was bulbous and as warty as the rest of his skin but his brilliant-blue eyes marked him as very much out of the common.

'General Cromwell!' gasped Grey.

Cromwell nodded in greeting and turned in his saddle towards Pride. 'It is done then, Colonel?'

'Aye, General.'

Cromwell gave a small, affirmative grunt. 'Though I was not acquainted with this plan, I'm glad of it,' he said, unconsciously echoing Fairfax's prediction. 'This dissembling Parliament will not stand in the way of justice a moment longer.'

He stared into s.p.a.ce and the freezing wind blew his hair back off his high forehead.

'You were speaking of a charge, My Lord of Groby?' he said finally.

Grey nodded.

Cromwell raised himself up as though about to address Parliament itself. 'This King has waged a wicked war against his fellow countrymen. He has sought to rule as a tyrant.

Charles Stuart must stand trial for nothing less than treason.'

Grey, Pride, and Culpeper were silent but Cromwell's florid face had taken on a fiery zeal. When he spoke again it was in a hoa.r.s.e, dangerous whisper. 'I tell you this. We will cut off this King's head. Aye, with the crown upon it.'

They remained in silence for a long, terrible moment as though the hand of Death itself had closed around them. Then Cromwell turned his horse away and disappeared into the dusk.

The mist that covered the Thames was thickening as the Doctor and Jamie made their way towards the TARDIS. It was a little after sunset and already quite dark but the Doctor didn't seem to mind. He had contrived to fix a wreath of holly and mistletoe around his head and, as he skipped happily along the embankment, he looked for all the world like some ancient woodland spirit come to life.

He rubbed his numbed hands together and hummed to himself a little tunelessly.

'Oh, I did enjoy that, Jamie,' he cried. 'Just the tonic we needed, wouldn't you say?'

Jamie, who was still feeling the effects of his festive drink, smiled and nodded. 'Aye. But we'd better hurry along. We're late as it is.'

The Doctor shivered and pulled his cloak tightly around his throat. 'Yes. I wonder what Ben and Polly have been getting up to. I hope they're not too tired. We have an appointment with our friend Scrope, remember?'

'I'm not going to forget a fellow like him,' said Jamie with a laugh.

As they began to move off, a bulky figure appeared out of the mist and blocked their path. He carried a vicious-looking pikestaff and was dressed in some kind of watchman's uniform, black tunic and breeches with a wide, plain white collar and big stovepipe hat jammed on to his head. His piggy eyes were screwed up in a frown of permanent suspicion.

'Now then,' he grunted, his three chins wobbling like a turkey's wattle. 'What do we have here?'