Much to her surprise, Polly did not find herself taken to some den of Stuart iniquity, sold into slavery or, as she had half feared and half expected, burnt as a witch.  Instead she was ferried around the corner of the inn, taken through the now-empty kitchen and upstairs to the chamber where Sir John Copper and Christopher Whyte sat alone.

As she was dragged in and pushed roughly down into a chair, she quickly looked about for an escape route.  But the room was now so dark that she could make out little except the candlelit features of her captors.

The leader of the thugs who'd kidnapped her exchanged some whispered words with Copper and then held out his hand, palm upward.

Copper slid some coins over the table.  The three men looked at Polly, laughed to themselves and, bending their burly frames, exited through the low door.

'What on earth do you think you're doing?' cried Polly indignantly.

Copper held up a neatly manicured hand.  'Patience, mistress,' he purred.  'We mean you no ill'

'Oh really?' she almost shrieked.  'What about my friend back there?'

'He sustained a bump on the head, I gather.  He'll be all right'

Polly glared at him.  'Is that a professional opinion?'

Christopher Whyte leaned forward across the table and smiled at her.  Despite herself, Polly couldn't help but feel slightly reassured by the handsome stranger.

'What's your name?' he asked gently.

'Why do you want to know?'  She hoped she sounded defensive and strong but was rather afraid the question sounded almost flirtatious.

Copper steepled his fingers and looked up at the darkened eaves.

'You were overheard in the inn discussing... certain matters.  Matters of interest to us.'  He turned his cold eyes on Polly Wright.'  She smoothed back her hair with one hand.

Whyte's grin grew wider and he unconsciously ran his hand through his own long hair, as though preening himself.

Copper's face remained impassive.  He leaned forward and pointed his finger at Polly in an uncompromisingly hostile manner.  'Now, Mistress Polly, you will tell us all you know about the King and exactly when Parliament intends to cut off his head!'


Jamie sat with his head sunk low on his chest, wondering why he seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time in dungeons of one sort or another.

The latest was an incredibly cramped affair of brown stone walls and ceiling that ran with unappealing, slimy green deposits.  There were heaps of filthy straw clustered in the corners and big iron rings projecting from the walls themselves, their purpose unknown, their fastenings stained with rusty water.

The Doctor, who was sitting against the opposite wall playing a repetitive tune on his recorder, had explained that the damp was caused by their cell's proximity to the river.

Jamie thought briefly of the happy time they had so recently spent on the same river, of the colourful mummers and the fire-eater.  Then his thoughts drifted off into contemplation of warmth in general and of his own cosy, comfortable room back in the TARDIS.