Message #79114

[thebunnyinthetardis]

Chapter Six

It was all Rory Williams could do to prevent his wife from diving through the Rift after them. She struggled wildly, screaming at him to let her go, but he held firm. He had been close enough to hear what the Doctor said. Massively unstable. He wasn’t going to take a warning like that lightly. He was not going to risk losing Amy again. Not for the Doctor. Not even for two Doctors.

“Rory, let me go!”

“No! Amy, no! Did you hear what he said? It’s unstable. It could close at any time--“

“All the more reason for us to follow them,” she told him, twisting in his grasp.

“If it closes, we’ll be trapped on the other side.”

“If it closes and we’re not with the Doctor you’ll wish you were on the other side!”

A moment later, it was a moot point. The portal expanded with a rush of eyebrow-singing energy then closed in on itself and winked out. Amy let out a gasp of disbelief, then pounded him soundly on the chest. And kept pounding. He took the abuse, repeating to himself that the Rift had been unstable, unsafe, unstable, unsafe… but there was nothing he could do to deter her anger.

“Now what are we going to do?” Amy demanded, her face flushed from the exertion of running, followed by her effort of fighting with him. She jabbed a finger over his shoulder, forcing him to look. “The Tardis is out of phase again, both Doctors are gone, and I have a photo shoot in the morning!”

Rory grimaced. He had forgotten that minor detail...

“Well, you know,” he said weakly, offering up his sweetest smile. The one that usually worked but was not, apparently, working just then. “Time travel and all that. You know him. He’ll get us back in time. Even if it takes awhile.”

“Oh yeah?” she said, pounding him on the solar plexus one more time before she turned abruptly, flipping her long hair in his face, hugging herself against the rain that had begun to fall again. “What if it takes him 40 years? I don’t think aging that much overnight is in my contract!”

He coughed hard, thinking better of trying to say anything else clever to make her feel better. She glared at him one final time before stalking away.

“Where are you going?”

“To take the dog out!”

All in all, he thought, she was taking being marooned on an alternate Earth remarkably well.

“Pick up the phone,” she yelled, just before he lost sight on her in the woods.

“The--?”

Jackie Tyler’s pink, bejewelled mobile lay in the dirt where it had fallen when the Doctors had jumped through the rift. Rory picked it up.

“It says ‘Rose’ in missed calls. Should we call back?”



***



The world transformed with a sickening shimmer and he emerged on the far side, tumbling arse over elbow onto a road. A very dirty, very hard road. He had barely time to lift himself up, let along draw a single breath before the Doctor slammed into his back, knocking him flat on the ground once more. To think traversing wormholes looked so easy on the telly. When was the last time he had seen Daniel Jackson crash into Jack O’Neill? The horse and rider they had followed from Pete’s World were a few metres away, visibly shaken, but recovering enough to move off with all due speed. With no time to loose, he retrieved the Doctor’s stylish new hat from where it had fallen in the mud, plopped it on the Time Lord’s head, and they began their pursuit.

After what seemed like miles at a dead run he could feel himself tiring. Instead of running side by side like the wind, the Doctor was now outdistancing him, apparently unaware of his encroaching fatigue. He pushed on as long as he could, finally shambling to a halt, hands on his knees, head bent, gasping for breath. The Doctor ran back to him, hopping about manically. The waterlogged ostrich feathers on the hat hung in ridiculous spikes.

“Com’on, com’on! We’re gaining on him--”

He groaned. They had lost sight of the horse and rider miles back, made at least one wrong turn which had taken them nearly to London, before trusted instinct and the pattern of hoof prints on the damp road guided them back. Rain showers had since obliterated the hoof prints, the entire road churned into flowing mud. The Doctor’s claim of a horse detection application on the new sonic screwdriver was absurd. No doubt the hapless pair were leaving a trail of void stuff in their wake. Were it not for the mud he suspected even his more-human-than-not olfactory sense would have smelled it.

“--just… need… a minute,” he stammered, sucking air into his lungs. He clutched at his chest. “Inferior vascular system, remember?”

The Doctor blinked at this revelation, as if it had already been forgotten.

“Riiight. Sorry. Catch your breath.”

Ignoring the sludge, he sat in the middle of what passed for a road, legs drawn up to his chest. He wrapped his bare arms around his muddy jeans, resting his head against his knees. The Doctor splashed back and forth across the road, a curious, bandy-legged gait made all the more comical by dirt smudged trousers. The Time Lord’s handsome moleskin jacket was mud-splattered and wet and the man’s hair hung in crazy tendrils from beneath the sagging hat. Not that he imagined he looked any better. In his haste, he had left his long coat behind. It would have afforded him somewhat more protection from the elements than a T-shirt and he could only guess at what useful items remained in the pocket—aside from the brolly.  He reached down to touch the road lightly. Vibration. A moment later he was on his stomach, ignoring the mire, ear pressed to the muddy ground. He looked up at the Doctor.

“Fancy a climb?”

The Time Lord snapped shut the sonic screwdriver and whirled around.

“Why?”

“Someone’s coming,” he said. “Correction. A whole lot of someones.”




From their vantage point high in an ancient, sprawling yew, and with the aid of a pair of high-tech binocs and the vintage spyglass the Doctor had produced from trans-dimensional coat pockets, they could just make out what appeared to be two separate military regiments moving up and down the narrow road that divided a rambling town of  half timber structures, most of which crouched on the far side of a rapidly flowing tributary.

Several hundred buildings stretched away from the stone bridge, shops and homes alike. Modest, but well established, he thought. Perhaps grown up in support of the nearby abbey which, if he calculated correctly, was no longer functioning in that capacity. But that’s all it was. Calculations. It bothered him, not being able to verify the period instinctually, relying instead on a good, long memory—and logical clues. He’d been here before. Or near here. And near now. He sensed that, clearly, but… but that was all. As the Doctor recalled previous adventures in the vicinity, he listened to the pulse in his ears, focusing on his heart beat. One heart, whose only function was to pump blood. It did nothing to keep Time. It did nothing to key him into the universe at large. And having no concrete sense of where and when in Time he was made him feel ill.

“You look… time sick,” the Doctor said suddenly. “Are you all right?”

No. No he was far from all right. But when had that ever stopped him?

“I’m always all right.”

He returned his attention to the town. Whenever it had grown up in the past, it remained a trade hub of some note to have spawned the statelier three storey houses to the east, enclosed gardens adorning those not on the Thames. At least he assumed it was the Thames. To the fore, on the south side of the river not far from the bridge, a church spire rose against the bleak, autumn sky. 15th Century by the looks of it, with a rag-stone tower capped with crenulations. He wondered if it had bells. He rather fancied the sound of church bells. When the atmosphere was right at the Tyler’s manor house he could hear them from the old church by the river. By the… river. No. It couldn’t be. Could it? He shifted his gaze. Closer still, a ribbon of houses dotted the road, the most prominent  being nearest them. A Lord’s house no doubt, and one that had its own share of Redcoats busying themselves to make it more defensible.

It was difficult to tell from the milling sea of buff, red and purple coats and dull metal helmets just which side of the conflict they represented, but he would have wagered they were Parliamentarian troops preparing to defend this sprawling village from the Royalists in support of Charles I. As of yet no flags had been raised, as if whoever it was did not want to advertise, but the flurry of activity suggested something was afoot.

Fortifications were being erected around the manor house nearest their roost, earthworks heaped up against what looked like little more than pig fence. Thorny hedgerows would serve them better. On the bridge and further along the road to the east, barricades were being assembled from fence posts and wagons. The inhabitants of this village were digging in for something. Hundreds of musket and sword toting men moved amid the buildings and civilian population, and he had seen at least two small cannon being dragged into defensive positions within town. All focus was on the road leading to the west. Somewhere, in this military tangle, lay a precious store of Zeiton 7. Two sonic screwdrivers confirmed it. But where? Perhaps acting on impulse had not been the wisest choice.

The Doctor lowered binoculars and turned to him.

“Jon. Can I call you Jon?”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” he said, scanning the bridge with the spyglass. It was a remarkably sturdy structure, supported by three arches. Quite a change from the first time he had been in the region, hunting with Saxon King Edmund.

“Sorry? Jackie called you Jon.”

“Jackie calls me all sorts of things.” He wondered where this line of questioning was leading and tried not to sound too cross. “It’s an alias. That’s all. To fit in long term, since I didn’t have much choice about that. But it’s as much me as ‘John Smith’ ever was. Well, less than when I really was John Smith.” Having eschewed that mortal life, relinquished that happy future to embrace his Time Lord nature, he’d found it difficult to think of himself as John Smith anymore.

“But, it’s so much more than an alias,” the Doctor told him earnestly.  “Really. Jon Noble. Brilliant name.”

“It was Rose’s idea.”

“Like I said. Brilliant.”

He supposed it was. And as apropos a pseudonym as he had ever had. Jackie had suggested Don Noble, after Donna, thinking herself so clever. He’d rejected it in a heartbeat. Not that he rejected Donna or that part of herself that she had unwittingly given him during the meta-crisis that resulted in his creation. Donna. His Donna. A backlash of Time Lord consciousness had transformed her into the Doctor-Donna, just as the Ood had foretold. His last best mate. They were going to travel the stars forever, he and Donna. Well, as long as she could keep up with him and knowing Donna, that would have been a very, very long time.

“You did marry her?” the Doctor asked suddenly, gripping a branch to keep from falling to the ploughed field below.

“What?” He lowered the spyglass and glanced sideways, now quite sure he wanted no part of this line of questioning. They had more important things to do than to  talk about his personal life. Though, truth told, he was surprised it had taken this long.

“Rose. You were going to tell me something back in the greenhouse.”

He raised the glass again and concentrated on the structures on the far side of the bridge. A pub stood near the church. That was handy he supposed.

The Doctor was being ever so patient, waiting for him to answer.

He sighed at last and, without looking at his companion, said, “Now wouldn’t that have been a happy ending.”

“What can I say? Love a happy ending, me. And fairy tales. She broke down the walls between worlds to find… you.”

Now he turned, taking in the Doctor‘s new features all over again, his long, oval face and that square chin! Blimey! Not to mention the cascade of hair twisting over a bright green eye. Indie rock Time Lord. All they needed was an electric keyboard.

“No. Let’s at least get that part straight. She wanted to find you, well, you from before.”

“That would be you,” the Doctor pointed out smugly, raising the binoculars once again.

He turned away. What was the point in arguing? He couldn’t even begin to explain what it felt like to be unable to lay claim to his own identity. To not even own his own name. To walk through life having to make it all up as he went along. To be exiled. How was that for irony? Perhaps he didn’t need to explain it at all.

“I doubt she’d go for this,” the Doctor told him, sticking out a prodigious chin before crinkling up the rest of a very youthful face. “She wasn’t keen on my changing the first time. Thought I was a Slitheen in a man suit. As if a Slitheen could squeeze into  your skinny, uhm, skinniness. Blimey. I forgot just how skinny I was. Don’t you eat? I remember eating all the time. Must have been all the running. And you can still run!”

“Professional hazard.”

“It is that. But, Rose… “ the words trailed off.

“Don’t,” he said at last. “Just don’t say anything.”

Green eyes darted everywhere except straight ahead into the face that had once belonged to him as well. Then a smile edged nervous, see-sawing lips. A very small, very wistful smile.

“You know what happens when we change. It’s the same, but it isn’t the same. New man, same as the old, but not. And Rose… I don’t expect her to… Not that way. It’s… complicated.”

“You’re telling me.”

“Not the half of it.”

He curbed the desire to ask the obvious question, surmised it had something to do with River Song, the woman who knew his name. The woman from a future he would never know. Where had they met, anyway? And how was it she knew his name? What had she told him all those years ago? Spoilers.

He lowered himself down to another branch that he might survey the surrounding area further. He gazed down the long road, a remnant of ancient Rome, no doubt, then back at the bridge and coursing river that ran beneath it. He tucked the spyglass under one arm and breathed on his fingers. The autumn air grew colder as the day grew longer. He was in need of a coat. Perhaps a hat. Albeit one less waterlogged then the sad affair sitting atop the Doctor’s head. He looked back at the bustling town again. A Parliamentary flag had finally been raised.

“Assuming this is the London Road, and that is the River Brent, and that lot,” he gestured with the spyglass, “are Parliamentarians, I‘d say we‘re in for a Civil War battle. And if they’re building barricades that quickly today…”

“They’ll be expecting Prince Rupert’s Horse tomorrow.”

“That’s bad.”

“Very, very not good,” the Doctor agreed. “Unless of course history plays out differently here on Pete’s World—assuming we didn’t also travel sideways into another universe as well as backwards--or these guys are just out for some historical cosplay.”

“You know, Tegan never did forgive us for that,” he said, the image of his companion, Tegan Jovanka, dressed as the May Queen coming to mind.

“I fear Tegan never forgave us for a lot of things.”

That brought him up short, stirring up memories that he had no wish to grapple with just then. Too many people had died. Too many were to die after.

“And we have yet to mend our ways,” he said softly. “But, no. The English Civil War happened on Pete’s World. Only here--if we are here and not there--Essex didn’t reach London before Charles did. Things… changed after that.”

“And you know I love a history lesson, and I was really hoping to lay hands on that Zeiton 7 for you, but right now I‘m thinking--“

“We should leave.”

“Yes. Yes we should.”

And they would have, were it not for the group of angry Roundheads gathered directly under the tree.


*


Given the choice to climb down of their own accord or be shot down, they choose the former and descended to the ground, hands raised in the air. Not a man in the ranks stood above either of their shoulders, but the pikes made them look taller.

“Speak the truth. Are ye for King or Parliament?” asked the leader.

“King.”

“Parliament.”

They looked at one another in shock, hastily reversing their answers.

“Parliament.”

“King.”

“Yes. Definitely. King/Parliament,” they chimed together.

“Damn Cymru dogs,” one of the soldiers muttered.

That’s when it hit him and he turned suddenly toward the Doctor. “How’s your spoken English?”

“My what?” the Doctor asked him with a nervous laugh. “I speak English perfectly, why?”

“No translation circuit here and you‘ve been speaking Gallifreyan,” he said.

“I most certainly have not,” the Doctor told him, this time the nervousness spreading over the Time Lord‘s entire face.

“You have, too. So have I. I didn‘t even know I still remembered how. But I have been---since we got here!”

“Quit your nattering, you two!” one of the Roundheads barked.

“I told you they’re Cymru dogs. Shifting their speech and allegiances as the wind changes,” said the first man.

”You know,” he said, still directing most of the conversation toward the Doctor, “he has a point. The Welsh were notorious for that. Bad day at Edgehill wasn’t it? Of course they‘ll come ‘round again. Uhm, tomorrow, if memory serves…”

One of the soldiers pressed a pistol into his ribcage. He swallowed hard.

“This really isn‘t the time to debate the subject, though. Too right. Sorry.”

“Oh, hello,” the Doctor said suddenly, nodding toward the young man they‘d encountered earlier outside the orangery. The man they had pursued back in Time. The poor fellow stood at the rear of the assembly, obviously trying to master invisibility. “It is you, isn’t it? Good to see a friendly face. Well, a familiar face at least. We weren‘t properly introduced earlier. I’m called the Doctor. And this is…”

“Jon Noble,” he muttered, hating to say it but having little choice.

“Yes, right. Doctor Jon Noble. May I just say what a marvellous hat you have. I’ve quite enjoyed wearing it, but of course here it is for you. To wear. Again.” The Doctor leaned toward him. “I mentioned it was marvellous, right?”

“That you did. Twice. I don‘t think he wants it back.”

“Mott!” the soldier in charged barked. “You know these men?”

The younger man drew back sharply, clearly ill at ease but not wanting to elaborate. And rightly so. The poor dear had been transported to another world. A world as alien and terrifying to someone of this age as any advanced and hostile civilisation might appear to someone from the world they‘d come from.

“Mott?” he asked, making the connection to Donna‘s grandfather. Wilfred Mott.  Good ole Wilf! The red hair, the sad eyes, that deer-in-the-headlights expression. “Are you from Chiswick then? Oh, you are, aren’t you? Nooo. You are kidding me. That’s some strong genetic transference, there.”

The Doctor was equally bemused.

“Mott!” the group’s leader barked at the young soldier again.

“By all that’s holy, I don’t know them. Only seen them on the West Road on my way to Braynforde. They—they had a big blue wardrobe in the forest with a torch on top of it.”

“A wardrobe!” scoffed the man who had previously made disparaging remarks about the Welsh. Snaggle-toothed did the bloke justice. The large, hairy wart on a pock-marked cheek didn‘t help. The sort of man you wanted to avoid in any century. “In league with that devil, Rupert, I‘d wager.”

“Don’t be absurd,” the Doctor retorted, tossing back an impressive fringe before donning Mott’s hat again. “Do I look like a poodle?”

“Well, if you really want to know,” be began, wishing he had a mirror just then.

“At least I have on a jacket and tie.”

True and true again.

“Are you here from Colnbrook, then?” asked one man eagerly. Several of the others joined in, pressing them for news, asking if they were envoys of the King.

“Something like that,” he replied, thinking quickly for an angle to play.

Any chance of constitutional compromise had broken down early in 1642. If it was now fall of the same year, the peace negotiations that Parliament had entered into with Charles I had gone awry, no matter which timeline they were to follow. If they had  fallen back through time on Pete’s World, as they suspected, the consequences for Brentford were even more dire than on the world Rose and her mum had come from.

“As you can imagine, it’s imperative that be on our way to London.”

The Doctor caught on to his ruse and offered up the psychic paper with what he hoped now contained convincing credentials and not more Gallifreyan nonsense. They really did need to assess those calculations. In any case the Doctor didn’t show the leather wallet for long.

“There, you see? Doctors Smythe and Noble, due in London this very day.”

“You’ll nae get there before nightfall,” replied one of the men.

Indeed. The hour was well past what it had been on the other side of the portal. Hazard of time travel.

A swift riding courier drew their attention.

“It’s Essex,” the newcomer told them quickly, breathing hard. “He’s moving toward Acton to regroup with Hampden. They’re calling for more men. London’s fallen to the Royalists and Prince Rupert Horse moves in from the west.”

The officer in charge drew a sharp breath.

“Take these two men to Sir Wynn’s house and put a guard on them. Lord Brooke can attend to them upon his return. If they’re the King’s men they may be all that stands in the way of Braynforde burning to the ground. And if not, then may God have mercy on their miserable souls.”





There were worse places to be detained than Sir Richard Wynn’s curing house, he supposed, though the insidious meat hooks from which hung slabs of bacon and ham  hocks were far from comforting. Nor were the eels. He rather hated eels. Especially since that incident with the Nemonites during World War II. Barrels of salt stood along one wall of the small building and a low fire filled the room with choking smoke. Really, it could have been worse. At least they hadn’t been put with the bees. Then again, it was November. The bees would be docile. Pigs then. It was better than being put with the pigs. But only just.

“A little early to have killed the fatted calf, isn’t it?” the Doctor asked, poking a sizable ham with an index finger.

“Imagine feeding that lot. There’ll be scarcely a chicken left in all of Brentford before long. A lot of local fish in here--aside from the eels. Someone‘s been to Billingsgate,” he said, wrinkling his nose. He swept the room with his sonic screwdriver. “Though, I’d wager--if I were a bettin’ man--that we’ll find something more interesting hidden in those salt tubs.”

The Doctor wrestled the lid off of one, then quickly slammed it down again. “Just not that one.”

“What’s this then?” he asked, pushing the lid off another and lifting out a bronze shield boss covered in Celtic knot work. “Oh, that’s a pretty thing, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed,” the Time Lord agreed, and they both bent over the open cask to see what else could be found.

“Quite the spot for antiquities, Brentford. All sorts of bits and bobs dredged out of the Brent and the Thames, including the rather famous…” he pulled out a small bronze fitting and held it up triumphantly, “Brentford Horn Cap. Or, should I say, pair of Horn Caps.”

He tossed the second horn cap to the Doctor who gave it a fair appraisal.

“Very interesting. Historically, there’s only one, kept in the British Museum. Love the British Museum. Spent a fortnight in the vault sorting things they don’t even have names for yet.”

He fiddled with his sonic screwdriver, scanning each of the ornate chariot pieces in turn. The one in the Doctor’s left hand resonated as he adjusted the frequency, the excited Zeiton 7 particles in the copper-alloy producing a faint, unearthly glow as the temperature was elevated.

“What sort of devilry is this?”

Equally startled, they looked up through the billowing smoke to see a well-dressed gentleman standing at the open door. If the bloke they’d managed not to cross swords with earlier looked grumpy, this fellow looked genuinely cantankerous. Bad combination, superstitious and a bad-temper. This was an age when they burned suspected witches and then determined the fate of their souls if they were found innocent. Not to mention charging their family for the wood with which to burn them.

“It isn’t what you think,” he said quickly, switching the sonic screwdriver off. “Wait. What do you think?”

“Sorcery. Alchemy. You’re transforming lead to gold!”

“Am I? Oh, dear. I suppose that is what it looks like.”

The Doctor shook a finger at him. “That was the conclusion someone else had, that other time when we did that other thing at Camboglanna. As you may recall it did not turn out particularly well.”

“That was an accident,” he pointed out and might have argued the point further where it not for the six armed men crowding into an already crowded smoke house.

“Who are you? Who sent you here?”

“Didn’t you get the memo? We’re the Doctors. A better question would be who are you? Not Lord Brooke. And you’re not Denzil Holles. Met him in a pub once…”

“You’ll show respect for Captain Bennet,” one of the men barked at them.

“Bennet? William Bennet? Oh my,” he said, recalling the list of the dead after the swiftly approaching battle. “I am sorry.”

“Yes, yes. I was told you were Doctors,” Bennet told them, affording them little courtesy. “And Doctors we’ll need if Rupert’s Horse reaches Braynforde before we have reinforcements. But not your kind.”

“I’m sorry?” the Doctor asked, laughing nervously. “And what kind might that be?”

“The kind we hang from trees,” Bennet growled, turning to leave. “Cattorill, Willoughby, remove the unholy instruments and burn them. Then put our Doctors someplace more secure until Holles or Brooke return. I have more pressing things to attend to. Is Lilburne still here…?”

Two of the soldiers advanced on them and he backed away amid the eels, lowering the sonic screwdriver so as to make it appear less threatening.

“You really don’t want to do that because, because--”

“--because of the wonderful things it does,” the Doctor added. They were backed nearly into the rear wall now.

“Yes. Right. Wonderful. Helpful things. Good, wonderful, helpful and not-threatening things.”

The soldiers hesitated, obviously uneasy about the orders they had been given. Couldn’t fault them. Suspected sorcery was a chancy business. He noticed that the other four were in no hurry to advance on them either, and instead crowded around the door, discussing the need for a chaplain.

“What wonders do you speak of?” asked one.

“What wonders. This fine gentleman wants to know what wonders your, ehm, tool, can perform…“

“Wasn’t turning lead to gold impressive enough?” he asked.

“Evidently not,” the Doctor said.

“All right. All right. It is also used very effectively for bluffing.”

The Doctor looked at him quizzically. “Bluffing?”

“Yes. Bluffing. You remember bluffing? We’re both very, very good at bluffing…”

A moment later they were shoulder to shoulder, brandishing their sonic screwdrivers like comic book ray guns. A short burst of energy heated the belt buckle of the first Roundhead‘s trousers until it was at a sufficiently high temperature to be noticed. In a flash, the poor man was more concerned about catching on fire than keeping a watchful eye on two bizarre prisoners. The man’s obvious distress caused two others to look away and when subsequent blasts popped the metal bands on salt barrels, splattering meat and grease alike, the rest of the men scattered, calling for reinforcements. Smoke billowed from the curing house, masking their escape.

“The horn cap!” he cried, turning back.

“It isn’t worth it!” the Doctor shouted at him.

“It is to me!” He ducked back into the choking pork-scented miasma, feeling his way through slippery eels and sausages to the crates.

He scooped up one brass fitting, then the other one, uncertain which one he needed. A faulty sonic screwdriver did nothing to sort out his dilemma. Behind him, the Doctor urged him to make haste. Run was the word used. Twice, in fact. The quickest solution was to take both of the bronze-age relics and he did so, pocketing the artefacts as he dodged back out, blinking smoke from his eyes.

For a third time, and with considerable gusto, the Doctor shouted “Run!”
 
If only he’d known in which direction. As luck would have it, he went the wrong way.