HARMONY (a Doctor Who Novella)

Chapter 7

He awoke on cold, hard ground, his arms fastened securely behind his back, his legs clamped in irons. Joy. It had been ages since he'd been held in a dungeon--even if it was little more than a dank cellar. The result was the same. And the smell! Nothing quite compared to parfum pestilentiel de prison mingled with burning lard. To make matters worse it was wet. The steady beat of rain outside meant the trickling stream already coursing through the centre of the room would be increasing. Were it to keep up he'd have need of a skiff. And a paddle. As he blinked the grit from his eyes he was just able to discern the shadow of another inmate.

"Yes. It's me."

He had never been quite so relieved to talk to himself. Even if doing so in the fetid darkness while chained to the floor was more than a little disconcerting. It was all rather familiar, now that he thought about it. All that was missing was Jamie McCrimmon. Ah, Jamie. Good man, Jamie.

"You've been unconscious a long time. They hit us both pretty hard--and hit you more."

"Why?" he asked, making his first attempt to sit up.

"You were fighting back."

"And you weren't?" He spit the dirt from his mouth as he attempted for a second time to rise and having scarcely more luck than he had had at the first go. At least this time he didn't pitch forward into the slime.

"There were seventeen of them and only two of us."

"Only seventeen?" he asked.

"I thought instead of being knocked out or dragged off straight away to be drowned in the Thames, that I'd try to convince our lovely hosts that we are not in league with Satan, were not engaging in the transmutation of lead to gold, are not Prince Rupert's spies, familiars, or even his tailors. That last was not difficult to sell seeing how you're dressed. And to think I used to wear suits. Have you examined yourself in a mirror lately? And when was the last time you had a cut and trim?

"While I was at it I also attempted to express to them the futility of the war and why deposing the king wasn't going to work in the long run as, unknown to most of them, Parliament was also abusing power and had their own issues regarding fiscal responsibility, corruption, and in any case it was pig-headed foolishness to pit brother against brother over religious ideals."

"You said all that?"

"I don't remember," the Doctor said, chains and shackles clinking as the Time Lord shifted in the darkness. "I was talking fast and might have been a bit difficult to understand seeing as they were dragging me by my hair."

"Were they swayed?" he asked.

"Not so much," the Doctor replied, sounding rather sad. "And now I have a terrible headache. Almost as bad as when I met you."

"Thanks for that, mate."

"Don't mention it. I am afraid I may have misquoted their scriptures. It has been rather a while since I read it. Only just chewed through the sock they stuck in my mouth," the Doctor told him with a loud smacking of lips. "My tongue tastes like a wet sheep."

He struggled for a third time to sit up. The Doctor scooted toward him, offering what little assistance might be got when both parties are inconvenienced with shackles. Their solitary source of light emanated from a crudely-fashioned stoneware lamp high on a ledge. Judging by the odour and the smoke, efficient fuel was not being wasted on prisoners. As his eyes adjusted he slowly focused on the Doctor's face and one blackened eye. He cringed.