Doctor Who: The Massacre (2 page)

the Doctor shouted. ‘Under the eaves or in the middle but not there, Steven, it’s dangerous.’

‘Why?’ Steven asked and a moment later an arm appeared from the first floor window of the house next door and emptied a chamberpot. ‘
Vive la France
,’ Steven muttered as he retreated hastily to the Doctor’s side.

‘Oh, look at that,’ the Doctor exclaimed, pointing to a shuttered shop. ‘It’s an apothecary’s and it’s closed.’

‘Has been for some time, by the look of it,’ Steven added as he looked at the faded paintwork on the sign.

‘In 1563, by decree, all religious prejudice was abolished, and everyone had the right to practise according to his or her beliefs,’ the Doctor stated. ‘But in 1567 it was said that this pretext of religious freedom was undermining the King’s authority.’

‘Really?’ Steven said, unable to think of anything else.

‘And amongst other restrictions, one that was imposed was that no apothecary was permitted to exercise his profession without a Certificate of Catholicisation,’ the Doctor continued.

Steven stopped in the middle of the street and asked,

‘Why not? What had religion to do with a mortar and pestle?’

‘Ideas, young man, heretical ideas concerning life and death that were not in accord with the dogmas of the Church of Rome,’ the Doctor replied, staring at the closed apothecary shop. ‘The man who owned that place may well have retired normally but equally so he may have been a French Protestant, a Huguenot as they were called – still are for that matter – who was driven out of business because of his religious convictions.’

‘That’s a bit unjust,’ Steven sounded indignant.

‘A bit?’ The Doctor raised one eyebrow. ‘It got much worse than that, Steven.’ He looked around again at the street, at the shop and the people. ‘I wonder,’ he murmured distractedly.

‘What, Doctor?’ Steven asked.

For a few moments the Doctor appeared not to have heard the question and when he turned to face Steven his eyes seemed far away and his voice was also distant. ‘Where are we and when?’

Steven was taken aback. ‘In France in the 1500s. You said so yourself.’

The Doctor’s eyes were suddenly sharp again and his voice authoritative. ‘But exactly where in France, and more precisely what date in which year?’

Steven waved an arm towards the people on the street.

‘Ask one of them,’ he exclaimed.

‘And be thought mad?’ the Doctor retored. ‘That’s a dangerous condition in which to be considered these days,’

he added knowingly. ‘No, they are questions we must answer for ourselves.’ He looked up at the house roofs and beyond them. ‘The skyline should tell us where, a cathedral spire, a tower, a château, a river.’ He paused and then exclaimed. ‘That’s it! The river.’

He went over to a vendor with a tray of cheap medallions and picked one up.

‘The Queen Mother, Catherine of Medici,’ the vendor said quickly, ‘and recently struck. A good likeness, don’t you think?’

‘Very,’ the Doctor replied and threw a small gold coin onto the tray. ‘Where’s the river?’ he asked casually.

‘The Seine? Carry straight on, sir,’ the vendor replied as he popped the coin into the moneybag secured to his belt and hidden in his breeches pocked. ‘You can’t miss it.

There are two bridges, the large one onto the island where the Cathedral is and the small one off the other side.’

‘Thank you, my good man,’ the Doctor replied jauntily.

‘Come along, Steven,’ he added and marched on down the street. Once they were out of earshot he confided that they were definitely in Paris. ‘You heard what he said, Steven, the Seine, the two bridges,
le Grand Pont
and
le Petit Pont
, and l’Ile de Cité with the Cathedral, Notre Dame.’

‘But we still don’t know the year,’ Steven reminded him.

‘If the apothecary was forced out of business, then it’s post-67,’ the Doctor reasoned, ‘but a cursory glance at Notre Dame will confirm that.’

‘It will?’ Steven questioned, not understanding. The Doctor smiled at him indulgently.

‘Notre Dame, like Rome, was not built in a day,’ the Doctor explained. ‘Nor in a century, not even a couple.

Started in the second half of the twelfth, it was completed three centuries later, the last part being the broad steps leading up to it. 1575 unless my memory serves me ill.’

Steven chose not to observe that it frequently had in the past and, no doubt, would again in the future.

As they made their way along the street which frequently twisted and turned one way and then another they noticed that it widened and the houses became more imposing in their style and structure. Then Steven saw the spire of Notre Dame above the rooftops and pointed it out to the Doctor.

‘That’s where we want to be,’ the Doctor conceded and turned off into another street in line with the spire. Steven noted the name of the street they had left, the
rue des Fossés
, the Street of Ditches, which he thought was apt, and the one they had entered, the
rue du Grand Pont
, the Street of the Large Bridge, which they could now see ahead of them.

The bridge was made of stone and wide enough for two horse-drawn carriages to pass in opposite directions unless it was too crowded which invariably it was; and on either side a jumble of houses and shops precariously overhung the edges. As they approached the riverside the Doctor looked to his right at the imposing square building that stood on its own not far from the Seine.

‘The Louvre, the King’s council chamber and the first important covered market in France,’ he observed. ‘It’s worth a visit.’ Then he paused briefly.

‘Yes?’ Steven asked.

‘No new bridge to the island yet. That’s why it was called
le Pont Neuf
, he added, ‘and started in 1578 by the King, Henri III.’

‘So that puts us in the decade 67 to 77,’ Steven remarked, smiling as the Doctor mopped his brow, ‘on a midsummer’s day.’

‘A draught of chilled white wine wouldn’t be amiss,’ the Doctor replied, ‘and there’s bound to be several inns on the far side of the bridge.’

Once again they made their way among the bustling throng, being pushed and squeezed to one side as a coach with a liveried driver and a coat-of-arms emblazoned on its doors forced a path through to the island. But once on the other side of the river the crowd dispersed among the streets leading away from the bridge.

‘There’s one,’ Steven said as he pointed to a sign with the name
Auberge du Pont Romain
hanging on the wall of a building with benches and tables outside where people stood or sat, drinking and chatting. ‘Why the Roman Bridge Inn?’ he asked.

‘Because the Romans built the original bridge,’ the Doctor replied, ‘though they didn’t put up any houses.

They’re relatively recent, late fifteenth, early sixteerith century.’

‘You seem to know French history like the back of your hand, Doctor,’ Steven sounded slightly irked.

‘This period intrigues me,’ the Doctor said enigmatically as they went inside.

The main room of the inn took up the entire ground floor of the building. In opposing walls were several leaded windows with tables of varying sizes with benches or chairs spaced out across the floor. In front of the third wall stood the wooden bar behind which were casks of wine sitting on their sides in cradles, each one tapped. Set in the other wall was a wide fireplace with a mantle, in the centre of which hung a centurion’s helmet with Roman spears and sheathed stabbing swords on either side. The ceiling was low with heavy beams and in one corner a staircase led to the rooms above. Almost all of the customers were outside with only a few grouped around the bar over which presided an aging, tall, cadaverous, balding landlord in black breeches, hose, blouse and apron, who only spoke in half-whispers.

‘Your pleasure, gentlemen?’ he murmured as the Doctor and Steven approached the bar. The Doctor glanced briefly at Steven before replying.

‘Two goblets of a light white burgundy, as chilled as is possible,’ the Doctor replied.

‘That’ll be from the cask in the cellar,’ the landlord muttered, ‘as cool a place as you will find on these hot-headed August days. The lad will fetch some up,’ he added and turned to the eleven-year-old boy who was dressed identically to his master. After a brief whispered order the boy lifted the trapdoor in one corner of the bar floor and disappeared from view.

‘Now we have the month,’ Steven remarked while the Doctor studied the group of young men who sat around a table. Everything about them, except for one, exuded social position and money, their clothes, their knee boots, their swords, their rosetted or feathered hats and, above all, their nonchalant air.

The Doctor grunted, ‘Young bloods, they’re always the same anywhere, anytime.’

‘Not him,’ Steven pointed to the odd man out whose clothes and attitude were less flamboyant than the others.

‘He’s employed by one of them, possibly as a secretary, and, what’s more, I don’t think he’s French,’ the Doctor replied, ‘he doesn’t look it. More German, I’d say.’

One of the young men looked at his companions. ‘Are your glasses charged, my friends?’ he asked and without waiting for a reply called to the landlord for another carafe of wine. ‘We’ll make a toast.’

The more conservatively dressed member of the group glanced apprehensively at the Doctor and Steven and turned back to the young man who had spoken. ‘Be careful, Gaston,’ he said, covering his mouth with his hand.

Gaston also glanced at the Doctor and Steven and then laughed. ‘The trouble with you, Nicholas, is that you are too cautious.’

‘And you are too provocative,’ Nicholas replied in earnest. Gaston glanced over at the Doctor and Steven again with a smile as the landlord came to the table and refilled their goblets. Gaston picked his up as another man came into the bar. Nicholas looked at Gaston with alarm.

‘Don’t be indiscreet,’ he warned as Gaston stood up and raised his glass.

‘To Henri of Navarre, our Protestant king,’ Gaston called out.

The toast had been proposed and had to be seconded.

The others stood up, including the reluctant Nicholas, and raised their goblets. ‘To Henri of Navarre,’ they called out in unison and drank.

The man at the bar spun around to face them and grabbing the Doctor’s as yet untouched goblet of wine raised it in front of his face. ‘And to his bride of yesterday, our Catholic Princess Marguerite,’ he cried. Then he gulped down the wine in one swallow as Gaston spluttered and hit himself on the chest with a clenched fist.

The Doctor drew in his breath sharply as Gaston, recovering quickly with a cough, looked at the stranger in mild amusement and mock astonishment. ‘Simon Duval,’

he exclaimed, ‘what a surprise to find you in a tavern that’s rid of rigid Catholic dogma.’ Then he turned to the landlord. ‘Antoine-Marc, what decent wines have you to offer?’ he asked, swirling the rest of his wine around the goblet.

‘We sell the best Bordeaux to be found hereabouts, Sire,’

the landlord replied in a mumble.

‘Bordeaux. It’s such a thin Catholic concoction.’ He turned to his companions in disdain. ‘Hardly fit for the altar,’ he added.

Nicholas leant across the table in warning. ‘Gaston,’ he exclaimed as Duval took a step forward, his hand reaching for the hilt of his sword, then checked himself and eyed the group coldly.

For his part Gaston waved each arm in the air one at a time. ‘How would you rather I fought the duel, Simon?

With my right hand or my left?’ he asked nonchalantly.

Duval turned to Nicholas.

‘For a free-thinking German, Herr Muss, I congratulate you on your good sense,’ he said and inclined his head to the conservatively dressed Nicholas. ‘But I am dismayed to find you in a tavern where our Princess Marguerite is seemingly game for insult.’

Gaston raised an eyebrow. ‘Insult, Simon? I am not aware of any said or intended against the noble lady.

Indeed, quite the opposite. I asked Antoine-Marc for a wine as befits her rank and future. A bold burgundy of character, don’t you agree, Nicholas?’ he smiled at his friend who stood grim-faced across the table and then, without waiting for a reply, ordered a carafe and more glasses from the landlord.

The Doctor and Steven watched in silence as the confrontation was played out. Both Gaston and Simon Duval were tall, handsome young men who bore themselves with the authority of social status and wealth although Gaston’s air was the more languid. He was blond and fair-skinned with pale blue eyes where Simon’s complexion was more Latin and his eyes were brown. The barboy carried the tray of goblets and set it down on the table. Antoine-Marc brought over the carafe of wine and poured equal measures into each glass. Then he withdrew to safety behind the bar.

Gaston toyed with the stem of his goblet. ‘What was the toast again, Simon?’ he asked.

‘The health, Viscount Lerans, of our Catholic Princess Marguerite,’ Simon replied through clenched teeth.

‘So it was,’ Lerans replied lightly, looking around, ‘and so let it be, gentlemen.’ He raised his glass. ‘To Henri’s bride,’ he said and drank. Duval and the others followed suit.

‘Is honour satisfied, Simon?’ Lerans asked as he reclined again in his chair.

‘For the time being, Viscount Lerans,’ Duval replied as he put down his goblet and walked to the bar. ‘I owe this gentleman a glass of white wine,’ he said, pointing to the Doctor. ‘Be so kind as to serve both him and his companion another.’ He placed a coin on the bar.

‘That’s most agreeable of you, sir,’ the Doctor replied as Duval nodded briefly to him and then, without looking at the group at the table, left the inn.

As soon as Duval had gone, Lerans burst out laughing.

His friend, Nicholas Muss, looked at him angrily. ‘Why do you provoke quarrels, Gaston?’ he demanded. ‘Aren’t things difficult enough for us as they are?’

‘I would have thought that after yesterday’s marriage we are, for the first time, my friend, in a position of strength,’

Lerans replied, ‘and the Catholics must accept that we are no longer the underdogs.’ He stood up. ‘Let’s go to the Louvre and hear the latest gossip of the Court.’ He threw a gold coin on the table and with a curt bow to the Doctor and Steven led the way out.