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magician) who would never travel without a servant.
The Doctor had dug out some pictures for her to follow.
One drawing in particular caught her eye, perhaps not
surprisingly, for with a shock of recognition she realized it
was signed 'Rafaello'.
Luckily, with a bit of pruning (the hated curls were soon
lopped off), her normal hairstyle was exactly right for a
young man or boy at the turn of the century.
Sitting down to tie up the tapes of her doublet - there
didn't seem to be any with buttons - and finding it a bit
difficult with her sore shoulder, she suddenly realized how
knackered she was. She lay back on the pile of clothes for a
moment to consider her get-up. It seemed about right. The
terracotta of the doublet was okay, wasn't it? Too bright a
colour wouldn't help the masculinity bit, but she didn't want
to look yukky.
Catching herself, she grinned ruefully at her own
vanity; and fell abruptly asleep.
'Any chance of any breakfast? Scrambled eggs on toast
would be ace.'
The Doctor swung round from the mirror where he was
putting the finishing touches to his disguise.
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'Well, well, well,' he said with a smile. 'Perhaps it wasn't
such a good idea after all.'
She knew quite well that having added a little pill-box
hat on the back of her head, clumpy square-toed shoes and a
wickedly sharp dagger in her girdle, she made very
handsome boy indeed.
'I can look after myself,' she said in a manly voice,
putting her hand on the hilt of the dagger; and then she
ruined the whole effect by beginning to giggle
uncontrollably. The Doctor frowned. 'What?' he said. 'What
is it?'
She managed to abate her laughter a little. 'Honestly,
Doctor, you look like Santa Claus.'
He did too. Although he was dressed in a long black
robe, his surcoat was a rich red; he'd combed his hair down
past his ears and attached a massive white beard to his chin.
'Nonsense,' he said. 'I've modelled myself on the famous
self-portrait of my old friend Leonardo, who was an exact
contemporary. So it's absolutely accurate.'
'Then your old friend Leonardo looked like Santa Claus
too,' she said. 'In any case, if we're going back to his time,
do you think it's wise? I mean, suppose you bump into him?
He'll think you're sending him up.'
The Doctor stood up. 'Breakfast, I think you said.'
Perhaps she'd gone too far. She'd hate to offend him.
173
But when she was sitting solemnly munching her ration
of two green pills and a red jelly baby, she peeped out of the
corner of her eyes at him and knew that it was going to be
all right.
He was peering into the mirror again and murmuring to
himself.
'Ho, ho, ho,' he was saying in an experimental sort of
way.
Dawn was breaking when they ran out of petrol. Their
destination was no longer a mere loom of light over the
edge of the world. The silhouette of the castle-topped island
was quite clear - and clearly too far away for them to
paddle.
Yet what was the alternative? Maggie had told Jeremy
of Max's intention to take the castle. They had to warn the
Brigadier.
But after half an hour, when Jeremy was starting to feel
that his arm muscles were turning into lumps of jelly and
the island seemed if anything to be even further away,
Maggie suddenly threw her paddle onto the bottom of the
boat and burst into tears.
'What's the freaking good of kidding ourselves?' she
said. 'He's going to catch us up; and that means curtains for
both.'
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Jeremy stopped paddling too and put out a tentative
hand to touch her shoulder. She looked really pretty in the
rosy glow of the sunrise, even though her nose was alrealdy
starting to turn red and she'd got a smudge of oil on her
cheek left over from when they were trying to get the engine
to go; but that just made her !ook as if she needed sort of
looking after and stuff. 'Don t cry,' he said. 'I'll think of
something. I mean, there must be something we can do.'
He looked vaguely round the boat. Even if there'd
been some sort of radio, they wouldn't have had a clue how
to use it. In any case, there wasn't. It looked as if he was
wrong and Maggie was right.
Hang on, though!
He got down on his knees and started to rummage
iluough the tangle of ropes and assorted cans of oil and tools
and whatnot under the front deck.
'What are you looking for?' asked Maggie damply.
'In films, they always send up rockets and flares and
things. I thought that ...' His voice trailed away as he
realized that there wasn't a sign of anything of the sort.
It wasn't fair! Even James Bond would be able to do
anything in these circumstances. He turned round to
Maggie, knowing that not even a comforting hug
would really help either of them, desirable as it might be on
other grounds.
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His eyes lit up. 'Hey! Get up.'
'What?'
Under Maggie's bum, that's where they must be!
After a deal of confusion as she stood up, and nearly fell
out of the boat as they changed places, he opened the lid
of the box she'd been sitting on - and yesl A special fat
pistol thingy with all the bits and pieces; and on the
underside of the lid instructions on what to do.
Maggie was transformed. Grabbing hold of him, she
gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek.
'You know what? You're a real smart cookie,' she said,
and though he was blushing with pleasure and
embarrasment, he decided that all in all she was absolutely
right.
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Fourteen
Dinner, which to Sarah's surprise came before noon, was a
very different matter from the elegance of Louisa's five
o'clock meal - or the rough and ready friendliness of Mario's
evening table for that matter.
To start with, the great hall was crowded and noisy.
There were long trestle tables running down the sides of the
hall with a very mixed bag of diners. Those at the head were
clearly the gentlemen of the household (each attended by his
own personal servant); prominent among them were the
cavalieri, the knights who formed the officer corps of the
castle garrison; the men-at-arrns themselves had their own
table and were making by far the most noise, toasting each
other in large goblets with loud bantering cries; while at the
lowest end of the lowest tables sat the lesser servants,
brought their food by kitchen ,scullions. Dogs roamed
around the thickly strewn rushes on the floor, on the look-
out for tit-bits of the many different meats on offer.
At the high table sat the Barone and his sad, silent wife.
The Doctor (with his neatly trimmed white beard) was on
their right, as an honoured guest from far off Inghilterra,
with his page Jack behind him, poised to pour his wine or
otherwise minister to his slightest need. The black-
177
clad Maximilian Vilmius sat on their left, massive and
morose, eating little and saying less.
It was Sarah herself who had chosen to be called Jack
(an English name from way back - wasn't the original Jack
Straw one of Wat Tyler's bunch of rebels?) on the principle
that it was bad enough having to pretend to be a boy but
an Italian boy& !
It is most kind of you, Signore, to allow me to see your
library, the Doctor was saying. I have been received with
considerably less courtesy in many of the great houses of
Christendom I have visited in my quest.
Sarah was queueing up behind their hosts personal
servants at the serving table to replace the jug of water and
the bowl she d held for the Doctor to rinse his hands at the
end of the first course the second looked to be much the
same as the first: a plethora of meat but she could still
hear the conversation quite clearly.
We have some fine books, though few of them are
printed, replied the Barone. A number of them come from
Spain, where I spent my youth.
It is the esoteric knowledge of the Arab world that I
seek, said the Doctor; and Sarah could have sworn that she
saw Vilmius s head jerk round, but at that moment her
elbow was jogged as Vilmius s page, a grinning bull calf
178
with terminal acne, pushed past her, jumping the little
queue.
Watch it! hissed Sarah, as water splashed out of her
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