Many many thanks once again to my amazing beta NoPondInTheForest.


Many were the things that could be said about sixteenth-century London, Clara kept thinking while she roamed its streets in the company of the Doctors, but the ones that had immediately popped into her head were that it was extremely filthy, unbelievably stinky, and topsy-turvy to the point of dizziness.

She found it tremendously ironic that the real Elizabethan London should differ so much from her idea of it. In her mind, she had always pictured it as a place with a somewhat magical atmosphere, enhanced by the beauty of its countless narrow cobbled streets full of half-timbered houses with thatched roofs. Those streets and their houses were unmistakably everywhere, but the abundance of rubbish, in all its disgusting and smelly varieties, had never been part of the pictures her mind had created. They were making her experience truly unique for certain, but in a nasty and unexpected way.

"Busy morning," said the Tenth Doctor as they entered the Strand. "It must be market day and there must be a market around here..."

Early as it was, the streets were surprisingly crowded, with people walking fast in all possible directions. There was absolutely no one who didn't seem to be in a rush, and as more and more Londoners kept passing them by, a few scattered fragments of their conversations became fleetingly audible to their ears.

"…an' another one's gone! Can you believe that?"

"Oi! Mate! You too waitin' for the big day?"

"…an' 'e saw a ghost! With 'is own eyes 'e did!"

"When did it 'appen?"

"… an' it was witch!"

"…on my way to the market, sir! I need to buy meat'n'butter!"

"That was a witch! I'm tellin' ya!"

"Nah! Can't see why everyone's talkin' 'bout that these days!"

"… oh, come on! I 'aven't 'ad a proper meal for days'n'now I 'ave to pay more taxes? Bloody Cecil!"

"Well, my wife'n'I will be there at the Tower early in the mornin'! You can count on that! Wouldn't miss the big day, would we?"

"Doctors," said Clara, "please tell me you can make head and tails of what people are saying."

"Well, not really," replied the Eleventh Doctor. "Talk of ghosts and witches, of taxes and hunger… I'm afraid those are common worries for the people of this age."

"Apart from that," added his previous self, "there's not much we can gather from half sentences that we're hearing while we're taking a stroll. Don't you think that maybe we should go to a quieter part of town?"

The Tenth Doctor had hardly finished asking that question when Clara suddenly tripped over a raised cobblestone and fell on her knees to the ground in the twinkling of an eye. The Eleventh Doctor, who had been walking right by her side, immediately crouched down, wrapped his arms around her and helped her sit up straight, and the Tenth Doctor quickly ducked and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Clara! Are you okay?" they both asked as she sat on her heels.

But Clara didn't reply, because all the way since they had left Jack at St. James's Park in the hope that he would soon become an undercover Time Agent at court, she had still been feeling really sleepy, incredibly hungry and terribly thirsty, but she hadn't stopped to consider that, not even for a second. As it was, the Eleventh Doctor didn't give her much time to reply either. He briskly sat cross-legged right in front of her, leant forward, and then, raising his arm, he lifted the hood covering her face. He gazed at her for a moment until, cupping her cheek, he furrowed his brow as his eyes darkened. "Oh Clara," he muttered anxiously, "look at you – you're exhausted!"

"I'm sorry, Doctor," she replied, looking at him sheepishly. "Please, please don't take me wrong, 'cause I want to find out what's going on here as much as you both do, but it's been a really long day, it's definitely going to get much longer, and maybe I'm being really selfish right now, but… Before we go on, couldn't we just have a cup of coffee? It would help keep me awake!"

The Tenth Doctor gently took his hand off Clara's shoulder just as Future Him put his own in the back of her head and drew her close to his chest.

"Of course we can!" he said, smiling sweetly. "We don't need to walk anymore! Who wants to keep on walking? I don't! I really don't! Walking is absolutely overrated!" Clara couldn't repress a smile, knowing only too well how staying put was what he truly believed to be overrated. "Oh Clara, I'm sorry… I should have known!" He pulled back a little but kept staring at her as he went on, his eyes brightening up a little. "We could go to a tavern... Don't you like taverns? I love taverns!"

"A tavern will definitely give us a rest from the hustle and bustle of the streets, so why not?" added the Tenth Doctor, grinning at them. "And, if we're very, very lucky, we might even overhear something," he concluded, rising an eyebrow and winking an eye at Clara.

"Exactly!" said the Eleventh Doctor, snapping his fingers. "We could sit on a tavern and just stay there for hours and hours and hours, until you're feeling better. And, in the meanwhile, we'll just listen to the people around us. After all, gossip always starts in taverns!" he added, at which point one of his sweet innocent smiles finally brightened up his whole face.

"On the downside, Clara," said the Tenth Doctor, "I'm afraid they don't serve coffee in taverns. Or tea. Or even water."

"Or scones, for that matter," added the Eleventh Doctor.

"Then what do they serve?" she asked, grimacing.

"Well, take a look around. What do you think all these people have in common, apart from being in a hurry?"

"Ale," said the Eleventh Doctor. "They only serve ale and wine. That's why everyone's drunk all the time."

"Are you being serious?"

"Absolutely! And wait until it gets dark… Everyone will be much drunker by then and it will be madness," he replied.

"Madness indeed!" added the Tenth Doctor as they resumed their walk. "Especially because of the worrying number of people that start silly fights and die in them, I'm sure you must've heard about Christopher Marlowe… Anyway, that's not the only thing they have in common. They're also quite ignorant, superstitious, they believe in ghosts and witches and fairies and all things magic, including astrology, alchemy, fortune-telling…"

Determined to always take of Clara first from then on, the Eleventh Doctor wrapped an arm around her shoulder and softly drew her closer to him, allowing her to find some comfort and rest her fatigued body on his own.

"Then why did the two of you listen to me when I suggested getting closer to them?" she asked.

"Well," said the Eleventh Doctor, "you can never know."


Having left the Strand behind, Clara and the Doctors kept walking along Fleet Street until they found a tavern whose name – Cheshire Cheese – sounded rather familiar to all of them. They were just about to go in when the Eleventh Doctor suddenly stopped, took his arm off her shoulder and, turning to her, raised his hands in order to pull the hood of her tunic down so that it would cover her face entirely, her chin being the only part of it that could be seen once he'd finished.

"Oi!" she protested.

"I'm sorry Clara, but you're supposed to be a monk now, remember?"

"I'm wearing a tunic, Doctor, how could I forget?" she whispered resignedly, not being able to see the tender smile that had suddenly appeared on his face, but knowing for a fact that it was there.

She turned around and they went inside to find a dingy saloon in which, despite its many and enormous Elizabethan windows, several candles had been lit. They didn't make help make the place look any more illuminated though, probably because of the dark wooden panels covering the walls and dark wooden floor and furniture. Caught in the middle of so much darkness, the Doctors' faces suddenly brightened up at the sight of a free table in a corner. The wide smile on their lips as they nodded at each other served as confirmation that they both had had the same thought – the table wasn't exactly far from the entrance, or the landlord, or three other groups of customers sitting at three nearby tables, but it was the perfect place for them to sit down and be detached from them while still being perfectly capable of hearing all of their conversations.

Thus, the Eleventh Doctor put his hand on Clara's back and pushed gently, guiding her as they sluggishly made their way to that table. The Doctors made the most of their imposed slowness and carefully observed the people around them, while Clara tried hard not to trip on anything or tread on anyone and felt very like a toddler. She couldn't help sighing with relief when they finally reached their destination safely.

The three time-travellers in fancy dress had only just taken their seats when they saw that the landlord was already standing right by their side.

"Watcha t'ree gonna 'ave?" asked the man in a husky loud voice.

"Good morning to you too," said the Eleventh Doctor, grinning welcomingly.

"You travellers?" the landlord asked, once again, in a categorically unwelcoming manner.

"Yes we are," replied the Tenth Doctor. "Just passing, actually. We're on our way to…"

"Cumbria," hurriedly interrupted the Eleventh Doctor.

"…to Cumbria, yes," finished the Tenth Doctor, a little bit upset at not having been allowed to finish his own sentence.

"To the monastery," interrupted the Eleventh Doctor once again.

"Yes, that's right. To the monastery. Thank you, Father," added a now visibly irritated Tenth Doctor.

"Rory."

Silence filled the room when the Eleventh Doctor said that name.

"Excuse?" asked his previous self, whose exasperation had turned into confusion all at once.

"Rory," the Eleventh Doctor replied. "Father Rory. I'm Father Rory."

Rory. Of course. The Doctor never forgot a name, never mind the incarnation. He never had, he never would. Not even if he had heard it only once, and certainly not if it was later repeated in a tone of voice denoting such an immense amount of pride and love it while uttering it.

Amelia Pond. And Rory.

The Tenth Doctor honestly wished he could have met them.

"And this is Father…" the Eleventh Doctor went on, gesturing toward him.

The Tenth Doctor pursed his lips and rolled his eyes for the split second it took him to make his decision. "Wilfred!" he finally said, triumphantly. "I'm Father Wilfred."

"Good old Wilf," whispered the Eleventh Doctor, his eyes full of emotion. The two Time Lords shared a brief but meaningful smile of respect and appreciation for their old and noble friend before the Eleventh Doctor spoke again. "Please excuse dear old Father Wilf, he's a bit slow these days. He's in fact much older than he looks and he's just started to forget things. Such a shame!"

"Oi!"

"And this is Father…"

The Doctor then turned to Clara, who was sitting right next to him. He waited and waited and kept waiting for her to say something, but she never did, and the fact that he wouldn't say anything either was filling her with helplessness. Had he really forgotten that she was supposed to be a man for the time being? He, of all people, who had been really concerned about that only minutes before? Obviously he had, and she was hoping that her prolonged silence would eventually make him realise there had to be a reason why she was forced to be quiet, but it didn't. The Tenth Doctor, on the contrary, had known from the start.

The short silence – which seemed eternal to Clara – was finally broken when the Eleventh Doctor felt two very thin and sharp fingers pinching his right leg.

"Ouch!"

"Ouch indeed!" said the Tenth Doctor. "It is ever so painful to imagine what it had to feel like when poor Father John here had his tongue cut as a kid… Poor thing!"

"'E ain' 'ave a tongue?" asked the landlord, his face going into a contortion of revulsion.

"I'm afraid he doesn't. Such tragedy! Should see him gulping down his food, though. I've never seen anyone do it faster! Which reminds me… Could he have something to eat and drink? I bet poor Father John's starving!"

"Cheese'n'bread?"

"Cheese'n'bread! Brilliant! Thank you very much! You like cheese, Father John, don't you? Oh of course you do! Thank you again, my dear fellow!"

The landlord turned back and motioned to the counter in order to get them their food and drinks, and as soon as the Eleventh Doctor considered that he was too far away to be able to hear their conversation, he moaned for a second time.

"Ouch, Clara! That hurt!"

"I'm sorry! But what else was I supposed to do? And by the way, Doctor," she said, quickly turning her eyes to the Tenth Doctor and raising her hood with her hand, so that she could look at him in the eye, "I hate cheese."

"You… What?"

"I hate cheese!"

"You hate cheese? How can you hate cheese? Everybody loves cheese! Cheese is wonderful! There's a planet made of cheese near the constellation of…"

"Well, as it happens," his future self interrupted yet again, "I've long held the opinion that cheese is a very delicate matter. There's no middle ground with cheese. You either love it or hate it."

"That's a stupid thing to say… You definitely never thought that when you were me!''

"Well, actually… It's this body. I have issues with food now. It's complicated."

"Shall we order some butter then? Do you like butter, Clara?"

"Yes I do."

"Bread and butter then? Most disgusting thing ever, but if that's what you want…" added the Eleventh Doctor, with a grimace.

"Wait a minute," said the Tenth Doctor, suddenly narrowing his eyes. "If we're ordering food in a tavern, we're supposed to pay for it. How are we going to do that?"

"How do you we're going to do that? 'Cause I think that giving the landlord some money is the right way to do it."

"That's exactly what I meant, Chinny! We never carry any money! And I don't think that being publicly humiliated in a tavern because we haven't paid the bill is a very good start if we're trying to go unnoticed! "

"That's definitely not going to happen."

"What's not going to happen?"

"We're not going to be publicly humiliated."

"And how do you know that?"

"Because we're paying the bill."

"Oh, are we? And may I ask how?"

"With this," said the Eleventh Doctor as he put a dark leather bag on the table. The noise the metal pieces inside it made as it touched the wooden surface left no room for doubt – it sounded like money. To be more precise, like lots of it, and in the form of coins.

"Where did you get that?"

"I nicked it," proudly answered the Eleventh Doctor.

"You what?" asked the Tenth Doctor, not wanting to believe his ears.

"I nicked it! But no need to worry. The man I took it from seemed to be very well off. He won't need it," replied the Eleventh Doctor, happy as a pup with two tails.

"So," added Clara, determined to tease them, "apart from being the saver of the universe, you…"

"Of universes," the Doctors pointed out in unison.

"…of universes… Yes… Apart from that, you're also an intergalactic version of Robin Hood, stealing from the rich to buy food to the poor…"

"Oi! I'm not a thief!" quickly replied the Eleventh Doctor. "Except for the day I stole the TARDIS, of course… But I've nev…"

"But technically, it was the other way round. It was the TARDIS who stole you, that's what you've always told me," said Clara.

"What?" asked the Tenth Doctor, who genuinely believed Clara's words. "Where did you get that from? That's preposterous!"

"Preposterous? What about Father John? That is preposterous!"

"What's preposterous about Father John?"

"Out of all the brilliant names you could've picked up, you chose the silliest of them all! John? Why would she want to be called John if she can be called Alistair, for instance?"

"Oh… Shut up, will you?"

Turning to Clara and determined to pull himself together, the Eleventh Doctor went on. "I'm not a thief, Clara. I simply took this money because the last time I was there when someone needed money there were ATMs to be sonicked all around. If we wanted to do that now… Well, it's the sixteenth century! Am I the only one who thinks there might be a little problem?"

"Doctors, look," she replied, pointing to the entrance.

Inattentive because of their silly bickering, none of the Doctors had noticed when an eerie silence suddenly spread across the room. Looking around, they saw a middle-aged man making his way to one of the tables. What was remarkable about such simple routine work was the fact that it seemed to have become a bit of a challenge, as the man was struggling to walk, and to the Doctors, the reason why was clear as day – the poor man was in a catatonic state, his complexion as pale as a ghost, his eyes wild but uninhabited. Every single petrified man in the tavern was staring at him, their looks aghast and sympathetic, but it took a landlord to actually offer him some help. The good man left the jars of wine he was carrying on the counter and assisted the newcomer. Once he finally reached the empty table he had been heading for, the landlord helped him sit down and put a jar of wine in front of him. The man, however, didn't notice when he did, nor did he seem to feel anything when the landlord put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

The Doctors kept looking silently as the landlord turned away from the man and took them the jars he had previously left on the counter and started to walk towards their table. Clara's hands quickly took hold of her hood in order to cover her face once more, then she looked down before the man reached them.

And no sooner had he put the three jars on the table than the Tenth Doctor started to ask him questions.

"Who's that man? Is he a friends of yours?"

"'E's been comin' 'ere ev'ry day for years. I've known 'im for a long time."

"And do you have any idea what's happened to him?"

"Probably," said the landlord coldly, and such cryptic answer was followed by silence. He positively wasn't a man of many words.

"So, will you tell us what's happened?" the Doctor insisted.

"Sorry, Father, but old Frank 'ere 'asn't given me 'is permission. You want to know what 'appened to 'im? Then you'll 'ave to ask 'im youself!"

With those words, the landlord turned his back on them and motioned towards the counter.

The Doctors exchanged a look of frustration. Under any other circumstances, they would have run after him and insisted until he had told them absolutely everything he knew, but this time, they just couldn't. It was of paramount importance to try and be discreet. They had no choice, therefore, but to let him go.

But as luck would have it, a man sitting at the table beside theirs decided he had something to say, and something they might find interesting. He cleared his throat and raised his voice just enough for the three monks sitting at the nearby table to be able to hear him.

"'Is name's Francis Benjamin," he started, and the Doctors' heads turned to him straightaway. "'E's a peasant. Lives a few miles from 'ere. An honourable man. 'E's spent 'is whole life working 'is land."

"And what's happened to him?" asked the Tenth Doctor, getting up from his seat and walking towards the man's table, at which three other men were also sitting.

"They took 'is son two days ago and sent 'im to the Tower," the man explained. There was a fight 'ere in the Cheshire Cheese. When that other lad dropped dead, young Thomas 'ad the dagger in 'is 'and. But we all know young Thomas very well, Father, and we know 'e didn't do it. That lad wouldn't 'urt a fly!"

The Doctor spread his arms and stretched his arms to the of the table and found support by putting his hands on the edges, which left the Eleventh Doctor and Clara completely out of the men's sight. The Eleventh Doctor took advantage of that to do the thing he had had in mind for a while now. He grabbed Clara's jar of wine and, carefully running his hand underneath his tunic, took his sonic screwdriver out of his coat pocket, then started to cough as he sonicked the wine.

"There you are," he said, sounding extremely pleased with himself and putting the jar in front of Clara again. "It's not coffee, but it's hot, and alcohol-free. I've used the sonic to heat the wine, so you don't have to worry about getting drunk at breakfast. It could be mulled wine, except for the lack of spices."

Had he been able to see her big grateful eyes, the Doctor couldn't have resisted such tenderness and would immediately have held her in a tight embrace.

"And they took him to the Tower after the fight?" the Tenth Doctor asked the men.

"Yes they did," another one replied. "Then there was the trial, and just this morning 'e should've been killed."

"Oh," replied the Doctor sadly. "So the poor boy's been executed. Then, I'm afraid, there's nothing I can do anymore."

"No, Father, you don't understand," the same man went on. "If young Thomas 'ad been executed, 'is father wouldn't be 'ere now, pale as a ghost and looking like 'e's gone mad. No sir, 'e would still be in the Tower, asking the guards to 'ave pity on 'im and give 'im a body 'e can bury somewhere."

"And the fact that he doesn't have his son's body means that maybe they have spared his life?"

"No sir, it doesn't mean that. It means that what's 'appened to young Thomas is the same thing that's 'appened to many others before 'im."

"And that would be?" the Doctor asked, impatiently.

"What it means, Father, is that people 'ave been…"

But the man couldn't finish that sentence. He was prevented from doing so by the cold sharp blade of a knife someone was suddenly pressing to his throat, and the Doctor himself was prevented from asking more questions by exactly the same reason. The clapping of sturdy, authoritative footsteps unexpectedly filled the room, and in a flash the place had been taken by a group of soldiers aiming their swords at every single person in it, including the two monks sitting at the corner table.

The rage the Tenth Doctor was feeling inside him was threatening to kill him even faster than the knife against his throat, but with a determined effort of will, he clenched his teeth, took a deep gulp of air and, exhaling, stayed put. He was well aware there was nothing else he could do.

The whole tavern was in absolute silence when more footsteps became audible. This time, they were indubitably being made by just one person, and they sounded heavy and slow. What first became visible from their place in the tavern was the silhouette of a short hunchback man soberly dressed in black who moved with no little difficulty. He unhurriedly turned to face them and went into the room unwaveringly, but for all his lack of haste, the look in his eyes was menacing and deadly.

He kept walking pompously about the room as his instruction began.

"The prisoners in the Tower," he said, savouring his own words, and in a tremendously displeasing high-pitched voice, "are all being tried. Those who are found innocent are being released without delay, whereas those who are found guilty are being executed in private. Any man who dare speak otherwise is a liar, a traitor, and a heretic, and shall be burnt at the stake for High Treason."

The two Doctors felt the temptation to ask the man why, in a time when the people enjoyed public executions as much as the Romans had enjoyed gladiatorial games, the ultimate penalty had surprisingly become a private matter.

"Pray, take my advice," the man went on, nonchalantly, as he stopped right next to the Tenth Doctor, who was still being held hostage by one of his guards. "Do not waste your time giving credit to the nonsensical talk of charlatans. You all know the Big Day is coming soon, and Her Majesty wants her subjects to prove how loyal they are by celebrating with her. Why would you choose to lead a life of misery and sorrow when the glory of Her Majesty's love for her people shall be bestowed upon you in a mere two days? Wait for the Big Day, gentlemen, and you shall be rewarded. Until then, I bid you good day."

After saying those words, the man walked out of the room and was immediately followed by all of his soldiers. Upon being released, the Doctor's informant sighed with relief and he lifted his hand to rub his throat incredulously. The Time Lord, unmoving, was still hoping for the man to be willing to pick up the conversation where they had left off, but the way the man looked down when the Doctor shot his eyes at him told him otherwise. The Doctor pursed his lips and breathed heavily through his nose, knowing very well, after what had just happened, that he couldn't push him at all. He then turned away from those men and went back to his table, where Clara and Future Him were waiting for him, their food and drinks still untouched.

"So, what do you make of that?" he asked them as soon as he took his seat.

"The Big Day? What's that about? And prisoners being executed in private? As opposed to what?" Clara whispered.

"Don't bother to ask," said the Eleventh Doctor. "No one will answer now."

"Look at them! They're all terrified," exclaimed the Tenth Doctor.

"And they have good reasons to be so," his future self told him. "You didn't see the man who's threatened them, Sandshoes, but the rest of us did."

"And who was it?"

"Sir Robert Cecil," the Eleventh Doctor replied, his eyes fixed on the other Doctor, "considered by many to be the Queen's most ruthless man, and if we can avoid it, definitely one we don't want to bump into again."