Chapter CXIV

Mira

Whilst still staring at the closed door, wondering if and when she would see Jack again, she could hear the Doctor behind her hurry around the console. Well, certainly Jack would see her again.

"Hampton Court? What do you say?" he said, making her turn around.

"Hampton Court?" she repeated, trying to remember what that place was.

"Henry VIII, in 1540? Ah, no. He fell on his head in 1536, and things started to go south from then onwards. 1534? The King all happy with Anne Boleyn? Fascinating woman, just a bit too ambitious for her own good. Well, at least for those times, and for being a woman. He loved her as much as he hated her later. Well, he always went a bit mad over women, even before he fell on his head. Not a bad man, by any means, charismatic and all what you'd expect from a King, just a bit spoiled. So, what do you say?" He smiled at her.

"Sure." They had actually wanted to do that for quite a while now, and the thought of meeting Henry and Anne was quite intriguing. "If you manage to hit the right time and place, that is," she said and smirked at him.

"What?!" he said indignantly and frowned. "I always end up where I want to go!"

He pulled a lever and the TARDIS came to life with the usual noise.

"Maybe where you're needed, but not always where we wanted to go," she said as he walked past her.

"1534, I tell you. We're right where I wanted to go! See?" He flung open the door.

She walked over to him and tried to peek out behind his back. Indeed. At least it was some Tudor castle, filled with actual Tudor people. Well, it could be people dressing up for whatever reason, but something about the look on their faces, about the whole atmosphere and their emotions told her it was the real thing. Oh, and there was the smell. Smoke and the smell of horses filled the air.

"And the King is actually here right now?" she asked.

"If he's not on progress," the Doctor replied. "Looks like late summer. But maybe we're lucky."

"Well then," she said and tried to get past him, but he closed the door.

"You can't go out there like this," he said and watched her up and down.

"Since when do we care about that?" she replied, looking down at herself. Black trousers, black shirt, and the green uniform jacket she had gotten from Tamar. "Fully dressed. Not even a mini-skirt."

"Nah, we can't ask for an audience with the King with you looking like that. There's something better in the wardrobe. Why don't you go and have a look? But hurry, will you?"

"Fine," she sighed and went off, trying to remember where the wardrobe was and what would be appropriate for that particular decade. Probably something slightly on the noble side if the Doctor really was about to ask for an audience with the King.

"Wait," she yelled and stopped downstairs. "What's with you? You're going out there like that?"

"Hm? Oh yes, I'll blend in just fine."

"Oh, will you? Really?" she yelled back but he didn't reply, so she continued her way, trying to imagine him in a dark velvet doublet and stockings. Well, she would certainly go for black velvet if she could find it; it was Tudor times after all.

Once she reached the wardrobe it took her a while to get her bearings, browsing through clothes from various episodes on Earth as well as from planets she would probably never even hear about. But finally she had gathered everything she thought she would need, not without help from the TARDIS who had occasionally shifted clothing racks in and out of her way, and even throwing some pieces directly at her.

I need a maid, she thought as she had spread out pieces of clothing, which would be enough to fully dress at least three people by modern standards of modesty. A chemise, stockings, shoes, a petticoat made of red linen, a kirtle, an over-gown and fore-sleeves. During her long life she had worn a lot of weird clothes and dresses, and she could honestly say that neither high heels nor layers of long, heavy fabric would cause great issues – once she had gotten into everything, that is. She estimated the weight of all the clothes up to at least fifteen pounds, if not more, most of it due to the heavy over-gown made of black silk velveteen and fully lined with fine dark linen. At least there were no stays – the body of the kirtle was boned and stays wouldn't become fashionable until Elizabethan times. Not that there was that much anyway in her case in terms of chest that needed to be flattened to achieve the fashionable silhouette of this time. She had always had a fascination for medieval times up to late Elizabethan times, so she hoped to get things right dress-wise. Whilst opening her up-do, she was contemplating on whether to go for a gabled hood or a French hood, and finally decided on the latter after spotting an exceptionally nice one embellished with pearls and precious stones and a black silk veil. She braided her hair into two braids and wrapped them around her head, which would support the hood and make it stay in place.

"You're done yet?" she suddenly heard his voice, sounding distant, but not as distant as it should judging from the distance to the console room. And something told her that he was still in there.

"No!" she yelled back.

And it would probably still take a while. At least she had actual hopes of getting into everything on her own as the kirtle was laced on the sides and the gown in the front, covered by a stomacher which was pinned in place with dress-pins. That was, if she could fix the fore-sleeves to the gown before putting it on. They were made of the same black-silver brocade as the front of the kirtle and a stripe around the neckline – all that would be visible underneath the gown, the rest was plain black linen.

After she made sure she hadn't forgotten anything and was undressed, including her modern underwear (why not go all the way?), she started with the chemise, not without admiring the blackwork on the square neckline and the cuffs of the sleeves, wondering who had made that. It looked suspiciously like hand-made. Then stockings, bound just under her knee to prevent them from sliding down, then the petticoat and the kirtle, with her realising how hard it was to pull the cord through eyelets at her sides with the wide sleeves of the chemise getting in the way. But she finally managed it, quite satisfied with her cleavage - even though it was more an optical illusion. When things had to look flat from the side, it obviously had to go somewhere, and that was up in this case, even if there wasn't that much to begin with. Then, finally, she tried to slip into the gown, which was easier said then done. Technically, it was much like an open robe, but then again, sorting the sleeves out was an entirely different problem.

"What are you doing down there?" she heard his voice again.

"Getting dressed!"

Finally she managed to lace the gown and pinned the stomacher in place. She caught a sash out of the corner of her eyes, which hadn't been there a moment ago, and wrapped it around her waist, and a pearl-necklace around her neck. Then she put on the French hood which proved rather difficult as she couldn't really lift her arms above her shoulders, making her realise why the women on the old paintings were standing in such content, neat positions with their hands folded in front of them. Due to the tight upper part of sleeves and shoulders there was hardly anything more left to do than standing around in a particularly decorative way. Apart from that it wasn't as uncomfortable as people tended to claim when talking about historical clothes. Yes, the dress was tight around the chest, and it was heavy, but the skirt started slightly above her natural waistline, so it wasn't actually restricting her breathing or movements. She could still bend over and sideways, even though she doubted she had to do that, judging from the expensive look of her clothes. Would she accidentally drop something, someone else would certainly bend and pick it up for her. White silk cuffs completed her look. Hopefully she hadn't overdone it; she really felt quite majestic.

Well, there was just one thing missing, and she was glad it were slip-on shoes. As she gave herself one last look in the mirror she had to admit it looked great. She had never quite liked the bustle-look of the Victorian age, not to mention the square, shapeless, flimsy dresses of the nineteen-twenties, or whatever atrocities fashion later had come up with, and to her Tudor was the embodiment of elegance with the dark, heavy fabrics and the clean, geometrical and yet soft lines.

And yet, despite her love for that particular era, she had no illusions about her role as a woman had she lived in those times. It would have been either hard work as simple folk and being incubator for menfolk's male heirs, or, as not so simple folk, being incubator for menfolk's male heirs and married off for political reasons; the possibility of early death in childbed in both cases, and/or facing the same fate as Anne Boleyn, too educated, confident and modern in her ways for her own good. Or, in her case, simply being accused of witchcraft and sentenced to be burned at the stake. Sooner or later people would have worked out that she was different, weird, knowing things she shouldn't know. At that thought her fingers searched the spot on her left palm where that thing had pierced her hand, wondering how many mutants in human history had been executed for witchcraft and sorcery.

Anyways, she certainly didn't mind to experience live at court for a day or two first handed. And she would certainly not draw any attention to her psychic abilities. What could possibly go wrong? If in doubt, play stupid and compliment the men, telling them what they wanted to hear. Most likely they wouldn't see the King anyway.

"You sure you don't want to dress up a bit? I'd love to see you in black velvet. And wearing a cod-piece," she said as she had reached the console room again.

He flung around, and whatever he was about to say never made it past his lips – instead, he just stared at her, eyes wide and mouth open.

"What?" she said, feeling her cheeks turning hot under his gaze. "I didn't get it that wrong, did I?"

"No, no!" he finally hurried to say. "It's.. uhm..." He cleared his throat. "It's fine. It's really nice. It's..." he stared at her intently again for a moment. "Let's go." He offered her his hand and they finally left the TARDIS.


Doctor

They had wandered around for a while, mingled with the people, and he had used the opportunity to tell Mira a few things about the court and Henry. It turned out that she already knew a quite a lot, but he had talked along anyway. He was glad to see that she seemed to be over her experience on that space station, and that her newfound enthusiasm after encountering the HECATE, her crew and with them a link to her own universe hadn't suffered from it.

It turned out that the king actually was at Hampton Court right now, and they had then managed to get an audience with him. The master of ceremonies had introduced them as Doctor and his cousin Lady Mira from Freedonia after showing him his psychic paper. All in all it had been a rather unspectacular affair. His majesty had shown polite interest, stating he had never heard of this far off country, and invited them to stay for the banquette tonight. He then had been busy with meeting more people.

It was then that it had slowly dawned on him that they might have landed in the wrong year after all, especially after Mira had pulled him aside, talking about trouble in paradise and that not all was roses and unicorns between the King and Anne right now. Especially Anne seemed to be nervous and anxious, filled with uncertainty. Oh well. Close enough. And yet, it was bugging him. He hadn't made a mistake, he was certain of that. So why were they in the wrong year?

Then a servant had shown them to their rooms as they were expected to prepare for later, and he hadn't objected. It was two rather big rooms with each a separate area with a huge, four-poster bed, connected by a door.


Mira

"So what's he up to? Why does he insist on us staying?" She was sitting on the huge bed in her rooms, the Doctor leaning against the wall next to the huge fireplace.

It was more of a rhetorical question as she already knew the answer. The king might find the Doctor interesting, but it was her he hadn't been able to get his eyes off.

The Doctor shrugged. "He always liked to surround himself with interesting people. So why wouldn't he ask me to stay?"

"Yes, interesting people. I'm not too keen on drawing Anne's anger onto me."

"Why would she be angry with you?" he replied, a frown growing on his face.

The Doctor, clueless as ever, she thought and, just as she opened the mouth to start a lengthy explanation, there was a knock on the door. Before any of them could reply, it was opened by a member of the king's guard, followed by two female servants – rather well dressed female servants, she thought, not being entirely sure which grade of nobility or which positions at court they were holding. Behind them where two male servants carrying a flat trunk. They put it down on the big table in the middle.

"A gift from his majesty," one of them explained, curtsied and opened it. "His majesty wishes you to wear that tonight, milady."

She walked closer to get a better look. Inside it were masses of what seemed to be silk and velveteen in a beautiful, almost glowing pale silver. It would match her skin and eyes perfectly and she wondered whose dress this had been originally; and where his majesty had found it. Well, sometimes ignorance was indeed bliss, she decided.

The man-servants then turned around, not before curtsying again, and left. The female servants, or maids, or whoever they were, stayed.

"We are here to help you dress," one of them, rather a young girl than a woman, finally said. She could not be much older than sixteen.

The other one, older and probably pregnant from the looks of it, started to unpack the trunk. It was a gown much like the one she was wearing now, made of velveteen in silver. The kirtle was made entirely out of plain, silver silk, at the front embroidered with pearls and silver threats, as well as around the cleavage. She could only guess how much that dress was worth, and surely not so much of a gift than a loan. She was torn between admiration for the money and craftsmanship that had went into that dress and the feeling of finally being degraded to a purely decorative object. A piece of art. But then again, she had wanted to experience Tudor times first hand, hadn't she?


Thank you for all the reviews. And thanks for sticking with my story after all this time.

I posted this chapter earlier than expected, but first, I'm on holiday currently and there's not much to be done right now, and second,
I had some ideas to tie it all together during the last days, so it won't end up half-finished for two years again.

guest: I liked the idea of Jack, the Doctor and Mira in the TARDIS as well, but for some reason it worked out way better in my head as an idea than it actually did in writing.
It just wasn't meant to be.
As for the typo. Yes, sorry for that one. I'm dealing quite a lot with (data)feeds at work, so I tend to mess up feet and feeds rather often as it sounds so similar ;-)