Chapter 2: The King and the Earl

Donna and the Doctor stood in a room deep in the TARDIS, staring down at the unconscious figure lying on the bed. The Doctor said, "Well, there he is. Philip II, by the grace of God king of the French." Donna stared at him. "Sorry. That's how he started his decrees. I've been doing some reading." He sighed. "That was easier than we thought it might be, wasn't it?"

It had indeed been unexpectedly simple. The TARDIS had landed in Northumberland in May of 1200. The Doctor had timed their landing to coincide with the journey of the French party from the west coast of England toward Durham. It took a few tries, but eventually they happened upon the substantial train of horses, wagons, and the litters carrying the ladies of the party. It was late afternoon and the French were making camp for the night. Donna and the Doctor had watched from the line of trees as busy figures constructed several immense tents, obviously intended for the king and princess and high-ranking ladies, while other, much smaller tents were pitched around them. Other people began to build fires, clearly preparing to cook an evening meal. As they watched this buzz of activity, the Doctor suddenly grasped Donna's arm and pointed. "There he is! In the blue tunic with the fleur-de-lis on it."

Donna didn't actually know what a fleur-de-lis was, but her eyes followed the Doctor's finger and took in the figure of a man standing with two other men, leaning over a makeshift table that had been set up near one of the large tents. It appeared they were consulting a map, one of the other two men gesturing toward it then indicating a direction on the horizon. The man whom the Doctor had identified as Philip put his hand to his brow to shield his eyes against the low sun as he looked in the direction they had come, then back to where they were going. He nodded, spoke briefly to the men, and then gestured—alarmingly enough—in the direction of Donna and the Doctor, who simultaneously stepped behind neighboring trees. They peeked around to watch as Philip stripped off riding gloves, handed them to one of the men to whom he had been speaking, and walked toward the forest line, rolling his shoulders.

Donna caught the Doctor's eye and hissed, "Is the king of France about to take a walk on his own?"

"It would appear so," he whispered back. "That's…startlingly convenient."

"We'll have to move quickly before they miss him."

"Indeed. Let's see if he actually enters the forest. That'll make it much easier to grab him."

A few moments later, it became clear Philip was headed for the tree line. He was walking with head bowed, his hands clasped behind his back, clearly deep in thought and not paying attention to where he was.

Donna felt the Doctor's lips by her ear. "When he enters the forest, you intercept him. The sight of you should be startling enough that I will be able to come up behind him and incapacitate him before he can react."

"Oi!" She whispered back furiously. "Why is the sight of me any more startling than the sight of you?"

The Doctor met her eyes. "A man of his era, seeing a woman in blue jeans and a t-shirt? Yeah, somehow I think you're going to stop him in his tracks more than me."

Donna muttered something that was probably uncomplimentary under her breath but set off in a direction that she would intercept Philip if he kept on his present course. Which he did, coming under the shade of the trees and slowing his pace to account for the new roughness of the terrain under his feet, but still barely looking up. Eventually Donna emerged at one end of a clearing in the trees as Philip arrived at the other. The sudden feel of sun on his skin seemed to make him come aware and he raised his head, and that was when he saw her. He stopped, his eyes locked on her. Donna was struck, simultaneously, by two thoughts. First, the sheer unreality of her life with the Doctor—she was standing in 1200 in northern England having a stare-down with the bloody king of France. And second, the king himself. She wasn't sure what she had expected him to do. What would she have done, suddenly happening upon a man dressed in clothes from eight hundred years in her future? Shrieked, probably. Or laughed. Philip did neither. She supposed it did not suit a king to shriek or laugh very readily. But she hadn't been prepared for his stillness. He stood regarding her without movement and without expression on his face. If nothing else, it gave her the opportunity to look at him. Tall—not quite as tall as the Doctor, but considerably taller than she. Dark hair, closely cropped. Eyes that at this distance appeared to be dark, although whether brown or blue she could not tell. Broad shoulders clothed in a blue tunic with stylized lilies—fleur-de-lis, she supposed—in gold. He wore a leather belt with a sword at his waist. Snug black trousers and high brown boots that went over his knees.

The first word she thought of was "impressive". He wore no crown and did not draw his sword. He was not particularly handsome. He was well-built with broad shoulders but nothing outside of the ordinary. And yet, as he stood there, silently contemplating her, he was indeed impressive. It may have been the self-possession, the stillness, the hint of curiosity in his eyes, or the lack of fear there.

Her mind began to race. What did one say in such a situation? She settled for the blindingly obvious. "Hello, your majesty."

His mouth quirked slightly. "It would appear you have the advantage of me."

She did not know what to say to that. After a moment, he continued. "The question is, are you a vision or a dream? But I have to conclude, since you are wearing clothing I have never seen before, you are unlikely to be a dream that originated in my head. So, a vision? Are you an angel? Or, given the color of your hair, a demon?"

She couldn't help but laugh. "My mother would say a demon, that is certain." He smiled in return, and she decided to dare a question. "What is the king of France doing alone in a forest?"

He shook his head. "I must say, you are a disappointing demon if you cannot ascertain that on your own." She made a small movement with her shoulders and he seemed to take this as his cue to answer her question. "My sister, Blanche, is to be married in a week's time to the heir of Lord Edward of Northumberland. We will arrive in Durham tomorrow."

"That explains why you are travelling in northern England. It does not explain why you are here, in the forest, unaccompanied. Where are your gentlemen, my lord?" She noticed, in passing, that the TARDIS seemed to be smoothing out her speech for her, making her sound more formal, less like a Londoner, even to her own ears.

Philip, presumably, heard a version of Old French that he could comprehend perfectly. He nodded slowly at her question. "Even a king likes to be alone at times, my lady."

"I am surprised they let you walk alone in a place such as this. Have they no concern for your safety?"

"They have learned, from long experience, that on certain matters I am inflexible. I have been king of France for twenty years this autumn."

"And as king of France, have you the right to risk your own life in such a way? Do your people not rely on your continued good health and long life?"

His eyebrows lifted. "Is my life at risk, in this peaceful clearing, talking to you, my lady? Do you wish me ill? Are you…"

A dark shape appeared suddenly behind Philip and reached hands around to press to his temples. The king's low voice ended suddenly and he slumped into the waiting arms of the Doctor, who stood behind him. "Brilliant work, Donna," the Doctor exclaimed. "Let's get him back to the TARDIS."

Donna paused for a moment, looking down at the inert form of the king. She was, of course, pleased that the first part of their plan had gone so swimmingly. But she felt a twinge of regret, too, as she had enjoyed it, that brief moment of speaking to him, the steady gaze with which he had regarded her, this strange creature, this possible demon standing before him. She looked up and found the Doctor watching her. "A remarkable man, I think, don't you, Donna?" She smiled at him but made no comment, and together they dragged the body of the king of France back to the Doctor's ship.

Riding in a litter, Donna decided, was overrated. It looked so comfortable, strewn with silks and pillows, surrounded by curtains shutting out the commotion of the traveling party around them, a little platform on which to recline as it was carried along or was loaded into a horse-drawn contraption for longer journeys. But really, it wasn't. It dipped and jolted and generally made her feel vaguely ill. Nonetheless, it had the advantage of giving her time to think. Blanche, the princess of France, was asleep across from her, and the other lady-in-waiting dozed as well. How exactly the Doctor had convinced Blanche to accept Donna as the newest companion of her travels was a mystery. The Doctor had only waved his hand airily when Donna had hissed the question to him. And so here she was. Blanche proved pleasant enough; she resembled her brother physically, with dark hair and dark blue eyes. She had prattled on happily to Donna about her upcoming wedding when she wasn't sleeping. But she seemed, at least on first acquaintance, to lack Philip's depth and intrigue. That still watchfulness that had struck Donna in the forest, the profound intelligence behind his calm eyes, was not present here. Not that Donna had had much opportunity to explore the man's depth, before the Doctor put him in some sort of stasis back on the TARDIS.

The Doctor. Who now looked like Philip and rode a horse alongside the litter. If Donna peered through the curtains she could see his figure not ten feet away. It was so bizarre and…yes, upsetting, to see the Doctor in this new form. The chameleon arch transformation had been a distressing thing to witness; the Doctor's agonized screams were still clearly audible if she thought about it. Which she tried not to do. And then he had risen from where he had collapsed behind the console of the TARDIS, and he had looked like Philip. Even though she knew it was coming, she had still been frozen in fear when it actually happened. "Donna, it's still me," were his first words, as he clearly sensed her terror despite his own lingering pain.

And now, it was disconcerting, how he could simply switch back and forth from speaking like the Doctor to speaking like Philip. He had been chatting privately with Donna, popping his p's and making amused noises in the back of his throat, and then a moment later, when a French courtier approached, he had been speaking in the cadences of the king. Donna knew she should be thrilled with how well the plan was progressing, but she was not. She was nervous and unsettled. She settled back on the cushions behind her, resolutely closed her eyes, and tried her best to imitate the slumber of the princess of France.

If Donna was edgy and full of misgivings, the Doctor was pleased as punch as he rode his horse aside her litter. Yes, the chameleon arch was always painful, and yes, Donna had been visibly shocked to see his new form. But still, the ease with which they had made the switch was gratifying. He thought of Philip, in stasis back in the TARDIS. The clever girl would keep the king's body nourished and his muscles from atrophying for the entire time he was unconscious—and who knew how long that would be? The Doctor smiled with affection at the thought of his ship. He then dwelt on the effortlessness with which he had introduced Donna into Blanche's entourage. His smile widened as he thought how horrified Donna would be to know that he had told Blanche that Donna was "a woman I currently fancy." Ha! He almost laughed aloud but restrained himself. He was a king now, after all. What was striking was how Blanche had taken the news. She had merely nodded with a complete lack of interest and then accepted Donna without batting an eyelash. Different times, he supposed. Philip was unmarried at this moment, so that probably helped…although maybe it didn't really matter even then. Best not to mention that to Donna either, most likely.

The Doctor's reverie was interrupted by the pounding approach of a horse and rider; it was the scout who had been sent ahead to look over the approach to Durham. "My lord, the city is not far distant and the celebrations to welcome you are prepared."

Right. "Wake the princess." Time to introduce Blanche to her soon-to-be-husband and get French history back on track.

Donna pondered the potential distance between fathers and sons. They stood in the courtyard of the castle at Durham. It was a magnificently positioned town, on a high bluff overlooking a river. The River Wear, Blanche had told her, as they crossed it on an impressively sturdy stone bridge. Since being wakened, Blanche had been visibly on edge and had filled the final hour of their journey with nervous chatter. The great cathedral of Durham was dedicated to Saint Cuthbert. She had prayed to the saint on numerous occasions to bless her forthcoming marriage. And now they were here, on a chilly day of weak sunshine, facing the welcoming committee, which consisted mainly of Edward, the earl of Northumberland, and his son Robert, the prospective bridegroom. Appraising the younger man, Donna thought that at least on first viewing it seemed Blanche was on to a good thing. A handsome face with blond hair, impressive height and breadth of shoulders, and—perhaps more importantly—an open smile and tangible warmth in his brown eyes. He had sprung forward after greeting Philip to bow deeply before his new bride, who had blushed and curtsied in return. Donna, also bent in a curtsy behind the princess, saw the young man take Blanche's hand and raise her to standing, murmuring words of welcome that made her smile.

In contrast, the earl stood aloof from the moment, staring coldly at his son's interaction with his future wife. Perhaps he had once been handsome too, but he bore an air of discontent and neglect that had taken a toll on his appearance. His hair was grey, which was to be expected at his age, but also hung too long and was grizzled and untended. He wore an unkempt beard and his clothes seemed equally haphazard. His teeth, Donna noticed, were truly regrettable. He turned suddenly and spoke to Philip. "The English king is enraged over this match."

Philip—the Doctor—turned from what appeared to be an unusually interested examination of Robert and gave the earl a small smile. It really was eerie, Donna thought, to see the man she had met in the forest standing here before her, although she knew it was the Doctor. He spoke quietly, "Does that distress you, my lord?"

The earl gave a short laugh. "Not in the least. Our bishop has scuttled down to London to keep John apprised, just as I expected. He's a Frenchman too, you know, our bishop—although he is John's man through and through."

"Ah, well. A number of my countrymen have made the unwise choice to support your king, despite his many failings. You are wiser than they, my lord."

The earl snorted, then turned to his son, who still held Blanche's hand in his. "Robert!"

"Yes, father?" The young man turned his gaze. Donna could not help but notice wariness in his eyes.

"Where the devil is Rosalind?"

"I'm sure she will be here shortly, father. She had been out on the hunt and wished to prepare herself…to put on her best appearance."

The earl gave another snort. "That should not be excessively time-consuming."

A wave of anger, quickly controlled, crossed Robert's face, but not before both Donna and the Doctor noticed it. Robert turned to Blanche and spoke to her, but pitched his voice so that it carried for all to hear, "My sister—and soon yours, my dear—is a girl of uncommon talents. But I fear punctuality is not among them."

"Social graces are not among them either," the earl added in an undertone, with a nasty edge to his voice.

At that moment a door slammed at the other end of the courtyard and a young woman emerged. Donna's eyes were drawn to her immediately, not for her beauty, although she had a fresh prettiness, but rather for the look of amused curiosity on her face as she approached them, her amber eyes fixed on Robert. She was dressed far more simply than Blanche, or her brother, or than Donna herself for that matter. Her blue dress seemed not to be silk or any particularly fine material, and she wore no elaborate veil as the princess did. Rather, her golden brown hair was dressed simply in a long braid that had been coiled at the back of her head. Her step was brisk and she seemed deliberately to avoid greeting her father, coming to stand instead at the side of her brother. Once they were next to each other their physical resemblance was thrown into focus. They looked like each other, but not at all like their father. Robert smiled—no, grinned—down at her with obvious affection and then turned again to Blanche.

"My lady Blanche, this is my sister, Rosalind."

The two young women exchanged curtsies and then Blanche began to speak to the newcomer, stretching her hand out toward her in greeting. Donna did not hear what was said, however, distracted as she was by a strangled intake of breath from her other side. She turned to find the Doctor had backed away from his original place, leaning heavily against his horse's side. All the sanguine calm that she had come to associate with Philip's face was gone; his eyes were wide and his face pale. He was breathing in short gasps. Thankfully, no one seemed to have noticed yet, focused as they were on the handsome group of young people, and so Donna quickly moved to him. "Philip…Doctor! What's wrong with you? Pull yourself together!"

The Doctor gave no sign of recognition, but continued to stare at Rosalind. Then he turned his eyes to Donna and swallowed. He tried to speak once, and failed. He licked his lips and tried again. "Donna…that woman. That's Rose."