Unfinished Business, Doctor Who, Dr. Who, Chris Eccleston, Christopher Eccleston, Doctor who Fiction

The novelty of riding a horse side saddle in a long dress was starting to wear off on Ray as their destination finally came into sight. She was hot and sticky under the veiled hat that fastened with a band under her chin and she wanted a cool drink and something nice to eat at the end of the journey from Penmaenmawr where they had arrived first thing this morning.

She looked up at the castle at the top of a wooded hill, a place built for defence in uncertain times when a man only owned what he could fight for and hold.

“Castell Dolwyddelan,” she said, pronouncing the Welsh name easily.

“Well, most of it,” The Doctor replied. “The second tower and the curtain wall still need to be completed.”

He was dressed unusually, too. He couldn’t look like a tweedy professor with a bad taste in jumpers in the early thirteenth century. Instead he was wearing a deep plum coloured robe with less gores in the skirt than the scarlet one she was wearing and a black, hooded cloak. He had a sword at his waist, which was unusual for him. He usually never carried weapons, but these were times when a man had to be seen as capable of protecting himself and his lady companion.

Fortunately he hadn’t had to use the sword on their journey. Their party, including a man driving a cart with the TARDIS hidden under sacks, had travelled without molestation.

“I hope the Prince is at home,” Ray said.

“I expect he is,” The Doctor answered. “It’s five years since the Council of Aberdyfi when Llywelyn made himself ruler over the independent princes of Wales. He can afford to sit back and enjoy all he surveys and have the lower princes come to him with petitions.”

Ray was more than a little impressed. The Council of Aberdyfi, the first time that the concept of Wales as one place with a single ruler came into being, was a significant date in the history books used in Welsh schools, even if it wasn’t even mentioned in curriculums elsewhere.

“Llywelyn Fawr,” she said. “Llywelyn the Great. I hope he lives up to expectations!”

The Doctor smiled. He often felt that way about meeting famous people. But he had attended the Council in his own small way and knew that Llywelyn Fawr – or Llywelyn ap Iorwerth as he was properly known, was a man of great negotiating power as well as military might, and a refined scholar, too. He wouldn’t let them down.

And so it proved when they were received in the grand hall of the castle. Llywelyn Fawr held court there with all of the grandeur he could muster in his relatively small principality. He sat upon an elaborately carved and richly decorated throne and received the lesser princes of Wales and emissaries from England with an air of superiority over them all. But when The Doctor and Lady Rachel were introduced he smiled widely and ordered food and wine to be brought for them. The prince came down from his dais and sat with them at the banqueting table where cuts of meat and roast fowl were brought along with goblets of a heady yellow wine.

“My friend, the Doctor,” Llywelyn said. “It is well you are come to us at this time – the wisest of men, the one who discovered the plot to bring about my assassination at Aberdyfi.”

“You were AT the Council of Aberdyfi?” Ray looked at The Doctor in surprise. “I didn’t know that.”

“It was before you came under my protection,” he explained. “A small affair, nothing to worry about.”

“A small affair?” Llywelyn smiled. “A villain planned to have me replaced with a demon that could change its appearance at will, and break up the Council before a decision was reached.”

“A demon?” Ray queried.

“An Olenox from the Eurarion System,” The Doctor explained to her. “A shape-shifting species. The ‘villain’ who engaged him to perform that devilish act was a Time Meddler who sought to prevent Wales from becoming a united principality and to sabotage Llywelyn’s pact with King John of England for his own ends.”

“That would have had a devastating effect on history,” Ray noted. “Wales might not even BE Wales by….”

She was about to say ‘by her own time’, but she had to remember that Llywelyn’s servants were within earshot. The prince himself seemed to understand and accept that The Doctor was not of this time or place. He did not question the existence of a place called the Eurarion System where something called an Olenox came from – unless he just thought it was in England – a far off and alien place in these times!

“I have need of your services again, Doctor. I fear there is a black curse upon my house, and one who is knowledgeable about things beyond nature may be able to lift the burden from upon us.”

“A curse?” The Doctor queried. “Well, I’m not really the man for….” He looked at Llewellyn. He was a strong, powerful man, who could order any mortal enemy struck down.

But he needed The Doctor’s help and was asking for it.

“Tell me about the curse,” he said.

“My children,” Llewellyn answered. “They are unhappy. Something oppresses them greatly.”

“Your children?” The Doctor nodded sagely. “I have not had the pleasure of meeting with them, or their mother. None were with you at Aberdyfi except for your eldest, Gruffudd. He was a youth of sixteen, then. He’d be a man by now?”

“He is. He is out hunting this day. You shall meet him at supper. But it is my younger ones I worry for, especially my girls. But perhaps it would be best if the Lady Rachel was to visit their chambers first, while you and I talk of my deeper fears. Dear lady, would you do me that office and report your thoughts to me later?”

“I’d be glad to,” she responded. She really wasn’t sure what she was getting herself into, but talking to the women and children sounded easier than wading into talk of curses. Besides, it was her chance to be useful to The Doctor. Here by his side she was little more than ornamentation.

The women and children were in a room on the middle floor of the castle keep. This was their domestic demesne separate from the work of the men in the grand hall below. Three older women were spinning thread. Two teenage girls were weaving the thread. One a little younger was sitting at a floor standing embroidery frame working at a tapestry while another had a small frame on her lap on which she practiced her stitches.

That left a boy of about twelve and another a few years younger who were reading bible passages and another little girl who had a sort of doll made of rags on her knee. She was the only one who was, in any sense, playing. The others were at tasks that were considered ‘work’. The girl with the small frame looked frustrated by the stitches she was making and her eyes wandered to the high, narrow windows where slivers of natural sunlight and warm blue sky could be seen.

The windows were set high, of course, because they didn’t have glass in them and they would be intolerably draughty at eye level, but it meant that the wide room was stuffy and smelt of wood fires and hot candle wax. Ray could not imagine spending her days in such a place without feeling she was in a kind of prison.

The dark haired girl at the weaving loom looked up as the manservant announced her to the company of women and children.

“You see,” she said. “A visitor from far away. I told you.”

“People come here from afar all the time, Gwladys,” said the dark haired woman at the spinning wheel. Ray had noticed that the spinners were all in their thirties, the other two being a red head and an ash-blonde. The children were a mixture of all three hair colours. She was puzzled for a moment or two, then realised that one of the women, the dark-haired one, must be the legitimate wife of Llywelyn, and the other two his mistresses.

Obviously, Welsh princes in the thirteenth century could get away with that sort of thing.

“She has come from much further than any of them,” Gwladys insisted.

“I am from Glywysing,” Ray said. That was the old Welsh name for the place known in her time as Glamorgan.

“But you have travelled far from there,” Gwladys told her. “Very far. You have travelled under different stars. I see them in your eyes.”

“Hush, child,” her mother told her. “Remember your place.” Gwladys dropped her eyes to her loom again. Her mother rose from her seat and greeted Ray. “I am Joanna, wife to Prince Llywelyn.”

Yes, Ray thought. She was the one with the legitimate claim. She wondered how things were between her and the other two women who were introduced as Tangwystl and Crysten.

Tangwystl was the red-head, strikingly beautiful in her own way. The oldest of the three boys in the room had to be hers. He had the same flame red hair. Crysten was delicate looking with a pale complexion and fragile frame. The youngest girl was clearly hers. She looked like a delicate china doll.

A strange set up, Ray thought. But it seemed to work. The half-siblings looked as if they got on with each other and the wife and mistresses seemed cosy enough.

“Lady Rachel came to save us,” Gwladys piped up again. “She came with The Doctor to banish the demons.”

Beside her, the red-headed girl who looked the same age as the dark Gwladys shuddered. The shuttle fell from her hand with a clatter onto the stone floor. Her slightly younger half-sister retrieved it for her.

“Gwladys, stop talking that way,” she said. “You’ll bring the Chysgod back.”

“We MUST talk about it, Elen,” Gwladys told her. “We must tell Lady Rachel about it. That is why she is here.”

Rachel grasped a chair and sat down. She reached out to dark haired but pale faced Elen and held her hand gently.

“I’m just here to talk to you. The Doctor is the one who will help you all. Tell me about the Chysgod.”

Of course, they all spoke Welsh, middle-ages Welsh, which was somewhat different to the modern language Ray was familiar with. But she heard them all in English, her main language. The word ‘Chysgod’ refused to translate. She knew it basically meant ‘shadow’, but there was something about the way the two girls said the word that added a capital ‘C’ to it and gave it a dark and foreboding tone.

“It comes in the night,” Gwladys said. “It sits over us in the dark, saying things... terrible things.”

“It wants us to die,” Elen added. “It told me to go to the top of the tower and throw myself off.”

“It told Margred and Gwenllian to plunge a knife into Tegwared’s heart,” Gwladys continued. “And it tried to make Angharad kill her mother.”

Angharad was another redhead, the one having trouble with her embroidery sampler. She accidentally stuck her finger with the needle and left a blot of red blood on the fabric.

Ray nodded. She looked around. The calm domesticity of the room was clearly only superficial. Beneath it everyone was edgy and anxious. The smallest girl gripped her doll and ran to her mother.

“I know it’s hard. But try to tell me more about the Chysgod. What does it look like?”

The children looked at each other nervously. Again, Gwladys was the one with the most to say.

“It looks like a man but with red eyes and a terrible gaping hole where his mouth should be.”

“And wings,” Elen added. “Black wings.”

“Yes, wings,” Gwladys agreed. “But the eyes are the worst thing. They burn into my mind. I feel him there… reading my secrets.”

Ray wondered what secrets a girl of fifteen had, but that was beside the point. If she was telling the truth, then something terrible was happening to her and the other girls.

IF she was telling the truth. It was always possible this was some kind of sinister game that the children had invented between themselves.

But Ray didn’t believe that for one moment. Nor did she dismiss it as any kind of mass hysteria.

Something was frightening the children, and she had every reason to believe it was real.

“There’s nothing to worry about, anymore,” she told them. “The Chysgod cannot harm you now that The Doctor is here.”

“She is telling the truth,” Gwladys assured her siblings. “The Doctor comes from afar to help us.”

The Doctor had come from afar to visit an old friend and show her what her own country was like in medieval times, Ray thought. But since he had found a problem, he would certainly deal with it.

The youngest children didn’t take supper with their father, only Gwladys and Elen, who were joined by their older brother, Gruffudd, back from his hunting trip. He was a tall, strongly built young man who looked every inch the heir to the principality. He expressed his delight at meeting The Doctor again and talked to him and his father about affairs of state throughout the meal.

That gave Ray time to observe the two girls in the adult world of the supper table. They were both fifteen, old enough for their father to make marriage arrangements for them. She wondered if it would be a problem finding a husband for Gwladys. She was properly known as Gwladys Ddu, for her dark hair, but perhaps also recognising her disposition. She obviously had what was called ‘Second Sight’ and almost everything she said was a foretelling of some kind. That would be disconcerting for a prospective suitor.

“The moon is risen,” she said at one point, though it was impossible to tell from the grand hall with its high windows. “The Chysgod rises with it. He flies through the darkness.”

Llywelyn was clearly disconcerted by such pronouncements at the table, but said nothing. He just gave a meaningful glance at The Doctor. Her older brother was more vocal in his disapproval.

“Gwladys, you must stop this,” he told her. “This… unnatural… sight of yours is not a thing to boast of. You should hide it, lest you be accused of witchcraft.”

Ray couldn’t remember if witchcraft was punishable by death in this era or if that came later, but clearly Gruffudd was worried about it.

“She is right,” Elen protested, though with a meek tone and downcast eyes of a girl who knew her place. “The Chysgod will come tonight. We’re all scared of it.”

“There’s no need to be,” The Doctor promised her in a gentle tone. “I’m here, now, and your father and brother are going to help, too. Tonight no shadow will enter this castle. I promise you, that.”

Both girls were reassured. Llywelyn was grateful. His eldest son was less certain. Later, when the girls had left them he voiced his misgivings.

“They have allowed themselves to be frightened by old wives tales,” he complained. “And we are feeding their fears by pretending that they are real.”

“They ARE real,” The Doctor told him. “And our efforts to protect the girls must be real. Llywelyn, your night guard must be doubled, tripled. The battlements must be fully manned just as if you expected an attack from beyond the hills. The passageways must be patrolled. We will ALL be ready to defend the youngsters from the thing that is threatening them.”

“You BELIEVE this nonsense?” Gruffudd answered dismissively.

“It isn’t a question of belief,” The Doctor replied. “I KNOW that the Chysgod exists. It is a thing not of this world, and it has to be banished from the realm of mortal men before it causes terrible harm.”

Gruffudd was sceptical, but he agreed to be part of the vigil along with his father. Ray suspected he was only doing it because his father was in favour of the idea.

“Do you know what the Chysgod is, then?” Ray asked The Doctor as the arrangements to guard the castle and the people within it were put in place. “It’s an alien?”

“Yes,” he answered. “I know what it is. It’s… not exactly alien in the sense of coming from outer space. It’s more… from another dimension. It’s a Shadow.”

Ray half smiled.

“Yes, I KNOW that. Chysgod… Shadow. Any good Welsh dictionary would explain that.”

“No,” The Doctor explained. “Shadows are creatures from the dark dimensions between alternate universes. They come into this universe through cracks in reality and cause havoc. Usually they just kill any Human they find, feeding on their lifeforces, but this one seems to have more sophisticated plans involving the children of Llywelyn Fawr.”

“Then they ARE in real danger? It’s not just a superstition or a nightmare that’s become real in their minds?”

“It’s real,” The Doctor said. “And they are in GREAT danger.”

“Then I’m going to stay with the girls. I don’t know what I can do… but I’ll do it.”

“That’s exactly what I hoped you’d say,” The Doctor told her. “Thank you, Ray.”

The six daughters of Llywelyn Fawr slept in a room together in two big four-poster beds. They said their prayers, first, then climbed between the blankets and closed the curtains around them against the chill of night in a stone built castle on a hill. Ray sat on a chair opposite the two beds with cushions and a blanket she got from the TARDIS that was much less rougher than the contemporary ones woven from unbleached wool. She meant to stay awake for as long as necessary to make sure the girls were safe.

It got very dark, of course. There were no street lights outside and very few lights of any kind within the castle. The passageways were lit by torches in brackets and there was a faint light from them under the closed door. Occasionally there was a brighter light as a guard went by with his own hand-held torch.

The rising moon shone a sliver of silver into the room for a half hour around midnight, but then it was gone, too.

Ray pulled herself up in the chair. She had heard a noise. At first she thought one of the children was turning in her sleep, but then she heard a sinister, menacing whispering and fearful moans of despair.

She stood and moved closer to the bed where the eldest four girls should have been sleeping peacefully and yanked back the curtain while, at the same time, switching on a powerful battery operated torch. The light, brighter than any brought into the castle before, fell upon a ghastly creature crouched over Gwladys while Elen, Margred and Gwenllian shivered and moaned in fear.

It was exactly as they had described – like a man in shape, but dark as the shadows of night and with glowing red eyes and devilish wings. His mouth opened in rage as he turned those eyes on Ray and it was a gaping hole. There was no ‘mouth’ in the usual sense - no teeth, tongue or tonsils - just an even blacker black than the outer form.

“Get back,” Ray said, hoping she sounded brave. Inside she was quaking with shock at the sight of that thing. “Get away from these girls. Get back to the hole you came from.”

The Shadow, the Chysgod, snarled at her and ruffled its wings. It dived towards her, but she ducked. When she turned it was heading for the door. She was only partly surprised when it went straight through the solid oak without hindrance. It looked fully corporeal, but obviously it wasn’t.

“You girls stay in bed,” Ray told them. “Don’t be scared. We’re onto it, now.”

She ran, grabbing the door and flinging it wide. She was just in time to see the Chysgod moving towards the stairs. She heard a cry of fright and a swish of a sword in empty air and when she reached the stairs herself she saw a guard in chain mail and helmet pressed against the wall, his sword hanging in his hand and his face as pale as the delicate little Susanna, child of Llywelyn’s blonde-haired mistress.

“It was…a…a a… demon,” he stammered. “I put my… my… my sword right through it and it didn’t flinch.”

“Pull yourself together,” Ray told him. “I’m a woman and I’ve got no armour and I’m not quaking like you are. Stiffen your backbone and follow me.”

She wasn’t unsympathetic. The Chysgod was a frightening sight, but there was no point in having guards who couldn’t do their job out of fear.

They found another guard on the next landing up, also frightened out of his wits. Ray again admonished him for being unmanly and made him join her.

“Doctor!” She yelled as she spotted a familiar figure coming out of the room to the left. “The Chysgod, it went that way. Come on, after it.”

The Doctor didn’t waste any time with questions. He ran after her. So did Llywelyn. It was his room they had been talking in.

“It’s going up again,” Ray noted as they reached another staircase and another petrified guard. “What’s up here?”

“My son’s chambers and then the battlements,” Llywelyn answered. “It’s going to the roof to escape?”

“I don’t think so,” The Doctor said. “It didn’t come in that way or the men up there would have known. I think it was here already.”

“It was in the castle?” Llywelyn questioned. “But….”

The noise of so many people, some in chain mail, ought to have alerted the guards on the top floor. The fact that it didn’t made them all wary.

And well they should be. When they reached the landing they found three men lying in crumpled heaps on the flags. The Doctor examined them carefully and pronounced them unconscious.

“It looks like they’ve been drugged,” he said. “Some kind of opiate in their ale. They’ll have sore heads in the morning, and chilblains from lying on the flags, but no harm.”

“They are Gruffudd’s personal guards. If my son is harmed by that creature I will have them gutted,” Llywelyn said with an unexpected fierceness.

“I don’t think your son is the one we have to worry about,” The Doctor replied. “Why is he in his chambers, anyway? He was supposed to be keeping watch with the rest of us.”

“I know not,” Llywelyn admitted, though Ray wondered if perhaps he did know. Gruffudd had not been especially enthusiastic for the vigil. Perhaps he had snuck back to his bed.

It certainly seemed that way when The Doctor pushed open the door to his chamber and they found the eldest son of the Prince lying on his bed, still fully clothed and wearing a sword belt, though the sword and scabbard were placed beside him. He was fast asleep. Llywelyn shook him roughly and although he was ready to gut the guards for not protecting his son, he was angry enough with his son, too.

“How dare you sleep while your sisters are in danger?” he demanded of the half-awake young man. “Because of you, the demon has escaped.”

“I don’t think it has,” The Doctor said. “It’s here. I can sense it… the stench of the void dimensions. It’s like the stench of the crypt and this chamber reeks of it.”

“I smell nothing,” Llywelyn answered. “What mean you, my friend Doctor?”

“I mean that your son knows more about this than he is telling. Gruffudd ap Llywelyn, what have you to say for yourself?”

“I know not what you mean, sir Doctor,” Gruffudd replied, but his eyes told a different story. He was looking beyond his father and The Doctor to an unlit corner of his room where the shadows were darker than they ought to have been. When the two men turned they saw the red eyes burning in the darkness. Llywelyn raised his sword – so did the guards who had followed him. The Doctor raised his sonic screwdriver and murmured some words in a language so ancient there was no translation even in the Middle Ages. The Chysgod snarled and then screamed. Something about the sonic, or the words The Doctor was saying, bothered it. The eyes flickered and the burning red dimmed a little.

“What did you do?” Ray asked.

“I pinned it there in the corner where it can’t cause any trouble for the time being,” he answered. “I can’t kill it, at least not yet. It’s attached itself to Gruffudd, like a parasite, feeding on his emotions. Unless it lets go of him I can’t fight it. It would sear his mind out of spite before it let go.”

“Then I cannot defeat it, either?” Llywelyn asked, his hand on his sword.

“There is nothing you could do with sharpened steel against a creature of shadow,” The Doctor told him. “Be patient, my friend. We will free your son first, then we will deal with that.”

Llywelyn was obviously surprised when The Doctor turned from the creature and instead addressed Gruffudd in a stern, school-masterly way.

“Why do you hate your sisters and brothers?” he demanded.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir Doctor,” he answered. “I have never….”

“You’re a lot older than the others. You were seven before Gwladys and Elen were born. You must have felt put out by the arrival of two girls into the family. Then three more in quick succession, then two princes who might well challenge your right of primogeniture.”

“Oh!” Ray suppressed her gasp. She had suddenly remembered some of her Welsh history. Llywelyn Fawr’s successor when he died in 1240, was not Gruffudd, his eldest son, but Dafydd, the little boy of ten who had sat quietly with his bible studies while they talked of the Chysgod.

And there was another thing – Gruffudd was red-haired.

“I am his gordderch. My mother is not his wife. He favours Dafydd….”

Llywelyn actually looked shocked at that idea. He tried to reach out to his son but the young man backed away, speaking rapidly in medieval Welsh, much of it swear words that Ray had never heard before. They weren’t used in the modern version of the language.

“What is all this about?” Llywelyn asked The Doctor. “What has made him act this way?”

“The Chysgod focussed on his negative emotions, his jealousy of your affections for your daughters, your favouritism for your legitimate son. All of that has been festering in his mind for a long time, and it is food and drink to the demon. In return, the Chysgod has been tormenting the youngsters, acting on his feelings about them.”

“It promised to help me,” Gruffudd said.

“By frightening innocent girls and urging them to commit murder on your behalf. Don’t you realise the cruel, unnecessary thing you have done?”

“I know I have to protect my heritage,” Gruffudd answered truculently. “The girls… they will be married to allies of my father… that makes them my enemies. Dafyd….”

“They are my CHILDREN,” Llywelyn raged angrily. He would have attacked his eldest son if The Doctor hadn’t held him back.

“Don’t blame the boy,” he told him. “The Chrysgod is making his vague resentments into hatred of his siblings. That’s why we have to separate them. Let me….”

The Doctor gripped Gruffudd by the shoulders and forced him to look into his eyes. Ray watched as he silently bored into the young prince’s mind with the sheer power of his will. If he wasn’t a friend of Llywelyn, he might be taken as a sorcerer. Ray still wasn’t sure what the penalty for that was in thirteenth century Wales.

“No!” Gruffudd cried. He cringed back from The Doctor, but he gripped him tighter. “No… I didn’t….”

“Cast the alien creature out of your mind,” The Doctor told him. “Free yourself of it, free yourself of these wrong-headed jealousies. You love your sisters. You care about your half-brother. You don’t see him as a rival. Throw off the lies the creature has put into your mind.”

They weren’t entirely lies, Ray noted. There was every good reason for him to worry. Gruffudd never was going to become ruler of the Principality. His future was a dark one and his end tragic. But that end wasn’t yet. Something had to be done.

And The Doctor was doing it. Gruffudd’s words were becoming less bitter. He sagged unhappily and tears came to his eyes. The Doctor stepped back and let Llywelyn have a man to man talk with his son. Meanwhile he turned to the Chysgod. He held up the sonic screwdriver again and repeated the mysterious words he had used before. The creature hissed menacingly, but the glow in its eyes was fading. It was losing the battle.

“It’s gone!” Ray exclaimed. There was a different feeling in the room, as if something oppressive was gone.

“Dead?” Llywelyn asked.

“No, not dead. It’s impossible to kill a thing like that. But it’s been sent back to the void dimensions. Without Human emotions to feed on it will be too weak to return – at least not for a very long time. Your children are safe, my friend.” The Doctor looked at Gruffudd. He was acting quite childishly for a twenty-two year old from such a hard world as the one he lived in, crying openly and talking over and over about how sorry he was, how much he truly loved his sisters, and begged to be forgiven.

Llywelyn turned away from him, disgusted by his unmanly behaviour.

“He’s still your son,” The Doctor told him quietly. “Your first born son from a woman you love.”

Llywelyn considered that for a moment, then turned back to Gruffudd.

“Come on,” The Doctor said to Ray. “This is a father-son thing. Let’s leave them be.” He ordered the guards to keep watch outside the room where their comrades were still coming around from the stupor Gruffudd had put them in to hide the fact that the creature was concealed in his room. He and Ray went down to the great hall where a cold collation of meats and a flagon of wine had been left to refresh those keeping vigil. Ray discovered an appetite and ate hungrily.

“It’s not a happy ending for Gruffudd, though, is it?” she said. “I know the history…. Llywelyn had Joanna declared as his legitimate wife by papal decree and Dafydd his heir. When Dafydd became king he had Gruffudd arrested. Eventually he was handed over to the English and put in the Tower of London. He died… trying to escape from the tower using his sheets as ropes. They broke and he fell to his death.”

“I know,” The Doctor said quietly. “And I am sorry that there isn’t a better future for them all. But if things had been left as they were, if the Chysgod had succeeded in destroying Llywelyn’s daughters and even killing Dafydd, it would be much worse. Quite apart from the grief it would bring to this family, it would destroy the line of succession completely. It would probably mean that Wales would break up again and never be a nation in its own right.”

“I’d be English?” Ray giggled slightly, but it was no laughing matter, really. She understood that much.

“For now, at least, they are a family again,” The Doctor told her. “We achieved that much. Now, when you’re ready, off to bed with you. Tomorrow, we’ll go riding out with Llywelyn. He can show us the neighbourhood. I think you’ll enjoy medieval Wales.”

“I’m sure I will, Doctor,” Ray agreed.