Doctor Who: The Reign of Terror (3 page)

He had almost reached the end of the
passage when something stirred in an open doorway beside him. Before
he could react, a hand flew out of the darkness and a heavy pistol
butt struck him a glancing blow on the back of the head. With a
muffled gasp he sank to his knees and keeled over sideways, still
clutching the stick and the candle. A boot emerged from the shadows and trod out the candle
flame. Then there was silence once more.

In the room below, Susan had finished
changing into the long dress and Barbara was struggling into a
plainer lowcut dress which was just a little too small for her. Ian
had donned a pair of black velvet breeches, whitish stockings and a
white shirt with full sleeves and frilled front, and he was just
cramming his feet into elegantly buckled black shoes.

'How do I look, Ian?' Barbara asked,
sucking in her tummy and shaking out the skirts.

Ian grinned. 'Not bad, Barbara. The
hairstyle's a bit nineteen-sixties though,' he replied, ruffling the
side parting out of his own short hair and smoothing it back off his
forehead.

They gathered round the candle on the
table and scrutinised each other critically, like guests at a fancy
dress party.

'It was a jolly good idea of yours to
dress up in this gear, Susan,' Ian said approvingly. 'Now we won't
look quite so conspicuous if any of the inhabitants do see us.'

Susan giggled. 'We'd better not let
Grandfather know that we've arrived during the Reign of Terror,' she
said mischieviously.

'Why not?' Ian asked.

'Because it's his favourite period in
terrestrial history. We'll never get away.'

Barbara suddenly remembered something
that had happened the day she and Ian had first met the Doctor and
been abducted in the TARDIS. 'Is that why you wanted to borrow the
book about the French Revolution, Susan?'

Before their former pupil could answer,
Ian strode across to the doorway leading to the staircase in the
corner. 'Doctor? Where are you? What on earth are you doing up
there?' he demanded. His voice echoed eerily around the farmhouse and
died away.

They listened to the silence. Susan and
Barbara began to look anxious.

Ian snatched up the candle. 'Let's go
and find the old fool,' he suggested, a note of concern creeping into
his irritation.

Susan and Barbara followed him towards
the stairs. But before Ian could put his foot on the first step, he
found himself staring into the barrel of a cocked flintlock pistol.
The girls recoiled in shock, but before they could turn and flee a
second pistol whipped out of the gloom and covered them. Two young
Frenchmen emerged from the shadows of the doorway and stared at them
with cold hostile eyes. Ian and the girls backed away. Suddenly Ian
drew back his arm to hurl the candlestick in the strangers' faces.

'Do not move!' rapped one of them. He
gestured at the candlestick with his pistol. 'Please put that on the
table slowly.'

Ian hesitated for a moment, laboriously
translating the order in his head. Then he sullenly obeyed.

The Frenchmen advanced warily into the
room. The one who had spoken was about thirty years old. He had dark
shoulder-length hair and a large mouth. He seemed calm and appeared
to be in charge. His companion was younger and fair-haired. He seemed
edgy and frightened and could not keep still. Both men wore plainish
cutaway tailcoats with high collars and large lapels. Their shirts
had frilled cuffs and plain cravats and their breeches were tucked
into tall boots.

'Do not waste time, Rouvray,' muttered
the younger man nervously. 'Kill them. They would have killed us.'

Rouvray held up his hand for silence.
'What are you people doing here?' he demanded icily, his eyes boring
like gimlets into Ian's in the candlelight.

'It is obvious. They are after us!' the
younger man shouted.

'No, d'Argenson, I think not,' Rouvray
snapped. 'Answer my question!' he ordered, aiming his pistol at lan's
head.

The three travellers stared at their
captors in speechless panic. Eventually Ian opened his mouth, but no
sounds came out.

'We are travellers ... We stopped
here to ask the way ... ' Barbara and Susan suddenly burst out in
unison in very good French.

Rouvray smiled sardonically. 'At a
deserted house?'

D'Argenson waved his pistol impatiently
in their faces.

'We shall gain nothing by this
questioning. We must be on our way,' he insisted. 'Kill them and have
done with it.'

Rouvray shook his head. 'Patience,
d'Argenson. Even in these terrible times people should have the right
to justify themselves ... even though our enemies do not accord us
such privileges.'

Ian took a deep breath. 'We are not
your enemies,' he said in halting French. 'We are merely travellers.
That is all you need to know.'

Rouvray stepped closer, still aiming
his pistol unerringly between Ian's eyes. 'When you entered our
refuge you entered our lives,' he declared mysteriously. 'Do you
travel alone?'

There was a tense pause. 'Yes, we do,'
Barbara said eventually. 'D'Argenson's eyes lit up in cruel triumph.
'You see? They lie!' he shouted.

Once again the elder stranger gestured
to his friend to keep calm. 'We found an old man upstairs,' he
revealed, glancing from Ian to the two girls and back again. 'Do not
count on his assistance.'

Susan tried to spring forward, but
Barbara held her back. 'What have you done to him?' she demanded,
suddenly unafraid.

Rouvray gazed accusingly at the defiant
teenager. 'It was in your power to see that he came to no harm,' he
retorted. 'At the moment he is safe.' His eyes narrowed. 'Your answer
proved that you do not speak truthfully. You are concealing
something.'

'I told you before, it does not concern
you,' Ian persisted firmly but politely.

D'Argenson had started pacing
agitatedly around the gloomy room. 'We must go at once, Rouvray,' he
urged. 'The soldiers could have followed us here.'

Rouvray stared hard at Ian. 'In France
now there are two sides only and you are either with us or against
us.' He paused. 'Our sympathies are obvious. We have to know yours.'

Barbara stepped forward cautiously. 'We
appreciate what you say, but I assure you that we have no loyalty to
either side. We are not even French ...' she explained as reasonably as she could.

D'Argenson banged his pistol on the
table. 'They are foreign agents. It is obvious!' he spat
contemptuously.

Rouvray considered Barbara's words for
a moment, studying the three captives in turn. Then he slowly lowered
his pistol and uncocked it. 'A word of warning my friends,' he said
solemnly, putting the pistol away in his belt. 'If you intend to
remain in France you will have to choose: one side or the other.'

D'Argenson was still brandishing his
pistol at the captives. 'We cannot possibly trust these people now!'
he protested, feverishly seizing his associate's arm, his eyes
blazing with fanatical zeal.

Calmly Rouvray eased the pistol out of
d'Argenson's hand, uncocked it and put it in d'Argenson's coat. 'If
we are to escape from France we must have faith,' he argued
earnestly. 'If we can trust no-one then we shall simply be taking the
Terror with us wherever we go.'

'But we must find Grandfather,' Susan
exclaimed, as if they had forgotten all about the Doctor. 'Where is
he?'

Rouvray turned to d'Argenson. 'The old
man... ?'

'Listen!' Ian had been trying to
identify a faint noise outside. He flung up his hand and everyone
held their breath.

In the distance they could just make
out the sound of a party of men shouting and laughing as they
approached the farmhouse.

Ian moved to the window just as the
farmyard gate swung open with its habitual shriek of rusted hinges.
Peering through the filthy panes, he made out the figures of a couple
of officers and a bunch of soldiers entering the yard. 'Soldiers... ' he muttered.

D'Argenson grabbed Rouvray's sleeve.
'They've found us ... What did I tell you?' he groaned in despair.
'Now will you believe me!'

'Quiet!' Rouvray snapped, moving
swiftly to extinguish the candle and then joining Ian at the window.

Armed with swords and muskets with
gleaming bayonets fixed to the barrels, the soldiers were now
advancing on the house. Their uniforms were ragged and
dusty, with a motley mixture of styles. Most wore tall,
crescent-shaped black hats with tricolour cockades, blue coats with
gold epaulettes and crossed white straps, and buff breeches tucked
into boots. Some brandished flaming torches as well as weapons. They
looked dangerously undisciplined and their sergeant was obviously
drunk.

Hearing the menacing clump of their
boots on the cobblestones, d'Argenson backed away from the window
clutching his head distraughtly. 'They will take us to Paris, to the
guillotine... ' he gasped. 'Rouvray, you know I cannot let it
happen... I cannot... The terrified young man grabbed Susan's and
Barbara's arms and began to pour out his tragic personal story. 'My
whole family was executed even my younger sister ... ' he
stuttered. 'The soldiers burst into the house ... I was absent ...
And they dragged them all away to the Place de la Revolution where
the guillotine ... '

'Place de Louis Quinze ... ' Rouvray
corrected him, as though by insisting on the original names he could
somehow turn back the clock and unmake the cataclysmic events of the
previous five years.

This was too much for d'Argenson. His
voice disintegrated into sobs and he flung himself frantically on
Rouvray. 'We must flee while we have the chance!' he screamed.

Rouvray seized his hands and
endeavoured to calm him. 'They would see us. Our only hope now is to
hide here,' he said firmly.

Ian swung round, his face pale in the
darkness. 'They are coming in,' he muttered grimly.

In futile desperation d'Argenson tried
to drag Rouvray towards the door. 'It will be the guillotine for us ... ' he screamed hysterically.

Rouvray struck his friend sharply
across the face with the palm of his hand. D'Argenson stared at him
in astonishment and then sank to his knees in despair. Rouvray
removed the pistol from d'Argenson's coat and handed it to Ian. The
Englishman took the weapon, tentatively smiling his thanks and then
turned back to the window.

Behind the table, Barbara held Susan
close to her side and put her finger to her lips. The bright
torchlight lit up their frightened faces as they watched the
window and waited, barely breathing.

Outside, the sergeant who was a bloated
brutal peasant with a red face and small malevolent eyes, had ordered
his men to stop. A few moments later a young lieutenant marched into
the farmyard followed by another motley rabble, some half in uniform
and carrying an odd assortment of weapons. The tenant wore a long
cloak over his tunic and a large tricolour plume in his hat.

The sergeant stabbed a stubby finger at
the windows of the farmhouse. 'The pigs will still be running,
Citizen. They won't have stopped yet,' he growled, spitting in the
straw.

The officer shook his head. 'According
to our intelligence this is their first refuge from Paris, Sergeant.
They could well be hiding here, waiting to proceed under cover of
darkness,' be declared with chilling menace.

The sergeant shrugged and belched.
'I'll send the lads in to search ... '

The lieutenant raised his hand. 'No!
Let the men rest. They have had a tiring march.' He smiled
maliciously. 'We shall simply surround the house. If our friends are
in there they can enjoy the suspense while we wait.'

The sergeant gestured at a bunch of
slouching soldiers.

'We'll block their escape!' he roared.
'Go round the back, boys.'

'Go yourself, Citizen!' one of them
retorted.

The motley troop chuckled and nudged
each other.

The sergeant winked at the impudent
private. 'But if the rabbits run, you'll get a chance to catch them,
won't you?' be growled contemptuously.

The soldier thought for a moment and
then grinned broadly. 'Yes, it's a long time since I had a royalist
to myself,' he sneered with grimacing double-entendre.

His lounging fellows chuckled
raucously.

'Keep your eyes open then,' the
sergeant ordered encouragingly.

'Don't you worry, they won't get past
me,' the soldier promised, moving off towards the gate.

'Nor me ... Nor me ... ' chorused
several other peasant militiamen, snatching up their weapons
and following him eagerly.

The remaining troops sat around on the
broken farm carts and ploughs, chatting and playing cards. The
lieutenant sat on the edge of the well and watched the house, while
the sergeant shuffled impatiently up and down, belching and spitting
and scratching himself.

Inside the dark farmhouse it was
deathly still as the five besieged refugees waited for the attack.
Ian and Rouvray flanked the window, pistols cocked at the ready.
Barbara and Susan huddled behind the table and kept their eyes on the
door. D'Argenson sat slumped by the table close to breaking point.
Sweating and wide-eyed with fear, he gnawed at his knuckles, stifling
the urge to argue with Rouvray and struggling to decide whether to
make a break for it on his own.

At the window, .Rouvray had been giving
a hurriedly whispered account of the events leading up to their
present desperate predicament. Ian and the girls had managed to
understand most of the story so far.

' ... and then we were warned to
leave France at once or risk arrest and execution. Friends warn us.
Friends denounce us ... ' he concluded with a sigh.

'The soldiers followed you here. Who
would have known you were taking this route?' Ian asked him quietly.

Rouvray shrugged. 'Who indeed? It is
difficult to have secrets these days.'