village, docking behind walls and hedges and fences, dodging in and out of gardens, orchards, alleyways, all the time avoiding troopers.
Something was up: they were arriving in ever-increasing numbers, soldiers on foot and troopers on horseback, all going the same way. Turlough was heading in the same direction now, for he was determined to discover what was going on.
He turned the corner of an empty street, ducked down and ran commando-style below the high stone walls of a building which seemed to he the village school. The day had grown hotter than ever. The cloudless sky swelled with the cries of birds, and the air was heavy with the musky scent of the roses festooning garden walls and the thousands of gaudy flowers in the gardens.
Just beyond the school, a sycamore tree overhung a garden wall and shaded the road. Turlough edged towards the tree with the greatest possihle stealth, for the road ahead divided to encircle the Village Green; from this he could hear the noise of horses’ hooves softly clattering, and a murmur of men’s voices. He pressed against the ivy-covered wall and peered around the sycamore to have a look.
The Green was a broad area of grass, which had been burned brown by the sun. There were pools of shade under spreading chestnut trees. It was surrounded by old cottages with warm, colour-washed walls and thatched roofs – and it was bustling with activity. At one side a tall white maypole had been erected; its long ribbons wafted in the breeze. Not far away from it soldiers were bringing armfuls of brushwood and building this into a huge pyre. Mounted troopers patrolled the area.
Turlough frowned: that growing heap of tinder-dry brushwood looked ominous. But while he was still absorbing it all, a hand touched his shoulder. He turned.
In the instant of turning he glimpsed the rough, bearded face of a burly trooper, before a fierce blow in the stomach from the man’s fist caused him to buckle forward and see only the ground spinning below his eyes. The next moment he had been imprisoned in a searing armlock, and then he was twisted around and frogmarched towards the Green with a vice-like arm pulled so tightly around his throat it was nearly throttling him.
‘All right, all right!’ he wheezed. ‘You’ve made your point!’
The trooper ignored him. He frogmarched Turlough onto the Green and stopped only when Sir George Hutchinson, who had been overseering the preparations, cantered across on a big chestnut horse.
Sir George reined his horse to a halt, and from his vantage point glared down at Turlough. He pointed a black-gloved finger at him, and his voice was a paean of triumph. ‘One by one,’ he shouted, ‘you and your companions will return to my fold, and you will never get out again.’ He paused, and glanced across the Green, at its feverish activity. ‘It’s a pity you have seen this,’ he said, and then, turning to the trooper, he snarled, ‘Lock him up!’
With that Sir George galloped back to his other soldiers.
Before Turlough had a chance to protest, he was dragged roughly away.
In the church, the Doctor and Jane felt as if they were being dragged into the vortex of a whirlpool.
The very air around them was being stirred into violence. The monstrous roaring of the Malus in the wall mingled with those shattering sounds of battle to fill the nave with tumult. Smoke and masonry belched from the wall. The flickering lights whirled and dazzled and behind diem the image of the Grey Cavalier had solidified into a towering man in plumed hat and long curled wig, with a broad, pointed moustache and a thick beard, who was now moving slowly but threateningly towards them.
Jane’s nerve gave way. She was going to run, but the Doctor grabbed her arm. ‘Stand perfectly still,’ he whispered.
‘What is it?’ Jane croaked. Her throat had dried up and felt as rough as sandpaper.
‘I told you,’ the Doctor reminded her. ‘It’s a psychic projection.’
Jane winced,
Something was up: they were arriving in ever-increasing numbers, soldiers on foot and troopers on horseback, all going the same way. Turlough was heading in the same direction now, for he was determined to discover what was going on.
He turned the corner of an empty street, ducked down and ran commando-style below the high stone walls of a building which seemed to he the village school. The day had grown hotter than ever. The cloudless sky swelled with the cries of birds, and the air was heavy with the musky scent of the roses festooning garden walls and the thousands of gaudy flowers in the gardens.
Just beyond the school, a sycamore tree overhung a garden wall and shaded the road. Turlough edged towards the tree with the greatest possihle stealth, for the road ahead divided to encircle the Village Green; from this he could hear the noise of horses’ hooves softly clattering, and a murmur of men’s voices. He pressed against the ivy-covered wall and peered around the sycamore to have a look.
The Green was a broad area of grass, which had been burned brown by the sun. There were pools of shade under spreading chestnut trees. It was surrounded by old cottages with warm, colour-washed walls and thatched roofs – and it was bustling with activity. At one side a tall white maypole had been erected; its long ribbons wafted in the breeze. Not far away from it soldiers were bringing armfuls of brushwood and building this into a huge pyre. Mounted troopers patrolled the area.
Turlough frowned: that growing heap of tinder-dry brushwood looked ominous. But while he was still absorbing it all, a hand touched his shoulder. He turned.
In the instant of turning he glimpsed the rough, bearded face of a burly trooper, before a fierce blow in the stomach from the man’s fist caused him to buckle forward and see only the ground spinning below his eyes. The next moment he had been imprisoned in a searing armlock, and then he was twisted around and frogmarched towards the Green with a vice-like arm pulled so tightly around his throat it was nearly throttling him.
‘All right, all right!’ he wheezed. ‘You’ve made your point!’
The trooper ignored him. He frogmarched Turlough onto the Green and stopped only when Sir George Hutchinson, who had been overseering the preparations, cantered across on a big chestnut horse.
Sir George reined his horse to a halt, and from his vantage point glared down at Turlough. He pointed a black-gloved finger at him, and his voice was a paean of triumph. ‘One by one,’ he shouted, ‘you and your companions will return to my fold, and you will never get out again.’ He paused, and glanced across the Green, at its feverish activity. ‘It’s a pity you have seen this,’ he said, and then, turning to the trooper, he snarled, ‘Lock him up!’
With that Sir George galloped back to his other soldiers.
Before Turlough had a chance to protest, he was dragged roughly away.
In the church, the Doctor and Jane felt as if they were being dragged into the vortex of a whirlpool.
The very air around them was being stirred into violence. The monstrous roaring of the Malus in the wall mingled with those shattering sounds of battle to fill the nave with tumult. Smoke and masonry belched from the wall. The flickering lights whirled and dazzled and behind diem the image of the Grey Cavalier had solidified into a towering man in plumed hat and long curled wig, with a broad, pointed moustache and a thick beard, who was now moving slowly but threateningly towards them.
Jane’s nerve gave way. She was going to run, but the Doctor grabbed her arm. ‘Stand perfectly still,’ he whispered.
‘What is it?’ Jane croaked. Her throat had dried up and felt as rough as sandpaper.
‘I told you,’ the Doctor reminded her. ‘It’s a psychic projection.’
Jane winced,
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