Part 8 (1/2)

He came pounding through waist-high, flowering gra.s.ses and weeds with arms flailing and breath heaving, as though the hounds of h.e.l.l were after him.

It was Will Chandler.

Will hadn't stopped running since he left the church.

He still kept glancing behind him in panic and now, as he looked over his shoulder again, his foot slipped into a rabbit hole and he tripped and fell headlong, disappearing from sight among the rank vegetation. Whimpering, he struggled to his feet, stumbled forwards and lurched into a run again.

His chest ached and his face showed the extent of his agony. But the sounds of the battle were still ringing in his cars; he was driven onward by the horrors of the fighting that was still going on inside his head, and nothing could stop him or slow him down.

Will intended to stop when he reached the shelter of the village, and not before.

Tegan stood at another window now, in Ben Wolsey's seventeenth-century parlour. She looked out at his garden, crammed with cottage flowers, whose loveliness expressed all the country pleasures she had hoped to find in her grandfather's home.

She sighed ... and stealthily moved her hand towards the window catch, which was just above her head. If she could reach that and open the window without the farmer seeing her, she would he out before he could move. Willow had left her in Wolsey's charge while he sought Sir George Hutchinson; since she was not so afraid of this gentle giant as she had been of the s.a.d.i.s.tic Sergeant, she was more willing to take chances.

But Wolsey, who was standing in front of the fireplace, had seen Tegan's arm move. He watched it slide almost imperceptibly upwards, and smiled to himself and shook his head. 'You wouldn't get very far if you tried to escape,'

he said.

The softly spoken words broke a long silence and startled Tegan. She twisted round and shouted 'What!' at Wolsey, in a voice so harsh it startled her even more than him. There was anger in it, and shattered nerves, and sheer frustration: she was close to breaking down.

Wolsey understood. His tone was sympathetic. 'There are troopers everywhere,' he explained.

'I wouldn't dream of putting you all to so much trouble!'

Tegan shouted.

Wolsey seemed embarra.s.sed. His manner was surprisingly uncertain, and even apologetic as he said, 'I rather think we're all Sir George's prisoners at the moment.' Then he smiled rea.s.suringly: 'If it's any comfort to you, your grandfather is safe.'

Relief gushed from Tegan in another shout, this time a cry of pleasure. She ran eagerly to the farmer. 'Then let me see him!' she demanded.

'All in good time.' A coldly calculating voice killed Tegan's happiness in the moment of its birth. She paused in mid-stride as Sir George appeared in the doorway. There was a smirk of victory on his face, and he gestured dramatically with his Cavalier's hat as he came into the room and walked slowly around her, appraising her, examining her in the May Queen dress as if he was looking at the points of a piece of horseflesh. 'You look charming, my dear,' he gloated, 'positively charming.'

The compliment, coming from those eyes and that smile, made Tegan feel unclean. 'Thanks for nothing' she said, and shrank away from hint, angry and embarra.s.sed.

'Can I have my own clothes back, please?'

Sir George leaned towards her. His face was eager and his eyes were as bright as stars. 'But you're to be our Queen of the May! You must dress the part.' He was purring like a cat now, a sound which made Tegan's skin crawl.

'Look,' she said frantically, 'I'm in no mood for playing silly games!'

'But this isn't a game.' Suddenly Sir George's tone and expression were deadly serious. They contained an intensity which shook Wolsey into alertness. His next words astonished both of them. 'You,' he said to Tegan, 'are about to take part in an event that will change the future of mankind.'

7.

Tegan the Queen

The bare brick walls of the hut had once been painted white; now they were merely dingy. A window protected by iron bars allowed barred sunlight to slant brightly across a floor furnished with forgotten bales of straw.

On one of these Andrew Verney sat. He gazed, without much hope, at Turlough who was testing the window bars for signs of weakness. He had tried them himself, and knew there were none.

'Solid,' Turlough sighed. He moved away from the window, leaned his back against a wall and looked curiously at the old man. 'Why are they keeping you a prisoner here?' he asked.

'Because of what I discovered,' Verney said, returning Turlough's scrutiny with a gaze tinged with sadness.

Seeing Turlough's uncomprehending expression, he added, 'Have you been to the church?'

'Oh, yes.' Now Turlough understood only too well. He picked up a dusty oil drum, carried in over to Verney and sat down on it beside him.

Verney shook his head sadly: 'Years of research, to discover that something as evil as the Malus was more than a legend.'

Turlough thought for a moment 'It wasn't active when you discovered it?'

'No.' Verney gave a wry, helpless smile. 'My mistake was telling Sir George Hutchinson. It was his deranged mind which caused its awakening.'

This sort of talk was making Turlough feel even more nervous and agitated. 'We've got to find a way out of here,'

he said urgently. 'We have to let the Doctor know what is happening.'

Verney shrugged. 'But how?' He had tried all the ways there were.

Turlough studied him. The old man had obviously been shaken by his experience and looked tired and worn; if they were going to get out of here it would be up to him to lead the way. He rose from his seat and returned to the barred window. Looking out at the deserted yard, he asked, 'Are there any guards?'

'I don't know.'

'Guard!' Turlough shouted through the window. He hurried to the door. 'Guard!' he shouted again. There was no reply, and no sound of movement outside. It was beginning to look as if they had been abandoned here.

Turlough tested the door. It was pretty solid too, but at least it was wood, and that would splinter if you applied enough pressure. The planks were old and gnarled, with gaps which let in strips of light. He was sure they could be made to give way.

He looked back at Andrew Verney, still sitting wearily on his seat of straw. 'What are you like as a battering ram?'

he asked him.

Verney's eyebrows lifted in surprise.

The underground pa.s.sage connecting the church with the ancient yeoman's farmhouse which now belonged to Ben Wolsey was long, narrow, low, winding and since it was strewn with rocks, pitted with holes and had to be tackled in a crouching position arduous.

So it was with a promise of considerable relief for her aching back and trembling legs that Jane Hampden negotiated the very last bend and saw, up ahead, the spiral staircase glimmering faintly in the light of the Doctor's torch. He smiled over his shoulder to encourage her. 'Not much further!' he called.

'Doctor ... Wait!' Jane panted. Eager though she was to straighten her back and rest her legs, there were some doubts which she had to clear up before she went a step further. Indeed, her understanding of the situation was still minimal and if she were honest she would admit that even the bits she thought she knew were pretty hazy. So she was relieved when the Doctor waited for her to catch up, and as soon as she reached him she plunged into the sea of doubts which surrounded her.

'Will said he saw the Malus in 1643 in the church.'

'That's right.'