Free Doctor Who: The Reign of Terror by Ian Marter Page A

in the dungeon, knowing that their
turn would come after all. And it did. They heard the stamping of the
guards' boots coming round the corner and the terrible grating of
the key in the lock. They both felt sick with fear.
    'All right, you two. Come on out!'
roared the gaoler as the door creaked open.
    Prodded by the vicious bayonets they
stumbled out into the smoky gloom of the passage.
    'Get in line,' the gaoler rapped,
locking up the dungeon again.
    Susan and Barbara were shoved brutally
forward to join the procession of dirty, bleary-eyed, frightened
prisoners huddled at the end of the vault. Some were crying
hysterically, others simply stared into space as if in a trance. The
gaoler checked the names on his lists against the pale, cowering
victims. 'That's the lot for today,' he declared, handing the lists
to one of the guards. 'Another batch for Madame Guillotine.'
    'But where's Ian?' Susan exclaimed in
English, gazing around her.
    The gaoler leered cruelly, enjoying her
anguish. 'You mean your handsome friend?' he chuckled. 'He was
lucky, Mademoiselle. Citizen Lemaitre crossed him off the list.' He
leaned forward so that Susan recoiled from his sour alcoholic breath.
'You ladies were not so lucky.'
    Susan's eyes brimmed with tears and she
bit her lip as if to prevent herself from saying something that might
make things worse for Ian. Barbara clasped her hand tightly, her face
frozen in a mask of hopeless resignation.
    'Take them away!' roared the gaoler,
swaggering back to his alcove and his bottle of cognac.
    The soldiers drove their victims along
the vault like a herd of animals. As they passed Ian's cell, Barbara
and Susan caught a brief glimpse of his pale face pressed against the
grille in his door, his white knuckles gripping the bars in impotent
rage.
    'Barbara! Susan!' he shouted, rattling
the cell door as if trying to wrench it off its hinges.
    The girls tried to stop to speak to
him, but they were grabbed and hurled along with the rest of the
prisoners up the steps and out into the courtyard.
    Ian Chesterton ran across to the barred
window and pulled himself up to look outside. He saw a ramshackle
cart painted a livid red colour, with a roofless cage of wooden poles
lashed together, standing in the courtyard. Between the shafts a
dusty old horse stood with sagging knees and drooping head, waiting
for its cargo of condemned. He watched with mute horror as the
prisoners were herded into the tumbril and the gate was fastened
across the back. The bored little driver clambered up onto the box
and the creaking tumbril slowly rumbled away escorted by half a dozen
soldiers marching raggedly alongside. As the cart turned under the
archway and disappeared, Ian caught a heartrending glimpse of
Barbara's and Susan's pale faces jammed against the cage and frozen
in dulled resignation.
    He let go of the bars and slid to the
floor. Slumping onto the bed he sank his head into his hands. Up
until that moment he had almost managed to convince himself that the
whole adventure had been a ghastly nightmare.
    Now he knew that it was not. Far from the Conciergerie, two young
men armed with muskets and shrouded in cloaks despite the heat were
lurking in the shadows of a narrow alleyway leading off a forlorn and
almost deserted back street.
    The elder man was Jules Renan. He had a
handsome but slightly fleshy face and his dark eyes were sharp and
alert. His short neck made him look stockier than he really was and
he wore a flat tricorn hat on his squarish head. His younger
companion was very fair and slimmer, with more refined features, and
he wore a tall rounded hat with a broad brim. Both men wore their
hair tied at the back with small bows. Jules had an air of calm
authority, whereas his companion looked impulsive but utterly
dedicated to their cause.
    'The tumbril should have passed by now,
Jules ... ' muttered the younger man, fidgeting impatiently.
    Jules smiled placidly. 'You should try
to cultivate a little patience, Jean,' he