Doctor Who and the Crusaders by David Whitaker

understanding and provide him with a character with whom he could sympathize. As she pictured herself actually relating any of these stories under the unwavering gaze of what she knew would be a most critical audience, a cold, clammy hand of fear closed around her heart, but she resolutely pushed that vision from her mind and started to tabulate a list of authors in her mind.
    Suddenly she saw a hand appear in the archway leading to the corridor beyond, and a tall, richly-dressed man slipped into the room, a finger to his lips, his eyes burning with intensity.
    ‘I am Luigi Ferrigo,’ he whispered urgently, ‘and I have come to set you free.’ He stared about the room and spotted the figure of the servant in the ante-room, sorting through the clothes.
    ‘Who sent you?’ asked Barbara, a wild hope surging through her, mostly that she would be released from the role of story-teller she was inwardly dreading so much. ‘Was it Sir William?’
    Ferrigo nodded quickly. In his right hand, he held a pair of gloves; on the back of each was embroidered a snake picked out with a series of small pearls. He laid them down on thetable, gesturing urgently with both his hands to lend force to his persuasion.
    ‘I have a horse for you in the stable, and a guide to take you to Jaffa. But you must come at once!’
    Barbara nodded and got silently to her feet, then thought of the flimsiness of her costume.
    ‘I’ll need a covering of some kind,’ she pleaded. The Genoese pursed his lips then swung the heavy dark cloak from his own shoulders and wrapped it around her.
    ‘Come!’ He snatched up his gloves, urging her through the archway, with a last look back at the servant to make sure she was still occupied. Hastily but without any signs of panic, he conducted her through a series of corridors, keeping as much to the shadows where possible, stopping sometimes and listening; his head bent forward as he searched with acute hearing to find if danger lay around a corner. Once they slipped past a Saracen guard, who stood half asleep, leaning on a lance – and just before they reached the head of a small stone stairway which, the man whispered to Barbara, led down to the stables. They had to negotiate themselves past an open doorway of a well-lit room, from within the depths of which they could both distinguish the sounds of several men talking. The merchant risked a look in and, satisfied that the men were heavily engaged in a game of chance, hurried Barbara across and down the flight of stairs.
    Breathing rather heavily, he held her back with one arm as he peered out of the archway which led out to a small street, on the other side of which was a half-open door leading to the stables. He glanced anxiously up at the moon, which rode high in the cloudless sky.
    ‘Stay here,’ he breathed, ‘and run across to that door when I call.’ Barbara nodded, and he stepped out boldly, turning his head quickly from right to left. She watched him walkacross to the little door, push it open and then look back at her. Even before he could open his mouth, she clutched the cloak around her tightly and ran across to join him. He closed the door behind her, took her by the arm, gently but firmly, and led her to the other end of the stables. The horses tethered in their stalls stared at the hurrying couple as they went by, the pride of the Grand Sultan’s collection, each one as black as pitch, with coats that rippled and gleamed in the moonlight filtering through the small windows high up on the side walls.
    ‘Your guide should be at the other end of the stables,’ whispered Ferrigo, ‘the horses ready for immediate departure.’
    ‘How can I ever thank you,’ said Barbara gratefully. Ferrigo smiled at her, and it was at that moment that a tiny icicle of suspicion formed at the back of her neck, sending little droplets of shivers down her spine. She heard the sound of footfalls behind her, watched the smile grow on Ferrigo’s lips, the eyes