042 - Doctor Who and the Masque of Mandragora

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Forced off course by the Mandragora Helix, the Tardis lands

in the province of San Martino in fifteenth-century Italy. Here,

the court astrologer, Hieronymous, has been taken over by

the Mandragora energy-form—Hieronymous and the other

members of his star-worshipping black magic cult will be

used as a bridgehead, enabling the Mandragora Helix to

conquer the Earth and rule it through their chosen servants.

The Doctor has to defeat not only the Mandragora energy,

but the evil schemes of the murderous Count Frederico who

plans to usurp the place of his nephew, the rightful ruler of

the province.

ISBN 0 426 11893 6

DOCTOR WHO AND

THE MASQUE OF

MANDRAGORA

Based on the BBC television serial The Masque of Mandragora by

Louis Marks by arrangement with the British Broadcasting

Corporation

PHILIP HINCHCLIFFE

published by

The Paperback Division of

W. H. Allen & Co. Ltd

A Target Book

Published in 1977

by the Paperback Division of W. H. Allen & Co. Ltd.

A Howard & Wyndham Company

44 Hill Street, London W1X 8LB

Marks

Broadcasting Corporation

Reproduced, printed and bound in Great Britain by

Richard Clay (The Chaucer Press) Ltd, Bungay, Suffolk

ISBN 0 426 11893 6

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way

of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise

circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of

binding or cover other than that in which it is published and

without a similar condition including this condition being

imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

CONTENTS

1 The Mandragora Helix

2 The Brethren of Demnos

3 Execution!

4 Sacrifice

5 The Prince Must Die

6 The Secret of the Temple

7 The Spell of Evil

8 Torture!

9 The Invasion Begins

10 Siege

11 Duel to the Death

12 The Final Eclipse

The Mandragora Helix

The year was 1492, the place—a remote principality in Northern

Italy. A handful of ragged peasants sweated and strained as they

hauled a cart full of hay along a steep path. Their faces were

lined and care-worn by years of drudgery but their natural high

spirits remained undimmed as they swore and cajoled amongst

themselves with great gusto.

They reached the brow of the hill and paused for breath.

Suddenly the air was filled with the pounding of horses’ hooves

and a troop of armed men appeared, their helmets and

breastplates glinting in the sun. Swiftly they surrounded the

defenceless peasants. One of them brandished a burning torch.

With a grin he tossed it into the cart. The dry grass exploded

into flame. Terrified, the peasants began screaming and running

in all directions. The horsemen allowed them to get a short

distance away then drew their swords and started to ride them

down. As each peasant was caught he was mercilessly butchered.

The slaughter continued for several minutes until a harsh

voice rang out.

‘Leave a few alive, Captain, to tell the others how

insurrection is dealt with!’

The captain of the troop saluted and called his men off. The

man who gave the order was seated astride a majestic ebony-

black stallion. The man wore rich and elaborate clothes denoting

he was someone of rank and power, a hunting outfit in red

velvet covered by a black silken cloak. But this outward elegance

was marred by his own features which were brutal and ugly:

heavy-lidded eyes, dark and cold, a nose hooked like a vulture’s

beak, a mouth set in a permanent sneer.

Apparently pleased with the scene of bloodshed and

carnage, he wheeled his horse and spurred it savagely in the

ribs. The animal darted forward at a gallop and the troop of

horsemen fell in behind and followed.

‘Make way! Make way for Count Federico!’

The mounted troop thundered through the city gates

scattering all before them and pulled up inside the palace

courtyard. The Count dismounted and, with a quick glance

towards a large shuttered window, entered the palace.

Behind the shutters a sombre drama was being enacted. The

old Duke of San Martino—a feared but just ruler—lay dying.

Around his deathbed were gathered all his courtiers, grave and

respectful. By the old man’s pillow, clasping his thin bony hand,

knelt a young man of about twenty. He was strikingly handsome

with long, dark-brown hair. This was his son and heir Giuliano.

The young Prince fought bravely to control his emotions as the

priest administered the Last Rites.

Observing the scene, a few paces removed, was the bizarre

figure of the court astrologer, Hieronymous. His eyes darted

ceaselessly round the room like a trapped bird of prey. His long

thick beard, black skull cap and voluminous cloak gave him a

strange and sinister appearance. Even those who knew him well

felt uneasy in his presence.

Abruptly the priest’s low mumblings came to a halt. It was

over. The Duke was dead. Giuliano rose and looked down on his

father’s face, austere and imposing even in this last moment of

life. A tall blond young man touched his arm in comfort. It was

his childhood friend and companion Marco.

‘He was a good man, Giuliano. A just and noble ruler.’

Giuliano nodded then turned round and faced the

astrologer. ‘Hieronymous, you foretold my father’s death. How?’

‘Everything is foretold by the stars,’ replied the old

soothsayer gravely. ‘I am just a humble astrologer, I only

interpret their meaning.’

‘But the exact day—the very hour—it’s not possible.’ The

young Prince clenched his fist in disbelief.

‘When Mars comes into conjunction with Saturn in the

seventh layer, and the moon is full-grown... death comes to great

ones. So it is decreed.’ The astrologer raised his arms

heavenwards and turned to leave.

As he reached the doors Count Federico entered. A look of

understanding passed between them unnoticed by anyone else

in the room, then the astrologer swept out.

‘I’m sorry you could not be present at my father’s deathbed,

Uncle,’ said Giuliano bitingly.

‘I came as soon as I could. There were important matters of

state to attend to.’

‘I see. I’m sorry. I thought you were out enjoying some

sport.’

The Count’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘There was trouble

among the peasants. They needed teaching a lesson.’ He rapped

his thigh with a leather riding whip.

Giuliano smiled sarcastically. ‘Isn’t that your sport, Uncle?’

The Count stared hatefully at his nephew for a moment

then turned on his heel and stalked out.

‘You are upset my lord,’ said Marco soothingly, ‘but do not

anger your uncle—not at this time.’ He dropped his voice,

‘Remember he is strong and ruthless.’

Giuliano drew himself up proudly—his handsome face stern

and regal. ‘I am Duke now. I want to rule over a land where

there is no tyranny, no blind ignorance and superstition like that

old fool Hieronymous preaches. We make our own lives, not the

stars.’

Marco nodded in agreement. ‘Nevertheless it is most

remarkable. Your father was in good health. To be struck down

so suddenly... and Hieronymous did predict it exactly.’

Far and deep in the Space-Time Vortex a strange blue craft

blinked and shimmered like a shaft of light. The craft was

unusually shaped, about eight feet high and five feet square and

on its top flashed a small white lamp. It had an altogether

enigmatic and alien appearance. Unless, that is, you happened

to be an earthling from the mid-twentieth century. In which case

you would have recognised it as a very ordinary London police

box. But even then you would have been misled. Because inside,

the craft was infinitely larger than it was on the outside, and

looked nothing like a police box. In fact it bore far more

resemblance to a highly sophisticated space ship, which is what it

was. A ship which travelled through Space and Time! Its inner

workings embodied a secret which had eluded countless

civilisations since the dawn of life itself.

The owner of the ship, however, seemed quite at home with

this grandiose achievement and frequently complained when

things went wrong. At this moment he was striding purposefully

along one of the many gleaming white corridors which ran off

the main control room. He was a tall curly-haired man of

indeterminate age with sparkling blue eyes and a beaming smile.

He was dressed rather curiously in tweed trousers and a long

red-velvet frockcoat. Round his neck he wore a very long

woollen scarf of many colours which trailed on the ground

behind him.

By his side was a pretty young woman who kept asking

questions as they walked along the corridor. She was Sarah Jane

Smith, a London journalist who had first met the Doctor several

years before when he had visited Earth. She had accompanied

him on other adventures since, and now felt she knew him well.

Even so the Doctor was always surprising her with something

novel and unexpected. This was the first time, for example, he

had allowed her to really explore the TARDIS.

She gazed round in fascination at the white walls with their

weird hexagonal indentations. They seemed to glow with an

unearthly light.

‘I’ve never been in this section before,’ she said admiringly.

‘One day I’ll give you a proper guided tour,’ replied the

Doctor. ‘If I can remember the way.’ He stopped by an open

doorway. Sarah peered in. A vast room stretched out before her,

empty apart from a pair of shoes in the middle of the floor.

‘What’s this?’

‘Boot cupboard. Not very interesting.’ The Doctor pressed a

button and the door closed.

Sarah frowned. ‘Doctor?’

‘Mmmm?’

‘Just how big is the TARDIS?’

The Doctor shrugged. ‘How big is big? Relative dimensions,

you see. No constant.’ He continued walking.

‘That’s not an answer.’

The Doctor stopped and turned. ‘All right—how big are

you? At the moment?’

Sarah drew herself up to her full height, which wasn’t very

tall. ‘Five feet five and a quarter.’

‘Bah!’ snorted the Doctor. ‘There are no measurements in

infinity. You humans have such little minds. I don’t know why I

like you.’ He strode off again. Sarah was not sure whether he

was really cross or not. She was about to tell him not to be so

rude when her attention was caught by a recess in the wall. She

pressed a button and the wall slid open to reveal a room beyond.

‘Hey what’s this place?’

Inside it was dark and dusty. The walls were panelled just

like the main control room but in brown mahogany not white. In

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摘要：

ForcedoffcoursebytheMandragoraHelix,theTardislandsintheprovinceofSanMartinoinfifteenth-centuryItaly.Here,thecourtastrologer,Hieronymous,hasbeentakenoverbytheMandragoraenergy-form—Hieronymousandtheothermembersofhisstar-worshippingblackmagiccultwillbeusedasabridgehead,enablingtheMandragoraHelixtoconqu...

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042 - Doctor Who and the Masque of Mandragora

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