Cauldron of Fear (6 page)

'It's getting
late,' said the nearest of the three, Kate Dawson. She, like Jane,
was tall and angular, but without even a pretence towards any
feminine beauty. 'We were beginning to think you might not come
tonight.' There was accusation in her tone, but Jane was used to
her irritability and well aware that Kate also resented Jane's
position as leader of the little band.

'There is
still plenty of time,' she replied coolly. 'The coach will not
reach the crossroads before three at the earliest, and it is rare
enough for it to be even that close to time.'

'There are new
rumours that the coach companies are adding extra guards to the
night runs,' Mary Watling growled. Even her normal voice was deep
and rough and her heavy body muscled like a man's. Fifteen years
labouring in her father's fields had honed what nature had given
her, until she was a match for most men in strength and the
mistress of many.

'There are always new rumours,' Jane replied easily. 'But
rumours are rumours because they are seldom true. Only this evening
I spoke with two officials in the
Drum
and they became quite garrulous
in their cups.'

'Aided, no
doubt, by you?' Ellen Grayling, the fourth member of the group
laughed. Jane smiled back in the darkness.

'A little,'
she agreed. 'Their ale was, shall we say, just a little more potent
than they would have expected.'

'You and your
potions,' Mary said gruffly, but with good humour. 'So what did
these fine gentlemen confide in you?'

'Only that
there are few enough passengers willing to take the night coaches
without them having to pay good coin for extra guards, the same
reason the patrols are now less frequent, for the army does nothing
for nothing and the offer of rewards is no guarantee of filling
soldiers' bellies.

'There is a
patrol out this night but twenty miles north of here, close to
where we stopped the coach last week. Not only that, but there are
only four troopers and a corporal up there, even so. The pending
trouble with the Dutch has meant that many troops are being called
to muster down along the coast, so that all that are left for such
duties up this far are young boys and old men.'

'Your father's
inn is a good source of intelligence, and no mistaking,' Ellen
Grayling said. 'My brother was saying much the same thing at
breakfast this morning.'

Ellen was the
youngest of the women, still in her teens and the daughter of Lord
Grayling. As such, she had no need of the money that the foursome
gained from their misadventures, but the danger and excitement
appealed to her such that it had been she who originally mooted the
idea that the night coaches were an easy source of money - and
more.

'Your brother
still has to pay us for the Irish wench we sent him two weeks
since,' Jane retorted. 'I trust you reminded him of that?'

'I did,
indeed.' There was a faint chink-chinking of metal coins in the
darkness. 'I have our bounty here now. I shall divide it when we
are done, unless you would prefer to share it out now?'

'No, later
will do,' Jane confirmed. 'For now, I think we should be on the
move. And,' she added, wheeling her horse back to face the road,
'if my information is correct, we may well have another little
filly for your brother's stables this night.'

Harriet
Merridew could not sleep at all, though the hour was now well past
midnight and she had been hard at work since first light that
morning. The stories she heard in Fetworth were more than just
disconcerting; if true, they meant there was big trouble afoot.

She had not
ventured right into the village itself, neither had she seen the
man, Jacob Crawley, with her own eyes, but John Slane, at the
smithy, told her what he had heard, and his daughter, Mags,
confirmed it was true, a man had arrived at the village,
proclaiming he was a hunter of witches and heretics, appointed by
some bishop in the west country and now authorised by the Reverend
Wickstanner to conduct an investigation into allegations of
witchcraft concerning Matilda Pennywise, the granddaughter of old
Hannah, who had lived in Fetworth since birth.

'That's
ridiculous,' Harriet had retorted. 'Matilda Pennywise is no witch,
though London has definitely given her a broader outlook on life
than many around here. Who has made these allegations against
her?'

'The fellow,
Crawley, has not said,' John Slane replied, 'only that he has
testimony, signed and witnessed. Someone said one of his witnesses
was old Paul Horrocks.'

'But Paul
Horrocks died nearly two weeks since,' Harriet protested. 'His
horse kicked him in the head and he was dead before they got him to
the physician in Leddingham.'

'Rumour has it
that he signed his testimony beforehand and that the accident was
no accident and that his horse was bewitched by Matilda in revenge
at his making his complaint about her.'

'Rubbish!'
Harriet snorted. 'I doubt Horrocks ever set eyes on Matilda a
handful of times, for he seldom came in from his farm and Hannah's
cottage is set away from the main village. Besides, old Paul could
not read nor write.'

'Wickstanner
recorded his testimony, I've heard,' Mags said, 'and Paul made his
mark to the document.'

'And then
conveniently died,' Harriet mused, but then decided it wisest not
to pursue her train of thought. Simon Wickstanner was no friend of
hers, nor she of his, for she had not that long since been forced
to tell him, in no uncertain terms, that his continued pestering
and advances were loathsome to her, although she had not quite gone
so far as to use that word directly to his face.

Now, as she
sat alone in her bedroom, high up under the eaves of Barten Meade,
Harriet sensed that Matilda Pennywise might only be the first to
stand accused of crimes against the Church. Jacob Crawley had
surely not happened upon the village by chance, which meant that
Simon Wickstanner was the instigator in this affair and that the
choice of Matilda as the target of these allegations was also no
coincidence.

The greasy
little priest's eyes roved over every presentable female he came
across and it was therefore quite possible - probable even - that
she had succeeded Harriet as his main prey. Matilda's London
upbringing gave her, so rumour had it, more than just a wider
knowledge than the other local girls, but also a quick wit and a
ready tongue and Harriet could imagine what sort of rebuff she
would have given the piggy-eyed cleric.

'You little
swine,' she breathed, barely out loud. 'This is your way of getting
back at her, isn't it?' Harriet swung her legs off the bed, stood
up and paced across to the window, drawing aside the curtain to
peer out into the blackness beyond. 'And then will it be me you
turn your dog on?' she mused.

Her breasts
rose and fell beneath the thin shift she wore and she remained
rooted for several long seconds, her mind filling with so many
thoughts that it became too crowded for any semblance of order.

'I think,
Master Wickstanner,' she said, opening the window and leaning out
into the cool night air, 'that you are quite possibly evil enough
to do anything, for all your clerical garb and air of piousness.'
She furrowed her brow, thinking furiously and trying to banish the
images that swirled around inside her mind.

'No,' she
whispered, 'it shall not be, for I know one man who will stand
against you and your foul lies. Let us see how you fare when
confronted with education, shall we?'

Kitty sat
astride the curious rocking horse, groaning and trembling as the
device lurched back and forth, the long phallus from the saddle
embedded deep within her, the cunningly contoured edge rubbing up
and down her swollen clitoris with every movement.

Adam had
lifted her onto the devilish seat, strapping her ankles to the
rigid iron stirrup extensions and adjusting their length so that
her legs were held stretched, thus preventing any chance of the
hapless girl lifting herself clear. With her arms still strapped
behind her to the training harness, all she could do was remain
upright, unable even to prevent her weight shifting, nor to defend
herself against the periodic slashing of his whip, which guaranteed
that her convulsive movement would set the beastly contraption into
another cycle of to and fro rhythm and renewing the stimulation
that was even now threatening to launch her into an oblivion of
abandonment.

'Nice horsey,
eh, Titty Kitty?' Adam stood alongside her, leering into her face,
savouring the effect of his insidious torture routine. 'Nice horsey
cock in your little cunny getting you all hot, eh, Titty Kitty?' He
tweaked her right nipple, sending a fresh spasm of heat searing
down through her spine.

'N-n-no,
m-master!' she stammered, barely able to control her tongue.
'P-please, I b-beg y-you!'

'You beg me?'
Adam chuckled. 'Then beg me the way I told you and we'll see,
eh?'

Kitty
swallowed hard and cleared her throat of the spittle that was
threatening to choke her. 'P-please, master,' she began again,
making a tremendous effort to keep her voice steady. 'Your slave,
Titty Kitty, she begs you t-to spare her from this punishment cock
and punish her with her master's fine cock instead.'

'Better, Titty
Kitty,' Adam nodded. He tweaked the nipple again, but this time
maintained his grip on the swollen teat. 'Perhaps you are deserving
of a good fucking now, after all.'

'Yes,
m-master,' Kitty whined. 'I'll be a good girl, I s-swear it!'

Adam laughed,
a malicious rumble. 'I think another ten minutes, to be on the safe
side,' he taunted her, suddenly slapping her naked flank which set
the horse rocking faster again. 'And let's see you ride your fine
steed on your own, eh? Show me how good you are and then we'll see
about giving you a mount of a different kind!'

Simon
Wickstanner entwined his fingers nervously and stared across at his
guest, who sat in the high-backed chair on the opposite side of the
huge rectory fireplace to the chair that Wickstanner habitually
occupied.

'You will not
harm the girl permanently, Master Crawley?' he said, not for the
first time. 'I wish her no permanent ill, you understand, simply
that whatever devils are within her be expunged and that she see
the error of her ways and return to the Mother Church.'

'And to the
protection of your own good offices, no doubt,' Crawley said, only
the flickering of one eye betraying the irony in his statement. He
leaned back, held up his wine goblet to the light and pursed his
lips.

'Mistress
Pennywise will come to no permanent harm, not if you are willing to
accept her confession and bestow the Lord's mercy upon her,' he
said. 'But I suggest that we do not rush these things. A few more
days spent in the crypt chambers beneath the church will do her
soul no harm at all, and then I shall parade her through the
village, as a warning to other would-be heretics.'

He extended
his goblet as Wickstanner picked up the wine decanter and leaned
forward to offer it.

'Of course, in
the old days she would have been hanged on the green,' he said,
'after a public flogging and a day at the stake to reflect upon her
sins. Nowadays, of course, their lordships, in their wisdom,
prescribe a far more merciful approach, though whether mercy in
this life is any sort of blessing to the soul that eventually faces
heavenly judgement is a moot point, in my opinion.'

'Erm, well,
yes,' Wickstanner agreed, topping the wine in his own goblet, 'but
Mistress Pennywise's sins are not such as they cannot be atoned for
in this life, I am sure. She simply needs to see the error of her
ways, as do so many modern young women.'

'No
discipline,' Crawley sneered. 'No respect, not for their God, their
saviour, nor for their elders and betters. For my own sins, the
Good Lord has seen fit to bestow upon me the task of restoring the
discipline into their ungrateful lives.'

'I heard you
whipping her,' Wickstanner said, 'and I know that you have shaved
her hair completely.' His tongue ran along his top lip and his eyes
twitched.

'All sources
of pride must be taken from or beaten from one such as she,'
Crawley said, his voice flat, as if repeating a litany. 'Remove a
woman's clothing and jewellery, remove her hair even, and what is
there to remain proud of? And the lash scourges unclean and
unworthy thoughts from within, baring her soul as surely as we have
bared her flesh.'

'I understand,
Master Crawley,' Wickstanner nodded. He paused, seeming to reflect
for several seconds. 'You, ah, enjoy your work, Master Crawley?' he
ventured at last.

Crawley fixed
him with a long hard stare. 'My enjoyment, or otherwise, is of no
account, priest,' he growled. 'I go where God bids and do as he
sees fit to direct me. I seek out sin and abomination and first
punish and then, by his good grace, expunge it.'

'Of course,
Master Crawley,' Wickstanner agreed hurriedly, 'I was not
suggesting otherwise, simply that maybe the Good Lord has seen fit
to grant you a sense of pride and achievement in your crusade
against his enemies?'

'Aye,' Crawley
said, 'he has seen fit to grant me that, 'tis true, for without
that, He in his Almighty wisdom, knows that I should not be able to
serve him as well as I humbly pray I now do.'

The two men
fell silent again; a silence that lasted perhaps two minutes and
was eventually broken by the witchfinder.

'You have sent
a message to the wench's grandmother, as I instructed?' he
said.

Wickstanner
nodded. 'I sent the verger's boy to her cottage, telling her to be
here at sunrise tomorrow.'

'And you think
she will pay a tribute to our Lord, in return for His sparing of
her mortal body?'