The Devil's Surrogate (11 page)

'I just don't
much like the look of the fellow,' Billy muttered. 'Looks like he's
already dead, if'n you ask me.'

'And acts like
he should be,' Hannah agreed, 'so you just make sure you get your
tail out of there as soon as you've delivered bag, note and
message.'

'And I get a
half-crown for this?' Billy asked suspiciously.

Hannah and
James nodded in unison as she delved into the folds of her skirt
and pulled out a coin. 'And this is a shilling of it,' she said,
pressing it into Billy's grubby palm. 'Mind you,' she added
fiercely, 'you let us down and I'll not only have it back off you,
I'll have the skin off your back and maybe something else to boot.
You understand me?' One look at the expression on Billy's face was
enough to answer her question.

Crawley's new
recruits had finally seemed to lose interest in her, if only
temporarily, but in truth Harriet realised she had passed beyond
caring any more. Her body ached in every joint and muscle, but even
those pains had subsided to a dull numbness that mimicked that of
her brain, and although she felt exhausted in every way, she knew
also that sleep would not come now, nor would she dare surrender to
it even if it did.

Her mouth felt
dry and sour, her tongue stiff and sore from the constant assault
of the metal prong, and she wondered if any of them would bother to
think about giving her water. Probably not if Crawley intended to
hang her. Dully, she looked up, craning her neck towards the narrow
slit of glass... it was still daylight outside, she saw, but the
combination of dirt and weeds growing up against the side of the
building made it impossible to even guess at how far the day had
advanced, or even whether it was sunny.

Sunset. One of
the men - or had it been Crawley himself? - had said they would be
hanging her at sunset, but somehow the prospect had failed to
penetrate her general horror. Now she began to consider this, and
as she did so, tears formed in her eyes, tears that were not for
herself but for Oliver, her father. If they killed her, who would
care for him? Who would tend the farm? Thomas Handiwell was a good
and kind man, but she doubted his interest would continue beyond
her death, for his only duty to her father would have come through
her if she had agreed to his proposal of marriage.

Thomas. Jane.
Jane Handiwell. Was it really possible that Jane was...? But of
course it was, for had not the girl told Harriet so herself? Yet
she still found it hard to believe it even though she knew Jane
hated her personally and saw her as a threat to her inheritance of
the inn. But hate, suspicion, jealousy, all those were
understandable even if they were not Christian, whereas robbery and
kidnapping, and on such a scale... Jane Handiwell, Ellen Grayling,
Mary Watling and especially Kate Dawson, who outwardly appeared to
be such a mousy and characterless individual... it seemed to
Harriet that the entire world must have gone mad.

Crawley was
certainly mad, she knew, though mad in a cold and zealous way
carrying with it a power and persuasiveness that could spread wider
and wider if no one was prepared to take a stand against it. The
Jacob Crawley's of the world were more dangerous than the worst
highwayman, murderer or thief, for they truly believed the
wickedness they purveyed was not wickedness at all but an
instrument of divine justice.

Or did
they?

Matilda's
grandmother had been mentioned more than once, Harriet now
realised, and there had been mention also of a payment. She shook
her head, and urged her fatigued mind to concentrate. Payment...
some kind of ransom? Her eyes narrowed. Yes, there had long been
talk in and around the village that Hannah Pennywise had a hidden
hoard of gold left her by her father. Nathan and the old woman had
never shown even the slightest sign of profligacy, so his bequest
must surely still be intact, assuming it existed at all.

Jacob Crawley
might not be an instrument of God, even if only a self-appointed
instrument, quite so much as an ordinarily greedy monster seeking
an earthly reward rather than eternal salvation. Harriet grunted.
Ordinary human failings she could understand, and the realisation
that Crawley was really no more than a common thief made him appear
suddenly less awesome, although not, she told herself grimly, any
less dangerous. He still held her life in his hands, and time must
surely be running out.

And then
another memory came back to her, although she could not at first be
sure it was a real memory and not a dream. She had a stark vision
of herself being thrown into this room, the leather hood pulled
over her face and laced tight, the terrible scold's bridle locked
over it, and then there was a swirling cloud of pain and shadow, a
cloud through which a light had come, and a face, and a voice...
'You'll go on your way with something to remember me by,' the voice
had grated, and then an awful ordeal followed accompanied by the
shock that such a thing could be happening to her. Eventually, her
mind had rebelled, refusing to acknowledge the reality of her
plight, and she fainted away.

Something to remember me by
.

Oh, she would
remember that, and she would remember him all right. How could any
woman ever hope to banish such memories?

Something to remember me by
.

How could she
ever forget?

Something to remember
...

And yet there
was
something she had forgotten, or rather something that had made
no sense to her stunned mind at the time. Now, however, it began to
come back to Harriet, and she recalled stories her father had told
her of his time in the eastern counties, especially the time he had
been garrisoned at... Colchester? Yes, Colchester. He said there
had been trials and executions there that at first were sanctioned
by the Church, spreading terror through the countryside and
inciting a wave of public piety that was much more about saving
one's body than one's eternal soul. And then even the Church and
its bishops had come to their senses, for their ecclesiastical
lordships were not so far removed from reality as not to realise
when something had gone too far. Oliver Merridew himself had led a
detachment out to a village near the coast to stop the intended
execution of three supposed witches, two old women and a young girl
barely of childbearing age. There had nearly been a riot in which
three villagers, and a member of Oliver's troops, was killed. It
had been the last of the executions, the last of the madness, the
last of the trials, at least in that part of the country, and the
man responsible had vanished from the area overnight almost as if
he had never existed. There had been stories of him, or at least of
someone bearing the same name, reappearing further north about a
year later. Harriet always read the newssheets, even if they were
usually two weeks old before they reached Leddingham, and then
nothing more was heard of him.

The world at
large had heaved a sigh of relief, at least that part of the world
where the maniac had spread his reign of terror. Some said he fled
to France and that there was a price on his head. Others said he
himself had been executed, though the stories differed as to
whether he died in Scotland or in France or even in Yorkshire.
Still others believed he had taken ship for the New World, or that
he became a missionary to the Dark Continent. But whatever the
truth, all agreed on one thing - if his name was never heard again
in England it would be the greatest blessing God could give his
children.

Something to remember me by
...
Something to remember, something that no one could ever hope to
forget...
or my name isn't Matthew
Hopkins
.

Harriet felt a chill run down her spine and numb her
legs.
Matthew Hopkins!
That was the name of the madman who had killed scores of
innocents in the name of God, the name that the sane and civilised
world had thought never to hear again, and now...

Surely not
, she thought desperately.
Yet had she not heard it from his own lips? She was certain now it
had been no dream. Jacob Crawley and Matthew Hopkins, the hated and
feared persecutor of innocents, the man who had put a rope around
the necks of old women and children alike... Jacob Crawley and
Matthew Hopkins were one and the same person, and now the rope was
about to go round Harriet's own neck!

Ellen Grayling lay back against the pile of pillows at the
head of her bed and grinned at Jane Handiwell. 'Janey, my dear,'
she drawled, 'you look so impressive in that darling outfit, but
what say you
do
catch one of the birdies? You aren't exactly equipped for the
ritual stuffing.'

Jane, who was
dressed in a black leather jerkin, breeches and boots, and who was
now in the process of pulling a matching hood over her head,
grinned back at her aristocratic young friend. 'Ellie dear,' she
replied smoothly, 'there is more than one way to skin a cat, and
certainly more than one way to stuff a bird, as I thought you
should know well enough by now.'

'Of course, my
darling,' Ellen replied, 'but not down in the main hall, and not in
front of all those beastly friends of Roddy's. It might suit for
one of those great sweaty men to stick his cock into a slave in
public, but we're supposed to be ladies.'

'The rules
don't say the bird has to be stuffed in public.' Jane smiled and
peered out from two narrow slits angled to give the mask an almost
oriental appearance. Only her mouth and chin remained uncovered.
'Besides,' she added, 'I can let Oona do the public show. I always
find it so amusing when those silly birds realise her little
secret.'

Ellen gave a
visible shudder. 'That creature makes my skin crawl. She's not
human, I'm sure of it, and one of these days she'll end up killing
someone. I do wish Roddy wouldn't put those claw things on her
hands; she's dangerous enough without them. Have you seen those two
fangs up close?'

'I think she's
a handsome specimen,' Jane retorted. 'She has the most beautiful
body, so strong and athletic, and her features beneath all the
paint and the masks... well, there's something very individual
about her.'

'Thank the
Lord for that!' Ellen exclaimed. 'To think there could ever be
another like her!'

'Perhaps, if
Roddy would permit us, we should try to tame her a little?' Jane
suggested.

For a moment
Ellen could not be sure her friend was serious, and when she
realised she was, her expression became even more horrified. 'You
can't mean that? Why, Jane Handiwell, is there no shame in you? You
look at that demented half-human creature and all you see is an
adventure in your bed. Shame on you!'

'Why, Ellie, I
do believe you might be jealous.' Jane's thin lips curled back in a
spiteful grin. 'The thought of my little pussy taking any cock is
too much for you to bear, isn't it? Well, I doubt it would ever
happen anyway. Even I would be wary of Oona when her shaft appears,
for the lust in her eyes signals danger, to be sure. No, Oona can
sate herself on the slaves. But today I shall be her handler, so I
shall need to scent myself heavily. You know what she's like if the
smell of female becomes too strong in her nostrils. Although she
knows just which females are game, I still wouldn't trust her if
she became too frustrated.'

'Then make
sure you carry a stout cane and a good thick whip,' Ellen urged.
'Beat her at the first sign of trouble, and don't be afraid to call
for help.'

'Then why
don't you come out with me?' Jane suggested. 'We can show those men
a thing or two between us, I'm sure.'

'I'm sure we
could,' Ellen agreed, 'but you know what Roddy is like about things
like that. In public, I must remain the dainty and silly little
lady just in case anyone was to think anything else and perhaps
suspect something. He even protests if I ride out in breeches on a
proper saddle during the daytime, so I have to be very careful to
keep out of his sight if I do other than he wishes.'

'Wait until he
settles down with his two little black bitches. I cannot for the
life of me understand how he can let those two barbarians into his
sight, let alone let them suckle on his cock as he does.'

'Oh, I don't
know,' Ellen sighed, 'they are perfectly tame and really quite
sweet. Besides, those big lips do look so soft...'

'Ellen
Grayling, you are worse even than I. Next thing you'll be telling
me is that you've taken one of them into your own bed and...' Her
voice trailed off seeing the expression on Ellen's face, and
turning on her heel, she strode towards the door. 'I'm not going to
continue with this conversation,' she said, 'for I suspect I might
not like the answers you give, and there are some things best left
unasked, I think.'

Harriet had
been awakened from an uneasy sleep, this time by Crawley himself.
The witchfinder kicked her thigh with the toe of his boot and
instructed her to rise.

Awkwardly,
feeling the cold in every one of her stiff joints, Harriet
obeyed.

Crawley stood
facing her and looking her up and down, a malicious grin on his
hawkish features. 'Doesn't look like there's much of the devil in
you now, does there, wench? Mind, it wouldn't do to let the poor
fools out there know that. There's not a body among them as doesn't
reckon it's you made Wickstanner put the rope round his neck and
jump the way he did.'

Harriet's eyes
grew round at this revelation, for it was the first time anyone had
mentioned Wickstanner's death to her.