Cauldron of Fear (27 page)

Wickstanner stared at him, his jaw slack. 'You would
lie
, on oath?' he all but
shrieked.

Crawley
regarded him from the corner of his eye. 'No,' he replied quietly,
'I would not lie on oath. Not at all.' A low chuckle escaped his
lips, which twitched with what Wickstanner realised was purely evil
amusement. 'Would you, Master Wickstanner?'

The
witchfinder's features suddenly became totally immobile, only the
slightest movement of his eyes indicating that his face was
anything but an inanimate mask. Wickstanner opened his mouth to
reply, to deny that he would ever commit such a damnable sin, but
found no words would come.

'Anyway,'
Crawley said, relaxing again, 'with any luck and the Lord's
blessing, there will be no need for us to hang Matilda Pennywise. I
received a messenger an hour since, offering me two guineas to stay
the execution and with the promise of paying the full amount by
nightfall.'

'This
messenger,' Wickstanner said, 'was he from Hannah Pennywise?'

'He didn't say
he was, nor did he say he was not,' Crawley replied. 'It matters
not to me, either way. I can tell you this, however: I do not think
he was from the village, not the village itself, anyways. I had
never set eyes on him before, and his clothing was just a little
more refined than most to be found around this backwater.'

'Perhaps
Mother Pennywise has found a benefactor?' Wickstanner
suggested.

'More likely
the granddaughter has,' said Crawley. 'After all, she was quite an
attractive wench, particularly when she had hair.' He chuckled
harshly. 'And she will be again,' he added, 'just so long as the
tithe is paid by tonight.

'But don't
worry yourself, priest,' he went on. 'The two guineas will ensure
she gets a painless enough death, should it come to it. My men are
very good with the rope, you know. They learned a few little tricks
from an Italian traveller we met in Norfolk some years ago, and now
their victims only dance if they want them to.'

'I still say
you should let me take the money in your stead,' Thomas Handiwell
urged Harriet. 'It is madness for you to go yourself, let alone
unaccompanied.'

The pair stood
outside the back door of the house at Barten Meade. Upstairs,
Harriet's father still lay in his bed, the latest fever abating,
but still far too weak and vague even to realise what was going on.
With him now was Lizzie, from the inn, whom Thomas had brought to
tend the former soldier, while the Merridew's young general maid,
Biddy Lathwell, took a well-earned break after an unbroken nursing
stint nearing twenty-four hours.

'You read the
note, Master Handiwell.' Harriet remained adamant. 'If I do not
take the money myself, alone, they threatened to kill my poor
cousin.'

'And what if
they then take you, as well? What then? They will have the money,
your cousin and you.'

'I cannot see
that two women will be of much use to them,' Harriet retorted. 'Who
will be left to pay a further ransom then?'

'Yes, who
indeed.' It was not a question. Thomas could see that nothing he
could say would dissuade Harriet from her purpose and that his only
option now was to reduce the element of risk as far as possible. To
that end, Harriet herself, together with young Toby Blaine, had
already concocted a rough plan, but it was still dangerous and
relied too much on an element of chance, for Thomas's liking.

'Whatever
happens,' he said, 'you must use every effort, every tactic, to
delay your eventual encounter with these villains, male or female.
If that youngster is correct - and I have to say he makes a lot of
sense for one so young - then there are only so many other places
where you will be able to leave the river, so you must give us time
to catch up to you, whatever else you do.

'Remember, my
dear Harriet,' he urged, all pretence at formality now banished,
'it would break my heart if anything ill were to befall you. I know
you remain determined not to take me, but you will always remain
very close to my heart and a dear friend, too.

'Would that we
had more resources for this, too,' he continued, before Harriet
could think of a suitable reply, 'but all we have is young Captain
Hart and his handful of men, which is nowhere near enough given the
size of the area these scoundrels have at their disposal. If we had
even twenty men, then we could disperse several patrols to throw
some sort of a cordon about those woods, but as it is we are forced
to rely on being in the right place at the right time - and upon
the element of surprise,' he added grimly.

'The odds are
not good, Harriet, and I do not like this at all. I just wish you
would let me talk you out of it, but I see you will not. Perhaps
just another few hours - maybe send the boat downstream with
another message?'

'No, Thomas.'
Harriet used his christian name for the first time in all the years
since she had known Handiwell. 'They would know it was most likely
a ruse, for sure. I cannot afford to put poor Sarah's life at risk
in that fashion.'

'Then so be
it,' Thomas conceded. 'And let us all pray that the Good Lord
chooses to look kindly upon our endeavours.'

Sarah opened
her eyes, blinked and turned onto her side, trying to focus her
thoughts through the blur of fatigue that still held her in its
grip. She had slept, but she had no idea for how long, although she
remembered, vaguely, Ellen talking to someone at the door and then
returning to the bed and stretching out alongside her again. Now,
however, there was no sign of her.

Groaning,
Sarah sat up and, as her head slowly cleared, began to look about.
The bedroom was much as she remembered it from the night before,
except that now, through the heavy curtains at the window, chinks
of bright sunlight cast thin shafts of brilliance across the thick
carpets. Ellen's riding garb of the previous evening still lay in a
crumpled heap next to the foot of the bed, the ornate oil lamp on
the high chest still flickered and the bottle of wine that Ellen
had produced to refresh them during their prolonged encounter lay
empty and discarded in the middle of the floor.

Stiffly, Sarah
swung her legs over the side of the bed and rose unsteadily to her
feet, barely noticing, as she did so, that they were still firmly
encased in the ridiculously high-heeled shoes. Wobbling
precariously, she made her way slowly to the door, gripped the gold
plated handle, turned it and pulled.

Nothing
happened. With a sigh of frustration she tried again, but she knew,
even as she did so, that the door was not going to open, not until
whoever had locked it - presumably Ellen - returned with the key.
For several seconds Sarah stood there, her hand still gripping the
handle, her thoughts in total disarray.

At last, for
want of a better alternative, she turned, teetered across to the
window and drew back one of the curtains, shying away from the
sudden brilliance of the morning sun. Shading her eyes with one
hand she peered out through the latticed glass, noting the broad
expanse of manicured lawn, the carefully shaped miniature trees and
what appeared to be a large stone-edged pond, some distance from
the house and just before the cultivated area gave way to a screen
of much higher trees.

The windows
were secured by means of simple catches, but as soon as Sarah swung
the first one open, she realised escape via this route was
impossible. Peering over the cill she saw that the bedroom was on
the third storey and that the lower two were, if anything, higher
than the one she was now on. Below her was a sheer drop of at least
thirty feet, possibly more, straight down onto a broad expanse of
paving that ran along the entire length of the building.

'I shouldn't
even think about it.' The sound of Ellen's voice made Sarah jump
and the little squeak of surprise was out before she could prevent
it. She turned guiltily, facing her self-appointed mistress, her
cheeks already beginning to burn again. 'If the drop didn't kill
you,' Ellen said evenly, 'it would most certainly cripple you for
life.' She now wore much more feminine clothing, though even so the
cut of her new outfit was decidedly severe. The black velvet skirt
was much straighter than was currently fashionable, the waist drawn
in by a wide belt, booted ankles and feet just visible below the
lower hem.

Above this she
wore a simple blouse of a lemon coloured silk, over which a tightly
fitted jacket to match the skirt was open fronted, cut away in a
Spanish bolero style. It was, Sarah decided, feminine and yet
masculine, both at the same time and Ellen, with her hair newly
drawn back and up and her make-up freshly and meticulously
reapplied, looked stunning.

'I - I was
just getting some fresh air,' Sarah offered plaintively. 'I felt a
little dizzy. It must have been the wine.'

'Yes,' Ellen
smiled knowingly, 'it must have been. Well then, my pretty Sarah, I
think the best thing for you will be a nice bath. We have a furnace
house here and plenty of hot water, so I've instructed the servants
to fill my own personal bath for you.' She held out a hand. 'Come
along, pretty, let's get you nice and fresh and then we can find
you something more suited. Can't have you sitting a horse like
that, no matter how delicious you'd look. It'd be no way to greet
your cousin, especially as I understand you've never met her
before.'

Simon
Wickstanner stood once more in the doorway of the little cellar
room, staring at Matilda's motionless figure, now huddled in the
furthest corner. Her head and face were still enclosed within the
leather hood, her arms and wrists still pinioned to the harness she
had now worn since Crawley and his men had dragged her here. Her
feet remained locked inside the heavily weighted boots and, as he
studied her, Wickstanner was finally forced to face up to the
enormity of what he had done and to the monstrous atrocity that had
been committed in the name of the God he was supposed to be avowed
to serve.

He saw again
the red welts on her back, buttocks and thighs, and shuddered at
the memory of the way in which the poor creature had been flogged,
and at the way the assembled villagers had witnessed the scene with
an air of what could only be described as relish. The way the men
in particular had shuffled closer, their eyes almost glazing over,
had haunted Wickstanner ever since and he had not dared to close
his own eyes in sleep all night, for the devils of darkness waited
just such an opportunity to come and avenge themselves on him.

Tears welled
up in his eyes and his entire body began to shake, so that he was
forced to grip the doorframe in order to remain upright. For
several minutes he stood thus, unable to enter, unable to leave, as
he fought with his conscience in an unequal struggle that could
have but only one outcome. He knew what he had to do, but first he
needed to summon the strength to do it.

At last,
breathing heavily, he forced himself to release his supportive grip
and stumbled forward, hesitating as he reached Matilda and then
forcing himself to kneel beside her and shake her shoulder, before
what little resolve he had managed to muster could dissolve again.
Matilda moaned quietly and then, as if in slow motion, turned her
head to look up at him.

Her eyes
stared out through the narrow slits in the mask, but the hatred in
them was unmistakable.

'Matilda?' He
reached out again and touched her lightly on the top of her arm,
expecting her to cringe from the contact, but instead she remained
motionless, her glittering stare unwavering and unblinking.

'What do you
want?' she demanded flatly. 'Come to gloat, have you?' At last she
stirred, rolling onto her back, the sharp intake of breath and the
single wincing blink of her eyes indicating that the skin there was
still raw. 'Well, reverend Wickstanner,' she hissed, 'gloat all you
want. I'm past caring now, believe me.' Shamefacedly, Wickstanner
averted his gaze and looked down at the stone floor beside her.
Matilda let out a harsh, dry cackle.

'What's the
matter, little man of God?' she taunted him. 'Afraid you'll be
damned if you look at me? Well, you'll be damned all right, so go
on, dear Simon, you might as well look. After all, who's here to
bear witness against you, eh? Not me, that's for sure, for when
they take me out to hang me, Crawley's made it quite clear I shan't
be able to speak, but then, he's probably told you that, hasn't he?
The old scold's bridle will ensure I can't say a word about what's
been going on here and the rope will make certain it stays that
way.

'So,' she
rasped, raising her head slightly, 'look all you like. It must be
morning by now, so you don't have a lot of time left. They'll be
coming for me soon, you know.'

'No, they
won't,' Wickstanner said quietly. 'Not today, anyway. Master
Crawley has postponed everything until tomorrow.'

'So he can
spend another night screwing me, I suppose,' Matilda spat.

Wickstanner
shook his head. 'No, that's not the reason. A small sum of money
has been paid towards your absolution tithe and the rest is
promised for either tonight or tomorrow morning.'

'From my
grandmother? I don't believe you! She wouldn't give in to that sort
of blackmail, not even to save my skin.'

'I don't
know,' Wickstanner admitted. 'Perhaps you have another friend?'

'Friends,
yes,' Matilda grunted, 'but not with that sort of money.' he saw
her eyes narrow. 'Is this some sort of trick?'

'No. At least,
none that I am party to. With luck you'll be free of all this, come
this time tomorrow. Believe me, if I had the money myself I'd pay
Master Crawley and get you away all the sooner.'

'Oh, is that
so?' Matilda's tone was worse than scathing. 'Am I supposed to feel
grateful for that, reverend dear?' She snorted. 'Don't think I
don't know it's you who's responsible for me being here in the
first place.' With an effort she managed to sit up and half turn
the upper portion of her body away from him.