Cauldron of Fear (3 page)

'Once, mebbe,'
Thomas grunted. 'Place is going to rack and ruin now, or ain't you
been over thataways lately? Hardly surprising, really. Girl like
that can hardly be expected to keep a place like that in good
repair.'

'Well, that's
right enough, I suppose,' Ned conceded. He stared down into the
bottom of his pewter tankard, regarding the dregs quizzically.
'Maybe one or two on us could go over and offer the odd helping
hand, just to be neighbourly and Christian, like.'

'Place'd need
more than an odd hand, I'm telling you,' Thomas snorted. 'Hasn't
seen a lick of wash these past five years, I'd wager, not since
Oliver Merridew took properly to his bed and Harriet paid off the
Walden lad.'

'Aye, well,
that's another thing, ain't it?' Ned remarked, scraping his pot
pointedly along the bar top. 'Wench ain't goin' t'leave her father
now, is she? Thinks the world of him, and no mistakin' that.'

'Wouldn't
expect her to leave him,' Thomas grunted. He reached across and
took the tankard, turning towards the nearest of the ale casks
behind him. 'Told her plain enough, I did. She can bring her father
here and I'll bring in a proper nursemaid to take good care of him.
Not only that, I can put up the money to hire on enough hands to
have their farm up and running again as it should be.

'There's
fifteen acres at least should have been under the plough this
season, 'cepting they couldn't afford to keep a ploughman on long
enough to turn it all. That's a devilish waste, and no mistaking.'
He turned back and placed the brimming pot back before Ned, who
seized it greedily.

'If'n they had
any sense they'd sell off what they can't till regular,' Thomas
went on.

'Or sell off
half of it and use the money to bring the other half under the
plough,' Ned added, wiping the thin froth from his upper lip with
the back of one less than clean hand. 'Tried suggesting that, have
you?'

'Tried,'
Thomas replied mournfully. 'Tried and failed. She won't listen,
that one. Wilful to a fault. T'ain't right.'

'She be
female,' Ned chuckled. 'Females ain't right, not like men. Got
udders instead o' brains and—'

'That's enough
of that sort of talk, Ned Blaine,' Thomas snapped, cutting the
younger man short. 'I thought better of you, a married man with
girls of thine own not that much of an age different.' He looked up
and down the deserted bar, as if fearful that someone might have
overheard his companion's words, but it was still very early and
the place deserted.

'Aye, well,
then there's little you can tell me about the so called fairer sex,
is there?' Ned grinned. 'Think your self lucky thou've only got the
one female to contend with.'

'I'd think
meself luckier if I had the two,' Thomas mused. He reached beneath
the bar, brought up a heavy glass and a bottle of brandy, uncorked
the latter and poured himself a generous measure. Ned took another
gulp of his ale and wiped his mouth again.

'T'ain't going
to be, Thomas,' he said. 'Sooner you accepts that as the truth,
easier it'll sit on you. It'll ride easier with your Jane,
too.'

'Jane will do
as she's told and accept whatever I decide,' Thomas said bluntly.
'She's not too old, nor yet too big not to get my belt across her
backside and I'm still master in this house, if none other as
yet.'

Adam Portfield
cinched the second breast strap tighter and stepped back to admire
the results of his adjustments. The girl, Kitty, was certainly well
endowed, but now the tightened leather about the base of each bosom
thrust it into even greater prominence, and the cuffs he had added
above her elbows, drawing them closer together by means of a linked
chain, forced her to stand with both magnificent globes thrust
enticingly towards him.

He reached
into his pocket and brought out the miniature cat-o'-nine-tails.
Unlike it's bigger sibling, favoured so much in the navy, this
implement did not have little lead pellets braided into the tips of
each thong, nor were the thongs themselves more than flat strips of
soft hide, for this whip was intended for purposes other than
simple punishment. Adam had seen slave women come to orgasm under
these flailing fronds and, for all his youthfulness he liked to
think he had perfected its use.

'Tit whip,
Titty Kitty,' he laughed, seeing how the helpless girl's eyes had
grown round at the sight of the little cat. 'I'm going to punish
those provocative melons of yours and punish them till you cry for
me to tup that pretty little cunny instead.'

'But, master,'
Kitty whimpered, 'I've already asked you to do that, haven't
I?'

'Yes, but too
easily, Titty Kitty,' Adam sneered. 'I like my wenches to be hot
and writhing, so they dance on they end of my cock like wild
demons. Now, stand still and hold your ground, else I'll kneel you
down and truss you there.' He stepped forward and, with a flick of
his wrist, sent the nine strips humming through the air. They
landed about Kitty's left nipple, already engorged from the
stringent bondage of her breasts. She let out a high-pitched squeal
and jumped backwards, but there was really nowhere to go inside the
barn stall.

Again the
flails snaked out, this time at her other breast. She gasped and
groaned, staggering back against the timber partition and Adam saw
her eyes roll, before she screwed them shut. The third and fourth
blows landed with equal precision, reddening the area around each
pouting teat and Kitty writhed against the rough wall, growling and
mewling. Her eyes opened again, slitted now as she peered at her
tormentor through a haze of tears.

'Bastard!' she
hissed, but Adam noticed how she was pressing her firm thighs
together. 'Noooo!' she wailed, but now stood more erect, making no
attempt to lessen his target area.

'Brazen little
bitch,' Adam taunted and added two more blows, one to each side. 'I
do believe you're starting to enjoy this as much as I am.'

The two men
were the same who'd brought Matilda to the cellar dungeon
originally, how long ago now she could only guess, though it seemed
like a lifetime since she last breathed fresh air.

Neither of
them was local and she guessed they must travel about with the
Crawley creature, for he would need his own men to assist in the
execution of his dreadful duties. Not that Matilda knew anything of
the man personally, but she had heard of his kind; feared figures
who travelled the land, searching out witches, terrifying entire
areas with their awful retribution. There had been one name that
instilled terror throughout half the realm, but Matthew Hopkins was
reputably dead, ten years ago at least, maybe more, and with him
had gone the worst of the fear that his name and those of his ilk
had represented.

Witch finding,
James had assured her, lost all credibility since the death of the
old king. This was a new world now; a world where superstition
would have no place, swept aside by a tide of knowledge and
education. Yes, there were still a few backwaters where the
successors of Matthew Hopkins could still ply their deadly trade,
but they were few and far between, isolated pockets of ignorance in
an otherwise much better informed society.

Matilda had
never considered Leddingham to be a backwater, however. Standing
alongside one of the main highways to London, it was only a small
rural village, admittedly, but the newssheets from the capital
arrived only one day late and the talk in the inn was as informed
as any she had heard, save when in James's company, of course, and
during those days when she had lived in London herself.

So why here?
And why her? Why had Jacob Crawley come to the village and just who
had made such ridiculous allegations about her? And where was
James? If only James were here, surely he would put an end to this
nightmare? Surely someone from the village would tell him what was
happening?

For the
moment, however, it seemed obvious that James remained in ignorance
of her situation and the whys and wherefores were unimportant. For
the moment she was here, naked, her head shaved, her wrists chained
and facing two men whose dull eyes offered little comfort.

'Don't know
why he always insists on cutting off their hair,' the taller one
said, shaking his head. 'This one had such pretty curls. Seems a
dreadful waste if'n you ask me, Jed.'

His companion
looked darkly at him. 'Hush your mouth, Silas Grout,' he hissed.
'If his eminence hears you I'd not want to be in your shoes. Ours
ain't to question the likes of him and well you should know that by
now. His moods are bad enough o' late, so don't give him any reason
to act worse.'

'Just saying,
that's all,' Silas muttered. 'Besides, I should worry what his high
and mightiness thinks. I'm startin' to get a bit fed up with all
this travellin' about. We've hardly bin three days in the one place
this past twelve months. I reckon this witch huntin' business is
near on finished. Don' reckon half the ones we catches is really
witches anyway.'

Watching the
two men through slitted eyes, Matilda saw what she thought was a
glimmer of hope. 'That's right, sir,' she gasped, astonished at how
cracked and dry her voice sounded. The two of them stopped, looking
at each other and then back at her. Swallowing and trying to
moisten her lips with her tongue, Matilda pressed on. 'You're
right,' she croaked. 'I'm no witch and there will be plenty of
people in the village who'll bear me witness. If one of you would
just go and fetch Mr Calthorpe the miller, or his son, James.
They'll tell your master the truth.

'Or my own
grandmother,' she added hastily. 'Her name is Hannah Pennywise and
she lives in the third cottage along from the mill. She's lived in
this village all her life. Everyone knows her.'

'Probably
knows her for a witch herself,' Jed, the shorter man growled.
'Witchin' runs through entire families, everyone knows that. Maybe
honest people would be too afeared to say ought agin her.'

'Then who's
accused me?' Matilda demanded. 'Surely I have the right to know at
least that much?'

'You have the
right to whatever Master Crawley decides,' Jed replied blandly.
'Master Crawley holds papers from three bishops and from Parliament
itself. He's an official witchfinder with the best reputation a
body could want. He knows a witch when he sees one, so it don't
really matter who first testified as to what you really was, does
it? He's got all the evidence, all writ down proper, according to
the law, plenty enough to hang you right now, but he's decided to
have one last try at saving your soul first.'

'He has?' A
flicker of new hope sprung up in Matilda's breast. 'Then please,
take me to him. I'll swear my love to the one God.'

'That I'd
bet,' Silas grinned. 'But then anyone'd swear anything, with the
shadow of the noose over their pretty necks, wouldn't they?'

'Then what?'
she protested. The two men exchanged looks again.

'You'll soon see,' Jed retorted, grinning, though with little
humour in the expression. 'And so will your grandma. Master Crawley
has a special penance for witches he thinks he can
save
.' The way he laid
emphasis on the last word made Matilda's flesh crawl and suddenly,
despite her pain - perhaps because the pain was focussing her
thoughts - she thought she understood quite clearly what this
nightmare was really about.

The statements
against her, if they really existed, had probably been obtained
with promises of reward, and any 'evidence' against her merely
fabrications initiated by Crawley himself. Grandma Hannah had lived
all her life simply enough in her cottage, which had belonged to
her father before her. Nathan Pennywise had been aptly named, for
he saved, invested money in the watermill with James Meldrew's
grandfather, sold his share in that some years later and bought
land, little pockets of acreage all about the area, all of which
were then, as now, rented out to local farmers.

His careful
investment was not worth a great fortune, not by any means, but the
rents that came in every quarter day mounted up and neither he, nor
his daughter after him, ever had profligate tastes. Matilda never
questioned Hannah about money, but she knew there must be a small
nest egg somewhere, and what she knew surely must be fairly common
knowledge in Leddingham and the area about it.

Somehow
Crawley had gotten wind of this; an aged woman, her young
granddaughter and no other living relatives that anyone knew of -
they offered themselves as easy prey to anyone unscrupulous enough
to take advantage, especially if that advantage could be taken, at
least to all appearances, by using the law. The hysterical witch
hunts of Matthew Hopkins's day were a thing of the past, but
witchcraft was still a crime in England and news still filtered
through of another unfortunate being hanged, probably for no
greater sin than living on her own, or having a lazy eye or
deformed hand. Ignorance, Matilda knew, was a terrible thing, even
more terrible all the time people like Crawley existed to exploit
it.

And in this
case, she, Matilda, was the easiest route to whatever money Hannah
had salted away. Undoubtedly, Crawley would offer the old woman her
granddaughter's life in exchange for gold. It was blackmail, but he
would not be crude enough to state it as such. No doubt he would
tell Hannah that it was a tribute to God, paid to his servant, who
would then intercede with the Almighty on behalf of Matilda's
soul.

Meantime,
however, the way she had been treated thus far and the way in which
Jed had spoken suggested that Crawley might see this situation as
the chance to avail himself of more than just pecuniary rewards.
Matilda pictured the hawk-nosed man's cruel eyes and thin lips and
shuddered at the prospect...