Cauldron of Fear (5 page)

She sighed and
turned to look out of the window, into the gathering gloom of the
imminent night. Two shillings extra - it was scandalous. Men in
London worked two or three weeks to earn that much, and heaven
alone knew her funds were now sparse enough. Medical bills,
funerals - four of them - bribes to no end of officials, bribes to
get her out of that area of the city in the first place, new
clothing to replace everything she had been forced to burn...

A small tear
welled up in the corner of one eye and threatened to spill onto her
pale cheek, but she swallowed hard and steeled herself against
giving way now. After all, she told herself fiercely, there were
hundreds - no, thousands - of people in just as bad a situation as
herself, many of them far worse, for the plague outbreaks had more
than decimated some areas of the great capital city and some
families had been wiped out entirely.

She had to
consider herself lucky, that's what her father, rest his soul,
would have told her. He had been the last to die, following her
mother, her brother and her older sister, all in the space of just
a few weeks. Fortunately, the unseasonably heavy rains had served
to dampen down the spread of the disease, but Sarah paid men to
burn everything nonetheless. Informed opinion was that infection
was carried in the very fibres of clothes, and fire was the only
certain way to end it.

She shook her
head sadly. So much education and science in London and still
something like that had been allowed to happen, and everyone
powerless to stop it. It was inconceivable that such a thing could
wreak so much havoc in a modern world like this. After all, this
was 1659 and mankind had surely left the dark ages far in the past
by now? At least, she told herself, it was unlikely she would see
another such outbreak in her lifetime.

The coach
rattled on, the wooden bench seat seemingly becoming harder and
harder with every mile that passed beneath the creaking wheels, and
she wondered how much further, how much longer, before they stopped
for another change of horses and the blissful opportunity that
would give for her to stretch her aching limbs, if only for a few
minutes.

Outside it was just about dark, which meant it was around
seven o'clock. Had they really only been on the road for less than
three hours? It seemed like thirty-three and there were still
another seven hours to go, at least. It would be past two in the
morning before they reached the
Black
Drum
inn and, although the clerk at the
coach office had assured her there would be a room available for
her, even at that hour, somehow Sarah felt it a very un-christian
hour to be arriving anywhere.

'At least
there will be a bed,' she murmured. She turned from the window and
looked across at the only two other occupants of the coach, a pale
looking young man, possibly not much older than herself, whose mode
of dress suggested he was a cleric of some kind, and a homely woman
approaching old age, who sat huddled and swathed in several layers
of cloaks, a worn bonnet pulled down over her head so that it
obscured most of her face. A nanny, an old servant, maybe a
housekeeper, Sarah surmised. Another unfortunate who could not
indulge to the extent of an extra two shillings' worth of comfort,
though at least her matronly figure meant she had more natural
padding between her bones and the uncompromising oak boards.

The
Black Drum
, the clerk had assured Sarah, was a very reputable inn, with
good food, comfortable rooms and even - a rarity, even in London -
hot water available at any hour of the day or night. For a total of
ninepence ha'penny - a special concessionary rate for passengers of
the coach company - she would be assured of everything she could
possibly want and then the following day, once she was properly
rested and replenished, it was but two miles from there to Barten
Meade and the sanctuary of her uncle, Oliver Merridew's
house.

She sighed
again and turned back to look out into the night. At least, she
thought, she had left behind no loose ends. She had little money,
true enough, but her uncle made it very clear in his letters that
she should be more than welcome. It would be quiet after the city,
she knew, but at least it would be safe there with the last dangers
now many miles behind her.

The
countryside, she thought dreamily as she closed her eyes and tried
to ignore the bruising jolts, the countryside would be so peaceful
after life in the big city...

The overseer,
Adam, was deliberately tormenting her, Kitty realised, making her
beg for what they both knew she now craved so desperately, but
refusing to sate her desires fully. Several times he used his
devilish whip to bring her to a writhing frenzy, but then, just as
she thought she was approaching the orgasm for which her every
nerve ending was screaming out, he stopped, standing back to watch
her frustrations with a disdainful leer on his handsome face.

With her hands
still cuffed to what these people referred to as her slave training
harness belt and her elbows pulled tightly behind her until they
all but touched, Kitty was helpless to help herself, protect
herself, or do anything save dance to the tune played by the
whirling thongs, and the sheen on her inner thighs bore witness to
how his ministrations had succeeded in keeping her on the very
precipice.

'Enough,' Adam
said at last and folded the whip away. 'I think you've learned what
you needed to learn; that you're just a slave and therefore fit to
be done to and with as your masters decide. You earn everything now
for nothing is free, especially not you, Titty Kitty.'

Kitty hung her
head and said nothing, while her breasts rose and fell in time with
her laboured breathing. She dared not look at him again and did not
raise her eyes, even when she heard the sound of something heavy
being scraped across the floor.

Matilda
groaned and rolled over onto her back, her eyes screwed tightly
shut against the pain across her shoulders, and then immediately
twisted back onto her opposite side, regretting the movement that
had placed such rough pressure on her stinging flesh.

Crawley's whip
had not cut her skin - he took great delight in explaining that he
had no wish to mark her permanently - but the flat hide strip sent
searing fire throughout her entire body and she could still feel
the heat, even two hours after the beating had stopped.

With a great
effort, for her wrists were still manacled to the broad leather
belt, she managed to roll over and rise onto her knees, at last
opening her eyes and peering around the darkened chamber. From
somewhere high above a strip of lamplight filtered through a narrow
crack, not enough to see anything clearly, but sufficient to
confirm that her latest cell was empty.

Her mouth felt
dry and her throat sore and, when Matilda's eyes picked out the
vague outline of a bowl set in one corner, it was all the incentive
she needed to move further. Slowly, her knees scraping against the
cold stone floor, she inched her way towards it, fearing all the
while that it would prove to be empty and heaving a sigh of relief
when she saw the liquid shimmering darkly in it.

Tentatively
she lowered her head, sniffing, and then carefully dipped her mouth
and chin. Water - clear fresh water. She lapped greedily, ignoring
it when the liquid splashed up her nose, stopping only when there
was barely enough left for her to submerge her lips again.

She
straightened up, sitting back on her haunches, water dripping from
her chin and splashing down onto her naked breasts which gleamed
ghostly pale in the near darkness, contrasting starkly with the
distended nipples. Matilda peered down at herself, between the
valley formed by her bosom and down to the now hairless crease
between her thighs, and shuddered at the memory of the wickedly
glinting blade as it took away her little pubic bush to leave her
most intimate treasure as exposed as her shaven head.

So far,
neither Crawley nor his cronies had touched her there apart from
with the razor, but she knew it was only a matter of time and she
cringed at the images that crowded into her mind. It would almost
certainly be Crawley who violated her first, but his two henchmen
had made it only too clear that they, too, would take their turns
with her.

Matilda felt
herself beginning to tremble, for the thought of being used thus,
as a common whore or even worse, was more than she could bear, and
the way the men, Silas and Jed, treated her was little different
from the way stockmen would treat cattle or sheep. To them it
seemed, she was less than human, just an object or animal, with no
mind nor will of her own.

If only James
would come for her, she prayed. He would soon put a stop to this
barbaric nonsense. To accuse her of witchcraft and heresy was
ridiculous, the sort of superstitious hokum that was supposed to
have died out with Matthew Hopkins, the dreadful and dreaded
so-called Witchfinder General, who had thankfully disappeared into
obscurity at least a decade ago, before Matilda had been old enough
to understand the tales that she heard in the big city, tales of
torture and hangings, cruelty and petty spiteful revenge turned to
madness in the hands of a man who people had since come to
understand had been at least partially mad.

People in
London, at least, Matilda reflected as she eased her position and
tried to sit against the rough wall without rubbing against her
sore shoulders too badly.

But people in
London were more educated and informed and not like the people
here. Apart from the likes of James Calthorpe and his father and a
handful of others, the villagers and farm folk were largely
ignorant and still wrapped in traditions and superstitions that
dated back centuries.

Even the local
priest, Father Wickstanner, preached of demons and imps, who waited
in shadows to catch the souls of the unwary and of a God who
exacted terrible retribution from unrepentant sinners. As a result,
the offerings plates were kept well topped by a congregation that
might otherwise not have enough coins to feed their families, and
it was not Simon Wickstanner who walked through Fetworth village
with patched and darned clothing.

Matilda closed
her eyes and thought back to her girlhood and to Father
Mucklewhite, the Vicar at St Giles on the Heath Church, where her
parents had taken her every Sunday from the time she was old enough
to walk. A scholar and a true Christian, the kindly old cleric had
preached of love and forgiveness and of a God of Salvation and
Hope, not spouting the venom and hatred that seemed to be
Wickstanner's only message.

Wickstanner!
Matilda's top lip curled even at the thought of his name, picturing
the greasy-haired little priest, with his close-set, pig-like eyes
and thin, sneering lips, the little gob of spittle that always
seemed to be present at one corner of his mouth. And the way he
always looked at her and at the other young women as he passed them
by, frequently summoning them to speak with him under some pretext
or other.

Several times,
since Matilda had moved in with her grandmother, Wickstanner had
approached her, giving broad hints that he would not be averse to
something other than just a liaison, talking cautiously around a
possible marriage, though without ever directly mentioning the
word. Matilda rebuffed these overtures, politely at first and then
less delicately when he continued to pursue her and now, she
reflected, this was probably partly his way of taking his revenge
upon her.

Only
Wickstanner could have summoned Jacob Crawley to Fetworth and, even
had he not approached the self-proclaimed witchfinder, Crawley
would not have dared try to exercise any authority in the village
without the direct acquiescence of the local priest. Crawley would
have to hold warrants signed and sealed by a bishop, appointing him
to his office, but he could not operate within the jurisdiction of
a church without the consent of the incumbent, that much even
Matilda knew.

She knew, too,
of the stories of how Matthew Hopkins had managed to abuse such
warrants, taking his supposed authority far beyond the diocese in
which they were originally drawn up and terrorising whole areas of
rural England, his name synonymous with fear and death wherever he
went during a reign that had seemed far longer than the two years
or so that it in fact occupied.

So dreadful
had been the atrocities inflicted by Hopkins in the name of the
Church, that the bishops in London had decreed that witch hunting
should be curtailed, but although Hopkins himself disappeared from
view, apparently the appearance of Crawley suggested that there
were still those who disagreed with this view.

'Oh, James,'
Matilda whispered, tears forming in her eyes. 'James, where are
you? Please God that you come for me soon.' Her plaintive voice
echoed back from the featureless walls, seeming to mock her in her
pain and desolation, and now the tears began to flow freely.

The three
shadowy riders waited between the trees, sitting astride their
mounts well back from the road, so that only someone expecting them
to be there would be able to see them. Someone, that is, like Jane
Handiwell, who turned her mount off the track and trotted steadily
towards the trio.

Her waiting
companions were dressed in similar fashion to her, but the voices
were unmistakably feminine, for there was no need to make any
attempt at disguising their true genders as yet. When that
necessity arose, Jane and Mary Watling would do such talking as was
required, both of them able to pitch their voices down, so that
with the muffling effect of the kerchiefs they would draw over
their mouths, their frightened quarry would not think twice that
they were being robbed by anything other than a marauding gang of
men.