Was it all an act? He shook his head, unable to decide as he watched her beautifully rounded buttocks and wide hips swaying before him. If it was an act, then she was a very good actress indeed, but a day or so in the C.C., two or three days, if necessary, would determine if she was good enough.
Oh yes, there was little chance of Mistress Sarah Merridew being able to pull the wool over his eyes once he had her inside his centre, and if she was pretending it wouldn't matter anyway, for by the time he brought her out again she would certainly not be acting. He had yet to fail in the few months since the inception of his experiment, and he did not expect to begin failing now.
'Dead, you say?' Thomas Handiwell peered at Ned Blaine as if he were having difficulty seeing him clearly, his red-rimmed eyes betraying both his lack of sleep and his mounting concern.
'Aye,' Ned replied, eyeing the shelf behind the bar with ill-concealed interest, for news of such import was certainly worth a generous shot of either rum or brandy. 'Mary Slane found him not half an hour since. Went in to do her turn on the cleaning, and ran out wailing like the wind through the trees of hell, so they say.'
'More foul play?' Handiwell voiced the question aloud although he was talking more to himself.
'They say it was suicide,' Ned quickly answered him, 'that he took his own life. He put a rope around his neck and jumped off that big ladder as is kept for changing the bell ropes, and stuff. Ripped his head clean off. John Slane found it under a pew seven rows back. Must have rolled quite a way... damn it, Thomas, all this running to carry news gives a man a fearsome thirst!'
Taking the hint, Handiwell began to move around behind the counter, his brain already busy trying to assimilate this latest news and the impact, if any, it might have on their own problems. One of the troopers had ridden off back to Portsmouth carrying a despatch from Captain Hart to Colonel Brotherwood outlining the situation and requesting additional troopers, as well as a magistrate to sign a warrant so a proper investigation of the Grayling estate could be carried out. In theory, at least, this should not be affected by the death of one fairly unimportant country minister.
However, Thomas knew only too well that things never went as smoothly as they might in a perfect world, and here in the countryside the mere fact of a good milker suddenly going dry could start tongues wagging with allegations of anything from witchcraft to the coming of the Day of Judgement.
A priest with his head ripped off in his own church.
Was there any connection with the Grayling situation? Thomas shook his head as he turned to place a generous measure of dark rum in front of Ned. It wasn't likely, at least not a direct connection. But then there was this fellow Crawley who had seized young Matilda Pennywise and turned half the village on its head. Thomas had not been present to witness the spectacle himself, but apparently the men folk had gathered like hungry wolves to watch the poor wench being scourged.
The inside of the barn, Kitty quickly saw, had been divided up into several separate sections, each one leading off a main passageway running the entire length of the near side of the building. The doors to three of these sections were closed, and whether or not they were occupied was impossible to tell. Certainly no noises came from within any of the rooms; the only sound was that of the birds in the trees outside muffled by the timber walls.
Ross thrust both girls ahead of him down the corridor until they reached the final door, which stood wide open. The light was less bright inside, coming from a series of narrow slits set high beneath the eaves, so Kitty was able to navigate around the various obstacles that sat in the centre of the enclosed space. Peering out through the eye slits in her hood, she tried to determine what these various contraptions were, but the shadows, combined with the intricacy of their construction, made this all but impossible. She could be sure of only one thing: whatever their purpose was, none of these structures had been designed with her comfort in mind.
'Get yourselves over to the end,' Ross snapped. 'Up on those benches, both of you, and be quick about it.'
As the two women stumbled forward, Kitty's eyes made out that the end wall had been divided into four sections, each of which boasted a wide bench set a couple of feet off the ground in the manner, she imagined, of bunk beds aboard ships. At either end of each bunk a chain dangled from a sturdy looking staple that terminated in a broad leather collar from which hung a metal lock. Simple, but effective, she thought. A slave on her bunk could be tethered by the neck and left with sufficient leeway to stretch out to sleep, and maybe just enough slack in the chain to step down from the bench and make use of the iron pail that she now saw had been placed beneath each bunk.
'Home sweet home,' Ross said, chuckling, 'at least for a few days, depending on how the pair of you behave yourselves.' He reached out and brought one of the collars up to Kitty's neck, securing it over the collar already resting around her throat, and the lock clicked with a hollow finality. A moment later, Sarah had been similarly secured on the next bench, at which point Ross turned away without another word and strode back out into the corridor.
Kitty blinked, shook her head, and sat for several seconds listening to the sound of his boots retreating along the stone floor, and then silence descended once more, a silence broken only by the distant, and now almost mocking, twittering of the feathered creatures outside.
'A hunt you say, Grayling?' Sir Peregrine Wellthorne raised an eyebrow, and sniffed. 'But why waste my time here on something I can do equally well at home? In fact, and begging your pardon, but the Wellthorne hunt rides over some of the finest countryside in all England.'
'Yet perhaps it does not have such interesting quarry,' Roderick Grayling suggested. He raised the brandy bottle towards his visitor, who in turn eagerly held out his glass. 'No sir, I would not offer to waste your time on something you can do better at home. A hunt here at Grayling is like no other hunt you will ever see.'
'And this quarry you hunt? Fox? Deer? Hare?'
'Birds,' Grayling replied, his smile broadening. 'Feathered little birds of a species never seen outside this estate, at least not to my knowledge.'
'Aha, fine plump fare for the pot?'
'Fine fare indeed, though not so plump, and not for the pot, though I'd wager they'll whet your appetite for certain.'
'Ah, I think I have your gist now, sir. These birds would maybe have had their wings clipped, is that what you're saying?'
'Clipped indeed, Wellthorne, but still they make fair sport. We've kept one or two back for the purpose and my lads are quick to spot any new talent. Adam has his eye on one in particular I suspect will suit you perfectly. Plump of breast and with the look of a sporting bird, he tells me.'
Wellthorne snickered. 'Sounds fascinating. So, when does the hunt begin?'
Grayling sipped his brandy. 'What say you this afternoon, sir? It will take an hour or two for the prey to be properly prepared, and I for one hate to hunt on an empty stomach. Some cold meat first would not be amiss, I think, and then we will be all the more appreciative of the warm meat we chase afterwards!'
'Definitely not foul play?' Handiwell asked again.
Ned shook his head. 'Definitely not.' He eyed the rum bottle once more.
Thomas Handiwell sighed. Ned Blaine's seemingly unquenchable thirst made gathering information more than a little costly. 'And you say Crawley has taken charge of the church itself?'
'Aye, that he has, he's got five or six of the village men with him now, some of the worst idlers and ne'er do wells for five or six miles hereabouts, including those two lads from Dummer. Paid them, I reckon, and probably promised them more. They've locked off the church completely.'
'Well, they won't be able to keep it closed off for ever,' Thomas pointed out.
Ned seized the proffered rum with ill-concealed eagerness.
'Someone will have to ride and tell the constable. Mind you, Roderick Grayling should also be told. Whilst the earl is away, his son is acting magistrate, I believe.'
'Crawley
is saying it's no business of anyone save the church. Reckons he's sent a messenger to the bishop and that's an end of it. There's to be a funeral late this afternoon.'
'And what about the girl, Matilda? Word is the rogue was intending to hang her.'
'People are saying she's still going to swing, but Crawley has postponed the event out of respect to Wickstanner. Mind you, he ain't intending to put it off for long, by all accounts. Word is she's in for it tonight at sunset after the burial. Someone ought to do something about that, I reckon.' He eyed Thomas meaningfully.
The innkeeper knew that someone meant himself, possibly the only man in the village, besides the miller or the blacksmith, whose word carried any weight. However, as in most things, the church or its emissaries - even one whose credentials were as dubious as Crawley's - still carried the most weight of all, and there were also those in the village and its surrounds who would welcome a public execution as free entertainment. 'Maybe the blackguard will accept an appeasement,' he said finally. 'These bastards are usually as interested in gold as they are in spreading or protecting the word of the Lord, if not more so. Go down to the church, Ned, there's a good fellow, and see if you can speak with this Crawley. Tell him I'd be prepared to offer a reasonable sum for his efforts to save the girl's immortal soul so long as her earthly body is spared. I'm sure you can word it so the thieving crow understands what it is I'm saying.'
'Aye, that I can,' Ned replied. He eyed his cup, which had been emptied the moment Handiwell passed it to him.
Thomas grinned, and the grin turned to a grimace. 'When you get back, Ned,' he said firmly. 'Deliver the message and bring back a suitable answer, and there'll be a couple more of those for you.'
Ross returned only a short while later, and to Kitty's surprise his usually bland demeanour had vanished during his absence. Indeed, he looked positively angry, and she wondered who might have upset him. When he strode straight over to her she feared the worst, but if he had been tempted to take his mood out on her there was obviously someone with a greater right to her presence.
'Get outside and go with Nathan,' he snapped. 'Make sure you behave yourself, too, or when you finally come back here I'll have you perched on the thickest rogering pole there is, and you'll spend three days on it with thrashings every hour.'
Out in the corridor, the dark-haired Nathan was waiting for her. Without speaking, he hooked a leash onto Kitty's collar and gave it a sharp tug before turning away and heading towards the outer door. Helpless to do anything else, Kitty stumbled dutifully in his wake, part of her glad to leave Ross's sinister barn behind her, if only for the moment, and part of her wondering what other new tribulations lay in store for her now.
Ten minutes after leaving the barn, they came upon another one of similar size and construction, but this one was much nearer to the main barn and to the house and set in a broad clearing surrounded by trees. This building was also different in that the windows along the eaves were deeper, thus the light inside was much brighter.
'Now,' Nathan spoke for the first time as he hustled Kitty into one of the interior chambers, 'I'm going to release your hands and take this harness off you, but don't go getting any ideas. No matter how fast you think you can run, I can run a deal faster, and besides, there's nowhere much to run to. This part of the estate is well fenced, with a palisade a good ten feet high running through the woods, so I might not even chase you, but just leave you out there to wander around until you're starving fit to drop. And then, once we get you back here... well, I doubt I need tell you what you could expect.'
Glumly, Kitty shook her head.
'Right then, let's get this lot off you and get you ready for this afternoon, shall we?'
It took but a minute or two before Kitty stood completely naked. She stretched and exercised her jaw, thankful to be rid of the wadded gag, even though she suspected it was only for a short time, and although she could now once again speak, she had learned enough in her short time here to know that to do so without being bidden was most likely to earn her a swift and painful chastisement.
'Now,' Nathan said, walking across to a long bench lining the entire length of one wall, 'I'd better explain, otherwise you'll likely make a pig's ear out of the whole thing and his lordship won't be best pleased with either of us. This,' he continued, holding up what Kitty at first thought was a dead bird of astonishing proportions, 'is what you'll be wearing. You're going to be a bird,' he added, seeing the confusion on her face. 'You'll have wings, feathers and a beak and everything except, of course, you won't be able to fly. I suppose you can run?'
'Yes... yes, master,' she stammered.
'Good,' Nathan nodded, 'because this time the faster you run and the longer you run, the better the sport. You'll have the run of all the woods and the meadows within the fenced off area. It's a big area, so you can keep going quite a ways before you hit the fences, and Sir Roderick and his guests will be trying to find you. You can hide if you want, but as you can see, this plumage is very bright and deliberately so. You'll stand out pretty well and it'll take some dense undergrowth before you'll have much of a chance at staying hidden, so your best bet is to keep on the move. Understand?'
'Yes, master.' Kitty swallowed before repeating, 'Master?'
'Yes?'
'What happens if they don't catch me?'
'Oh, they'll catch you all right. There's all manner of bird traps out there, so I wouldn't worry your head about not being caught.'
'Then what happens when they do catch me?'
Nathan snorted. 'Same as happens with most birds.' He leered at her. 'You get stuffed, my girl, stuffed until you're fit to burst, or until whoever catches you loses interest or strength, and then you'll like as not be shared around. Those tits are enough to satisfy a good few appetites!'
Left alone on her bunk as Ross followed Kitty from the room, Sarah began staring about her for the first time. She saw that the centre part of the room was occupied by three timber and metal structures that had the appearance of frames, with various 'limbs' projecting at different angles. Judging by the assortment of straps hanging from different parts of these 'limbs', she realised these devices had been designed to secure people in some way or another, and that her presence here meant she would soon be strapped to one of them, at which point their exact function would be revealed to her in a manner that would leave little room for doubt or confusion.
It was not long before Ross returned and Sarah knew her latest ordeal was about to begin, for he now wore a tightly fitted pair of leather breeches, leather riding boots, and apart from thick leather bands about his wrists and throat, he was naked from the waist up.
'This is the first chamber, Sarah,' he said, speaking with surprising softness. 'What you meet in this room, what you discover about yourself, this will be as nothing compared to what awaits you further along the passage. By the time you leave here, if you ever do leave here, you will be a completely different person; the old you will no longer exist. Now, come forward.' He reached up, unclipped the leather collar from about her throat, and held out his arms to steady her as she swung her legs down to the floor. 'First, we shall try what I call the Princess Throne.' He guided her past the nearest structure to a most peculiar looking contraption occupying the middle of the room.
Blinking, Sarah saw its heart was a kind of seat; it looked like a wooden chair from which the first several inches had been sawn off. Furthermore, from the centre of what was left of it rose a highly polished dark wooden rod, perhaps four or five inches in length and possibly a little narrower in diameter than the flesh-and-blood counterpart she could now see bulging beneath the tight leather of Ross's breeches.
'Turn around, slave girl,' he whispered as she came to the front of the seat, and as she turned beneath his guiding hands to face away from it, she realised it was quite high for a chair, as high as the mid point of her thighs and maybe even an inch or so higher. Holding her shoulders firmly, Ross guided her backwards. 'Now open your legs wide and I'll
help you sit on your throne, slave princess.' He chuckled.
Behind the mask Sarah's eyes widened in horror, for she knew there was no way she could sit upon the chair without the gleaming wooden phallus penetrating her most intimately. But as Ross continued to guide her, she understood it was to be even worse than that, for it was now apparent that it was not her vagina the rod was intended for but her one remaining virginal, and very much smaller, orifice.
'Relax, slave,' he whispered, feeling her tensing beneath his fingers. 'The little beast is well oiled and it will not stretch you that much. Come now, don't struggle against me, else I'll string you up and take a real whip to you and then make you sit on a cock twice the size of this wee thing.'
'We cannot just skulk around here and let things take their course,' James Calthorpe insisted. 'That madman could kill poor Matilda at any moment, and us none the wiser.'
'He'll not kill her yet,' Hannah Pennywise stated with an air of conviction James found quite strange. They had returned to her cottage, where she bolted the heavy door, and now she kept scurrying across to the window and peering down the lane that led to the village. 'He'll want to use her first, and not in that way, although I fear that's already been done to the poor lass. No, young James, Crawley has a readymade scapegoat in his hands helpless as you like. Yon fool vicar-man's death will be laid fair and square at her feet though we both know she had nothing to do with it, save it appears he may well have regretted himself and not been able to live with the shame of his doings. Aye, Crawley will guess as much too, and he'll want to make sure he gets his corn from it.'
'But he can only hang her once, can't he?' James pointed out.
The Devil's Surrogate Page 4
