'Did you see that?' Kelly gasped, moving up to Paddy's shoulder. His eyes were as round as saucers and there was a curious half smile on his face.
Paddy snorted. 'Of course I saw it, you damned fool. Do you think I'm as blind as you are deaf? Didn't you hear the bell things on her tits? I'm a damned fool, and so are you, Sean Kelly. That could have been anything we just walked into!'
'Well, it was certainly something!' Kelly exclaimed. 'D'you think she's off to tell we're here?'
Riley narrowed his eyes and shook his head. 'I doubt that,' he said soberly. 'Didn't look as if she was in any fit state to tell about anything, and she was running away from something herself.'
'Then who do you think she was?' Kelly persisted.
Riley shook his head in a gesture of disbelief. 'And how the hell would I be knowing that?' he demanded. 'Did you not see the wench was wearing that mask thing, and if you think I'm after identifying women from the shape of their tits and other bodily parts, well then Sean Kelly, I think maybe you've gone a little soft in the head.'
'It's a sort of hunting game they play.' Toby Blaine moved up on Paddy's other side. 'We've seen them before, back last summer. There were lots of them all dressed up like she was as birds, and the hunters are all in black with hoods and masks so you couldn't see their faces. They carry pistols and whips, but I don't know whether they really shoot them, 'cos we didn't wait around to see. Billy got scared when we nearly ran into one of the hunters and we hightailed it back to the fence, though I wanted to wait and see what happened.'
'I'll just bet you did.' Paddy grinned. He had taken an instant liking to the lad, and he could easily imagine what had gone through the youngster's head the first time he had seen one of these bizarre creatures. Riley himself had seen plenty of things, but the few seconds of confrontation with the bird- girl had more than stirred up his manhood. 'The thing is,' he went on, 'this could make our job just a little bit harder than we might have expected. If they have Mistress Harriet running around in one of those bird things, then how is Toby here to know her? I doubt he'd be any better at recognising a pair of... mother of heaven, what am I saying?'
'So what do we do?' Sean Kelly asked. 'We'd better be careful if there's fellows out chasing with guns. They might end up shooting at us by mistake.'
'If they shoot at us,' Paddy said grimly, 'it won't be a matter of any mistake, to be sure. There's no way anyone with eyes is going to confuse the likes of you and me with the likes of that!' He nodded his head in the direction in which the girl had plunged back into the woods. 'No, we'd not be mistaken for one like that,' he continued, 'but I do have an idea what we might be mistaken for.'
With the two Irish troopers and Toby the only real chance of making any progress as far as the Grayling estate was concerned, and with the small likelihood of any news from Portsmouth arriving before sundown, Thomas Handiwell at last turned his attention to the other events in the village. It was a way of killing time and trying, albeit vainly, to take his mind from what might have happened, or be happening, to Harriet. Had he known, his course of action would have doubtless been very different and much more direct, but like the rest of the village, he believed the unfortunate girl awaiting execution in the church was Matilda Pennywise.
Thomas had only seen Matilda on a handful of occasions and had only ever exchanged a brief nod with her in passing. Since arriving in Leddingham from London, she had never set foot in the Drum and was seldom, if ever, out late. However, he had known her grandmother for many years, and Hannah's father, Nathan, had known his own father since before Thomas's was born. And now, as he listened to Ned's summary of events, he began to feel guilty that he had not done anything earlier. Being neither religious nor superstitious, Thomas did not believe in witches, and as he told Ned, even if he did, Hannah Pennywise certainly wasn't one. And as for her granddaughter, the fool vicar had been sniffing round her skirts for months, and if a vicar couldn't see a witch at ten paces, then who in hell's name could?
Leaving Hart at the inn - the young officer point-blank refused to become embroiled in affairs of the church, no matter how preposterous they were - and charging him to come after him the moment there was any news, Thomas set off into the village and made straight for the church. At the main door he found his way barred by Alfred Diggins and Peter Farren. Both men carried muskets and sported pistols tucked into their belts.
'Tell this Master Crawley I wish to speak with him.' Thomas spoke quietly but firmly, not in the least awed by the weaponry. He knew both these men from the inn and doubted they were as familiar with guns, let alone real fighting, as they were trying to appear, and he could smell drink on the breath of both of them.
'The gentleman has given instructions that he's not to be disturbed and no one is to enter here meantime, Master Handiwell,' Alfred Diggins drawled.
Thomas sniffed. 'Alfred,' he said carefully, fixing the fellow with an unblinking stare, 'this witchfinder fellow will like as not be gone tomorrow, or the day after, but I doubt you will, and I know the Black Drum will be where it stands for many years to come. Now, if you harbour even the most slender hope of ever drinking in my inn again, you will kindly take your shiftless frame and tell this gentleman that I have business with him.'
Diggins, although lazy by nature and not very sharp, was nevertheless quite capable of understanding a threat. The next nearest source of alcohol was a good twelve miles down the road towards the coast, and he was not about to get himself banned from his usual watering hole. It was with ill grace that he turned, swung open one half of the church door, and disappeared inside. But disappear he did, leaving Thomas alone with Peter Farren.
'I must say, Peter,' Thomas remarked sourly, ''tis a surprise to find you in a church and no mistaking.'
Farren shifted his weight and blinked, but the gold already in his pocket, and the promise of more to come, had given him more resolve than he usually had to draw upon. 'I might say the same of you, Master Handiwell,' he replied. 'You're not best known around here for a regular attendance in the Lord's house.'
'I'll not deny the truth in that,' Thomas retorted, 'but at least I earn my own corn and don't turn my coat to something just because some fellow in a cassock jingles a few coins.'
'Master Crawley don't wear no cassock, innkeeper, and he ain't no priest, neither. He's appointed special by the lord bishops up in London. I knows that 'cos he showed us his warrant.'
'And read it out for you, I suppose?' Handiwell sneered. He knew full well that Peter Farren, in common with most of the villagers, could neither read nor write and would easily enough be impressed with any scroll that contained well drawn letters and a seal.
Further conversation was rendered unnecessary, however, for the door opened again and Crawley himself emerged. His eyes looked red, and there were huge dark bags beneath them, but he carried himself erect and there was a presence about him that Thomas could see would both impress and intimidate the simple village folk. He stepped out alone, but behind him stood the shadowy figure of Diggins, and that of a second man.
'What brings a seller of the devil's brew to the house of God?' Crawley demanded. 'They tell me your shadow never usually touches this portal, Master Handiwell.'
'Indeed it seldom does, Master Crawley,' Thomas replied easily, 'but then this house has never before contained such foolishness. The girl, Matilda Pennywise... rumour has it you intend to hang her this evening?'
''Tis no rumour, Master Handiwell. The whore wench is a heretic and has been seen practising the dark arts. She is possessed of wickedness, of a vile spirit sent from hell itself, and it must be extinguished before it does even more evil.'
'Evil?' Thomas echoed. 'What evil has the poor girl done, pray tell? She is nothing but a young maid who keeps to herself.'
'She is a wicked siren who bewitched Father Wickstanner, whose poor mortal remains even now lie within, and whose soul will not rest while the satanic influence responsible for his tragic end still walks this earth.'
'Nonsense!' Thomas exploded. 'Wickstanner was a weak fool and a drinker, though he hid that from most eyes, to be sure. The man has made a fool of himself over other young wenches, some not even grown to full womanhood and young enough to be his daughters. Perhaps he finally came to what little senses he had left when he saw what wickedness his own corruption had brought about, and if Matilda Pennywise is, or was in any way, responsible for that, then I'm sure the good Lord will thank her for it rather than punish her.'
'Blasphemy!' Crawley hissed. 'You presume to judge the Lord God's actions? Have a care, sir, or perhaps it'll not be only the witch's body that swings tonight.'
Thomas's top lip curled back. 'Have a care yourself, Master Crawley,' he growled. 'These poor fools might just let you get away with choking the life from a girl they hardly know, but I think you might find yourself faced with a cat of a different colour should you choose to try the same thing with me. Now, I'm no lawyer, but I do know that every prisoner has the right to proper representation, and from what I hear, Matilda Pennywise has had none. Indeed, you have dragged the poor creature naked in public, whipped her and abused her, and she is rendered unable even to protest her own case.'
'She is rendered unable to utter the devil curses that her kind use in order to frighten decent folk from telling the truth,' Crawley retorted. 'She has been scourged in order to try to drive the devilment from her, but the possession holds firm still. As for representation, this is no civil matter but a court of God, and the Lord himself represents all his flock, even the lambs who stray.'
'Bollocks!' Thomas spat. 'If there is evil about, then I think it comes not from the poor child. Stand aside and let me see her.'
'No,' Crawley said simply. He stood squarely in front of Handiwell, and although he was a good few years older, and looked from his features as if life had not treated him too gently, Thomas could see his lean body was well muscled. Any attempt to force a way past him would produce only an ungainly struggle and ultimate defeat under the weight of the numbers on his side. 'No,' Crawley repeated again. 'The sentence has been passed and there is no appeal, save for her soul when it comes before its Maker. Take one more step, and these fellows will cut you down, and then I shall charge you and you will have your own rope, no matter how many friends you may think you have here. You may turn from the church, Master Handiwell, but that does not mean everyone will do the same if you commit a heresy here!'
Some four miles further across the wooded estate, and totally oblivious to the mounting level of activity elsewhere in the forest, Sarah was only beginning to discover the depths of Ross's fertile and darkly inventive mind. Having waited while she dutifully licked clean his still erect member, he finally proceeded to the next stage of his plan to completely subjugate her, even though it was obvious she was on the verge of collapse.
Grasping her by the leather collar he had placed about her neck, he half dragged her across to the other end of the room where a round post was set into the floor and stretched up into the roof where it was attached to one of the beams. About this post, at approximately waist level, sat a circular metal collar from which projected a short horizontal metal rod, and from that rod rose a phallus so lifelike it seemed impossible it had been carved from wood, its shining surface polished until it gleamed.
In front of the post had been placed a low box. Up onto this box Sarah was now made to stand, her legs parted, while Ross loosened the handle that kept her collar tight and adjusted its height so the tip of the wooden dildo was level with her gaping pink sex.
'Get forward,' he said tersely. 'Get forward and then bend your knees as I tell you. See the nice gift I have for you?'
An hour or so earlier, Sarah knew there was no way she would have so easily conceded to the inevitable and impaled herself on the thick shaft. A day earlier and it would most certainly not have entered her so easily. She sunk down, bending her knees with a groan that became a protracted sigh, until its full length was inside her.
'Place your arms about the pole and hold yourself steady,' Ross instructed her.
Sarah reached around the wooden post, and when she realised what he intended, she clung to it fiercely as the box was dragged out from beneath her, leaving her with her toes barely touching the floor. And as the pole itself was far too small to afford her any real purchase, she had no way now of freeing herself from her impaled state.
Satisfied that the height of the collar was indeed right, Ross now proceeded to complete her predicament. From the bench he took up what Sarah at first thought was a length of wood through which two holes had been cut. But as he brought it closer, she saw it was actually two pieces of timber hinged at one end in the manner of the top section of a pillory, and similarly locked by means of a simple metal peg mechanism. Ross quickly swung the two halves open, and moving behind the post seized Sarah's wrists and placed them into the two openings, shutting the upper section and fastening it so her hands were now held some six or seven inches apart. This ensured that, while she could not fall backwards, she no longer had even the option of trying to grasp the post to lift her weight up.
Grinning, Ross walked around behind her and dealt her a hefty slap across her bare buttocks.
She jumped instinctively, and immediately felt the shaft slide out of her body and then in again, triggering a small spasm she knew only too well could easily become something more.
With a chuckle, her tormentor stepped back. 'Not yet, my little slave pet princess,' he said quietly. 'First we let you mellow a little, and then we make you dance properly. In the meantime, I think I shall reward myself with a glass or two of wine.'
'The man is a complete charlatan, Captain Hart,' Thomas Handiwell snapped. 'He is a fraud, a cheat, a thief, and now he'll be a murderer, if he isn't one already.'
'What of the fellow he claims was found dead in the woods?' Timothy Hart asked. His pale eyes were watery from lack of sleep, and he had hoped to use the time before his messenger returned from Portsmouth to rest, but the innkeeper seemed determined to keep him from his bed.
'A stranger to these parts,' Handiwell said. 'He arrived here with Crawley, so no one knows anything of him saving he looked as rough as the second man and he's probably no good, like his damned master.'
'And the evidence against the grandmother concerning his death?'
'Evidence?' Thomas slammed a fist onto the bar top with such force that two empty flagons at the far end bounced and rattled. 'There's no damned evidence at all, saving that two of his new converts are apparently prepared to swear they saw the old woman and young James Calthorpe near the hut in which the body was discovered. 'Tis as flimsy a case as they have against the girl.'
'And yet they intend to hang her on that,' Hart pointed out.
'Not if you stop them. Your uniform should carry the weight that my reputation apparently does not.'
'My uniform has no jurisdiction over matters of the cloth,' Hart said. 'My presence here is tenuous at best, in any case, and I dare not try to interfere with the church.'
'The church,' Thomas growled. 'The damned church has much to answer for, in my opinion. For God's sake, man, can't you see this is a crock of shit? Surely you could declare martial law, or something, anything that will delay this so-called execution until we can bring the facts before a proper authority.'
Hart shook his head. 'I should need authority from higher up for anything like that,' he said firmly. 'Why, I could not, dare not, even pursue one of your highwaymen into that church if he sought sanctuary there. It is the law, Master Handiwell.'
'Then the law should be kicked in the arse,' Thomas retorted, 'and all its so called guardians with it!'
Isobel moved with great care now, walking very slowly in order to prevent the hated bells from bouncing, and ducking behind trees and bushes every few yards in order to listen, as well as the leather of the bird helmet permitted. Twice already she had thought herself discovered, and spun around at sudden noises that, thankfully, turned out to be only birds taking to t
he air, no doubt as startled by her presence as she was by theirs.
Crouching in a hollow amidst several tangled bushes and brambles, she began to wonder if her best bet might now be to remain where she was and wait out whatever remained of her hour. At least half of it must have elapsed by now, for she had travelled the better part of two miles, she was sure of that. She had even come upon the eastern perimeter fence once and followed it for a few minutes before turning back to the cover of the trees.
Her present hiding place was as good as any she had so far considered. She was still within a hundred yards or so of the boundary, but far enough away from the cleared space that followed it around the perimeter not to risk running into the regular fence patrols. The men who guarded the fence were not part of the hunt, but they would also have no way of knowing she was not just another slave up for sport. There had been more than one occasion when a girl had fallen into their clutches and been roughly used before being turned back into the game.
Damn Bressingham, damn Roddy and damn her own arrogance and foolish impetuosity. This was not turning out to be the adventure she had believed it would be. The heavy boots drained all the strength from her leg muscles, and the two dildos kept up their malign work, so that despite her efforts to the contrary her body remained on the brink of total surrender. Her nipples throbbed in the grip of the weighted clamps and all she wanted was for the tower bell to sound so she could make her way back to the house, claim her victory, and have the maids fill a tub for her.
After she had soaked away all her aches and pains she would find a way to get back at that bastard, Roddy, for she knew he still desired her body and the things she could do for him that surely those two little black bitches could not...
The Devil's Surrogate Page 10
