The Devil's Surrogate

by Jennifer Jane Pope

  James shook his head, shamefaced. 'I don't know,' he confessed. 'I threw myself down when Crawley shot at you, and when I looked up again there was no sign of her. He was running off into the trees, but she wasn't with him, I swear it.'

  'Then we must find her, and be quick about it.' Hannah struggled up into a sitting position. 'That old pistol will be of no further use this night, but the fellow you shot with it must have a weapon, if not two. Go take a look, and see if you can't do something to put that poor animal out of its misery.'

  Silas Grout's mare lay where she had fallen, half across her dead master, and from the look of her it was clear that she, like Grout, would never rise again.

  'Check his pockets and saddlebags for powder and ball,' Hannah called out as James began to move towards the fallen beast. 'If that black-hearted bastard is still close, we'll want to make sure we have the means at hand to dispose of him properly, once and for all.'

  Harriet's instinct, when she finally picked herself up from the road amidst the shooting and shouting, was to run, and to run as fast and as far as her aching legs would carry her. Unfortunately, as she crashed through the undergrowth, blundering into brambles and trees alike in her near blind and terrified haste, she did not realise her tormentor had had the same idea. Content merely to follow her until they were well away from the road and the scene of the ambush, Crawley kept his distance. He remained out of sight until, after about half a mile, Harriet's knees finally gave way and she collapsed onto a patch of grass, whimpering in pain and fear.

  Crouched behind a thick oak, he carefully reloaded his pistol, all the while listening for sounds of pursuit even though he doubted either the woman or the boy would try to come after him. The old woman had been hurt, how badly he had no idea though he thought he must have hit her, and the boy would surely wait to tend to her if she still lived.

  He cursed beneath his breath. What the hell sort of weapon had the boy been carrying? The rush of air as the hail of lead passed over him and cut poor Silas to shreds had been terrifying enough in itself, and to see the mangled and bloody remains of his former aide had been something else again.

  In the distance, probably in the direction from which he had come although he couldn't be sure, Crawley heard the sound of a single shot. He tensed, listening hard, but all was silent again. He finished ramming the ball down the barrel, and stood up.

  The naked figure was still lying almost motionless where she had fallen, only the faint sound of sobbing betraying that she still lived. Not for much longer, he vowed, not knowing what she did about his true identity. He reached under his cape and took out the small leather purse, smiling to himself. Even in the confusion he had not forgotten his purpose for being out on that lonely road; he had scooped up Hannah's money even as he ran. He opened the drawstring and peered inside, probing with one finger. Yes, it was gold coin all right and plenty of it. He grunted in satisfaction, closed the purse and pocketed it again. Enough for a fresh horse, food, and plenty left over, and most of his own money would still be hidden beneath the ash tree on the other side of the village where he had buried it before announcing his arrival.

  There would be no need to return to Leddingham again, not that he anticipated any trouble, especially not if he made it back before the old woman and the miller's boy, but it would save him having to pay off those five louts. That would more than compensate for the loss of the wagon. Without Silas it was now an encumbrance anyway, and he could replace it as well as Grout in good time. He would walk across country until he either came to another road or to a farm where he could buy horse and saddle and sufficient provisions for a couple of days, after which he would decide upon his next destination. Not Portsmouth, for there was no place for his sort of work in the bustling naval city.

  No, the west country was waiting for him, with plenty of isolated villages and plenty of stupid peasants and even more stupid clergymen to aid him in his quest. But first there was the little matter of the girl to be settled. Feeling for the length of cord in the pocket of his cape, he decided she would die silently if not as quickly as originally planned. His eyes glinted in a sudden pale shaft of moonlight. Yes, the witch's whore would die, but not before he had enjoyed the warmth of her body one last time. He tucked the reloaded pistol into his belt, and began walking towards her.

  Jane Handiwell sat perched on a barrel in the corner of the small cellar beneath the Black Drum, staring into the shadows beyond the pool of light cast by the single lantern her father had left her. She was still dressed as she had been for the hunt, apart from the mask, and she knew her appearance must have shocked the conservative Thomas almost as much as the allegations the two soldiers had made.

  Allegations... she snorted. They were more than just allegations, she knew, and added to the word of the stupid Merridew girl, as well as to the fact that she was caught red-handed in the middle of Roderick Grayling's hunt, all meant she was in deep trouble. Worse still had been the news that the other Merridew bitch wasn't dead yet. Had the witchfinder discovered the truth concerning his prisoner?

  Jane sighed, and shook her head. Why hadn't she just bribed one of Roderick's handlers to strangle Harriet instead of swapping her for Matilda? The scheming whore would have been dead by now and unable to testify against her. And if she had arranged for the body to be found swiftly, her father would never have been so insistent upon sending those two Irish bastards to look for her.

  Highway robbery, abduction, attempted murder - they could hang her for any single one of those counts, and there would be little difficulty in proving her guilt now. On the other hand, the fact that the troopers had found Sarah on the Grayling estate meant Roderick was also implicated and would need to use all his influence. If she could get to Ellen and through Ellen to him, he would perhaps use his contacts to help her.

  Yes, all was not yet lost, she reflected. Of course, things between her and her father would never be the same again, and the chances of her ever inheriting the Drum were now more remote than ever. Never mind, let the stupid old fool share it with his beloved Harriet, assuming she ever got around to accepting his suit. She had money of her own, hidden in the woods where no one but she could ever find it, and with that she could disappear for as long as it took the Graylings to smooth things over. All she had to do now was get out of this cellar in which Thomas had locked her, but that was unlikely to prove too great an obstacle.

  She rose, and moved quietly across to the door, pressing her ear against the stout timber to listen for footsteps in the passage beyond.

  Beth, her beloved little Beth, her faithful maid and bedmate these past few years... Beth had been up there on the stairs, listening as that sergeant poured out his tale to her father, and she had still been there, crouched in the shadows, when they marched her down to the cellar and locked her in. Her father had been absolutely livid, almost incapable of speech, except to promise he would be back eventually to thrash her, as he should have thrashed her years ago.

  Jane barely stifled a harsh laugh. Thrash her, would he? Well, maybe he would, but she doubted it. She shuddered at the thought of baring her backside to a man with a cane, even if he was her own father, especially if he was her own father. But no, it would never happen, and as she continued to press her ear against the door, she knew it would not be long before Beth came for her.

  Harriet did not have to open her eyes to know it was Crawley who had found her. There was something about the smell of him; an odour that pushed past even the acrid tang of the leather hood she was growing accustomed to breathing through.

  She groaned, and rolled over onto her back as his boot nudged cruelly into her throbbing ribs. She opened her eyes. Past caring, she spread her legs, willing him to do his worst.

  The snarling figure sprang across her vision, and for a few moments the air was filled with screeches, curses and screams of pain. A pistol shot nearly deafened her, and yet still the desperate struggle raged on. A terrible cry rent the air, followed by an awful sobbing and
the pounding of booted feet. And then all went silent again. Harriet tried to roll to one side, but her strength had abandoned her, and when the terrible face appeared before her, the baleful eyes shining and huge, she knew the devil himself had determined her fate.

  'He is gone.' The dreadful creature said, bending over her, and Harriet saw a flash of bright metal as the hand came down towards her. But instead of tearing into her naked flesh, it turned sideways and the back of a human hand lightly stroked her shoulder. 'Gone now,' the creature repeated. Harriet stared up into the dark face, at the frightening fangs and the lip curled back over them. 'You safe. He is gone. Not worry you now,' Oona whispered. 'Not worry any woman no more.'

  'Are you drunk yet, Sean Kelly?' Paddy Riley stood in the shadow between the end of the inn and the first stable, his ale flagon held in one hand, clay pipe in the other. He had not turned around at the approaching footsteps; he had not needed to.

  'Not yet, sergeant darling,' Sean said. He raised his own flagon, extending his arm in the general direction of the woods. 'Did you see the wench go, then?'

  'Aye, that I did.'

  'And you didn't raise the hue?'

  'Didn't think it was my place, Sean lad,' Paddy muttered. 'We're off duty now, you know, else we'd be in dead trouble for drinking like this, wouldn't we?'

  'Yes, I suppose,' Sean agreed. He hesitated, sipped his ale and looked at his own pipe, which had gone out. 'You think they'll catch her?'

  'Maybe,' Paddy said. 'Depends how hard they look, I suppose.'

  'The poor innkeeper fellow looked pretty sick at the whole thing.'

  'Aye, well, he would.'

  'There's talk in there of the dragoons going up to the Grayling place at first light.'

  'There's always talk, Sean Kelly.'

  'You don't think they will, then?'

  'Oh, I'm sure they will.'

  'Ah.' There was a long pause. 'You don't think it'll come to anything.'

  'Maybe it will, maybe it won't.' Paddy sighed. 'All I know is, those Grayling people are money and nobility, and even though we were supposed to be fighting for democracy and the common man's rights, it'll not be in our lifetime we ever see that happen, if it ever happens at all. The Graylings of this world get away with murder because they're rich, the Crawleys get away with it because they're clever and because the Church protects its own, no matter how evil they might be. As for the innkeeper's girl, her friends at the Hall will probably help her disappear if they don't kill her. Wouldn't do for her to be standing before no court and telling what she knows now, would it?'

  'And so they all get away with it?'

  'Maybe,' Paddy said, 'and maybe not. As me mammy used to be so fond of telling us, God pays his debts without money.' He lifted his flagon and drained the remaining contents in one huge gulp. 'Now, what say we get ourselves back inside and take advantage of Master Handiwell's generous hospitality? This night air is growing a mite chill for my poor bones and I'm determined not to greet the dawn sober.'

  With so many soldiers about, it had been impossible to get into the stable unseen and Jane had been forced to flee into the night on foot. Beth would wait until the following morning, when the dragoons left for Grayling Hall, and then bring horses and some fresh clothes to the crossroads at Petersfield, a few miles to the south west. The pair would then travel further east into Sussex and find an inn where they could lie low for a few weeks while they sent word to Grayling Hall.

  Jane trudged on for nearly an hour. Finally, when she was sure she was well clear of the village, she left the road and found a grassy hollow where she could rest for a while. Her legs and feet ached and her eyes felt raw and heavy, for it had been a long day and her recent lack of sleep was beginning to exact its toll.

  She unfolded the blanket Beth had given her, laid the bundle containing food and a water bottle on the ground beneath her head, and almost immediately fell into a deep sleep, a sleep undisturbed by any dreams, let alone the nightmares she undoubtedly deserved. The nightmare was waiting for her, however, and when she opened her eyes it was there before her, straddling her thighs, its claws resting upon the thin black leather covering her breasts.

  'You,' hissed Oona, 'will now be Oona's bitch.' The claws raked down, scoring the leather of Jane's britches. 'Take off,' the dog-girl growled. 'Take off, or Oona take off!'

  A few minutes later, crouched on all fours, with those terrible talons closed about her tight little breasts, Jane Handiwell was given her first experience of a flesh-and-blood penis. Howling quietly in the back of her throat, Oona drove the instrument of her fall deep into her virgin pussy with a steady, unhurried rhythm. And as the razor-sharp claws moved up to encircle Jane's slender throat, it seemed her first experience was also about to become her last...

  Footnotes and Fancy Frees

  And so we leave our tale, dear reader, still with a few untied ends to consider. Harriet, Matilda, Kitty and Sarah, we know they all survived, but what of their future in our past, and what of Crawley, Jane, Oona, and the Graylings?

  Well...

  Harriet recovered from her ordeal and accepted Thomas Handiwell's proposal of marriage. With his money to pay for medicines and doctors, her father survived another twenty years, even leaving his bed to become a member of Charles II's parliament.

  Her cousin, Sarah, much changed by her experiences, went back to London and became a popular actress at Drury Lane and other theatres of the time. She was even more popular amongst a certain element of the aristocracy, but over that side of her career we draw a discreet veil.

  Jacob Crawley, a.k.a. Matthew Hopkins, disappeared again from the pages of history, and as we discussed earlier, faded into that obscure section of the past that is marked 'Rumour and Hearsay'. Let's hope his end, when it finally came, was not too pleasant.

  And what of Jane Handiwell and Oona? Well, it is certain Jane never did inherit the Black Drum, for that passed down to Thomas and Sarah's eldest son, Richard, and from Richard to his son Thomas, and from Thomas to his son Richard, etc. etc. until it was eventually sold to a developer. Upon the site now stand a motorway roundabout and the branch of a popular supermarket.

  There were stories in the 1660s (and for a good few decades afterwards) about two strange women who roamed the Hampshire countryside acting more like dogs than humans, killing sheep occasionally and...

  Roderick Grayling became a member of the government (as Paddy Riley observed, democracy and true justice would be a long time coming, and we're probably still waiting for it now, to be honest).

  Ellen married a Scottish nobleman and happily seduced each and every one of his nine sisters.

  Paddy and Sean eventually went back to Ireland, although Paddy returned later to run the inn for Thomas Handiwell, and joined him in an ill-fated venture to open the first Irish theme pub in Portsmouth. Rumour has it the pub failed because there were too many genuine Irish patrons in it every night.

  Jane's faithful maid, Beth, having waited in vain for her mistress at the crossroads at Petersfield for three nights, returned to the village. She spent a week getting drunk on Thomas's best wines, and then tiring of the idea of Sapphic love, she pounced upon young Toby Blaine on the evening of his sixteenth birthday. They married a few months later and lived together for over fifty years, raising five strapping sons and four daughters, one of whom went on to become the personal maid of a rather notorious duchess in London.

  And that just about takes care of everyone except Ross, of the most ingenious mind. It's only a rumour, but it was reputed that his grandson sired a bastard child who went on to design a variety of intricate bridges, engines and ships that would have much pleased his great grandfather, had he lived to see them. Unfortunately, Ross met an untimely end when one of his own inventions collapsed at an inappropriate moment. His injury was only a splinter wound, but then this was before an even more ingenious mind discovered penicillin.

  Who says there is no such thing as justice?

  Well me, actually, but I'm
just an old cynic.

  Appendix I

  Dramatis Personnae

  (Who's who and doing what to whom and with what!)

  BILLINGS, Anne - Wife of George Billings, local shoemaker. Anne works at the Black Drum and is recruited by Harriet to help her try to find out who and what is behind the kidnapping of her cousin, Sarah.

  BLAINE, Ned - Small-time farmer and customer at the Black Drum.

  BLAINE, Toby - Ned's teenage son. Toby poaches and knows every inch of the local countryside, and despite a lack of education is really a very intelligent young man. His friends, who help him in his quest to assist Hannah, are Matt Cornwell and Billy Dodds.

  BROTHERWOOD - Senior Garrison Officer at Portsmouth, agrees to 'lend' Colonel Robert Thomas Handiwell the services of Captain Timothy Hart, a young officer who is supposed to be on convalescent leave, together with a small escort party of troopers.

  CALTHORPE, Francis - Local miller and businessman.

  CALTHORPE, James - Son of Francis; a scholar and would-be beau of Matilda Pennywise.

  CRAWLEY, Jacob - Witchfinder. Quite possibly really Matthew Hopkins, the notorious witchfinder general from some fifteen years earlier, whose actual fate still remains shrouded in mystery. His chief assistants are Silas Grout and Jed Mardley, but he buys further help and loyalty wherever and whenever the need arises.

  DIGWELL-SHORT - Ineffectual constable of the local militia, whose numbers have become depleted by the needs of the main military.

  GRAYLING, Roderick - Heir to Grayling Hall and to the fortunes of his dissipate father, Earl Grayling. During his father's absence in the New World, Roderick has established a lucrative centre for slave trading at the Hall, where he enjoys the attentions of his two diminutive black slave girls, Popsy and Topsy.