Cauldron of Fear

by Jennifer Jane Pope

  Slowly, she raised her face until her eyes met his. 'Yes, master,' she repeated, quietly but surprisingly calmly, 'I think I should like that very much.'

  Matilda hung awkwardly against the unforgiving stone blocks, shifting her position every now and then, at least as far as her chains would permit, in an effort to bring a measure of relief to a few different muscles in turn. However, with her toes barely touching the floor, there were few options and gradually her limbs were beginning to feel numb through their agonies.

  'Dear God,' she whispered, half opening her eyes to peer into the gloom, suspecting that the gaunt, black-garbed man was there somewhere, watching her ordeal, 'dear God, why is this happening to me? You know only too well that these are nought but foul lies.' She closed her eyes again, groaning and trying to draw more air into her lungs.

  Was this, she wondered, what it felt like to be crucified? She had heard, somewhere, that it was not the nails through hands and feet that killed, but the position of the condemned, whereby the chest finally collapsed and no air then reached the head. James - James Calthorpe, the miller's son - had told her that, hadn't he? James had been educated, sent away to London, his father's money buying him a future that wouldn't involve humping heavy sacks of grain and flour and long hours toiling to keep the unreliable mill machinery grinding.

  James Calthorpe knew many things, Matilda knew. He knew about other countries, Europe, the new cities in the new world across the ocean. He hadn't visited them personally, of course, though he had assured Matilda that he would - and soon - but he told her of the books in the universities and libraries, shelf upon shelf of learning and knowledge, where a man could spend a lifetime of days reading and still not have touched upon one tenth of what was there.

  And James knew of many things much closer to home, especially of those secret places that Matilda thought were known only to her, and just how and when to touch, caress, kiss these places and invoke in her sensations that drove her to forget everything her mother and aunts had ever told her. Perhaps, she reflected mournfully, this was her punishment; the wrath of God unleashed upon her for those stolen moments of passion in the various small barns behind the watermill.

  They had done things that Matilda knew were wrong, sinful, against the teachings of the Church, things the pastor had told the entire congregation would be certain to condemn their eternal souls to the fires of everlasting Hell. She had been wicked and now she was being punished.

  'No!' she cried out, her eyes snapping open. 'No!' It was not right, she was not right. The Crawley man had said she was a witch, that she had consorted with devils and imps. James Calthorpe was no angel, to be sure, but he was no devil, that much Matilda knew beyond doubt. No man could be more flesh and blood than he.

  'Please!' she cried into the echoing darkness. 'Please, you must believe me. I'll swear on the good book, I am no witch. Let those who accuse me do so to my face and swear their oath likewise and in the church itself, before the altar!'

  Francis Calthorpe regarded the old woman quizzically. Everyone in the village knew Hannah Pennywise, but no one could ever really say they 'knew' her, as he was want to tell his wife on frequent occasions. Of course the majority of the locals, little more than ignorant peasants in Francis's eyes, regarded her as a witch and openly said so, though never, naturally, within her hearing.

  Francis did not subscribe to this point of view, though he had to agree that Hannah was slightly odd. She was old - very old - though nobody could say her exact age and nobody dared ask her directly, and she looked stiff and frail, though she walked briskly everywhere, banging her cane into the ground as she went. Moreover, though the passing of the years had taken its inevitable toll, enough remained to indicate that, in her younger days, Hannah Pennywise had almost certainly been a handsome woman.

  That evidence was also reflected in her granddaughter, Matilda, a fine looking young woman, if also slightly unconventional in her ways, a trait that Francis proscribed to her earlier upbringing in London, where women, so he heard, were beginning to behave slightly more independently, despite the supposedly strict Puritan regime of the Protector, Cromwell.

  This combination of beauty and wilfulness was doubtless what had attracted Francis's son, James, to the girl - that and her obvious intelligence and an education far better than the average village female was ever likely to have benefit of. Given her character, Francis could see his son was quite possibly courting trouble for himself in the future, but then James was a strong character in his own right and was of an age whereby he was entitled to make his own choices - and mistakes.

  'Mistress Pennywise,' Francis said at last, dusting down the front of his apron, but simply creating a further cloud of flour between them, 'my son left for London yesterday, to the best of my knowledge. Of course,' he added with a wry smile, 'you may be in a more privileged position than I.'

  Hannah sniffed and leaned on her long staff, shaking her head.

  'He may have left for London, Master Calthorpe, but he was supposed to be calling in to see my lass before he travelled,' she said. 'They were to meet at the crossroads and dine at the inn, but I am told that neither of them ever arrived there.'

  Francis raised his eyebrows. 'I see,' he replied slowly. 'Well, perhaps he decided to delay his departure. Perhaps, well, perhaps many things. Young people today do not necessarily observe the proprieties of past ages.'

  'Yes, well I know what you're thinking, Francis Calthorpe,' Hannah growled, 'but in this particular case you're quite wrong, I think. Besides, where would they go? They would hardly ride to London together on the one horse, would they - unless you're going to tell me your lad had a spare mount with him?'

  'No, that he did not, I can say for sure,' Francis said, shaking his head. 'Though he could, perhaps, have hired another mount at the inn.'

  'No,' Hannah said, 'I already told you. He never went to the inn.'

  'Then I don't know,' Francis admitted, holding up his flour-covered hands. 'But I shouldn't worry overly much. It was a warm night last night, so they could - well, they could easily have fallen asleep somewhere.'

  'They could, aye,' Hannah said, 'but I'm damned certain they didn't. Something is very wrong and I can feel it. Trouble is,' she added, turning to leave, 'I don't know what and I don't know where. Not as yet, anyways.'

  'That young woman could do a lot worse for herself, I'm telling you,' Thomas Handiwell grunted. 'There b'ain't so many eligible fellows around these parts, in case you hadn't noticed.'

  From the other side of the well-worn oak bar counter, Ned Blaine tried not to smile. Ten years younger than Thomas, Ned had been happily (for the most part, anyway) married to his childhood sweetheart for getting on for two decades, a union that had brought forth nine surviving offspring, six of them male, and the eldest two female children were now both around marriageable age and themselves not that much younger than the object of Thomas's desire.

  'Fair enough, Ned,' Thomas continued, 'there's a difference of more than a few years—'

  'More'n a few, Thomas,' Ned interjected, but Thomas appeared, or chose to appear, not to hear him.

  'A few years, I'll grant you,' he said, 'but I have good health and a good home to offer here.'

  'Wench has a home already,' Ned pointed out. 'Barten Meade's a fine house.'

  '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.'

  Chapter 2

  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.