Cauldron of Fear

by Jennifer Jane Pope

  'Whatever happens,' he said, 'you must use every effort, every tactic, to delay your eventual encounter with these villains, male or female. If that youngster is correct - and I have to say he makes a lot of sense for one so young - then there are only so many other places where you will be able to leave the river, so you must give us time to catch up to you, whatever else you do.

  'Remember, my dear Harriet,' he urged, all pretence at formality now banished, 'it would break my heart if anything ill were to befall you. I know you remain determined not to take me, but you will always remain very close to my heart and a dear friend, too.

  'Would that we had more resources for this, too,' he continued, before Harriet could think of a suitable reply, 'but all we have is young Captain Hart and his handful of men, which is nowhere near enough given the size of the area these scoundrels have at their disposal. If we had even twenty men, then we could disperse several patrols to throw some sort of a cordon about those woods, but as it is we are forced to rely on being in the right place at the right time - and upon the element of surprise,' he added grimly.

  'The odds are not good, Harriet, and I do not like this at all. I just wish you would let me talk you out of it, but I see you will not. Perhaps just another few hours - maybe send the boat downstream with another message?'

  'No, Thomas.' Harriet used his christian name for the first time in all the years since she had known Handiwell. 'They would know it was most likely a ruse, for sure. I cannot afford to put poor Sarah's life at risk in that fashion.'

  'Then so be it,' Thomas conceded. 'And let us all pray that the Good Lord chooses to look kindly upon our endeavours.'

  Sarah opened her eyes, blinked and turned onto her side, trying to focus her thoughts through the blur of fatigue that still held her in its grip. She had slept, but she had no idea for how long, although she remembered, vaguely, Ellen talking to someone at the door and then returning to the bed and stretching out alongside her again. Now, however, there was no sign of her.

  Groaning, Sarah sat up and, as her head slowly cleared, began to look about. The bedroom was much as she remembered it from the night before, except that now, through the heavy curtains at the window, chinks of bright sunlight cast thin shafts of brilliance across the thick carpets. Ellen's riding garb of the previous evening still lay in a crumpled heap next to the foot of the bed, the ornate oil lamp on the high chest still flickered and the bottle of wine that Ellen had produced to refresh them during their prolonged encounter lay empty and discarded in the middle of the floor.

  Stiffly, Sarah swung her legs over the side of the bed and rose unsteadily to her feet, barely noticing, as she did so, that they were still firmly encased in the ridiculously high-heeled shoes. Wobbling precariously, she made her way slowly to the door, gripped the gold plated handle, turned it and pulled.

  Nothing happened. With a sigh of frustration she tried again, but she knew, even as she did so, that the door was not going to open, not until whoever had locked it - presumably Ellen - returned with the key. For several seconds Sarah stood there, her hand still gripping the handle, her thoughts in total disarray.

  At last, for want of a better alternative, she turned, teetered across to the window and drew back one of the curtains, shying away from the sudden brilliance of the morning sun. Shading her eyes with one hand she peered out through the latticed glass, noting the broad expanse of manicured lawn, the carefully shaped miniature trees and what appeared to be a large stone-edged pond, some distance from the house and just before the cultivated area gave way to a screen of much higher trees.

  The windows were secured by means of simple catches, but as soon as Sarah swung the first one open, she realised escape via this route was impossible. Peering over the cill she saw that the bedroom was on the third storey and that the lower two were, if anything, higher than the one she was now on. Below her was a sheer drop of at least thirty feet, possibly more, straight down onto a broad expanse of paving that ran along the entire length of the building.

  'I shouldn't even think about it.' The sound of Ellen's voice made Sarah jump and the little squeak of surprise was out before she could prevent it. She turned guiltily, facing her self-appointed mistress, her cheeks already beginning to burn again. 'If the drop didn't kill you,' Ellen said evenly, 'it would most certainly cripple you for life.' She now wore much more feminine clothing, though even so the cut of her new outfit was decidedly severe. The black velvet skirt was much straighter than was currently fashionable, the waist drawn in by a wide belt, booted ankles and feet just visible below the lower hem.

  Above this she wore a simple blouse of a lemon coloured silk, over which a tightly fitted jacket to match the skirt was open fronted, cut away in a Spanish bolero style. It was, Sarah decided, feminine and yet masculine, both at the same time and Ellen, with her hair newly drawn back and up and her make-up freshly and meticulously reapplied, looked stunning.

  'I - I was just getting some fresh air,' Sarah offered plaintively. 'I felt a little dizzy. It must have been the wine.'

  'Yes,' Ellen smiled knowingly, 'it must have been. Well then, my pretty Sarah, I think the best thing for you will be a nice bath. We have a furnace house here and plenty of hot water, so I've instructed the servants to fill my own personal bath for you.' She held out a hand. 'Come along, pretty, let's get you nice and fresh and then we can find you something more suited. Can't have you sitting a horse like that, no matter how delicious you'd look. It'd be no way to greet your cousin, especially as I understand you've never met her before.'

  Simon Wickstanner stood once more in the doorway of the little cellar room, staring at Matilda's motionless figure, now huddled in the furthest corner. Her head and face were still enclosed within the leather hood, her arms and wrists still pinioned to the harness she had now worn since Crawley and his men had dragged her here. Her feet remained locked inside the heavily weighted boots and, as he studied her, Wickstanner was finally forced to face up to the enormity of what he had done and to the monstrous atrocity that had been committed in the name of the God he was supposed to be avowed to serve.

  He saw again the red welts on her back, buttocks and thighs, and shuddered at the memory of the way in which the poor creature had been flogged, and at the way the assembled villagers had witnessed the scene with an air of what could only be described as relish. The way the men in particular had shuffled closer, their eyes almost glazing over, had haunted Wickstanner ever since and he had not dared to close his own eyes in sleep all night, for the devils of darkness waited just such an opportunity to come and avenge themselves on him.

  Tears welled up in his eyes and his entire body began to shake, so that he was forced to grip the doorframe in order to remain upright. For several minutes he stood thus, unable to enter, unable to leave, as he fought with his conscience in an unequal struggle that could have but only one outcome. He knew what he had to do, but first he needed to summon the strength to do it.

  At last, breathing heavily, he forced himself to release his supportive grip and stumbled forward, hesitating as he reached Matilda and then forcing himself to kneel beside her and shake her shoulder, before what little resolve he had managed to muster could dissolve again. Matilda moaned quietly and then, as if in slow motion, turned her head to look up at him.

  Her eyes stared out through the narrow slits in the mask, but the hatred in them was unmistakable.

  'Matilda?' He reached out again and touched her lightly on the top of her arm, expecting her to cringe from the contact, but instead she remained motionless, her glittering stare unwavering and unblinking.

  'What do you want?' she demanded flatly. 'Come to gloat, have you?' At last she stirred, rolling onto her back, the sharp intake of breath and the single wincing blink of her eyes indicating that the skin there was still raw. 'Well, reverend Wickstanner,' she hissed, 'gloat all you want. I'm past caring now, believe me.' Shamefacedly, Wickstanner averted his gaze and looked down at the stone floor beside her. Matilda let out
a harsh, dry cackle.

  'What's the matter, little man of God?' she taunted him. 'Afraid you'll be damned if you look at me? Well, you'll be damned all right, so go on, dear Simon, you might as well look. After all, who's here to bear witness against you, eh? Not me, that's for sure, for when they take me out to hang me, Crawley's made it quite clear I shan't be able to speak, but then, he's probably told you that, hasn't he? The old scold's bridle will ensure I can't say a word about what's been going on here and the rope will make certain it stays that way.

  'So,' she rasped, raising her head slightly, 'look all you like. It must be morning by now, so you don't have a lot of time left. They'll be coming for me soon, you know.'

  'No, they won't,' Wickstanner said quietly. 'Not today, anyway. Master Crawley has postponed everything until tomorrow.'

  'So he can spend another night screwing me, I suppose,' Matilda spat.

  Wickstanner shook his head. 'No, that's not the reason. A small sum of money has been paid towards your absolution tithe and the rest is promised for either tonight or tomorrow morning.'

  'From my grandmother? I don't believe you! She wouldn't give in to that sort of blackmail, not even to save my skin.'

  'I don't know,' Wickstanner admitted. 'Perhaps you have another friend?'

  'Friends, yes,' Matilda grunted, 'but not with that sort of money.' he saw her eyes narrow. 'Is this some sort of trick?'

  'No. At least, none that I am party to. With luck you'll be free of all this, come this time tomorrow. Believe me, if I had the money myself I'd pay Master Crawley and get you away all the sooner.'

  'Oh, is that so?' Matilda's tone was worse than scathing. 'Am I supposed to feel grateful for that, reverend dear?' She snorted. 'Don't think I don't know it's you who's responsible for me being here in the first place.' With an effort she managed to sit up and half turn the upper portion of her body away from him.

  'See, reverend, that's all the gratitude you'll get from me, you godless bastard.'

  Wickstanner stared, as though transfixed, at the criss-cross pattern of welts. Matilda remained thus for several seconds and then slowly turned back to face him again.

  'If you think I'd ever be grateful to you, then think again, you evil little worm,' she said. Her voice sounded as if it had been coated in ice. 'I think I know your game, reverend Wickstanner. Well, forget it. There's no way you'll ever get what I think it is you want from me, always supposing I ever do live long enough.

  'So, you might as well take it now, eh? Come on, reverend, what are you waiting for? See? I'm totally helpless, so why not just shuck your breeches and do what you've wanted to do ever since you first set eyes on me. C'mon, get your holy prick out, why don't you? Why should I care, eh? Your prick, Crawley's prick, those other animals—'

  'Stop!' Wickstanner leapt to his feet, covering his ears with his hands. 'Stop! Stop, please! Please, I beg you!'

  Matilda stared at him for a few seconds and then began to laugh, a sound that seemed to start from deep within her stomach and grew and grew until, in Wickstanner's tortured mind, it was ricocheting around the walls of the empty chamber like the sound of battlefield musketry.

  With a supreme effort she managed to climb to her feet. With her wrists and arms pinned to her sides her breasts were thrust out and unencumbered, and she deliberately shuffled her heavily weighted feet until she stood with legs spread.

  'C'mon, mister priest man,' she hissed. 'C'mon, let's have your prick inside my devil cunt to rot with all the others I must have had in there.' As she spoke she began to inch towards him.

  'Nooo!' Wickstanner retreated towards the door, but instead banged hard against the wall a few feet from the opening. Covering his eyes with one hand he held the other up between them, as if to ward Matilda off, but she stopped just short of it, breathing hard.

  'Pathetic little bag of shit!' she exclaimed. 'Can't even take a woman when she's neatly plucked and parcelled for you. Or did you want that I should come sweetly and beg your love?'

  'No!' Wickstanner's denial came out like a rush of winter wind. Slowly he lowered the hand from before his face, which Matilda saw had gone even paler; so pale, indeed, that he looked almost transparent. 'No,' he repeated. 'No, I beg only that you forgive me.' Tears welled up in his eyes and coursed down his puffy cheeks like two streams. 'Please, Harriet, forgive me, for I know now that I have sinned greatly and offended the Lord.'

  'Oh, is that so?' Harriet drew her legs slowly together and squared her shoulders. 'You've offended the Lord, have you? Well, deary, deary me, how terrible for you.' She paused, but only for a brief instant. 'How terrible indeed. But pardon me if I say that I don't give a shit how offended your so-called God is! If he were half a god I doubt he'd countenance the likes of you as his servant, let alone let you get away with the sort of atrocity you've committed here in his name!

  'So don't come snivelling to me, Wickstanner, because it'll be a cold day in Hell before I offer you any forgiveness. You ragged, useless, spineless little turd - I'd have thought more of you if you had just come in here to finish what you started, but I see now you can't even manage that.

  'I'd rather be flogged and hanged than give you the satisfaction. Take your guilt and suffer it. Who knows, little man, you might even achieve martyrdom and sainthood. From what I've seen of your church, it wouldn't surprise me!' She turned her back on him, almost tripping in the cumbersome boots as she did so and stared at the blank wall.

  'Go on!' she growled. 'You ain't got it in you to fuck me, so why don't you just fuck off, eh?'

  Chapter 15

  The bath certainly left Sarah feeling refreshed and a lot more alive than when she had first woken, but the relief she felt at being released from the strictures of the tight corset and the shoes did not last for very long afterwards. Prudence's curious servant, Jasmine, now attired in a brief Greek style robe, helped her from the water, towelled her briskly and then guided her back through the door that connected the bathroom with Ellen's bedroom.

  Ellen was sitting propped up on the bed, still fully clothed, even to her boots. On a table alongside the bed sat a strange glass bowl-like contraption, half filled with what seemed to be water, a brass container set atop it, a flexible tube rising from its side. The other end of this tube Ellen held, periodically raising it to her lips and sucking upon it, causing a stream of bubbles to rise to the surface of the clear liquid inside.

  'It's called a water pipe, or hookah,' Ellen said, seeing Sarah's look of puzzlement. 'The Arabs invented it. Very pleasant and most soothing. Come, try some.' She held the mouthpiece towards Sarah, who after a momentary hesitation, padded forward uncertainly. The ivory end felt cold between her lips and again she hesitated.

  'Suck gently, pretty,' Ellen whispered encouragingly. 'I know you can do that.' She giggled and laughed even louder when, as Sarah tried to obey, the sudden inhalation of smoke sent her into a spasm of coughing that brought tears to her eyes.

  'Don't worry, pretty,' Ellen chortled, 'you'll soon get used to it, same as you'll soon get used to a lot of things around here. Try it again, only take it into your lungs more slowly and let it just drift out again.' Sarah blinked, wiped her eyes with the back of her free hand and did as she was told.

  Once again the cool smoke felt harsh in her throat and mouth, but at least she managed to take it down without choking this time. However, as she slowly exhaled a curious feeling of detachment began to creep over her. She struggled to focus again, concentrating all her willpower on trying to stop Ellen's image from wavering.

  'That's a good girl,' Ellen said softly. 'One more now, and then we'll get you into your nice new corset.'

  When Sarah stood for Jasmine to wrap the heavily boned stays about her, she was actually swaying rather than standing properly, and she was barely aware of the steady tightening as the servant girl began to draw in the laces at the rear. By the time her head began to clear again she was suddenly and acutely aware that whatever drug was in the smoke was quite a powerful paink
iller, for as its effects slowly began to abate, she realised this latest corset was even tighter than the one in which she had spent the night and her ribs felt as if they were being crushed in a vice.

  On the outside the shimmering black satin looked so elegant, so feminine with its lacy trimmings top and bottom, but as Sarah stared down at her rapidly reducing waistline, she realised that appearances could be totally deceptive and that the inner lining, whatever it was made from, combined with the vicious whalebone stays that were hidden inside the fabric, formed a cage in which she was now held rigidly.

  'I just adore the way the French couturiers design their undergarments, don't you?' Ellen said. 'Such a tiny waist you have now, pretty Sarah - one could almost believe one could snap you clean in two.'

  'P-please!' Sarah gasped, fighting for breath. 'Please, mistress, have some charity. I shall surely suffocate in this terrible garment.' Ellen, however, did not seem at all disposed to heed Sarah's protests.

  'Nonsense,' she cried dismissively. 'In a little while you will grow quite used to be laced so snugly and you will even thank me for making you look so elegant. You wouldn't believe me if I told you how much that beautiful corset cost.'

  Mercifully, Jasmine conceded that she had closed the corset as far as was humanly possible and began knotting off the laces, slicing away the spare end lengths, which were by now very long, with a small knife. Sarah groaned, realising that, with the way the laces had been tied, there would be no way for her to release the pressure herself.

  'Black stockings, Jasmine,' Ellen instructed. 'The long ones if you please, and those really wide garters that came from Spain earlier this year. She has such pretty legs, doesn't she? It seems a shame to cover them with skirts, but then that need not be for very long, I suppose.' She grinned at Sarah, but Sarah was more concerned with trying to inhale sufficient air to prevent herself from passing out.