'Such a shame you'll not be hanging the girl today then,' Wickstanner replied sarcastically. The sarcasm seemed lost on Silas.
'It'll still be fine tomorrow,' he said confidently, 'all the time the winds stays in the south west, anyway. Besides,' he added, straightening up and letting his hammer drop onto the back of the wagon, 'it'll give us a bit more time to get this little lot ready. My mate usually does this with me, you see,' he continued, by way of explanation, 'only he's gone missing this morning. Probably sleeping it off somewhere, if I'm any judge.'
'Drink is an evil temptation,' Wickstanner said.
Silas seemed unmoved by this observation. 'Maybe it is and maybe it ain't,' he said non-committally, 'but there are some who needs a drop of something now and again.' He nodded towards the structure he was building. 'Always upsets Jed, you see,' he explained further. 'Me too, but then I always tells meself it's God's work we do.'
'And of course, as Master Crawley tells me,' Wickstanner said, 'the two of you are charitable enough to make sure that most of your victims - I mean charges - are given a quick and merciful death.'
'Aye, that we are, usually,' Silas said, puffing his chest out proudly. 'Master Crawley tells us we're real masters of our craft, that he does.'
'Yes, he did explain the principle in outline,' Wickstanner said. 'Apparently you leave enough slack in the rope so that the prisoner's own weight breaks her neck.'
'That's the truth of it, Master Wickstanner,' Silas nodded. 'An' it's quite an art, too. Heavier prisoners are the easiest, but the lightweights need a longer drop. We needs to find a nice high branch for them.'
'And what if you can't - find a high enough branch, that is?' Wickstanner asked. 'What if the condemned is a particularly light person?'
Silas grinned. 'Oh, don't you worry,' he chuckled. 'We got all that sorted out a long time ago.' He jabbed a finger at a hemp sack that stood in one corner of the wagon. 'See that?' he said. 'That's filled with stones and hung on a belt round her waist. Even the skinniest wench will drop fast with that on her.
'Of course, we've come a long way since we first started dropping 'em,' he added, eager to impress further. 'We started off by taking 'em up a ladder and shoving 'em off, but that was a bit cramped. Then we had two ladders - one for the condemned and one for one of us to stand on, but sometimes they wouldn't climb up, so we had to tie 'em to the ladder first, then raise it up, then cut the ropes that held 'em.
'All a bit complicated, till we thought of this idea. The platform is twice the height of a man and more and there's a set of steps goes up to it from the bed of the wagon, see?' He pointed to what appeared to be a particularly wide ladder, the rungs of which were broad enough to be classed as steps, just.
'Even if the wench struggles we can walk up that, one on each side of her, get her onto the plank and drop the noose over her head. Usually, once they get up a few steps, they stops struggling anyways, so it's quite quick from then on.'
'Better than a ladder, yes, I can see that,' Wickstanner replied thoughtfully. He remained silent, staring at the rustic steps and then looking up to the overhanging bough. 'Yes,' he repeated thoughtfully, 'I can see the advantages.'
'Master Handiwell, I cannot authorise this intrusion.' Captain Timothy Hart looked extremely distressed, his already gaunt features deathly pale, his eyes watery. 'Lord Grayling is a very influential man and for me to take my men onto his property - well, the repercussions, they could be enormous.'
Thomas Handiwell regarded the young officer disdainfully, while the other members of their small party - Toby Blaine aside - tried desperately to affect an air of disinterest.
'Captain,' Thomas said levelly, 'your remit was to accompany me back here and, whilst officially you are on a leave of absence, if the opportunity presented itself, you were to use your office to pursue these miscreants with what your commanding officer referred to as "every expedience", was it not?'
'It was, indeed,' Hart replied. 'However, this really is the flimsiest of evidence upon which to proceed.' He looked over his shoulder at Toby, who was sitting nonchalantly astride the spare mount Thomas had brought with them for just that purpose.
'I'm certainly not disputing the lad's integrity,' he continued, 'but to go tramping through a private estate without being certain we'll even find the people we're after? They could turn off and leave the Grayling land at any point.'
'Then the sooner we get after them,' Thomas growled, 'the better, wouldn't you say? That young woman has put herself at risk in the belief that we would give her every support and protection and I have no intention of sitting here, arguing with you, when her very life could be in danger!'
The riding habit was, like everything else Sarah now wore, completely black. Made from a woollen cloth fabric, the jacket was tailored to fit snugly, buttoning to the neck and hugging Sarah's constricted waistline perfectly, its frock design flaring out over her hips.
Beneath this the skirt was long, reaching to her ankles and loose fitting beneath the hips, pleated cunningly to disguise the fact that it was in fact split from top to bottom in several strategic places. Seeing Sarah's puzzled look, Ellen, who had now discarded her pipe, offered a brief explanation.
'The skirt is designed like that so you can sit a horse the more easily,' she said. 'The usual fashion for a lady to ride a horse whilst wearing a skirt is, of course, to adopt the ridiculous side-saddle, but you are not exactly a lady and, in any case, I have a far more interesting saddle in mind for you.'
The addition of the top clothing made Sarah feel a little easier; thankfully, she thought, everything was now covered modestly, even if, beneath it all, she knew how exotically she was attired. The tight corset, its boning seemingly intent on piercing her through, was unlikely to let her forget that, but as she stood before the mirror one more time she saw that outwardly, at least, she presented an almost demure image, of a young and fashionable lady dressed for a morning's riding in the park. Even the height of the ridiculous boots was now all but disguised by the swirling skirts.
There was, of course, one more difference, Sarah knew; a critical difference that no observer, casual or otherwise, could possibly have discerned. The tightly fitting gloves, their extreme length now hidden inside the sleeves of the jacket, handicapped her arms and fingers so heavily that without help she would be unable to remove any of the clothing.
Dressed thus, Ellen could take her riding in public and not one person would possibly guess that she was, in effect, a virtually helpless prisoner of her clothing, a strikingly pretty creature who could no little, if anything, for herself and was therefore totally at the mercy, both of the girl who had ordered her prepared in this way and of anyone else into whose clutches she either fell, or was placed.
'Ready for our little ride, pretty?' Ellen asked, reaching for her own jacket again.
'Mistress,' Sarah began hesitantly. 'Mistress, you said you were taking me to meet my cousin? I presume you speak of Harriet, for I have no other cousin, at least none that I know of.'
'Yes, pretty Sarah,' Ellen replied, shrugging into her jacket, 'I was speaking of your cousin Harriet and yes, with luck, you shall see her shortly, for she should even now be making her way to deliver a ransom for your release. She comes alone, of course.'
For a brief moment Sarah's heart leapt, but then, as she saw the expression on Ellen's face and understood the significance of that final remark her hopes immediately fell again. 'And you have no intention of releasing me, mistress,' she said dully. Worse, she realised, though she did not voice her suspicion, Ellen Grayling and whoever else was involved in her abduction originally, would very soon have Harriet in their clutches as well.
'No,' Ellen confirmed quietly, though Sarah barely heeded her words now. 'No, no intention whatsoever. You would, of course, make a pretty pair, for I can see the family likeness and there is little in age between you, right enough, but I fear there are other plans already made for Miss Harriet Merridew.'
Chapter 16
Jacob Crawley stood looking up at the curious structure that stood partly supported on the back of the wagon and nodded. Above him, Silas Grout knocked in the second pivot pin, seized the broad plank in his left hand and lifted it from the vertical to the horizontal, lowered it and raised it again.
'Just the two supporting brackets now, Master Crawley,' he announced, 'but if it's all the same with you and seein' as how we won't now be needing this until the morrow, I'd like to take myself over to the inn for a bit. 'Tis a warm day and this is warmer work, especially for one man on his own.'
'Well, you've done well, Silas,' Crawley conceded. 'Take yourself off and enjoy your ale. None of these peasants would dare touch anything here, that's for sure.' He grimaced. 'And still no sign of that rogue Jed, I take it?'
'Not a sign, master,' Silas confirmed. 'Probably still lying drunk somewhere. He never was too good at holdin' his drink, but I'll wager he turns up again just in time to see me finish here.'
'Maybe,' Crawley said, 'but it's strange, even for him. He's not to know I've postponed the execution and the original time is only a half hour from hence. Unlike him, that, no matter how drunk the oaf tends to get. Come to think of it,' he mused, 'I haven't seen the wretch since he went off to take food and water to the miller's son.'
'Me neither,' Silas began, 'but then—' He stopped, and Crawley saw that he was peering into the distance. 'Damnation!' The oath was muttered half under Silas's breath, but it came down clear enough to Crawley, who immediately stiffened.
'What is it, man?' he demanded, trying to follow the line of Silas's gaze, though a small clump of bushes screened him from the view that Silas's higher vantage point afforded him.
'I think, Master Crawley,' Silas replied, beginning to climb down the framework of the scaffold, 'that we might just be about to find out why Jed ain't here. Less'n I'm much mistook, which I knows I ain't, the old biddy is headed this way and she's got the bloody miller's lad with her. But don't worry,' he said, dropping the last few feet to land on the grass beside Crawley, 'I've got both my pistols here in the wagon and a knife that will cut through three layers of leather at one thrust.'
'Leave the pistols hidden, Silas,' Crawley said, placing a restraining hand on his arm. 'Unless the lad is armed we have no need of them. I have all the protection we need right here,' he added, patting his jerkin beneath his cloak. 'The law is the law, after all, and the authority of the Church is beyond question.
'No need to harm the lad, not unless he recognises you - and then you simply deny having ever seen him before. I can't see any of these villagers siding with him, not once I swear you haven't been out of my sight these past three days. The sight of your gibbet here will be more than enough to still their tongues in their heads.'
Harriet saw the ruins of the bridge as the little boat rounded the second half of the long bend and pulled the oars inboard, while she turned to study the left bank, where she was supposed to land. Nothing seemed to be stirring there, but she had not expected to see anyone standing in full view anyway, so she turned back, hefted one of the oars over the right hand side and began using it as a paddle, guiding the craft gradually in from centre stream.
Steadily, the distance began to decrease and she was able to make out the crumbling chunks of masonry lying half submerged in the water at the bases of all that remained of the original bridge supports. Whatever floodwaters had been responsible for the structure's demise, she thought, they must have been fierce, or else the destruction of the bridge had been assisted by a human agency.
At last she was able to manoeuvre in to the shore and the prow of the boat bumped gently onto the silt and mud beneath the steeper bank. Carefully she stood up, made her way forward and splashed down into the shallows, dragging the boat a few feet further in, before finally pulling herself up the muddy incline to the flatter ground above.
Panting from her exertions, she stood for a moment to regain her breath and looked about. As Toby had said, there was still a road, or lane visible, leading away from the ruined bridge and into the thick woodland, but it was already becoming badly overgrown and she wondered just how passable it would be, even for someone on foot.
Presumably there was a way through, otherwise the kidnappers would not have chosen the place to begin with. As the rise and fall of her breasts slowed she held her breath and listened intently, but apart from a few birds calling from the treetops high above and the musical background from the river waters, which ran slowly at this point, she could hear nothing.
Delay and buy time; that was what Thomas had stressed. She turned, looked back across the water to the pile of broken masonry and beyond that to the barely discernable gap in the trees that marked the line of the road on that side. Not that she expected to see or hear anything from that direction, for Toby had been adamant that the only way for Thomas and the soldiers to reach this side of the river was by making a circuitous approach, crossing the river by another bridge, further downstream and not part of the Grayling lands.
Sighing, Harriet wondered just how long it would take them. The woods around her looked dense, hardly ideal for men on horseback, but then she really had no other alternative and, if anyone was watching her, much more delaying on her part would surely arouse their suspicions.
She swallowed and turned back to the track, doubt beginning to assail her for the first time, for now, as she stood, the safety of the river behind her, the unknown of the woods in front and with no one to help her, possibly not for miles still, Harriet suddenly realised how alone and vulnerable she really was and even the hard lump of the small pistol hidden inside her shirt did little to reassure her.
Chapter 17
The confrontation with Crawley had shaken James's confidence badly. Instead of the supposed witchfinder being concerned by being faced with logic and learning, he had simply turned what James had considered as being his strengths and used them against him.
'Your schooling will no doubt have covered a few basic points of the law,' Crawley said, when James had finished trying to harangue him and demanded Matilda's immediate release. 'Therefore, you will be well aware that a warrant signed under the seal of a bishop is not something to be treated lightly.
'Regardless of what you might like to believe, young fellow,' he continued, 'I thank the good Lord that there are still some who are aware of the continued presence of evil in these lands and that they have vested in me the authority to root it out, wherever it lurks. The young woman in question has confessed to practicing the dark arts and to heretical utterings. The law of the Church is quite clear in these cases. Unless the absolution tithe is paid by this evening, she will be put to death in the proscribed manner, tomorrow morning, at eight of the clock precisely. Only the payment of the first two guineas has persuaded me to delay the execution beyond my original intent. The balance must be paid by sunset - no later!'
James had barely constrained himself from leaping forward and seizing the wretched man by the throat, but the lurking presence of Silas Grout, who was both taller and heavier than James, eventually persuaded him that violence would bring no solution. He looked upwards at the strange assemblage of timbers and at the overhanging bough high above them and shuddered.
'It will not happen, Master Crawley,' he said, struggling to keep his voice from trembling with rage. 'It will not happen!'
When they had moved out of earshot, Hannah Pennywise spoke for the first time since they approached Crawley on the green. 'He has the law on his side,' she said, 'no matter how cackafanny that law may be. We cannot go openly against the law. That swine he has with him would break your back in an instant, or else the rest of these fools would fall upon you.'
'But that's just the point,' James seethed. 'He doesn't have the law on his side. Parliament changed the laws regarding witchcraft a good few years back now. His warrant, if indeed he has one, must now be out of date and invalid.'
'And I suppose you have signed and attested copies of their new law, eh?' Hannah sighed. 'No, I thou
ght not, and somehow it would appear that news of London laws does not exactly fly to the ears of villagers such as these. And yes, he does have a warrant, for he took great delight in showing me it yesterday, and that's all he needs to sway the simple minds that abound hereabouts.'
'Maybe not all the minds hereabouts are so simple,' James retorted. 'I'll speak to my father.' He paused, recalling that Hannah had said his father had been among the crowd watching Matilda's scourging. 'Better still,' he said, 'we'll go and see Master Handiwell. Whatever else he has on his mind he surely cannot stand by and watch Matilda murdered. He will know about the new laws and he can make that knowledge known throughout the village.'
However, by the time the unlikely pair had walked to the Black Drum it was to discover that Thomas Handiwell, in company with the small detachment of troopers that had returned with him the night before, had already left. None of the remaining staff seemed to be privy to actual details, but the word was that they had gone to try to apprehend the villains responsible for robbing the stagecoach and abducting Thomas's niece.
'Damn!' James cursed, pounding his right fist into his left palm. 'There's no knowing what time they might return. If they're chasing outlaws they could end up riding clear across the county. All we can do now is try to reason with Wickstanner. I've never liked the man, but perhaps he will listen to us.'
'Even if he does,' Hannah growled, 'I doubt there's much he can do about it now, not without admitting to all and sundry that he's a liar. It was he who alleged the so-called evidence and accusations against Matilda, accusations that the original so-called witness no longer lives to confirm or deny.
'Besides,' she added, 'Jacob Crawley is now like a snowball rolling down a hillside that grows steeper and steeper. Wickstanner has set him loose upon this village, true, but I don't think he could stop him now, even if he wished it.'
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