Cauldron of Fear

by Jennifer Jane Pope

  Jane let out a derisory little snort. 'Unfortunately,' she said, 'I doubt that. And now,' she continued, her tone brighter, 'we have a little while before Master Crawley deals with our problems for us.' She grasped Ellen by the shoulders, stooped and kissed her on the mouth. 'You seem a little warm, my darling friend,' she whispered. 'Why don't you let me help you out of those stifling clothes?'

  Jacob Crawley hung the lantern from the iron bracket just inside the door and stood, staring down at the huddled figure in the far corner. Noting that she wore the heavy scold's bridle again, he smiled to himself. Evidently Silas Grout had decided he wanted Matilda silent for her last hours and replaced the rusting device.

  Grout was a strange one, that was for sure, Crawley thought. On the one hand the man made meticulous preparations to ensure the swift and merciful despatch of his victims, but on the other, until the final moment arrived, he seemed capable of inflicting almost any form of torture on them.

  Crawley shook his head and began removing his cloak. He had long since despaired of trying to work out human nature, as he had also long since ceased questioning his own motives and darker desires. After all, he reasoned, why should he show compassion to people who allowed themselves to remain in ignorance the way most of them did? They deserved everything they got, in his opinion, even if half of them weren't witches.

  There was no gratitude, no understanding - Crawley had come to realise that many years since. Once he had felt a calling, known that God needed him to help purge this terrible world of all its evil and he had thrown himself into that vocation with all the energy and dedication a man could offer. And he had been successful, too. Over half the kingdom, as it had then been, people trembled at the mere mention of his name and everywhere he went there had been awe and respect.

  Of course, his name then had not been Jacob Crawley; he had been forced to adopt another identity when some of the Church he served so diligently turned on him. Vile accusations had been muttered, falsehoods of the most heinous kinds, rumours, whisperings, machinations by those who had started to fear him and to be jealous of his reputation.

  Thankfully, he still had friends and the warnings came in time. He managed to fade into obscurity, travelling to France for a year and a half and only returning when his own carefully seeded rumours convinced his enemies that he was no more.

  The war between Parliament and the King had come opportunely for the now Jacob Crawley. Men died in battles, were hanged, were thrown into the Tower and a dozen other prisons, where they rotted and died or simply went mad. Much of what was past became quickly forgotten, much of the so-called 'enlightenment' that had so very nearly proved his undoing, was buried in an avalanche of civil upheaval.

  As Crawley, he found it easy and safe enough to travel the countryside and, as Crawley, he could continue the work he had once found so spiritually rewarding, even if now his zeal was directed primarily to looking after his own needs. The end result, he told himself, was near enough the same.

  He cast his cloak aside and knelt to remove his boots, placing them carefully together and then proceeded to unbuckle his belt. A few moments later, when his breeches, neatly folded, had been laid upon his boots, he stood again, naked from the waist down.

  He stooped over the unmoving girl and prodded her in the side with one foot, rocking her roughly until she began to stir. She raised her head and he saw her eyes were wide open, fear shining in them, to be replaced by pain as she tried to speak and the iron prong bit into her tongue.

  'Not long now, Matilda Pennywise,' he said softly. 'Another hour and you'll be out of this black hole forever. But first,' he continued, with a harsh chuckle, 'I have a use for you. Come - up on your feet, wench. You'll go on your way with something to remember me by, or my name ain't Matthew Hopkins!'

  To be continued...

  Author's Note:

  Before anyone starts writing to me to say that Matthew Hopkins died when and whenever, I should say that I, too, have read various accounts of his death, but that the point is that they do vary, even to the country in which he is supposed to have died, and that none have ever been verified, nor is there any record, or marker, of where his body was finally disposed of.

  I appreciate, also, that the 'long drop' method of hanging victims was not introduced officially into England and Wales until nearly two centuries after the time of this story, but there exist accounts of various executioners experimenting with the process long before that, particularly in some regions of Italy and Germany, and there is no reason to suppose that certain individuals might not have brought the idea to England as early as this.

  A certain degree of artistic licence should be permitted in the telling of any fictional tale, so I trust you will suspend your sense of disbelief wherever necessary. In any case, the only people who can say for sure who is right and who is wrong are now long dead, including Matthew Hopkins, alias Jacob Crawley.

  So, if you want to find out just how I imagine he might have met his end, you'll have to buy the concluding volume in this saga - The Devil's Surrogate...

  The Devil's Surrogate

  He fumbled with the buckle of his belt. 'Now that most of the devil's work has been scourged from you, it's time again to at least welcome your physical body back into the fold.' He drew the front of his breeches apart and Harriet saw that his shaft was already growing erect. To her horrified astonishment, she saw also that it appeared to be inordinately long, making it appear thinner than she might have expected, like the neck of a rearing serpent. 'Let's see if you still have the strength to wriggle as you did before,' he challenged, leering...

  Witchfinder Jacob Crawley has the countryside around the Hampshire village of Fetworth held in a grip of terror, as rural superstition and fear flies in the face of emergent 17th century urban reason.

  Hooded, gagged and bound, beautiful Harriet Merridew lies in the church vault, substituted for the unfortunate Matilda Pennywise, whom Crawley is shortly to execute for witchcraft, whilst her bitter rival, Jane Handiwell, leader of a gang of nocturnal highwaywomen, revels in her plight and in the pending fate of Harriet's cousin Sarah, now sold by Jane to Roderick Grayling, son of the local Lord of the Manor to become just another statistic in his white slavery operation.

  Only Thomas Handiwell, Jane's innkeeper father and Harriet's would-be suitor, and a handful of troopers supposedly commanded by an inexperienced and convalescent young officer, stand between further murder and extortion and any chance of a return to sanity.

  -oOo-

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