Cauldron of Fear (10 page)

'And further,'
he added, raising his voice, 'let it also be known that it is known
to the Holy Church that there are others in this community, whose
sins against the Lord are scarcely less dreadful and that they,
too, shall be exposed, as this whore now stands exposed before
you.'

This statement
was greeted by another murmur of discomfort and the hooded figure
of Matilda hung her head, as if in shame. After a few seconds one
of the villagers, a large fellow of middle years, named Septimus
Brody, stepped forward.

'Master
Crawley,' he said carefully, 'I would speak with you in private, if
you please.'

Harriet
regarded the scrawny youth suspiciously.

'You're Ned
Blaine's lad, aren't you?' she said. The boy nodded.

'Yes,
mistress,' he confirmed. Harriet paused, considering the scrap of
parchment he had given her.

'And you say
this fellow just gave this to you and bade you bring it here - to
me?'

'Aye,
mistress,' Toby Blaine replied. 'He said it were real urgent, and
gave me thruppence for my trouble.'

'Did he now?'
Harriet mused. 'Well, three pence is quite a lot of money.'
Probably more, she thought, than young Toby had ever had in his
grubby little hand at one time. 'And you say you don't know who
this man was?'

Toby shook his head emphatically. 'Never seen him before,
mistress,' he said. 'I was sitting out in the yard at the
Drum
waitin' for me dad to
come out and this cove just comes up to me and asks me whether I
knew the way to Barten Meade. I starts to give him directions, but
then he says no, he just wants me to deliver a message paper to
you, mistress.'

'To me?'
Harriet repeated. 'Not to my father?'

'No, he says
for me to give it to Mistress Harriet Merridew,' Toby said, with an
air of total certainty. 'Asked if I knew you by sight, even.'

'And where did
he go then, this man?'

'Into the
inn,' Toby replied. 'Said he had a thirst and wanted to eat,
too.'

'And you
haven't read what's written on this?' Harriet brandished the piece
of parchment between them.

Toby shook his head. 'Can't, mistress,' he said, almost
apologetically. 'Can't read nor write, same as I told
him
.'

'Ah, I see.'
Harriet looked down at the few lines again, considering. 'Well,
Toby,' she said at last, 'how would you like to earn a whole
shilling for yourself?' The lad's eyes lit up immediately.

'A shilling,
mistress?' he echoed. 'Most certainly, mistress.'

'Well,'
Harriet said carefully, 'I'll give you sixpence of it now and the
other six in two days' time, when I know you've done as I ask.
There may even be another shilling in it for you, depending upon
how clever you can be, young man.'

The air inside
the hut was becoming more and more oppressive as the sun continued
to climb towards its zenith, and James Calthorpe had long since
removed his jacket. Now he loosened the front of his shirt, pulling
it open and clear of his throat and settled back, laying his head
on his folded coat.

There was, he
reflected, little else he could do. The chains by which he was
secured were new, looked well forged and heavy enough to hold a
team of oxen and, though the rustic hut appeared crudely
constructed, its timbers were healthy and sturdy, with no signs of
rot that might have given him cause for hope.

Whoever was
responsible for his abduction and imprisonment had chosen the place
well, he realised, and had made careful preparations for his
incarceration. As to their identities, he was still no closer to
answering that question. The men who attacked him on the road had,
from what he could recall, seemed nothing out of the ordinary; just
two travellers riding easily, dressed in common enough
clothing.

They had not
been gentlemen, judging by their garb, but neither had they the
appearance of ruffians, or James would have been more on his guard.
It had been he realised, a clever subterfuge.

'Well then,'
he whispered, staring up at the timbered roof, 'if not who, then
why? Ransom, mayhap?' It was the only reason James could conceive
of, for his father, whilst not a very rich man, was certainly
affluent enough, especially when compared with the average
villagers in the area and would be easily enough able to lay his
hands on a few hundred guineas, which to some would represent
several years' hard work.

Yes, ransom
had to be the motive, James concluded, and who was behind it was of
no great importance. What mattered was that his father paid
whatever demands were made and then he could get out of this
oppressive little shack and back to his studies. Prolonged
inactivity did not come easily to James and the lack of even the
most basic material to read was beginning to affect his mood, even
more than the plain fact of having been attacked and
imprisoned.

The trouble
was, he knew, that too few people had the advantage of an education
to be able to appreciate the value and beauty of books. Perhaps one
day society would change and schooling would be made available to
all, though James could not see now the poorest peasantry would
ever be able to afford that for their children. Perhaps the rich,
the nobility, the state even, could fund the basics, though right
now, according to what he was hearing from London, the state was in
little condition to pay for anything.

The war
between Parliament and the late King had brought the economies of
entire regions to their knees and now, just when things should be
looking up after more than a decade of true democracy, a
combination of civil unrest and the looming troubles with the
Hollanders meant that yet again money was flowing out of the state
coffers far quicker than it had any chance of flowing in again. And
long before Parliament ever thought about diverting money to the
educational needs of the poorest, there would be other priorities
for it to consider.

The capital
city itself, James thought, that was a prime example, with old
buildings rotting, the streets and the Thames river awash with
rotting debris, excrement and rats, children running around in rags
and bare-footed, with open sores and untreated cuts. No wonder
there were constant outbreaks of plagues and fevers; it was a
miracle that they had been contained as much as they had.

One day soon,
James thought bitterly, there will be an outbreak such as hasn't
been seen since the days of the Black Death and London will be
reduced to a city of corpses and ghosts within days. Why no one in
authority seemed capable of realising this, he could not imagine,
but then, as he knew only too well, there was little imagination in
authority.

Authority
worked for only one end, it seemed, to create and keep even more
authority for itself and its own ends. Power, James was only too
well aware, had a nasty habit of nestling itself into the hands of
those least fitted to handle it properly and too much power in the
wrong hands inevitably led to grief, confusion, pain and
tragedy.

No one in the
village could say, for sure, what age Hannah Pennywise really was,
only that she was at least seventy years old and could be as old as
eighty-five or six. Even Hannah was not certain, for her father had
kept no proper family records and the old parish register
disappeared from the church many decades since.

However, no
matter which estimate of her years was correct, an observer would
have to say the old woman was fit and sprightly for it and she
walked with the step of which most women of forty would have been
envious; back straight, striding purposefully, her only concession
to age being the hazel stick she carried in her right hand.

Pushing aside
the low wicket gate, she marched boldly up the short path to the
house next door to the church and, ignoring the heavy iron
doorknocker, raised her cane and used it to pound loudly upon the
thick oak planks. After several seconds of this activity she
lowered the stick and took a half pace backwards, waiting
patiently, but with a look of grim determination set upon her
wrinkled features.

Several more
seconds elapsed and then the sound of footsteps came from inside,
followed by the rasping sound of a bolt being drawn back. Then,
slowly and accompanied by a groan of protesting hinges, the door
swung back. Simon Wickstanner blinked and peered out into the
bright sunlight.

'Mother
Pennywise,' he said. 'A long time since this house, or God's for
that matter, has had the pleasure of your society.'

Hannah's top
lip curled back, revealing a set of surprisingly even teeth. 'Stow
your sarcasm, Simon Wickstanner,' she snarled. 'You know damned
well why I'm here, for I sense your hypocritical hand in this
matter. Where's my granddaughter? I warn you, you harm one hair of
her head and I'll make sure you live only long enough to regret it
and not a moment more!'

'Have a care,
woman,' Wickstanner said. 'Threatening a minister of the Lord will
do your granddaughter's case no good. Quite the opposite, in fact.'
His words were intended as bold, but the slight tremor in his voice
betrayed his uncertainty. There had been stories in the parish for
years concerning Hannah Pennywise and, although there had never
been any solid evidence to back these rumours, most folk tended to
treat the old woman with deference, on those few occasions she
ventured from the sanctuary of her cottage.

She raised her
stick and pointed it at Wickstanner, aiming the tip directly over
his heart. 'Stow your tongue, you muddy little worm,' she hissed.
'Just tell me what it is you want, eh? As if I can't guess.'

'I assure you,
Mother Pennywise,' Wickstanner said, trying to draw himself erect,
'that the matter lies not in my hands. Evidence was laid before me
and I, as I am bound to do, laid that in turn before one of the
Church's experts in these matters.'

'The one they
call Crawley, I suppose?' Hannah retorted acidly. 'Oh yes,' she
snapped, seeing the uncertainty suddenly reappearing in
Wickstanner's eyes, 'I've heard all about that one. I hear all
manner of things, as it happens.' She grimaced and stabbed the tip
of her cane onto the ground with such force that Wickstanner jumped
visibly. 'Well, where is he, this Crawley fellow?' she demanded.
'Lurking in there, I suppose?'

Wickstanner
swallowed nervously. 'Um, no, he's not,' he replied, 'not at this
moment, anyway. He is about the Lord's business.'

'The Lord's
business! Pshaw!' Hannah hawked up a gob of spittle and launched it
squarely into the centre of the stone threshold. 'More likely his
own business - and yours too, I'll wager. Well then, if he's not
there, where's my Matilda?'

Wickstanner
swallowed, even harder this time, his piggy eyes darting from side
to side as if he was expecting for some sudden intervention.

'Uh, I presume
you did not come to this house by way of the green?' he began, his
voice on the verge of cracking. 'Perhaps you should return to your
cottage via that route.'

Crawley's
henchmen had set the stake deep into the ground and packed the
earth firmly about its base, for as she stood against it, her
wrists shackled behind her and about the heavy timber, Matilda
tried both pulling and pushing, leaning back with all her weight,
neither effort producing even the slightest movement from the
embedded timber pole.

Before leaving
her Crawley fastened cords about each of Matilda's ankles, drawing
her feet apart and fixing the lines to sturdy pegs that had been
hammered into the ground for this purpose, forcing her to stand
with her legs splayed obscenely, displaying her denuded sex for
every passing villager to see. It was curious, she reflected, as
she stood there helplessly as the hours passed, how many of the
male population seemed to have business this day that necessitated
them crossing the green so frequently.

Not that they
did more than look, however, for Crawley had set smaller iron posts
about his prisoner, so that they formed a rough circle of perhaps
ten paces in radius, and within this boundary, he had made it very
clear, no villager was permitted to stray. It was, he told them,
for their own good, for even with the iron he had set upon the
witch, her powers could still harm those whose thoughts were not
entirely godly and only the iron picket protected them from her
evil influence.

'She must yet
be scourged publicly,' he announced. 'She must atone and serve a
penitence and I await the Lord's decision as to the number of
lashes she shall receive and the time she must stand here before
the eyes of other sinners.'

It was all so
ridiculous, Matilda thought, as she stared out through the eye
slits in the leather hood. The man was so obviously a fraud and yet
these ignorant country folk hung upon his every word, as though he
were Moses and was quoting to them from two tablets of stone. How
they could believe him and his vile and wild allegations she had no
idea; even though they were largely uneducated, surely no sane
person could accept such puerile lies?

Fear played a
large part, she understood; fear that they, or one of theirs, would
be the next to stand accused. That was what prompted Septimus
Brody, for he had three teenaged daughters and he was clearly
terrified that one or more of his girls would be next to be paraded
in this degrading fashion.

Matilda had
heard his words when Crawley led him aside to speak privately, for
the witchfinder had led her with them, apparently unconcerned that
she would overhear.

'And they do
say that the Merridew girl concocts all manner of potions and that
she uses them to keep her poor father in his bed, that she might
further continue with her devilish rites without that good man's
knowing,' Brody said.