Cauldron of Fear (17 page)

The final
touch, before the question of their hair was addressed, were large
earrings, heavy diamanté pendants that screwed tightly to each
earlobe.

'Very good,'
Prudence declared, walking around to a position roughly between the
two sitting girls. 'All we need now is to take care of your hair
and pin in the necessary pieces. Don't worry, they'll be quite
secure once we've finished.'

The finished
effect, from what Sarah could see of Kitty and feel upon her own
head, was almost ridiculous, for the additional hair pieces were
like small cages, covered in hair themselves but which, once the
girls' own hair had also been piled up, arranged and pinned, seemed
to become part of the original, producing a high display that
glittered from the heads of the various pins securing it.

'Stand up,
both of you,' Prudence ordered. Shakily, Sarah got to her feet and
immediately almost toppled face down as the elevated heels threw
her weight forward. She staggered, flapping her arms in panic, but
managed to regain some semblance of balance just in time.

'Bring your
knees together, girl,' Prudence ordered. 'You're standing like
you've already got a cock up your hole. And you,' she added,
turning to Kitty, who was faring little better. 'Now keep your
knees straight, that's it. Well, Jasmine, what do you think of
them?'

'They're very
pretty, mistress,' Jasmine replied, her features totally impassive.
Prudence approached Sarah, who was astonished to find that she
could now almost look her straight in the eyes; so much height had
the awesome shoes added to her.

'All that
remains, little slut girl,' she said, 'is to teach you how to walk
without falling on your pretty face and bruising your pretty
titties, eh?' Without warning, her right hand shot out, her fingers
thrusting between Sarah's thighs, one digit forcing itself between
her denuded labia. Sarah let out a squeal of surprise and almost
fell again, this time backwards, but Prudence's cruel grip drew her
back close again and she found herself with her painted mouth only
inches from that of her tormentor's. Prudence held her gaze for
several seconds and then her thin lips curled into a devious
smile.

'Later, little
one,' she whispered, 'I shall have the pleasure of what I have
created for myself. Your little friend shall join us too, though I
confess her udders are a tad large for my tastes. Perhaps I shall
give her to Jasmine for whatever remains of the night, as a reward
for all her endeavours.

'But for now,'
she went on, raising her voice, releasing her hold and stepping
back, 'we have work to do. Before the clock strikes the hour we
must have you walking properly. We must serve up an attractive dish
for the guest, must we not?'

Hannah
Pennywise ground her teeth and closed the door of her cottage,
trying to block out the sounds of Matilda's screaming, which
carried clearly on the gentle night breeze. Tears stung her eyes
but she shook her head fiercely, forcing herself to remain firm,
for she knew that if she once gave way Wickstanner and the
despicable Crawley would not only have won, they would almost
certainly use their victory to enable them to prey upon yet more
victims.

'Be brave,
little one,' she whispered, as she turned to the heavy old table
that dominated the centre of the room. On it were laid out a
variety of curious and mundane objects; pieces of greenery, some
small nuts, what appeared to be a handful of crumbling, dried mud,
and three small dark green glass bottles, sealed with worn wooden
bungs.

Hannah bent
over the tabletop and began to arrange its contents into a
different order.

'We'll see who
is sorriest when this evil is brought to its conclusion,' she
muttered, picking up the wickedly gleaming knife that lay waiting.
'The wolf should beware of the lamb he seeks to devour, Master
Crawley. Witchcraft indeed!' The knife scythed downwards, slicing
through one of the little mounds of leaves, the sound echoing
loudly in the confines of the cramped kitchen. Hannah picked up one
of the cut portions, held it to her nose and sniffed.

'Witchcraft
indeed!' she repeated, her voice dripping with scorn and hatred.
'You don't know the half of it, you murderous charlatan, I promise
you!'

Matilda stood
against the cellar wall, her arms held wide by the thick cords with
which Crawley's men had bound her to two of the heavy iron staples.
Her back felt as if it were on fire and she fought to keep her raw
flesh clear of the rough stonework, but her legs trembled,
threatening to buckle and she knew it was only a matter of
time.

The
witchfinder stood regarding her thoughtfully, stroking his chin,
his eyes glinting in the semi-darkness. Matilda peered through the
slits in the hood, trying desperately to focus on his image, for he
seemed to be shimmering, almost unreal, as though he were merely
some part of a dream.

'Your
grandmother will come around to being sensible,' Crawley said,
after a lengthy silence. 'I think she will not stand by and watch
us hang her only relative, do you?'

'My
grandmother, sir,' Matilda gasped, fighting to get the words out,
'will not be intimidated by the likes of you, nor would I expect
her to yield to your blackmailing threats.'

'But they are
not empty threats, Matilda, my dear,' Crawley hissed. 'I shall
surely dangle you on the rope tomorrow if she does not agree to
paying the tithe the Church demands for your forgiveness and
salvation. Under the circumstances, it is a modest sum.'

'The Church
demands?' Matilda snorted. 'I think the Church plays little part in
all this, Master Crawley, save that it offers you a blanket from
beneath which to crawl. You shall not get away with this, for if
you hang me, it will be murder and you know it as well as I!'

'Murder?'
Crawley chuckled. 'I think not, for I have all the proper warrants
and authorities, all quite legally and properly signed. Mr
Wickstanner has seen and validated them.'

'Signed by
whom?' Matilda sneered. 'Some drunken, avaricious old bishop whom
you probably bribed or blackmailed in turn? Or do you send him a
portion of your evil spoils, Master Crawley?'

'Have a care,
wench,' Crawley growled. 'I could have that spiteful tongue cut out
of your head in an instant.'

'It will
matter little,' Matilda replied, gasping as her shoulder rubbed
against the wall behind her. 'Tongue or no tongue, you'll be
hanging me tomorrow noon whatever, for I know my grandmother will
not pay you a ha'penny.'

'Then the
manner of your execution should be of great interest to you,'
Crawley leered, 'for I shall take it upon myself to make sure that
you go to face eternal judgement with your mortal soul as scourged
as can be. What you suffered tonight was nothing. I had hoped the
old biddy would see sense and therefore I cut short your intended
flogging. Twelve lashes was all you received, but it could have
been fifty, or even a hundred. Tomorrow I shall not be so lenient,
for I see I have made a mistake. My Christian charity has been
perceived as weakness, I think.

'I cannot
allow that misconception to persist, of course,' he continued.
'Therefore, tomorrow I shall give you a full one hundred lashes and
you will be revived whenever you fall into a faint, I promise. You
shall feel every kiss of my lash, you proud little bitch, and then
you shall dance at the rope's end.'

'You'll do
your worst, I am sure,' Matilda whispered, fighting to keep her
voice steady, for now she had no doubt that Crawley meant every
word he said. He would indeed kill her, but hers would not be a
merciful death. 'God will spare me from my sufferings,' she added
defiantly.

'Then let's
see if he will spare you this,' Crawley chuckled. He had removed
his cape earlier and now he stooped to remove his boots, his
breeches following them in swift succession. Deliberately he stood
posing before her, massaging the length of an organ that was
already beginning to swell and grow.

Matilda gave a
harsh laugh. 'Are you not afraid of sticking that rod into a
devil's whore, as I believe you think me?' she said. Evidently, she
realised, he was not, even if he believed what he said, which she
doubted, for his shaft stood up straight and proud and, even in the
poor light, Matilda could see the tiny veins straining against the
near translucent flesh.

'My faith
keeps me from sin, whore,' Crawley snickered. He stepped closer, so
close that she could feel the warmth and foetid sweetness of his
breath and the pressure of his cock against her lower stomach. She
shrank back automatically and immediately groaned as her back
pressed against the rough surface.

'You'll moan
some more, ere I'm through with you,' Crawley said viciously. 'And
don't think to talk of this on the morrow, for you'll go to your
death with a nice fat gag in your heathen mouth.'

He stooped
slightly and Matilda felt him probing with the engorged head,
seeking out her defenceless sex, his hot flesh beginning to force
an entrance. She closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. 'Go
ahead then, you vile bastard,' she grated. 'Take your pleasure of
me if you will, for the Lord knows I cannot stop you. But know
this, Jacob Crawley, with every thrust of your foul pole you surely
commit your own soul to a fate far worse than any even you could
conceive for me.' She gasped again as his entire length slid into
her and then opened her eyes wide, fixing his with an unflinching
stare.

'So fuck me
then, you spawn of a diseased cunt!' she hissed. 'Fuck me as long
as you want, though I doubt that will be very long, will it?'

'You cannot
hang her, Master Crawley!' Simon Wickstanner's face was a dark
shade of purple. He stopped his pacing, grasped the marble
mantelshelf and banged his fist against the chimneybreast. 'Good
Lord, man!' he exclaimed. 'Where is the sense in that?'

Jacob Crawley,
who had been sitting in the padded window seat, rose slowly and
walked to the centre of the room. He stood motionless for a few
moments, a sardonic smile upon his drawn features, and then shook
his head slowly, a gesture that was more dismissive than anything
else.

'Priest,' he
said coldly, 'you have no subtlety whatsoever. Neither, I fear, are
you any judge of human nature. You assured me the old biddy would
be forthcoming long before we reached this evening's stage, did you
not? Well then, where was she, eh?

'I tell you
this, she was out there somewhere, yet despite her granddaughter's
screaming, did she come forward? No, we both know she did not. So,
we must believe her gold means more to her than blood, except that
if that were true, then everything I have learned about human
nature would be proved false.

'Yes, she
seems capable of allowing the wench to suffer - mayhap the supposed
suffering is nought but an act, for all we know - but will she see
her swing at the end of a rope? I think not.'

'But what if
she will?' Wickstanner snapped. 'What then? Will you hang the
girl?'

'It shall not
come to that, priest, that much I do know,' Crawley said. 'At
least, I doubt it, though there are those who can yet surprise me.
The grandmother is the only family, you say, so I cannot see her
permitting events to go that far. Did she not give you any
indication?'

Wickstanner's
expression was wooden. 'The only indication she gave me was that
she would ensure that I paid for this for all eternity.' For a
moment his sunken cheeks and hollow eyes were close to betraying
his true feelings, but he fought to regain his self-control. 'Of
course,' he expostulated, 'I took no heed of such empty threats,
but the problem is, as I see it, that if the old woman holds true
to such beliefs, then she may not be forthcoming.'

'Then we hang
the wench and have done with it,' Crawley said. 'As far as I am
concerned, it is a simple case of cutting losses. My warrant
guarantees me twenty guineas for every witch or heretic I execute,
so my journey down here will not be totally wasted. Besides, we
already have murmurings against two more of the village women.
There may yet be fruit to be gathered, priest, so hold firm. We do
the Lord's work, the Lord's bidding, so have faith. He shall
provide.'

After half an
hour's careful scouting, Toby was finally satisfied that there was
no one else watching the bridge. The mill, long closed for the
night, was in total darkness and the Calthorpe cottage showed only
one lighted window, probably as the miller and his wife ate a well
earned supper before bedtime.

The main barn
and the smaller outbuildings were all shut and bolted from the
outside with heavy timber bars, so if there was anyone inside any
of them, they were in there for the night. A rapid check through
the woods behind the mill revealed nothing, either. He grinned;
whatever happened next, they had the advantage of what he had heard
soldiers call 'early ground', which meant they would also hold on
to the element of surprise.

The
Black Drum
was a regular overnight stop for military personnel travelling
between London and Portsmouth and, on the summer evenings, the
young officers often sat at the benches outside, drinking and
chatting among themselves and, more often than not, quite willing
to regale Toby, or any of the other youngsters from the village,
with stories of their campaigns, real or imaginary.

Toby had long
since decided that he, too, would be an officer in the army,
travelling the world, fighting the enemies of the Commonwealth,
seeing sights he could never hope to see if he remained stuck here,
the way his father and grandfather before him had. Of course, he
realised, not being able to read or write would be something of a
drawback to this ambition, but he had practised sword fighting with
a wooden sabre he'd fashioned himself and he was a dead shot with
the musket his father kept for rabbiting and foxes.