Cauldron of Fear (7 page)

'I believe she
will, yes.' Wickstanner rose stiffly and moved to the low dresser
that ran half the length of the room. 'She has money aplenty,' he
said, examining the remaining row of decanters, 'for I know how
much she receives each quarter day and she never seems to spend any
of it. She will argue, though, for even I know enough of her to
know that she is a strong-willed old harridan, despite her
years.'

'Then perhaps
I shall see her myself,' Crawley said, in a tone that removed any
hint of a suggestion in the statement. 'I am sure I can convince
her and one sight of her sinful granddaughter will make sure that
she understands what I am telling her.'

He rose in
turn, holding up a hand and shaking his head when Wickstanner
finally decided upon a wine and turned to bring the decanter back
to the fireside.

'No more,
Father Wickstanner,' he said, turning to retrieve his cape from the
high chair back. 'I shall return later to sleep, but I must return
to the church and continue in my efforts with the heretic. The
whole village must see what consorting with evil means and then,
mayhap, when we come to the others you have listed, perhaps we
shall not have to resort to such extreme measures.

'Besides,' he
added, throwing the long black cloak about his shoulders, 'their
families are not in such a position to offer as good a pecuniary
recompense to the Church, eh? So we don't want to waste unnecessary
time and effort on lesser sinners, do we, my reverend friend?'

The pistol
shots sounded like cannon fire in the quiet night air, jerking
Sarah Merridew from the half sleep into which she had fallen. She
saw immediately that the pale young man opposite had now become
even paler in the faint light from the interior lamp and the old
woman, though she did not move from her huddled corner, looked all
about with darting and frightened eyes.

'What is it?'
Sarah hissed, sitting forward and almost pitching headlong as one
wheel of the coach hit a particularly deep rut.

'Highwaymen,'
croaked the woman, almost without opening her mouth. 'Bin gettin' a
bit active along these roads of late, so I hear tell.'

'Highwaymen?'
The clerical looking young man now looked almost transparent, his
watery eyes huge and round. 'But I have nothing of value.'

'Me neither,
dearie,' the old woman snickered, 'so they can wave their pistols
about as much as they like, for all I care.' She closed her eyes,
feigning indifference, but the tone of her voice told Sarah that
she was just as frightened as any of them.

From outside
came the sound of a cracking whip, loud shouts from the driver
above and the sound of two more shots, followed by a loud cry of
pain, presumably, Sarah thought, from the driver or his mate.
Almost immediately she heard the shouts to the horses and the coach
began to slow.

Desperately
Sarah delved into her purse bag, took out the few coins that
remained there and tucked half of them inside her bodice, praying
they would not slip through and fall out onto the floor. The
remainder, all small denominations, she returned inside the
wash-leather and drew the string closed again.

'Best hope
they don't want to get too fruity with you, lass,' the old woman
cackled and turning, Sarah saw that her eyes were wide open again
and that she had been watching her every action.

'I have so
little,' Sarah whispered defensively. 'All our money went after the
last plague outbreak.'

The old woman
nodded. 'None of us has much nowadays,' she said, and then a small
smile spread across her wrinkling features. 'Don't worry, dearie, I
shan't say anything,' she promised, soothingly. 'Just stay calm and
give them that ring you're wearing and what's left in the purse.
Anyone can see you ain't exactly nobility. Besides, they'll be more
interested in the post box up top, I reckon.'

Sarah stared
down at the plain gold band and for a moment was tempted to pull
the ring off and place that inside her bodice, too. 'This ring,'
she said hoarsely, 'it was my mother's. It is all I have left to
remember her by.'

'A ring is
just a ring,' the woman said bluntly. 'You got your mother up
here.' She tapped her forehead. 'Give 'em the ring and the coin and
let them get on their way. No sense in bringing more trouble.'

Sarah sniffed,
opened her mouth to say something else and then closed it again.
She began to ease the ring free, blinking back a tear that
threatened to fall as she did so.

Breathing
heavily, her cheeks burning, Kitty walked slowly towards Adam, who
now stood waiting for her, naked from the waist down, his organ
rampant. She saw the look of triumph in his eyes and the almost
dismissive look of contempt on his face and new that he had
succeeded in achieving exactly what he had set out to do.

Between her
legs she now felt wet, as well as hot, her swollen labia parting to
reveal the pink tunnel in which the memory of the leather covered
phallus was only too recent and too real. She clenched her
buttocks, contracting her vaginal muscles, aching to have her hands
free, but knowing that her bondage was all part of the scenario.
Without the use of her hands there was only one source of final
relief available to her, and that now stood to attention before its
gloating owner, seemingly beckoning her towards it.

'Come on then,
Titty Kitty,' Adam taunted, 'let's see you mount this saddle.' She
was almost to him now and she could feel the heat from his breath.
Slowly, she pressed up against him, rubbing her lower stomach up
and down the length of his shaft, moaning quietly as she did so.
His hands came up, cupping her breasts, and she shuddered.

'Good girl,
Kitty,' he whispered, his lips close to her ear. 'Now tell your
master what it is you want.'

'I want,'
Kitty grated, grinding her teeth in a mixture of lust and
humiliation, 'I want my master to fuck me for the worthless slave
whore I am.' She leaned into him, nuzzling into his neck as she
raised herself onto tiptoes. His hands left her breasts and moved
downwards, slipping behind her until they cupped her buttocks.

'Time to
mount, then,' he leered, and she felt herself being lifted clear of
the floor, his throbbing member sliding further down, until it
slipped between her parting thighs. With a small squeal she lifted
her legs, wrapping them about his waist, preying he would not lose
his hold on her, but he was clearly a powerful man for he supported
her easily, even freeing one had in order to guide himself into her
sex.

'There, Titty
Kitty,' he said, 'can you feel that now, just inside your hot
little cunny?'

'Oooh, yes,
master,' she gurgled, surprised at how much his weapon was
stretching her, for the phallus on the rocking horse had seemed big
enough. A moment later she let out a shriek as he once again
gripped her with two hands and forced her down, impaling her fully
with one thrust.

'Nicely filled
now, slave slut?' he laughed as her eyes rolled wildly. Kitty
nodded, trying to speak but simply gasping instead. She tried to
focus on his face, but his features simply blurred and floated
before her in a curious kaleidoscope.

'Yes, indeed,'
she heard him say as he began slowly to lift and lower her, 'I
think you'll fetch a fine price by the time I'm finished with you,
eh girlie?' But Kitty was no longer paying any heed to him, nor did
she any more care about what the future might hold, for the first
wave of orgasm had already risen up to wash over her and now she
was in danger of drowning in the lust he had aroused within her
treacherous body.

Matilda said
not a word as Jacob Crawley placed the iron collar about her throat
and clicked the locking mechanism shut. She did not even look at
him directly, keeping her eyes lowered and half closed.

'Well, my
little devil's bitch,' he rasped, clipping a length of rope to the
heavy ring set into the front of the collar, 'now we have you
suitably leashed, let's take you for a little walk, shall we?' He
gave a tug on the coarse hemp and Matilda stumbled forward, falling
into step with him as he led the way towards the open doorway.

Once through,
he turned left into the arched passageway and strode casually
along, his boots echoing hollowly on the ancient flagstones, whilst
Matilda's bare feet made merely the softest of pattering sounds.
They walked what Matilda guessed had to be the entire length of the
church above and then, finally, Crawley stopped before a heavy,
studded timber door.

'I found this
chamber earlier,' he said, taking a crude key from his belt. 'Even
the priest had no idea it was here. See?' He pushed open the door,
which groaned on little used hinges and stepped back, thrusting
Matilda in ahead of him.

Two lanterns
already burned inside, hanging from hooks set in the ceiling and,
by their light, she saw the hideous looking structures that must
have lain here unused for many years, though there was evidence
that someone - either Crawley or one of his henchmen - had made a
recent attempt at cleaning away the layers of dust that must have
accumulated on them meantime.

Matilda
recognised the heavy stocks immediately, as she did the pillory,
but she had to peer closer before she recognised the crude rack for
what it was. There was also an iron-ribbed cage, shaped in roughly
human form, standing propped in the furthest corner and, on a wide
bench, several other implements had been laid out.

'This will do
to start with, I think,' Crawley said, leading her towards the
bench and selecting something that looked, at first sight, like a
leather bag. 'The hide was a bit stiff, but it had been wrapped in
oilskins and Silas has been dubbing it well this afternoon.'

Before Matilda
had time to react he had drawn the hood - for that was what it was
- down over her head, pulling it about her neck and thrusting the
lower edges between the iron collar and her flesh. For a few
moments Matilda started to panic, the heavy odour of leather and
whatever it was that Silas had used to make it more supple again
filling her nostrils, so that she thought she would suffocate.

However, as
Crawley moved behind her and began to draw laces tight, the hood
began to mold itself to the contours of her shaven head, eyeholes
slipped down so that she could once again see and two smaller
apertures were drawn up beneath her nose, so that whilst the aroma
from the foul garment was still all pervading, at least she was
once again able to breathe some air. In addition, she realised,
there was also a small slit level with her mouth.

'Now you
cannot even use your pretty witch features to beguile God fearing
men,' Crawley rasped, turning her around so he could look at her
now featureless face. 'And now we should do something about
stilling your vile tongue.'

The metal
contraption was an old scold's bridle, something Matilda had only
previously seen in picture books at her former home. The iron bands
were dull, but any rust appeared to have been removed and the
hinges showed traces of having been oiled. Her initial reaction was
to draw back, attempt to resist having the cruel device placed upon
her head, but she quickly realised that such an action was futile
and likely only to earn her even more dire retribution.

A few moments
later she stood there, the bridle heavy upon her, the vicious
pronged tongue flange thrusting in through the small mouth opening,
pressing down so that it rendered even the most primitive speech
attempts painful in the extreme.

'Very
fetching, witch whore,' Crawley snickered. 'And now for your feet.
Such dainty toes might tempt the chastity of even the most devout
man, and it is well known that witches move silently to come upon
the unwary.'

The boots were
heavy, like farmer's boots, except that the thick leather appeared
to have been reinforced with metal strands and the soles, as
Crawley explained, were made of solid iron. As he stooped to lace
them up Matilda's slim calves, she realised that as masculine as
they appeared, they had been made to fit a female foot and
shuddered as she wondered how many other unfortunates had been made
to wear these awful things in the distant past.

'They used to
call these penance boots,' Crawley told her. 'An unfaithful woman
would be made to wear these for a week and every day would have to
walk the bounds of the parish, which is what you will do either
tomorrow or the next day, depending.'

He laughed
harshly. 'And the iron is good, as iron imprisons the powers of
evil. The more iron you wear, witch whore, the less your powers to
resist will become. See here,' he added, picking up two circular
iron bands, the inside edges of which were serrated like saw
blades, 'let's see if you can work out what these are for.'

With a gurgle
of horror in her throat Matilda tried to pull back, for there was
only one purpose for which these things could be intended, but
there was no escaping and soon her distended nipples were clamped
painfully within the two circles and a length of chain hung between
them, dangling coldly against her breastbone.

'That should
hold you, devil whore,' Crawley sneered. 'Now, let's see whether
you're hiding any marks upon this witch body, shall we?'

Sarah's
screams were brutally stifled, by the simple expedient of someone
thrusting a wadded rag into her mouth and tying another strip of
cloth to prevent her from expelling it. Then, as hands dragged her
from the coach, a sacking bag was thrown over her head and drawn
closely about her neck. Her hands were dragged behind her, tied
securely and tightly with thin rope and then she felt herself being
lifted and thrown over a horse.

Hardly a word
was spoken during this, but dimly she was aware of orders being
given to the driver to throw down the post box. Hoping her captors
might be temporarily distracted, Sarah tried to heaver herself
clear, but found herself grabbed again and felt more ropes being
tied over her and about her kicking ankles. Finally, as she began
to realise the futility of further struggle, a hand slapped down on
her upturned bottom, causing her to squeal with pain and surprise
through the makeshift gag.