The Devil's Surrogate Read online

  THE DEVIL'S SURROGATE

  by

  JENNIFER JANE POPE

  The Devil's Surrogate first published in 2001 by Chimera Publishing. Published as an eBook in 2011 by Chimera eBooks.

  ISBN 9781780800554

  www.chimerabooks.co.uk

  Chimera (ki-mir'a, ki-) a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy.

  New authors are always welcome, or if you’re already a published author and have existing work, the eBook rights of which remain with or have reverted to you, we would love to hear from you.

  This work is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The author asserts that all characters depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of age or older, and that all characters and situations are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright Jennifer Jane Pope. The right of Jennifer Jane Pope to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex.

  Author's Preface

  Well, here we are again, back in the seventeenth century, and things are just the same as when we left them some months ago, with our main heroine in a very precarious predicament and a lot of other people variously confused and frustrated by the machinations of our assorted villains. But I promise you, all will be resolved, for good or bad, by the end of this book; no more 'hanging on by the fingernails' open-endings.

  To those of you who wrote to me after reading Cauldron of Fear... yes, I know it was a bit of a mean trick to leave everything so 'up in the air' like that, yet it was gratifying to know so many of you had enjoyed the book to the extent that you were left chewing on your knuckles. However, I swear it was not my original intention. My books (and I know it happens to other authors as well) have this tendency to assume a life of their own in which events are governed by the developing characters and I end up feeling like little more than an observer recording what happens for the benefit of posterity. In Cauldron, this happened to such an extent that... well, we basically ran out of book, and short of chopping everything short in what would have been a most unsatisfactory fashion, or ending up with a volume so thick it would have been nearly impossible to publish, there was nothing else for it but to make this a two book story.

  Back on the positive side, it is nice to know so many of you enjoyed Cauldron of Fear for reasons other than the most obvious, and especially that you appreciated the historical bits. I do like to be accurate, and yes, I have always been a bit of a history buff. That's the main reason I began the Teena Thyme series, and now I have the opportunity to bounce our eponymous heroine around through the ages. If you haven't met Teena yet, her first adventure takes her back into early Victorian days, complete with tightly laced corsets, silk stockings, villainous noblemen, and... well, that's another story and the book is out there if you fancy it.

  For the moment, we're back in sixteen-sixty. For those of you who may have missed the first volume, there's a bit of background in the following prologues, together with a brief summary of the plot so far. You can skip over both if you wish and probably enjoy this volume just as much, but I think it will be worth a few minutes of your time to do the job properly.

  Well, enough of the chat, apart from thanking you all once again for your continued interest and support. Now let's turn the clock back precisely three-hundred and forty-one years...

  Prologue I

  A Brief History According to the Jenny Pope Annals

  The seventeenth century was both a curious century and an important one in that it linked the sixteenth century to the eighteenth century. If that sounds obvious, and even a bit silly, maybe it is worth thinking about the fact that this particular span of one hundred years linked the Elizabethan era to the beginning of what we now can think of as the modern age, and so many things happened in that time that it would take twenty volumes the size of this one to even begin to do the subject justice.

  Indeed, at the birth of the seventeenth century, Elizabeth the virgin queen was still on the English throne, albeit in the twilight years of her long life and reign, and by the end of the century the country had executed a king, experienced Parliamentary 'democracy', made great strides towards colonising and 'civilising' great tracts of the globe, and seen the real beginning of the first scientific age, thanks to the enthusiasm and patronage of Charles II when he wasn't bouncing around atop Nell Gwynne and others.

  In between times there was the Bubonic Plague, which decimated a large part of the population, and the Great Fire of London, whose origin still gives rise to much debate. Was it a plot by the powers that be to cleanse the capital of the deadly plague virus? We will never know, just as we will never know the real truth behind so many momentous historical events, but then this is not a history book.

  What we do know, and what a lot of people forget, is that the Plague epidemic of sixteen sixty-five was not the first time the deadly disease reared its ugly head. For decades there were sporadic and mostly isolated outbreaks, and thousands died prior to the final apocalypse. The church preached that the Plague was a punishment from God, and even hinted that the Plague might be the work of witches, even though the bishops had by now decreed that there was no such thing as witchcraft. Mind you, they had not quite gotten around to actually outlawing the execution of witches as such, but merely declared that perhaps witches did not really exist... perhaps.

  It seems crazy to us now looking back from the relative sanity of our own times (and I use the term 'sanity' very advisedly) that on the one hand the church could say witches did not exist, and on the other hand it could still turn a blind eye when some poor young wench or old crone was strung up for allegedly practicing the dark arts. But then we have to understand that these were times of great flux, lacking in the sort of communication we take for granted today. Also, as one contemporary scholar put it, there was a perceived difference between actually being a witch (the church said you could not actually be one now) and practicing the Satanic arts. The fact that the former had been decreed impossible did not preclude unfortunate souls from being prosecuted and persecuted for still believing it possible. Believing in the black arts was heresy, and this was the crime for which women, and some men, were actually sentenced.

  The one fortunate aspect of the situation for the unfortunate victims was that at least by this time England had stopped burning heretics and witches. Hanging, although not yet the relatively instantaneous death it later became when the 'drop' method was universally introduced, was a far preferable and less agonising way of going to meet your Maker. Strangulation may not be nice, but compared to writhing around as your flesh is roasted away... well, enough said, I think.

  The 'drop' method of hanging was finally officially introduced and perfected as a method of swift dispatch in the middle to the late nineteenth century, but it was in existence a long time before that and originally employed in places such as Italy and the Balkan States, as we know them now, at least by the more enlightened and compassionate rulers, which made its use rare indeed. I mention this in case some of you are wondering about the fact that its use was touched upon in Cauldron of Fear and again in this book.

  As for the state of crime, law and order and justice in general, especially in England, it would not be inaccurate to suggest they left a lot to be desired. Cromwell had created the country's first standing army, but as for civilian
law enforcement, it was at best hit-or-miss and at worst merely chronic. A patchwork of magistrates, constables, wardens and local militia-style forces had sprung up without any real order or organisation, and were generally run by whoever held the most sway locally. It was a situation ripe for corruption and good-old human nature was not slow to oblige.

  It is also worth remembering, at least in order to get this story into some sort of context, that slavery was still legal in this country, as it was in most of the world, and not just the enslavement of non-whites. Europeans could find themselves sold into slavery by courts, whose authority was often quite dubious, for the most trivial offence. Slaves made money, and people with money seldom tended to be content with what they had, not when they could make a lot more money with the aid of a few bought testimonies and a few greedy magistrates and judges. Quite often, in fact, these people were the magistrates and judges.

  And so, dear reader, armed with this little potted analysis, let us move on now and view the unfolding events in the same dark light that was all-pervasive back then...

  Prologue II

  The Story So Far

  (Note: Please see Cast of Characters Appendix at the end of the book)

  From Cauldron of Fear

  The girl was young, fresh and virginal, even her shaven skull unable to disguise her basic, innocent prettiness. Jacob Crawley, standing in the shadows at the far end of the vault from where she hung chained against the rough stone wall, licked his thin lips in anticipation.

  Quietly, with a lightness of step that belied his fifty-something years, he moved closer, until he hovered at the very edge of the pool of orange torchlight that illuminated the captive wench, his black hair and the long black cape he held about his tall frame blending with the darkness behind him and rendering him all but invisible. He saw that her eyes were closed and guessed she was probably fallen into a light sleep of sheer exhaustion, despite the pain her enforced position would be growing in her shoulders and arms, and in the stretched muscles of her calves and thighs as they tried to take some of her weight via the tips of her toes that barely touched the cold floor.

  Her breasts, distorted somewhat by her stretched posture, were small and firm, the nipples prominent and deeply coloured, as yet unmarked, per Crawley's strictest instructions. He grinned maliciously to himself, knowing that they would not remain thus for much longer.

  Between her taut thighs, her shaven pudenda pouted alluringly, the chains at her ankles holding her legs apart just sufficiently to prevent any attempt at modesty, and Crawley felt a cold shiver of lust crawl slowly up his spine. This one, he thought, was far too good to waste on the scaffold, far too sweet a fruit to plant in the chill earth beyond the consecrated ground of the churchyard. No, he chuckled, this one would not be broken, though he knew she would probably require a taste of his own peculiar skills and more than a modicum of bending before she would be totally satisfactory.

  Not that the process would take that long; it seldom did. Two days, three at the most. Three days that would to her, however, pass like a millennium, so that when Crawley finally granted her even the smallest measure of relief and the chance to avoid the fate to which she would by then have consigned herself and probably even craved, she would take it gratefully, no matter to what level of degradation she must surely know she would sink.

  Crawley shuffled his position, the muscles in his right thigh having stiffened in the damp air, and the slight sound brought the girl immediately awake again, her wide brown eyes flickering from side to side in alarm.

  'Who... who's there?' she cried, her voice thin and wavering in her terror of the unknown. 'Please,' she wailed, when Crawley made no reply nor moved to reveal himself, 'please, whoever you are, take pity. I am no witch; surely you must all know that by now. Ask in the village, as I said, everyone will tell you.'

  'Oh, people always tell me what they think I will believe,' Crawley replied, breaking his silence at last, though still remaining back from the light, 'at least in the beginning.' His voice betrayed his north country roots, though many years had softened the harsher edges of his accent. 'Satan woos his brides to proliferate his evil lies, but the Good Lord has bestowed on me the gift of cutting through them.'

  'Sir!' Tears welled up in the girl's eyes and began trickling down cheeks that were already stained. 'Sir, I am no bride of the devil, nor do I lie. I fear God and worship our saviour and a more devout girl you will surely never find.'

  'You are Matilda Pennywise, of the Parish of St Jude?'

  The girl nodded, swallowing hard.

  Crawley inched forward, so that his outline was now visible to her, but only as a deeper shadow. 'Speak girl,' he commanded. 'Are you, or are you not, Matilda Pennywise?'

  'Yes!' Matilda gasped. 'Yes sir, indeed I am... sir,' she added as an afterthought.

  'That's better, wench,' Crawley cackled, 'you seem to be learning something at last.' He coughed, clearing his throat. 'Then, Matilda Pennywise,' he continued after a carefully judged pause, 'you stand accused of several counts of witchcraft, sorcery and consorting with unholy forces.'

  'No!' Matilda shrieked. 'No, it's all lies, as God is my witness!'

  Without warning Crawley leapt forward, his right arm swinging in a wide arc, the open palm of his hand slapping into the girl's unprotected cheek with such force that she would have been knocked off her feet were the chains not holding her upright. She let out a howl of pain, not least because the full weight of her body had momentarily been transferred to her already tortured upper limbs.

  'Silence!' he roared. 'Heresy, to invoke the name of the Lord God you have betrayed.' Matilda was struggling to regain her balance and clearly scarcely heard him, but Crawley knew his words would sink in eventually. 'You are all the same, you Devil's spawn harlots, every single one of you,' he intoned. 'Yet I shall save your unholy soul, mark my words. You will return to the arms of the heavenly master cleansed of your foul wickedness, else my name be not Jacob Crawley!'

  The main action of the story takes place in and around the fictitious village of Leddingham, near the border between the counties of Hampshire and Surrey, set on what is now known as the main A3, the road from London to the great naval port of Portsmouth on the south coast. The local inn, The Black Drum, owned by Thomas Handiwell, does a brisk trade from both travellers and locals alike.

  Just to the north and west of Leddingham lies the huge Grayling estate, run in the absence of his father, Earl Grayling, by the cruel and manipulative Roderick, who has built up a lucrative business in white slaving, concentrating mostly on young women trained at the Hall by his strict overseers and then sold on to all parts of the world.

  A little south of Grayling Hall is the much smaller farm estate of Barten Meade, owned by Oliver Merridew, a former army major now virtually bedridden as a result of wounds sustained during his military career. The impoverished farm is kept going by Harriet, his pretty and intelligent daughter, but times are so hard that she is beginning to consider the marriage proposals she has received from the widowed Master Handiwell. He is unaware his affection for her has triggered a terrible hatred in his daughter, Jane, who sees Harriet as a threat to her inheritance and who is also terribly jealous that she was not blessed with the same fine looks.

  A would-be witch, Jane has recruited a small band of highwaywomen, including Roderick Grayling's younger sister Ellen, and this foursome have terrified the night roads, robbing coaches and abducting any suitable young females to sell to Roderick. Into this trap comes Sarah Merridew, Harriet's cousin, recently orphaned in London after a local plague outbreak and now seeking the sanctuary of her only remaining relatives.

  Meanwhile, Jacob Crawley has arrived in the village, a brooding, menacing figure who carries with him a written authority appointing him as a witchfinder, even though the church supposedly abandoned such practices more than a decade earlier. Crawley has been summoned by the local minister, Simon Wickstanner, whose spurned advances toward a young local girl, Matilda Penn
ywise, have turned to thoughts of revenge spurred on by the rumours that Matilda's grandmother, Hannah, is hoarding a small fortune amassed by her own father, Nathan, now dead many long years.

  With a dubious signed testimony by a local labourer, who has since mysteriously died, Crawley arrests Matilda and subjects her to a horrifying ordeal whose purpose he alleges is to draw a confession from her as well as to purge her of her sins. However, when he attempts to persuade Hannah to pay penance in gold to save Matilda from the scaffold, he is astonished to be met with outright refusal.

  Thomas Handiwell has meantime set off for London in an attempt to persuade the army to send men to help him search for the abducted Sarah, while the resourceful Harriet has recruited the assistance of young Toby Blaine and his friends to try to help her discover who is behind the kidnapping. Unfortunately, although she succeeds in uncovering some of the identities of the perpetrators, she herself is captured when she attempts to pay a ransom, and is substituted by the vengeful Jane for Matilda and left in the crypt of the church, naked, hooded and gagged, and surely soon to be hanged before Crawley or his assistants have the chance to discover her true identity.

  Thomas Handiwell has meantime returned to Leddingham, completely unaware that the hand behind the now double abduction is that of his own daughter, Jane.

  'Our methods are now well and truly tried and tested, Sir Peregrine,' Adam Portfield said smugly. He always enjoyed escorting prospective clients around the estate; delighted in showing off the training techniques he and his fellow overseers utilised, secure in the knowledge that his employer, Sir Roderick Grayling, would have vetted these visitors most thoroughly before permitting them access to this, his most closely guarded citadel.