The Devil's Surrogate Read online

  'Aye, we know that, Toby lad,' Sean Kelly grinned at him, 'but these sods ain't just watching for poachers, methinks, so we'd best watch our steps carefully.' He looked down, and gave his musket an affectionate pat. 'We'll just have to show these English bastards how these things are really done, won't we, me darling?'

  What had at first seemed to her like an adventure and an easy way of taking money off that idiot, Guy Bressingham, was now taking on the proportions of a nightmarish ordeal, as far as Isobel de Lednay was concerned. She cursed herself for her foolishness - for not being more sure of her facts, and for not fully understanding what the bird-girls were expected to endure. The twin dildos lodged inside her now seemed to mock her carelessness as she followed the maidservant back out into daylight, where she was received with a round of applause that was as much ribald as it was appreciative.

  Isobel would have readily delivered a torrent of castigating abuse at her supposed friends, but the gag - yet another refinement she had failed to consider - prevented her from uttering anything beyond an incomprehensible grunt, and she was determined not to give Bressingham, or any of the others, the satisfaction of realising the full extent of her helplessness. Her eyes narrowed behind the mask and she vowed to exact a suitably vindictive revenge on her former lover, Grayling, as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

  Grayling himself, having performed the duty of inserting the dildos, had left the maid to gag Isobel and was thus already back on the lawn when she made her entrance. He nodded at her, and then at one of the grooms, who immediately took charge of her and guided her to the other bird-girls. She bit deeply into the gag and steeled herself to walk as naturally as the weighted boots and the two invaders permitted, fighting back the small spasms that every step triggered inside her.

  Damn Roddy, she thought, and damn herself for being so stupid. Even the boots had come as a shock when she tried to walk in them for the first time. Outwardly, they gave no indication of the way in which they were weighted, and for the first time she began to doubt herself, for the footwear presented a handicap she had not bargained on. Yet if these stupid peasant girls could stay free for over two hours, and occasionally even longer than that, then she could certainly evade capture for the required hour. She would then be released to claim her prize, and to savour Bressingham's defeat for the rest of the day and well into the evening.

  'You know what you have to do, Billy Dodds?' Hannah Pennywise leaned close to the young lad's face and peered into his eyes.

  He stared back at her, his unblinking eyes plainly reflecting his awe of her. 'Yes, mistress, don't worry none, I can do this as well as Toby would have, maybe even better.' The news that Toby Blaine had disappeared somewhere - and nobody was saying where the boy had gone, only that he was not expected back for several hours - had come as a blow to Hannah. Toby was a bright lad, sometimes too quick with his lip, but dependable and honest enough, if you didn't count poaching the odd rabbit or two, which nobody in their right mind would. Billy Dodds, usually all but inseparable from Toby, was the obvious substitute, the only real alternative, Hannah knew, and she hoped the lad was even half as bright as his friend. 'You do it just after they lower the coffin, you understand?' she repeated.

  Billy nodded. 'Yeah, I hand the bag over and give him the note and tell him I'll be outside the inn an hour later. That's it, isn't it?'

  'Yes, that's exactly it,' James said reassuringly. 'Everything else is in the note, so all you have to do is deliver it and then get away and come back here to the cottage. I'll be watching, and so will most of the village, so you won't be in any danger.'

  'I just don't much like the look of the fellow,' Billy muttered. 'Looks like he's already dead, if'n you ask me.'

  'And acts like he should be,' Hannah agreed, 'so you just make sure you get your tail out of there as soon as you've delivered bag, note and message.'

  'And I get a half-crown for this?' Billy asked suspiciously.

  Hannah and James nodded in unison as she delved into the folds of her skirt and pulled out a coin. 'And this is a shilling of it,' she said, pressing it into Billy's grubby palm. 'Mind you,' she added fiercely, 'you let us down and I'll not only have it back off you, I'll have the skin off your back and maybe something else to boot. You understand me?' One look at the expression on Billy's face was enough to answer her question.

  Crawley's new recruits had finally seemed to lose interest in her, if only temporarily, but in truth Harriet realised she had passed beyond caring any more. Her body ached in every joint and muscle, but even those pains had subsided to a dull numbness that mimicked that of her brain, and although she felt exhausted in every way, she knew also that sleep would not come now, nor would she dare surrender to it even if it did.

  Her mouth felt dry and sour, her tongue stiff and sore from the constant assault of the metal prong, and she wondered if any of them would bother to think about giving her water. Probably not if Crawley intended to hang her. Dully, she looked up, craning her neck towards the narrow slit of glass... it was still daylight outside, she saw, but the combination of dirt and weeds growing up against the side of the building made it impossible to even guess at how far the day had advanced, or even whether it was sunny.

  Sunset. One of the men - or had it been Crawley himself? - had said they would be hanging her at sunset, but somehow the prospect had failed to penetrate her general horror. Now she began to consider this, and as she did so, tears formed in her eyes, tears that were not for herself but for Oliver, her father. If they killed her, who would care for him? Who would tend the farm? Thomas Handiwell was a good and kind man, but she doubted his interest would continue beyond her death, for his only duty to her father would have come through her if she had agreed to his proposal of marriage.

  Thomas. Jane. Jane Handiwell. Was it really possible that Jane was...? But of course it was, for had not the girl told Harriet so herself? Yet she still found it hard to believe it even though she knew Jane hated her personally and saw her as a threat to her inheritance of the inn. But hate, suspicion, jealousy, all those were understandable even if they were not Christian, whereas robbery and kidnapping, and on such a scale... Jane Handiwell, Ellen Grayling, Mary Watling and especially Kate Dawson, who outwardly appeared to be such a mousy and characterless individual... it seemed to Harriet that the entire world must have gone mad.

  Crawley was certainly mad, she knew, though mad in a cold and zealous way carrying with it a power and persuasiveness that could spread wider and wider if no one was prepared to take a stand against it. The Jacob Crawley's of the world were more dangerous than the worst highwayman, murderer or thief, for they truly believed the wickedness they purveyed was not wickedness at all but an instrument of divine justice.

  Or did they?

  Matilda's grandmother had been mentioned more than once, Harriet now realised, and there had been mention also of a payment. She shook her head, and urged her fatigued mind to concentrate. Payment... some kind of ransom? Her eyes narrowed. Yes, there had long been talk in and around the village that Hannah Pennywise had a hidden hoard of gold left her by her father. Nathan and the old woman had never shown even the slightest sign of profligacy, so his bequest must surely still be intact, assuming it existed at all.

  Jacob Crawley might not be an instrument of God, even if only a self-appointed instrument, quite so much as an ordinarily greedy monster seeking an earthly reward rather than eternal salvation. Harriet grunted. Ordinary human failings she could understand, and the realisation that Crawley was really no more than a common thief made him appear suddenly less awesome, although not, she told herself grimly, any less dangerous. He still held her life in his hands, and time must surely be running out.

  And then another memory came back to her, although she could not at first be sure it was a real memory and not a dream. She had a stark vision of herself being thrown into this room, the leather hood pulled over her face and laced tight, the terrible scold's bridle locked over it, and then there was a
swirling cloud of pain and shadow, a cloud through which a light had come, and a face, and a voice... 'You'll go on your way with something to remember me by,' the voice had grated, and then an awful ordeal followed accompanied by the shock that such a thing could be happening to her. Eventually, her mind had rebelled, refusing to acknowledge the reality of her plight, and she fainted away.

  Something to remember me by.

  Oh, she would remember that, and she would remember him all right. How could any woman ever hope to banish such memories?

  Something to remember me by.

  How could she ever forget?

  Something to remember...

  And yet there was something she had forgotten, or rather something that had made no sense to her stunned mind at the time. Now, however, it began to come back to Harriet, and she recalled stories her father had told her of his time in the eastern counties, especially the time he had been garrisoned at... Colchester? Yes, Colchester. He said there had been trials and executions there that at first were sanctioned by the Church, spreading terror through the countryside and inciting a wave of public piety that was much more about saving one's body than one's eternal soul. And then even the Church and its bishops had come to their senses, for their ecclesiastical lordships were not so far removed from reality as not to realise when something had gone too far. Oliver Merridew himself had led a detachment out to a village near the coast to stop the intended execution of three supposed witches, two old women and a young girl barely of childbearing age. There had nearly been a riot in which three villagers, and a member of Oliver's troops, was killed. It had been the last of the executions, the last of the madness, the last of the trials, at least in that part of the country, and the man responsible had vanished from the area overnight almost as if he had never existed. There had been stories of him, or at least of someone bearing the same name, reappearing further north about a year later. Harriet always read the newssheets, even if they were usually two weeks old before they reached Leddingham, and then nothing more was heard of him.

  The world at large had heaved a sigh of relief, at least that part of the world where the maniac had spread his reign of terror. Some said he fled to France and that there was a price on his head. Others said he himself had been executed, though the stories differed as to whether he died in Scotland or in France or even in Yorkshire. Still others believed he had taken ship for the New World, or that he became a missionary to the Dark Continent. But whatever the truth, all agreed on one thing - if his name was never heard again in England it would be the greatest blessing God could give his children.

  Something to remember me by... Something to remember, something that no one could ever hope to forget... or my name isn't Matthew Hopkins.

  Harriet felt a chill run down her spine and numb her legs. Matthew Hopkins! That was the name of the madman who had killed scores of innocents in the name of God, the name that the sane and civilised world had thought never to hear again, and now...

  Surely not, she thought desperately. Yet had she not heard it from his own lips? She was certain now it had been no dream. Jacob Crawley and Matthew Hopkins, the hated and feared persecutor of innocents, the man who had put a rope around the necks of old women and children alike... Jacob Crawley and Matthew Hopkins were one and the same person, and now the rope was about to go round Harriet's own neck!

  Ellen Grayling lay back against the pile of pillows at the head of her bed and grinned at Jane Handiwell. 'Janey, my dear,' she drawled, 'you look so impressive in that darling outfit, but what say you do catch one of the birdies? You aren't exactly equipped for the ritual stuffing.'

  Jane, who was dressed in a black leather jerkin, breeches and boots, and who was now in the process of pulling a matching hood over her head, grinned back at her aristocratic young friend. 'Ellie dear,' she replied smoothly, 'there is more than one way to skin a cat, and certainly more than one way to stuff a bird, as I thought you should know well enough by now.'

  'Of course, my darling,' Ellen replied, 'but not down in the main hall, and not in front of all those beastly friends of Roddy's. It might suit for one of those great sweaty men to stick his cock into a slave in public, but we're supposed to be ladies.'

  'The rules don't say the bird has to be stuffed in public.' Jane smiled and peered out from two narrow slits angled to give the mask an almost oriental appearance. Only her mouth and chin remained uncovered. 'Besides,' she added, 'I can let Oona do the public show. I always find it so amusing when those silly birds realise her little secret.'

  Ellen gave a visible shudder. 'That creature makes my skin crawl. She's not human, I'm sure of it, and one of these days she'll end up killing someone. I do wish Roddy wouldn't put those claw things on her hands; she's dangerous enough without them. Have you seen those two fangs up close?'

  'I think she's a handsome specimen,' Jane retorted. 'She has the most beautiful body, so strong and athletic, and her features beneath all the paint and the masks... well, there's something very individual about her.'

  'Thank the Lord for that!' Ellen exclaimed. 'To think there could ever be another like her!'

  'Perhaps, if Roddy would permit us, we should try to tame her a little?' Jane suggested.

  For a moment Ellen could not be sure her friend was serious, and when she realised she was, her expression became even more horrified. 'You can't mean that? Why, Jane Handiwell, is there no shame in you? You look at that demented half-human creature and all you see is an adventure in your bed. Shame on you!'

  'Why, Ellie, I do believe you might be jealous.' Jane's thin lips curled back in a spiteful grin. 'The thought of my little pussy taking any cock is too much for you to bear, isn't it? Well, I doubt it would ever happen anyway. Even I would be wary of Oona when her shaft appears, for the lust in her eyes signals danger, to be sure. No, Oona can sate herself on the slaves. But today I shall be her handler, so I shall need to scent myself heavily. You know what she's like if the smell of female becomes too strong in her nostrils. Although she knows just which females are game, I still wouldn't trust her if she became too frustrated.'

  'Then make sure you carry a stout cane and a good thick whip,' Ellen urged. 'Beat her at the first sign of trouble, and don't be afraid to call for help.'

  'Then why don't you come out with me?' Jane suggested. 'We can show those men a thing or two between us, I'm sure.'

  'I'm sure we could,' Ellen agreed, 'but you know what Roddy is like about things like that. In public, I must remain the dainty and silly little lady just in case anyone was to think anything else and perhaps suspect something. He even protests if I ride out in breeches on a proper saddle during the daytime, so I have to be very careful to keep out of his sight if I do other than he wishes.'

  'Wait until he settles down with his two little black bitches. I cannot for the life of me understand how he can let those two barbarians into his sight, let alone let them suckle on his cock as he does.'

  'Oh, I don't know,' Ellen sighed, 'they are perfectly tame and really quite sweet. Besides, those big lips do look so soft...'

  'Ellen Grayling, you are worse even than I. Next thing you'll be telling me is that you've taken one of them into your own bed and...' Her voice trailed off seeing the expression on Ellen's face, and turning on her heel, she strode towards the door. 'I'm not going to continue with this conversation,' she said, 'for I suspect I might not like the answers you give, and there are some things best left unasked, I think.'

  Harriet had been awakened from an uneasy sleep, this time by Crawley himself. The witchfinder kicked her thigh with the toe of his boot and instructed her to rise.

  Awkwardly, feeling the cold in every one of her stiff joints, Harriet obeyed.

  Crawley stood facing her and looking her up and down, a malicious grin on his hawkish features. 'Doesn't look like there's much of the devil in you now, does there, wench? Mind, it wouldn't do to let the poor fools out there know that. There's not a body among them as doesn't reckon it's you made Wickstanner put
the rope round his neck and jump the way he did.'

  Harriet's eyes grew round at this revelation, for it was the first time anyone had mentioned Wickstanner's death to her.

  'Aye, well, whether you did or didn't, I reckon the blame can be laid before you fair enough anyway. The man was a weak fool, and somehow you managed to get inside his stupid head to mess with his thoughts, and that's why he did himself in, no mistake about it. So it'll be fair and square, an eye for an eye, when we hang you tonight.'

  Harriet whimpered, but there was no way in which she could otherwise communicate with her tormentor.

  'Ha, well, you might be scared, but it'll be painless enough, just a quick drop. Of course, if the old witch you call your grandmother still refuses to pay by the time dusk comes, then maybe we'll get the drop wrong, and maybe there'll be a little jig for her to watch.' He reached out and grasped Harriet's nipples cruelly between his thumb and forefingers. 'I've sent a man to find her with that message, but it seems she's disappeared into thin air for he reports there's no sign of life at her cottage. Not that it'll help her much, for she'll be the next one to swing, and the miller's lad too. Jed Mardley's body was discovered in a hut in the woods and there's witnesses that both the crone and the lad were out that way, so once we've dealt with you, we'll have to deal with them too.'

  Harriet blinked as she struggled to take in everything Crawley was saying. That he still thought she was Matilda was obvious, for the mask and the spike branch prevented either recognition or appeal. That he had originally taken Matilda in collusion with Wickstanner was also not surprising, and neither was the apparent admission that greed for gold had more to do with his actions than a genuine belief Matilda had offended the Church, despite his occasional references to the devil. With Wickstanner dead, that now left Crawley in complete control of both church and village, at least from a spiritual point of view, and the ease with which he had recruited additional support was testimony to the greed and ignorance of a certain element of humanity. But that one of his original cohorts had died and he was preparing to lay a case against Hannah Pennywise and James Calthorpe as a result meant that if Hannah did in fact come forward in an attempt to buy Matilda's life, she would be walking straight into a trap.