'Not a harem as such, I shouldn't think,' Adam told her, 'though you may be lucky and have the Bey take you for one of his wives or concubines. Usually the girls we send him go into a sort of stable, mostly for the use of the Bey's favoured guests, once they've had their little clitties cut off, that is.'
'What?' Kitty's eyes were round with horror at this revelation, but her tormentor simply laughed.
'Oh yes, probably. The Bey will sample you himself first, and he won't mind having a writhing little eel as his bed partner, but after that it'll be the knife. They don't think their women should enjoy being tupped, you see. Don't understand it myself. I prefer my wenches hot and panting, the way cousin Adam says you were last night. Seems a great waste, turning a panting whore into a plank of wood, but then that's their business. Once they've paid, why should we worry what they do, eh?'
Chapter 5
James Calthorpe recovered consciousness slowly. His head felt as if it had been crushed by a huge rock and he felt sick in his stomach, almost vomiting when he finally opened his eyes and made to sit up. Gasping, he fell back, closed his eyes again and waited, trying to control his breathing and clear his thoughts.
There had been two men, that much he could remember, two men on horseback who had ridden towards him on the hill road, talking to each other as they approached, seemingly not interested in him at all, other than to raise a hand each in salutation as they parted to allow him to guide his own mount between them.
James, deep in thought concerning a treatise he was currently reading, had barely acknowledged them and so had had no warning of what followed. The back of his head felt as if it had exploded in a ball of fire, bright lights flashed before his eyes and he felt himself falling, but he must have been already unconscious before he hit the ground. Either that, or they had grabbed him and held him in the saddle.
How long ago the attack took place, how long he had been out for, he had no idea. It was mid-morning then, that much he remembered, and the thin shafts of light filtering in through the timber building in which he now lay suggested it was daylight still, but whether he had been out for merely a few hours or whether even a night had passed in between, he had no way of telling.
Groaning, he opened his eyes again and looked around, confirming what he had seen the first time. He was in what appeared to be a small wooden hut, built from roughly hewn and ill-fitted planks, with a single window over which sackcloth had been nailed, and one rustic door. There was dirty straw over half the floor, covering the packed mud from which it had been made.
There was no furniture, just a broken wooden crate turned upside down to form a makeshift table, on which stood a pewter flagon and an earthenware bowl in which lay three or four pieces of plain bread. To one side of this stood an iron bucket and James did not need telling its purpose.
From one side of the hut to the other ran a heavy chain, secured to the timber uprights at either end by robust staples. From the centre of this chain ran another, which had been wound around his right ankle and fastened with a sturdy lock. He did not need to experiment to know that the amount of movement this allowed him would be insufficient for him to reach either end of the first chain to even test the efficacy of its fixings.
At length he tried sitting up again, his hands clasped to his temples as he did so and gritting his teeth in an effort to ignore the fresh waves of pain his movements triggered. Slowly, he inched his way towards the crate and reached out for the flagon, lifting it and sniffing cautiously. Satisfied that it contained only water, he raised it further and placed it to his lips, first sipping and then, having doubly confirmed what his nose had told him, gulping greedily.
The water tasted fairly fresh and the bread, when he tested that, likewise. Replacing the flagon carefully, for he had no way of knowing when it might be refilled, he hauled himself unsteadily to his feet and looked around, peering towards the larger gaps in the timbered walls in an effort to see what might lay beyond his immediate prison.
When this experiment yielded nothing, he paused, holding his breath and listening intently, but save for the distant cry of a bird he could not identify, all about was silent. With a sigh, James sat down again, took another sip from the flagon and tried to think.
Matilda shuffled wearily across the bare chamber to where the water bowl stood on the recessed ledge, dragging the heavily weighted boots at every step. She stood for several seconds, considering the tube that Crawley had fixed to the crude wooden frame that now sat across the bowl and then carefully lowered her face towards the top of it, manoeuvring carefully to push the stem in through the slit opening in the leather mask, alongside the awful prong of the bridle she still wore over it.
The act of sucking to draw liquid into her mouth kept forcing her tongue against the sharp point, but her mouth and throat had become so dry that she forced herself to ignore the pain until she had drunk maybe a quarter of a pint of the musty water.
Finally, standing erect again, she turned and surveyed the empty room, as if by some miracle something might have changed in it while she was drinking. How long since Crawley had brought her back here she had not the slightest idea, though confined and bound as she was, it seemed like a lifetime.
That, she realised, was all part of his strategy. Pain and boredom combined to break her spirit, probably even more effective than any rod or whip. Here she was alone, anonymous, silent, listening only to the sounds of her own laboured breathing and the steady pounding of her heart, the thick leather hood magnifying these two noises out of all proportion.
In the end, she knew, she would be reduced to begging for release, willing to offer anything, including her grandmother's carefully nurtured nest egg, in order to escape this silence and to once again become a living human being, surrounded by noise, lights, colours and sounds, and free of the nagging pains that the clamps around her tortured nipples kept sending throughout her body, reminding her, as if she needed it, of her total abject helplessness.
In the end, perhaps, this oppressive desolation might even drive her so far as to welcome even the return of the man who was responsible for her tortured plight...
What now, mistress?' Beth looked up at Jane Handiwell, her huge eyes adoring. Jane smiled back at her, cat-like, and chuckled.
'Now, Beth,' she replied, 'I settle Harriet Merridew's nonsense, once and for all.' She thrust back her shoulders, stretching her muscles, knowing that her nakedness excited her maidservant all the more when she displayed it so brazenly.
'I could hardly believe my luck when the message arrived here to reserve the room for the cousin,' she continued smugly. 'It was almost too good to be true - an opportunity that t'would have been a crime to have missed.'
'But I heard your Pa tellin' as how he would put up the money for any ransom demand,' Beth said uncertainly. 'An' surely, that'd mean that Mistress Merridew would maybe feel she had to accept his offer of marriage, wouldn't it?'
'Aye, she probably would, the stiff-necked mare,' Jane confirmed. 'Far too proud for her own good, but then she'd have probably accepted the old fool eventually in any case. They're struggling at Barten Meade, Beth, and no mistaking, plus her father is sickly worse than ever. She wouldn't take my father normally, of course, but she's the kind who'd marry a toad, if'n it meant she felt she was doing her daughterly duty.'
'Then surely, mistress, this will only hasten her to your pa's bed?'
'Aye, well my big-titted and small-brained little sweetmeat,' Jane laughed, 'it would, if'n I were to leave her on the loose to decide, but then that's not in my plans, be sure of that. And, whilst my moonstruck pater is away to Portsmouth, trying to drum up a few soldiers to chase his own daughter though he doesn't know it, the time is right to strike.'
'This brazen whore has already confessed that she's a witch and in league with the Devil himself,' Jacob Crawley sneered, looking around the dozen or so villagers assembled in the churchyard. They were mostly men, their eyes staring at the abject, naked figure on the end of the chai
n leash he held, and Crawley had selected the small group after careful consultation with Simon Wickstanner. The self-styled witchfinder smiled to himself; their reactions were so predictable.
'She has already placed her mark to a full confession,' he continued, 'and so it is possible that the Lord will decide that we should be merciful with her.' There was a low murmur among the small assembly. 'However,' Crawley continued, holding up a hand for silence, 'I must first pray, for He has not yet revealed his wishes to his humble servant.
'In the meantime, you should return about your business, but let it be known throughout the village that the whore, Matilda Pennywise, will be set upon the green, as you see her now, tied to a stake and set about with iron, that all may see how heretics, blasphemers and witches shall come to shame.
'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.
Pus
hing 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.'
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