Cauldron of Fear

by Jennifer Jane Pope

  'I cannot,' he said when Thomas made no comment, 'act in any official capacity, you must understand that. Nevertheless,' he continued, still looking out of the window, 'I have one officer who is overdue a leave. He has recently suffered a tragic personal circumstance, his brother and father having died in the latest plague outbreak in London and his closest friend killed when a runaway cart crushed him.

  'I could order him to take a week or two away and I could further authorise his orderly to accompany him. I could also, given the intelligence you have just brought me, authorise a travelling guard of, say, four troopers and a sergeant to accompany him.

  'However,' Brotherwood said, at last turning back to face into the room, 'I could not countenance a leave of absence beyond, shall we say, two weeks? I should also have a problem with their lordships if I had to justify too great an expense for this leave, if you take my meaning?'

  Thomas leaned back in his chair and smiled. 'Colonel,' he said carefully, 'as a loyal subject of the Commonwealth Protectorate, I should consider it my duty to offer the freedom of my humble establishment to such a worthy servant of our country. How long before this officer and his little entourage can be ready to ride?'

  Toby Blaine approached the old mill buildings cautiously, his eyes darting from side to side, his ears keened for any unexpected sounds. Fifty yards from the stone bridge, which stood itself fifty yards downstream from the main construction that housed the huge water wheel itself, he halted and stepped off the road to duck into the undergrowth between the trees.

  The going here was much tougher and he was forced to thrust his way through tangles of brambles, gorse and weeds, all the time conscious of the need to move as quietly as possible. He gave thanks to his father for the tough leather jerkin he wore, though he also wished he'd had the foresight to go back home first and find a pair of leather gloves, for the thorns clawed at his hands mercilessly.

  However, the promise of the extra sixpence Harriet Merridew had promised him and the feel of the six pennies in the pocket of his breeches already spurred him on to ignore the little cuts and abrasions and, before long, he found himself crouching behind one of the massive old willows that ran along the riverbank, a position from which he could watch the bridge without fear of being seen himself.

  Beneath the bridge, he could see the small wooden boat moored to the side of the narrow walkway that passed under the outer arch span on this side, exactly as Harriet had told him the letter said it would be. Her instructions - the written instructions he had so innocently carried to her - had stated that she was to take the demanded ransom money to the boat, board it, cast off and drift with the little craft downstream, until she came to the place where the river widened and passed to either side of the small islet known as Priest's Rock.

  Here she was supposed to guide the boat aground and place the gold coins - the writer had stipulated gold and not silver - inside a small chest that she would find hidden among the bushes on the western end of the small sliver of land, after which, the note finished, she was to get back into the boat and continue downstream until she reached the bridge at Wareholt Crossing, from where she should return to Barten Meade on foot, a journey of some five miles.

  If she was unable to raise the money immediately, she was instructed to take two white napkins, tied around with a strip of coloured ribbon or cloth, and place this in the dinghy, casting it loose to drift on its own. This would be taken as a signal that the money would be paid within the following twenty-four hours and she would find the dinghy moored in its present position, at the same hour the following day.

  Toby did not possess one of the new fangled timepieces that he sometimes saw the gentry use, nor could he have used it had he one, but the passage of the sun overhead told him all he needed to know. He had arrived in position a little after four in the afternoon, the same hour Harriet was supposed to either start off with the ransom, or leave her sign and cut the boat free. He opened the front of his jerkin, withdrew the two napkins tied around with a length of red cloth Harriet had torn from an old underskirt, and sat back to wait.

  His youthful senses soon detected the sound of hooves coming towards the bridge from the north, and he was immediately on the alert, pressing himself against the tree trunk and peering round and through the trailing fronds, but as the rider came into view he slowly relaxed again, recognising the rider as the daughter of Lord Grayling, dressed, as was her habit when riding, in black breeches, a pale green open-necked shirt and with her long hair tied back at the nape of her neck.

  Whoever he was supposed to be looking out for, Toby thought, it most certainly wasn't Ellen Grayling. He sat back waiting for her to continue on her way, but to his surprise she reined her mount off the track the moment she crossed the bridge, slipped from the saddle and scrambled down the embankment. Toby's brow furrowed and he stood upright, trying to see what the girl was doing.

  She stopped by the water's edge, appearing to look towards the moored boat and even took a couple of steps towards it, but then after a brief hesitation she turned away, crouched by the water and scooped up a handful towards which she dipped her face. As she climbed back up towards her waiting horse, wiping her damp hands on her breeches, Toby relaxed for a second time.

  The next to cross the bridge was a heavy farm cart, drawn by a pair of sturdy horses and driven by a middle-aged man Toby knew to be Jeth Moore, one of the three brothers who ran a farm that had been in their family for as long as anyone could remember. The Moores were respectable, almost gentry and certainly not likely to be involved with any of this, Toby thought.

  Traffic over the bridge, both pedestrian and mounted, was sparse, as the road north led to little more than a handful of farms and one small hamlet, the latter being so close to the main road as it swept around towards London that few people came this way, rather than using the back route. It was therefore a further half an hour before Toby saw any further sign of life, and that was just two of the mill hands leaving for their respective homes.

  By now the sun was getting low in the west and the bridge and the water beneath it were in deep shadow. Flexing his stiffening knees, Toby rose, moved down to the riverbank and began moving cautiously upstream, all the while watching and listening intently.

  He reached the little boat without incident, dropped the little napkin package onto the stern seat, untied the painter and pushed the craft out into the current. It swung around once in the eddies that the nearer span support created, then steadied itself after a fashion and began to drift downstream, gradually picking up speed as it moved towards the bend from which Toby had been observing.

  He stood, hidden under the bridge itself, until the boat was out of sight and then, jingling the coins that already nestled in his pocket, he grinned and began climbing back up the embankment.

  By the middle of the day, the Black Drum was usually a hive of activity and this day was no exception. As she walked across the flattened mud and gravel that formed the forecourt of the inn, Harriet saw there was a regular coach standing to one side, near to the stables block, presumably in readiness for a fresh team of horses, and another two coaches, evidently private vehicles, standing just off the road, the horses all contentedly working their way through the contents of the nosebags they wore.

  The two rails were also half full of saddled horses, their owners, no doubt, inside enjoying a break from travelling and a meal, or ale to quench the dust from the highway. No wonder, she thought, as she approached the side door, Thomas Handiwell could afford to loan money and offer to support not only her, but her father and their ailing farm as well. Trade was good for an inn with a favourable reputation and the Black Drum was certainly that.

  The small side entrance that led, Harriet knew, to the kitchens, was opened to her knock by a village woman whom she knew, Anne Billings, wife of George Billings the shoemaker. Only a few years older than Harriet she was aging badly, her complexion mottled and pale, a legacy of many hours spent in the steam filled kitchens of the
inn since the age of thirteen or fourteen.

  'I need you to find out something for me,' Harriet said, when she had slipped inside and the door was closed behind her. Briefly, she explained about the stranger who had given Toby the ransom note and Anne, who had heard about Sarah's abduction, nodded. She guided Harriet through to a small parlour at the back of the wing and left her to wait, while she went through to the bar area. A few minutes later she returned, shaking her head.

  'Mary Ellison remembers the fellow,' she said. 'He ordered bread and stew and a pint of dark ale, but he didn't hang around once he'd finished. She remembers him, because he paid with a silver florin and gave her tuppence for her trouble, she says, but he was gone long before it started to get busy.'

  'Did Mary see which way he went?' Harriet asked, though without much hope.

  Anne shrugged. 'I asked her,' she confirmed, 'but she reckons she don't bother none about what they do after they go out the door and she doesn't have time to stand at windows gawping.'

  'Well, she'd have no reason to,' Harriet replied. 'I don't suppose he was that much different from twenty other men who come in here every day.'

  'Apart from his eye, of course,' Anne said, and Harriet looked puzzled. 'Mary reckons he had a glass eye,' Anne explained. 'Said it was a good piece of work 'cos, she reckons, you had to look pretty close to see it weren't a real 'un. Cost a pretty penny for something like that, I reckons.'

  'Yes, probably,' Harriet agreed, 'though that doesn't get me any closer to finding out who he is and who's behind him, if he's not the ringleader himself, that is.'

  'Heard tell there was four of them buggers,' Anne said, nodding. 'An' I reckons they've gotta be pretty local, if you asks me.'

  'Oh? Why so?' Anne wiped her hands on her apron and perched on the arm of an empty chair.

  'Well,' she said, 'I may not be educated, but I keeps my ears open an' we gets a lot of the drivers and coachmen around in the little back snug, where they can get a cheap meal and soak their feet while their guv'nors eat in the main bar. A body gets to hear all manner of things, especially when she's only supposed to be ladling up soup and fetching ale.

  'So, Miss Merridew, I can tell you where and when every one of these coach robberies has taken place, and they're spread out pretty even over the road both north and south of here. Not only that, but a couple of times there's been soldiers happen upon the coaches, just after they bin robbed and they've ridden after the thieves only a few minutes or so behind.

  'An' yet,' she concluded smugly, 'they've never caught 'em, have they?'

  'So you think these robbers know the back roads and tracks, is that it?' Harriet said.

  'Stands to reason they must,' Anne confirmed. 'One time I know for sure, the soldiers rode south in pursuit and met up with three naval officers riding north, for London most like, and they reckoned no one had passed 'em in near on two hours.'

  'Have you told this theory of yours to anyone else?' Harriet asked.

  Anne smiled lopsidedly. 'Like who?' she demanded. 'No one's going to listen to a simple kitchen hand, are they? I tried tellin' my George a couple of weeks back and even he told me to leave such things to them as knows about 'em, so no one else is going to take much notice of what I might think, are they?'

  'Well, I'm listening,' Harriet said quietly. 'Tell me, Anne, what time do you finish here? Only there are a few more questions you might be able to answer and maybe we can work something out on this between us.'

  'Well, I'm not due to finish till six, Miss Harriet,' Anne said, with a crafty look on her face, 'but if you likes - an' if you can cover what I'll lose - I'll tell cook I've got a bad head and cramps in here.' She rubbed her lower stomach meaningfully. Harriet smiled and thought of the few coins still in her purse. Some things, she thought, were more important than others and besides, there was always the chance she might be able to get her cousin safely back without having to be in Thomas Handiwell's debt.

  'All right,' she agreed. 'As long as it's not more than a shilling.'

  The water in the stream was bitterly cold, but Sarah did not care. Under the watchful eyes of four of the handlers she joined a group of eight other girls, all freed temporarily from their bondage in order that they might wash themselves in the swirling current, splashing themselves thoroughly to remove dust and mud and, in Sarah's case, the smears of blood and dried semen that had stained her thighs by the time Ross had returned her to the main group of slaves.

  He had then, apparently, lost all interest in her, turning her over to another handler, a balding older fellow named Travis who, to Sarah's horror, seemed to be very fond of applying his crop across the girls' naked rumps for no other reason than his own enjoyment. She received half a dozen random cuts herself, before the girls were finally allowed to rest and then brought to the stream to perform their ablutions.

  Alongside Sarah, a girl of about her own age was cupping water and allowing it to splash over her large breasts and, despite herself, Sarah found herself watching her out of the corner of her eye. After about a minute the other girl noticed her interest and grinned.

  'Not many of these to the stone, eh?' she laughed, but keeping her voice low and her eyes mostly fixed on the running water.

  Sarah felt herself going red. 'I - I'm sorry,' she began, but the girl made a shushing noise.

  'Keep your voice down,' she warned. 'We're not really supposed to talk to each other, and if they hear us,' she added, with a jerk of her head to indicate where the four men stood talking in a group at the top of the grassy bank, 'they'll like as not string us up and give us a good thrashing.'

  'Have - have you been here long?' Sarah asked, scooping up water and throwing it back over her own breasts. She cast a furtive glance backwards, but their minders seemed little concerned with the bathing party, and the general noise of the water and the bathers splashing about would mask any whispered conversation.

  'A few days,' the other girl replied. 'You only arrived last night?'

  'Yes, I'm Sarah Merridew, by the way. What's your name?'

  'Miranda,' the girl grinned, 'but here they call me Kitty. Titty Kitty.' She sniggered. 'I reckon you can guess why, eh?'

  'But that's so degrading!' Sarah exclaimed. 'Don't you hate it?'

  'What's in a name?' she retorted. 'And anyway, same as you seemed to notice, they are big and, with luck, they might save me from being shipped off to some foreign hellhole. Master Adam seems to have taken a bit of a fancy to me and my dugs!'

  'Who's Master Adam?' Sarah asked.

  'Only one of the big nobs around here,' Kitty said. 'He's not actually the top man, but he ain't far off it and he's hung like a donkey and handsome with it. I could do a lot worse, lovey, believe me. I'm playing up to him for all I'm worth.'

  'I can't believe they really intend to sell us off like cattle,' Sarah whispered.

  'Not cattle, dearie,' she said. 'We fetch a lot more than cows.'

  'But we get treated no better,' Sarah retorted indignantly. 'One of the bastards took me off, fixed me down in some frame thing and then just had his way with me, like I was a brood mare, or something. I still can't quite believe how callous it all was.' Neither, she reflected, could she quite believe how she had reacted, writhing and groaning in the heat of the perpetual stream of orgasms Ross's thrusting pole and devilish hands had induced in her.

  'You have to get used to that sort of thing,' Kitty replied, almost nonchalantly. 'Whatever becomes of us if and when we leave here, one thing's for certain; we're intended for regular rogering, not for our wit and conversation.'

  'That's just so horrid!' Sarah was beginning to shiver again and her legs, immersed in the stream up to her shapely knees, were starting to feel numb. She ducked her head into the swirling current and shook it, resurfacing with a gasp.

  'I think,' she said, as she spat droplets and snorted water from her nostrils, 'that I'd rather drown myself here and now - only I don't think I have the courage for that.'

  'Well, where there's life,
as they say,' Kitty murmured. 'And given the choice between killing myself and getting soundly fucked every few hours, I know what I'd choose!'

  Chapter 7

  The Billings's cottage was set to one side of George Billings's workshop, on the eastern side of the green, some half a mile from the crossroads where the Black Drum stood. The two women had to cross one edge of the open space and they were halfway across before Harriet looked up to see the bizarre figure at the stake set in the centre, some seventy or eighty yards away.

  'By all that's holy!' she exclaimed, halting in horror. 'What foul business is this?' She started to turn towards the naked display, but Anne grasped her arm and drew her back.

  ''Tis better not to venture over there, Miss Harriet,' she whispered urgently, looking around as if scared that she might be overheard. ''Tis claimed that she's a witch and the witchfinder is purging her. Anyone goes near, folks may get to thinking they're in league with her and they'll end up just like that, too.'

  'What stupid nonsense!' Harriet retorted, but she held back, staring in disbelieving fascination. Suddenly the rumours she'd heard the day before came flooding back and she realised who the poor victim was. 'That's Matilda Pennywise!' she gasped, and Anne nodded. 'But Matilda Pennywise is no witch! If the fools had accused her grandmother, then maybe I could understand it for the old woman has some peculiar ways, but not Matilda. What have they done to her? My God, but that's barbaric - and what has she on her feet?'

  'I heard tell earlier that they're called Penitent Boots,' Anne replied.

  'Penitent Boots?' Harriet said. 'Yes, I've heard tell of them, but they haven't been seen nor used in more years than the two of us have been on this earth put together, probably longer. And that's a scold's bridle - I thought they were outlawed more than a hundred years since.'