'Then what's to be done?' James all but wailed. 'We cannot just stand back and let them do this foul thing, surely? Perhaps,' he said, halting in his stride, 'perhaps there is yet time for me to ride down to Portsmouth and return with a magistrate or a bailiff, some official who can tell this foolish village that they are living in the past.'
'The hour grows later,' Hannah said sombrely. 'Even if you could make it there before sunset, I doubt you'd find anyone willing to ride back with you tonight. And by morning,' she added meaningfully, 'it will be too late. My Matilda will be swinging beneath yon tree.'
'Then I shall fetch my father's musket and pistol and shoot both Crawley and his hangman!'
'Brave words, young James,' Hannah replied, laying one skeletal hand upon his arm, 'but foolish. Whatever we may think of Crawley, no matter that his authority is probably long out of date, he remains a vassal of the damned Church and if you kill him, whatever your reasons, whatever you might prove afterwards, they'll hang you for it, mark my words.'
'Jacob Crawley is no true servant of the Church!' James declared vehemently. 'No court in this land would convict me.'
'Perhaps not,' Hannah conceded, 'assuming you lived to face a court. There are plenty here who would shoot you or swing you and they'd swing you alongside Matilda, too. What good would that do, eh?'
'Then what?' James demanded hopelessly.
'For the moment,' she said quietly, 'there is no alternative other than that I pay the bastard what he asks.' She frowned and paused. 'Perhaps that's what I should have done in the first place, but I didn't think he would dare go so far as he has and besides, if I had agreed too quickly, who knows what else he might have demanded.
'As it is, having used Matilda as an example, I suspect he may well inflict his foulness on others yet. We shall have to wait and see, but now,' she sighed, beginning to walk again, 'I must go and fetch his gold. Come with me, James, for I shall need your young muscle, unless I want to spend all night digging.'
She looked up at James and gave him a lopsided grin. 'You don't think I'd leave that sort of money lying around in my old cottage now, do you?' she demanded, seeing the look of bewilderment in his face. 'Indeed no. My gold is well hidden and buried deep, so we must set off without delay.
'One thing still puzzles me, though,' she muttered, as they began to pick up the pace. 'Crawley mentioned the paying of two guineas, unless my old ears are failing me.'
'Yes, he did,' James confirmed. 'What of it?'
'Well,' Hannah replied thoughtfully, 'it wasn't me who paid it and it certainly wasn't you. Which begs the question, who did pay it... and why?'
Sarah stared at the saddle in horror, understanding now part of the reason for the particular design of her riding skirt, with its strategically placed slits, for the highly polished leather column that curved upwards from the centre of the seat could only be intended for one purpose.
Ellen allowed her a minute or so to take in the full import of what she was seeing and stepped forward to use a soft cloth to gently buff the gleaming column, her steady up and down hand movements carefully calculated to induce a feeling of awed trepidation in Sarah, who shivered at the thought of what was about to come.
'Mistress, please...' she whispered, her throat so dry her voice cracked and failed her momentarily.
Ellen smiled devilishly and patted the horse's flank. 'You like your new mount, pretty?' she mocked. 'A sturdy beast, wouldn't you agree?'
'I - I can't... possibly...' Sarah struggled to get the words out, all the time knowing that no protestations or pleadings on her part would save her from this newest ordeal. The young groom who held the horse's head steady regarded her with barely disguised amusement and to one side, another groom, who was holding ready a horse that was obviously Ellen's, looked on similarly. A third groom, Ross, who had taken her virginity the previous day, stood next to him, arms folded, affecting an air of utter disinterest.
'Of course you can, pretty,' Ellen retorted. She turned to Ross, raising her eyebrows dramatically. 'Would you say this cock is any bigger than yours, Ross?' she asked, stifling a giggle.
'Perhaps a tad bigger, mistress,' he replied, shrugging his shoulders. Sarah stared at him in disbelief, for there was no way that his weapon, large though it had seemed at the time, compared with this manmade column and she could not imagine that there was a man living who could hope to rival its size. She took an involuntary step backwards, shaking her head.
'No,' she squealed. 'I cannot... I won't!'
'Oh, but you will, pretty,' Ellen purred dangerously. 'You will mount this fine animal and you will impale yourself on this fine cock horse for if you don't I shall strip you, hang you from that tree over there and have every groom and keeper on this estate give you a dozen lashes and a damned good fucking for your disobedience.'
Sarah hesitated, but she could see from the expression on Ellen's face, reinforced by the sudden steeliness in her voice, that this was no idle threat intended just to frighten her into submission. If she did try to resist, the threat would undoubtedly become reality and the thought of having to endure so many whips, let alone so many men ravishing her helpless body, horrified her even more than the prospect of being made to mount and ride the humiliating saddle before her.
'Well, come along then, pretty,' Ellen urged, seeing the rebellion dying in Sarah's eyes. 'We don't have all day you know. Ross, give her a hand up, if you please. The irons have been shortened so she can raise herself sufficiently, but you'll need to position her skirts as she mounts.'
To Sarah, who had not sat such a saddle, even without its bizarre modification, since her early teens, the horse seemed frighteningly large, the saddle itself a long way from the ground. The stirrups, which she saw had indeed been shortened, looked to be far too high for her to lift her foot to, especially with almost no use of her hands to effect any sort of purchase or leverage.
However that, she quickly realised, was why Ross was on hand. Moving swiftly to her side he lifted her easily, placing one forearm beneath her buttocks and, with his other hand, guided her left boot into the peculiarly shaped iron, pushing it down until the lower bar sat snugly between her heel and the underside of her instep.
At the same time Ellen moved around to the far side and as Sarah swung her leg awkwardly over, she guided the right boot into place similarly, so that Sarah was now standing in the stirrups, poised above the saddle, her balance dependent mostly upon Ross's hand which now supported her buttocks, the black phallus standing just before her, its tip pressing gently against her mound through the material of the skirt.
'Lift her skirts out of the way, Ross, if you please,' Ellen ordered. 'Yes, that's right, high and clear so they don't get in the way. Now, pretty Sarah, lift yourself just a little and come forward. Yes, that's right - just a little more and... yes, that's perfect.'
As she spoke, Ellen was using one hand to steady the phallus, gripping it so that she could guide it slightly in whatever direction was required, and Sarah felt the cold, unyielding tip settling between her outer labia. She closed her eyes, drawing in a breath as deep as the unyielding corset would allow and then, surrendering to the inevitable, began to slowly lower herself.
Inch by inch the monster began to penetrate her, aided by the fact - inexplicable to Sarah - that her sheath was already wet and slippery. She whimpered though, as she felt herself being stretched more and more and as the rough forward edge of the stitched seam began to rub against her clitoris. 'I can't!' she gasped, tears of shame clouding her eyes, yet knowing she would have to accept the entire length of the dildo. 'Oh please, no... ooohhh!'
The last three or four inches slid home as she settled her buttocks on the equally unforgiving leather of the saddle and her breath whistled through her nostrils as the horse stirred, sending a sudden vibration via the saddle and up the shaft which now filled her.
'There now, that wasn't so bad, was it?' Ellen stepped back, smiling up at her and, as Ross began to lower Sarah's skirts, gathe
red those intended to fall that side and began arranging them. Ross meanwhile was attending to matters on his side and these included altering the length of the stirrup leathers, lowering the irons by several inches until Sarah's legs were once again at full length. This, she realised, would prevent any chance of her lifting herself off the phallus.
The penultimate touch was the addition of a short leather strap from one side of each stirrup iron, passing about the heels of her boots and buckling on the outside of each, so that, even should there have been any chance of Sarah's feet slipping accidentally from the stirrups, now she could not even remove them deliberately.
Finally Ross reached up, took her hands and buckled leather cuffs around each wrist, cuffs that were connected by a short length of chain, which he then, in turn, attached to a small metal ring set into the front of the saddle. The reins of her mount, it seemed, were not to be in her own control.
'Perfect,' Ellen declared. 'Thank you, Ross, you may go now, and take these lads with you. Give them a tot of rum for their troubles. I can handle matters from now on.' She looked up at Sarah again and winked.
'Comfortable, pretty?' she snickered. 'Or are you starting to get just a little warm under all that stylish finery?' She took the reins from the young groom and turned the horse towards her own mount. The sudden rocking movement, gentle though it was, caused Sarah to sway in unison, that movement in turn causing the phallus to feel as though it were trying to rotate within her.
She first groaned and then whimpered, trying without luck to clench her useless fingers. Ellen wound the reins around the small pommel of her own horse's saddle and turned back to grin at her over her shoulder.
'Relax, pretty,' she laughed. 'Just wait until we start trotting in a minute!'
Chapter 18
Alone in the churchyard, Jacob Crawley perched on one of the worn gravestones and took out the folded parchment again. The two golden guinea coins that had been wrapped in it were now safely in the small money pouch on his belt, beneath his cloak. Carefully he unfolded the document and peered carefully at the neatly written words.
Master Crawley, he read again, the enclosed is a signal of my good faith, for I would talk with you on a matter of great urgency and must meet you in secrecy.
Come this night, at eight of the clock, to the bridge by the mill, where you will learn and receive something to your great advantage. You may fear duplicity in this, but be assured you need not and may bring your men with you, if you fear for your safety.
However, you must approach the bridge alone and you will see me clearly at a distance and that I too will come by myself. Meanwhile, beware the old witch's trickery, for she is more than she seems.
Crawley sat pondering this curious missive for several more minutes. The writer, he noted, referred to his men, in the plural. Given that Jed had still not returned and that James Calthorpe had somehow escaped from the hut in the woods, it seemed logical to suppose that something had happened to him, though as yet there had been no opportunity to despatch Silas to investigate. In all probability, Crawley reasoned, Jed was already dead, probably taken by surprise by the old woman, for Calthorpe showed no signs of having been in a struggle.
Presumably Jed had been half drunk by the time he set off for the woods the previous evening and would have been easy game for anyone with sufficient determination. Crawley shrugged. His loss, if he were indeed dead, was inconvenient but not insurmountable; he would easily find another recruit when the time came, possibly even among these stupid villagers and meantime, Silas Grout was as cunning as a fox and surprisingly ruthless for a man who took pride in being able to execute his victims painlessly.
He came back to the reference to 'men' in the plural. Unless the boy and the old woman were far trickier than he thought - a possibility he was not prepared to discount in the latter case - that reference discounted them as being responsible for the note's origins. Besides, there had not been time for them to have written it and arranged for the stranger to deliver it to him.
Another stranger.
Crawley's brows beetled together. The first note and the first two guineas had been similarly delivered, though by a different fellow altogether and the handwriting in each case was different, though both had come from educated hands, he could tell immediately. He reached inside his cloak and produced the first note, opening it out and holding it up alongside the later one. No, they were most definitely different hands, and yet there was something about them that was similar.
He sat for another minute, motionless, concentrating, and then he realised what it was.
'Aha,' he muttered, 'I see now.' He chuckled, nodding. 'Both written by women, unless I'm very much mistaken. Hmmm, very interesting... very interesting indeed.' He folded both letters and put them away together and then stood up, shaking the folds of his cloak so that it once again hung straight.
'Well then, little lady,' he whispered, turning towards the churchyard gate, 'I wonder what it is that's so urgent, eh? Perhaps the example I've shown with the Pennywise wench has frightened a few of you more than I expected.'
Simon Wickstanner slumped onto the empty front pew bench, breathing heavily, sweat pouring down his face. He groaned, closing his eyes and tried to find the words of a prayer, but every time he tried to move his lips to form them, nothing seemed to come out right and his tongue seemed to grow thick and stiff.
'Dear God!' he gasped at last. 'Dear God, forgive me!'
He forced his eyes open again and half turned, looking up to where the long ladder stood now, its very top propped against one of the main roof beams high above. It had proved surprisingly heavy to carry in from the small barn that stood behind the church and it had taken all Wickstanner's strength to raise it to its present position, but he had refused to let the task defeat him.
Alongside the ladder, the rope, taken from the tower bell and now with a carefully knotted noose at its lower end, hung down, swaying ever so slightly in the slight draught that always seemed to blow through the building, though in Wickstanner's tortured imagination its movement seemed to be beckoning him, reminding him of what he knew he had to do.
Slowly he forced himself to stand again and, on swaying legs, he moved across to stand by the ladder, reaching up with one hand to confirm that the noose was still at the correct height. With a stifled sob he clung to the ladder, his entire body shaking, his earlier resolve on the brink of disappearing.
Painless, Silas Grout had assured him. Completely painless, like snuffing out a lamp. Snap! Simple. Quick. Painless.
Simon raised his head again, leaning back to stare up the length of the ladder, and began counting the rungs as they appeared to narrow away into the gloomy spaces of the high vaulted roof. Twenty, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight...
Thirty-nine. Thirty-nine steps to where the ladder leaned against the beam, with a few more stretching above that point. He tried to calculate, guessing at the spaces between each of the rungs, but his head would not get itself around the equation. With a cry of exasperation he gave up the struggle and reached inside his coat pocket for the brandy flask.
It had to be more than high enough, he told himself fiercely. Far higher than that cursed tree branch from which they would hang Matilda. He unscrewed the cap of the flask and raised it to his lips, swallowing greedily and ignoring the way the raw brandy burned the back of his throat.
'Damn you, Matilda!' he screeched, shaking the now empty vessel towards the altar. 'Damn you, for you surely are a witch!' He threw the flask violently into the rows of pews where it rattled and ricocheted off the unsympathetic oak, and deliberately drove his forehead against the ladder, welcoming the sudden spearing pain, for he knew well enough that his accusation was groundless.
Damn yourself, Simon Wickstanner, a hollow voice echoed, mockingly. He looked up and looked about him, unsure of whether the voice had been real or just his own conscience, but the church was as empty as when he had entered it and the main do
or was still securely bolted from the inside.
'Yes, I am surely damned,' he whispered, tears dribbling into the corner of his mouth as he spoke. 'Oh dear Lord, what have I done? What have I done?'
Suddenly the tears ceased. Blinking fiercely, Wickstanner drew himself upright, turning to look again at the simple wooden cross on the altar. He remained thus, motionless, for several seconds and then, turning, began slowly to ascend the ladder, pausing only to collect the noose and hang it over his right arm as he drew level with it.
Within a very few minutes Sarah found that the persistent movement of the saddle dildo inside her was creating exactly the same sort of sensations her treatment at the hands of Ross and her subsequent experiences with Kitty, the two slave girls and Ellen had produced.
Unable to do anything to prevent what was happening, she was forced to remain seated, outwardly the picture of refined, aristocratic womanhood, inwardly a seething cauldron of rampant sexuality. As her mount trotted dutifully behind Ellen's stallion, the pressures began to rise and every nerve ending in her body was alive with raw desire.
Within the tight confines of her jacket, her breasts and in particularly her newly pierced nipples throbbed mercilessly, her teats feeling as though they had grown to several times their normal size, and between her legs, as the leather shaft slid in an out of her bouncing sex, Sarah could feel herself getting wetter and wetter by the moment.
Ellen cast a look back over her shoulder, grinning at the spectacle she had created. 'Nice and comfortable, pretty?' she called out. 'My, but I must say there's some colour in your cheeks, though you do sit your mount so proudly!'
'I - I can't, m-mistress!' Sarah managed to gasp. 'P-please, I... ooohhh!' The first wave of orgasm drove what little breath there remained from her body, which tensed like a bowstring. Only the cunning bondage prevented her from toppling sideways, while the stout shaft with which she was impaled triggered a reflexive instinct that made her grasp the saddle pommel with her manacled hands.
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