The Devil's Surrogate (14 page)

'I'll not deny
the truth in that,' Thomas retorted, 'but at least I earn my own
corn and don't turn my coat to something just because some fellow
in a cassock jingles a few coins.'

'Master
Crawley don't wear no cassock, innkeeper, and he ain't no priest,
neither. He's appointed special by the lord bishops up in London. I
knows that 'cos he showed us his warrant.'

'And read it
out for you, I suppose?' Handiwell sneered. He knew full well that
Peter Farren, in common with most of the villagers, could neither
read nor write and would easily enough be impressed with any scroll
that contained well drawn letters and a seal.

Further
conversation was rendered unnecessary, however, for the door opened
again and Crawley himself emerged. His eyes looked red, and there
were huge dark bags beneath them, but he carried himself erect and
there was a presence about him that Thomas could see would both
impress and intimidate the simple village folk. He stepped out
alone, but behind him stood the shadowy figure of Diggins, and that
of a second man.

'What brings a
seller of the devil's brew to the house of God?' Crawley demanded.
'They tell me your shadow never usually touches this portal, Master
Handiwell.'

'Indeed it
seldom does, Master Crawley,' Thomas replied easily, 'but then this
house has never before contained such foolishness. The girl,
Matilda Pennywise... rumour has it you intend to hang her this
evening?'

''Tis no
rumour, Master Handiwell. The whore wench is a heretic and has been
seen practising the dark arts. She is possessed of wickedness, of a
vile spirit sent from hell itself, and it must be extinguished
before it does even more evil.'

'Evil?' Thomas
echoed. 'What evil has the poor girl done, pray tell? She is
nothing but a young maid who keeps to herself.'

'She is a
wicked siren who bewitched Father Wickstanner, whose poor mortal
remains even now lie within, and whose soul will not rest while the
satanic influence responsible for his tragic end still walks this
earth.'

'Nonsense!'
Thomas exploded. 'Wickstanner was a weak fool and a drinker, though
he hid that from most eyes, to be sure. The man has made a fool of
himself over other young wenches, some not even grown to full
womanhood and young enough to be his daughters. Perhaps he finally
came to what little senses he had left when he saw what wickedness
his own corruption had brought about, and if Matilda Pennywise is,
or was in any way, responsible for that, then I'm sure the good
Lord will thank her for it rather than punish her.'

'Blasphemy!'
Crawley hissed. 'You presume to judge the Lord God's actions? Have
a care, sir, or perhaps it'll not be only the witch's body that
swings tonight.'

Thomas's top
lip curled back. 'Have a care yourself, Master Crawley,' he
growled. 'These poor fools might just let you get away with choking
the life from a girl they hardly know, but I think you might find
yourself faced with a cat of a different colour should you choose
to try the same thing with me. Now, I'm no lawyer, but I do know
that every prisoner has the right to proper representation, and
from what I hear, Matilda Pennywise has had none. Indeed, you have
dragged the poor creature naked in public, whipped her and abused
her, and she is rendered unable even to protest her own case.'

'She is
rendered unable to utter the devil curses that her kind use in
order to frighten decent folk from telling the truth,' Crawley
retorted. 'She has been scourged in order to try to drive the
devilment from her, but the possession holds firm still. As for
representation, this is no civil matter but a court of God, and the
Lord himself represents all his flock, even the lambs who
stray.'

'Bollocks!'
Thomas spat. 'If there is evil about, then I think it comes not
from the poor child. Stand aside and let me see her.'

'No,' Crawley said simply. He stood squarely in front of
Handiwell, and although he was a good few years older, and looked
from his features as if life had not treated him too gently, Thomas
could see his lean body was well muscled. Any attempt to force a
way past him would produce only an ungainly struggle and ultimate
defeat under the weight of the numbers on his side. 'No,' Crawley
repeated again. 'The sentence has been passed and there is no
appeal, save for her soul when it comes before its Maker. Take one
more step, and these fellows will cut you down, and then I
shall
charge you and you
will have your own rope, no matter how many friends you may think
you have here. You may turn from the church, Master Handiwell, but
that does not mean everyone will do the same if you commit a heresy
here!'

Some four
miles further across the wooded estate, and totally oblivious to
the mounting level of activity elsewhere in the forest, Sarah was
only beginning to discover the depths of Ross's fertile and darkly
inventive mind. Having waited while she dutifully licked clean his
still erect member, he finally proceeded to the next stage of his
plan to completely subjugate her, even though it was obvious she
was on the verge of collapse.

Grasping her
by the leather collar he had placed about her neck, he half dragged
her across to the other end of the room where a round post was set
into the floor and stretched up into the roof where it was attached
to one of the beams. About this post, at approximately waist level,
sat a circular metal collar from which projected a short horizontal
metal rod, and from that rod rose a phallus so lifelike it seemed
impossible it had been carved from wood, its shining surface
polished until it gleamed.

In front of
the post had been placed a low box. Up onto this box Sarah was now
made to stand, her legs parted, while Ross loosened the handle that
kept her collar tight and adjusted its height so the tip of the
wooden dildo was level with her gaping pink sex.

'Get forward,'
he said tersely. 'Get forward and then bend your knees as I tell
you. See the nice gift I have for you?'

An hour or so
earlier, Sarah knew there was no way she would have so easily
conceded to the inevitable and impaled herself on the thick shaft.
A day earlier and it would most certainly not have entered her so
easily. She sunk down, bending her knees with a groan that became a
protracted sigh, until its full length was inside her.

'Place your
arms about the pole and hold yourself steady,' Ross instructed
her.

Sarah reached
around the wooden post, and when she realised what he intended, she
clung to it fiercely as the box was dragged out from beneath her,
leaving her with her toes barely touching the floor. And as the
pole itself was far too small to afford her any real purchase, she
had no way now of freeing herself from her impaled state.

Satisfied that
the height of the collar was indeed right, Ross now proceeded to
complete her predicament. From the bench he took up what Sarah at
first thought was a length of wood through which two holes had been
cut. But as he brought it closer, she saw it was actually two
pieces of timber hinged at one end in the manner of the top section
of a pillory, and similarly locked by means of a simple metal peg
mechanism. Ross quickly swung the two halves open, and moving
behind the post seized Sarah's wrists and placed them into the two
openings, shutting the upper section and fastening it so her hands
were now held some six or seven inches apart. This ensured that,
while she could not fall backwards, she no longer had even the
option of trying to grasp the post to lift her weight up.

Grinning, Ross
walked around behind her and dealt her a hefty slap across her bare
buttocks.

She jumped
instinctively, and immediately felt the shaft slide out of her body
and then in again, triggering a small spasm she knew only too well
could easily become something more.

With a
chuckle, her tormentor stepped back. 'Not yet, my little slave pet
princess,' he said quietly. 'First we let you mellow a little, and
then we make you dance properly. In the meantime, I think I shall
reward myself with a glass or two of wine.'

'The man is a
complete charlatan, Captain Hart,' Thomas Handiwell snapped. 'He is
a fraud, a cheat, a thief, and now he'll be a murderer, if he isn't
one already.'

'What of the
fellow he claims was found dead in the woods?' Timothy Hart asked.
His pale eyes were watery from lack of sleep, and he had hoped to
use the time before his messenger returned from Portsmouth to rest,
but the innkeeper seemed determined to keep him from his bed.

'A stranger to
these parts,' Handiwell said. 'He arrived here with Crawley, so no
one knows anything of him saving he looked as rough as the second
man and he's probably no good, like his damned master.'

'And the
evidence against the grandmother concerning his death?'

'Evidence?' Thomas slammed a fist onto the bar top with such
force that two empty flagons at the far end bounced and rattled.
'There's no damned evidence at all, saving that two of his
new
converts
are
apparently prepared to swear they saw the old woman and young James
Calthorpe near the hut in which the body was discovered. 'Tis as
flimsy a case as they have against the girl.'

'And yet they
intend to hang her on that,' Hart pointed out.

'Not if you
stop them. Your uniform should carry the weight that my reputation
apparently does not.'

'My uniform
has no jurisdiction over matters of the cloth,' Hart said. 'My
presence here is tenuous at best, in any case, and I dare not try
to interfere with the church.'

'The church,' Thomas growled. 'The damned church has much to
answer for, in my opinion. For God's sake, man, can't you see this
is a crock of shit? Surely you could declare martial law, or
something,
anything
that will delay this so-called execution until we can bring
the facts before a proper authority.'

Hart shook his
head. 'I should need authority from higher up for anything like
that,' he said firmly. 'Why, I could not, dare not, even pursue one
of your highwaymen into that church if he sought sanctuary there.
It is the law, Master Handiwell.'

'Then the law
should be kicked in the arse,' Thomas retorted, 'and all its so
called guardians with it!'

Isobel moved
with great care now, walking very slowly in order to prevent the
hated bells from bouncing, and ducking behind trees and bushes
every few yards in order to listen, as well as the leather of the
bird helmet permitted. Twice already she had thought herself
discovered, and spun around at sudden noises that, thankfully,
turned out to be only birds taking to the air, no doubt as startled
by her presence as she was by theirs.

Crouching in a
hollow amidst several tangled bushes and brambles, she began to
wonder if her best bet might now be to remain where she was and
wait out whatever remained of her hour. At least half of it must
have elapsed by now, for she had travelled the better part of two
miles, she was sure of that. She had even come upon the eastern
perimeter fence once and followed it for a few minutes before
turning back to the cover of the trees.

Her present
hiding place was as good as any she had so far considered. She was
still within a hundred yards or so of the boundary, but far enough
away from the cleared space that followed it around the perimeter
not to risk running into the regular fence patrols. The men who
guarded the fence were not part of the hunt, but they would also
have no way of knowing she was not just another slave up for sport.
There had been more than one occasion when a girl had fallen into
their clutches and been roughly used before being turned back into
the game.

Damn
Bressingham, damn Roddy and damn her own arrogance and foolish
impetuosity. This was not turning out to be the adventure she had
believed it would be. The heavy boots drained all the strength from
her leg muscles, and the two dildos kept up their malign work, so
that despite her efforts to the contrary her body remained on the
brink of total surrender. Her nipples throbbed in the grip of the
weighted clamps and all she wanted was for the tower bell to sound
so she could make her way back to the house, claim her victory, and
have the maids fill a tub for her.

After she had
soaked away all her aches and pains she would find a way to get
back at that bastard, Roddy, for she knew he still desired her body
and the things she could do for him that surely those two little
black bitches could not...

Sarah started
to pray, but the words became a jumble in her head and the
dagger-spasms now wracking her calves and shoulders made any hope
of recovering her powers of concentration quite forlorn. Poised
almost on tiptoe for several minutes after Ross left her, she soon
realised that maintaining this position for long would be
impossible. And so, reluctantly, she allowed her weight to slowly
subside until the projecting dildo was fully buried inside her, the
horizontal support pressing up between the lips of her sex.

It was far
from comfortable, but at least she was now able to lift her legs
and move her feet about in an effort to ease her tortured muscles,
although even that small amount of movement resulted in all sorts
of unwanted and shameful pulsing sensations. Gagged again, she
could not protest, and despite knowing that Ross's return would
simply herald another round of painful humiliation, she found
herself wishing for the sound of his boots in the passageway.

Nothing, she
told herself fiercely, fighting to keep the tattered remnants of
both her pride and her sanity intact, could be worse than what she
had suffered at the beast's hands already. Being left as she was
now, quite unable to do anything to ease her suffering, the
oppressive silence broken only by the occasional birdsong from
outside, was in many ways far worse.