The Devil's Surrogate (24 page)

'If they try
chasing after us,' Sean quipped, 'then my money's not going to be
on us. This bugger's got two speeds, and the fastest of them is
slow, for sure.'

'Well, if my
little plan works out,' Paddy said, 'then they won't be after
chasing us for quite a bit, so will you stop worrying and just get
those damned hitches fastened? It's getting so dark here I can
barely see me hand in front of me face now, and it's a good half
mile back before the track gets any wider than it is here.'

'Well, I'm
already done my side,' Sean stepped back a pace and looked up at
the rapidly darkening sky. 'Maybe one of us should walk ahead,' he
suggested, 'and yes, I know, it'll be me 'cos you're the bloody
sergeant.'

'Privileges of
rank,' Paddy said, chuckling. 'But I don't mind if you'd rather
drive. My arse never did much appreciate a hard wooden seat, and
this trail is about as rough as any a man would ever want to drive
over.'

'Well, and
aren't you just the... holy shit!' Sean's reply was interrupted in
midstream as the dark figure suddenly rushed out of the trees and
leapt for Paddy. The creature flew straight for the throat of the
older soldier, screeching and spitting, the last of the daylight
glinting dully on outstretched talons, and only Paddy's soldier's
instincts allowed him to twist sideways and duck clear at the last
moment. He rolled away but then was up again in an instant, his
hand reaching for the bayonet knife that hung from his belt beneath
the black jerkin.

Sean's initial
surprise had also given way to action, and now he was fumbling
beneath his own jerkin, grabbing at the pistol, which caught for a
moment in the leather folds. The horse, sensing something
unexpected and dangerous, whinnied loudly and made a half-hearted
attempt to rear up. The wagon rolled backwards a few feet, and the
snarling beast collided heavily with the front wheel.

'Holy shit!'
Sean heard Paddy cry as the black silhouette whirled around to face
him. 'Jeez, it's a bloody girl! I—'

The rest of
his words were drowned out by the crack of Sean's pistol
discharging, and the flash from the muzzle momentarily blinded both
men. There was a scream of agony in the darkness followed by a
shout, this time decidedly female, and then there was silence,
broken only by the snuffled breathing of the startled horse and the
gentle creaking of the wagon as the poor beast shifted his weight
forward again.

'Paddy?'

'Yeah, I'm all
right.'

'What the feck
was that?'

'How the hell
should I know?' There was a brief pause. 'Some sort of... well, I
wouldn't like to say. It was a woman, I think, but she had claws
and fangs and eyes like burning coals.' Paddy emerged from around
the front of the horse and Sean saw he was breathing heavily. 'For
a minute there I thought I was facing a bloody banshee,' he said,
his voice betraying his shock. 'Did you see those bloody talons,
man?'

'I think I hit
it, whatever it was,' Sean replied, trying to ignore the tremor in
his own voice.

Paddy stepped
up to him, and clapped him on the shoulder. 'I think you did, too,'
he said, 'and I thank you for it. For a minute there I thought the
she-devil had me, but she ran off when you fired. I'm not sure
whether... hey, listen up a minute.' He stopped, turning his
head.

'What?' Sean
began, but then he too heard it, a low moan of pain, most
definitely female.

'Over there,'
Paddy said, pointing. 'I thought I heard something when that demon
creature ran off. Quick man, there's a woman there, and she sounds
like she's hurt!'

Harriet
shivered in the rapidly cooling night air and almost stumbled over
an exposed tree root as Silas Grout led her across the green. The
sun had disappeared over an hour ago. She had tried praying during
the interim, but she found that words would not come. Her faith, it
seemed, had deserted her.

Grout had come
for her at last, the men forming the guard about her painful perch
moving aside for him, and she tried to steel herself to meet her
end with as much dignity as her nakedness and terrible bondage
would permit. As the pole was withdrawn from between her back and
elbows, she stared across the green to where the noose was
silhouetted darkly beneath the overhanging bough. It would be
quick, at least, if Grout was to be believed, and in one way her
death would be a welcome release from her agonising humiliation at
the hands of these evil men.

She closed her
eyes, tried to swallow, and braced herself for the final walk. Yet
it was not to the execution tree Grout led her but back towards the
darkened church. And as she stumbled along at his side she realised
there were no other people about - no expectant crowd waiting to
see her die. Instead, as they drew closer to that section of the
graveyard wall which stood highest of all on either side of the
gate, her eyes made out the shapes of two horses in the shadows...
and a figure dressed all in black who she knew, without having to
look more closely, was none other than Jacob Crawley.

'You spread
the story as I instructed?' Crawley's voice in the darkness cut
like a rusted rapier blade.

Harriet
shivered again.

'I did, yes,'
Grout replied. 'There was a little discontentment, but not much,
just as you predicted, master. Most have now gone away to their
beds, or down to the inn, to await the dawn entertainment they're
now expecting.'

'Good.'
Crawley coughed to clear his throat, and then spat fiercely against
the wall. 'And you've ordered two men to guard the wagon back
there? If this bitch has any friends left, they may think they can
help her by destroying the scaffold.'

'They'll not
get near it,' Grout said firmly. 'Those ignorant fools are not so
ignorant as not to know they'll not get paid if they make any
stupid mistakes at this stage.'

'Then the
sooner we do this, the better,' Crawley announced. 'Lift the whore
up onto my horse. She can ride before me as a shield, just in case
the witch and the whelp think they can try taking pot shots. You
stay behind me, Silas, but have both your pistols at the ready,
primed and cocked.'

Confused at
this latest turn of events, Harriet tried to clear her thoughts as
she was hefted into the air and thrown astride the saddle of the
first horse. A moment later, Crawley mounted behind her and she
felt him pressing into her back, his weight pushing her forward
until the raised pommel at the front of the saddle was digging into
her unprotected sex. She moaned, and heard the witchfinder chuckle
close to her ear.

'Keeping your
legs spread till the very end?' he taunted. 'Well, when we've taken
care of your crone of a grandmother and that snot-nosed miller's
boy, maybe we'll spread them a bit further for you one last
time.'

Harriet
squirmed, trying to ease her position, but the effort simply added
not only to her general discomfort but also to the sudden heat the
initial friction against the hard leather saddle inexplicably
aroused in her. She blinked, peering about her and trying to make
some sense of all this. Grandmother and then miller's boy, Crawley
had said. That had to mean Matilda's grandmother, Hannah, and James
Calthorpe, who had been keeping company with Matilda of late,
according to village gossip. There had been talk in the crypt of a
tithe - ransom by any other name - and although Harriet had only
caught snatches of discussions between Crawley and Grout, she
guessed that the witchfinder had offered Hannah her granddaughter's
life in exchange for money. There had long been rumours that the
old woman had a hidden fortune left to her by her father, even
though she lived most frugally in her tiny cottage. Considering
this, Harriet began to understand.

Wickstanner
had apparently brought in Crawley because of allegations that
Matilda was a witch, or at best a heretic, possibly because she had
rebuffed his amorous advances. Crawley had come, but not for this
reason; the man was a fraud and a charlatan, his principle crusade
not to save damned souls but to extort money. Hannah must have
realised this and at first refused to pay up (this much had also
come from snippets of conversation Harriet overheard in the crypt)
but when it became clear that Crawley was not bluffing, she had
been forced to concede.

Now Crawley
and his henchman were taking her to meet Hannah and James,
presumably having arranged a rendezvous for the exchange, or so the
old woman must have been led to believe. Crawley, however,
obviously had no intention of honouring his side of the bargain.
She, Harriet - Matilda as far as anyone but Jane Handiwell was
concerned - was to be his protective shield, and Silas Grout would
shoot the unsuspecting couple down in cold blood. After that, with
Hannah's gold safely in hand, Crawley would indeed finally kill
Harriet. The villagers had evidently been told the postponed
execution would now take place at dawn, but with his mission
already accomplished, she doubted Crawley would bother allowing her
to live that long. A fatal shot from a musket could be attributed
to the old woman, or to young James Calthorpe, and silence the only
witness to his treachery. Harriet was certain that her chances of
seeing even the first glimmerings of another day were remote as
Crawley kicked his mount into a trot and headed it out across the
now deserted village green.

Paddy Riley
was not a man usually at a loss for words, but the scene that
greeted them when Toby Blaine finally responded to his soft call
and admitted them into the barn came close to leaving him
speechless.

'He was trying
to get the lady to tell who we were,' Toby explained, pointing
calmly at the second form lying sprawled alongside the still
unconscious first man. 'Don't worry, he's dead all right,' Toby
added as Paddy moved to examine the corpse. 'I whacked him with
that big lump of wood there. He was hurting her bad, so I just hit
him as hard as I could. I didn't mean to kill him, but I reckon he
was a pretty wicked sod anyway.'

'Aye, that he
was, I reckon,' Paddy murmured. He looked across to where Sarah now
sat huddled against one wall, her nakedness covered by a piece of
sacking. Her eyes were open but they did not seem to be focused,
and he doubted she was really aware of much of what was happening
around her.

'She's Miss Harriet's cousin, Sarah,' Toby said, following
Paddy's eyes. 'I don't think she's feeling very well, but I sat and
talked to her for a bit while we waited. Lots of what she was
saying I didn't really understand, but she told me her name, and
that she was taken from the coach the other night. And,' he added,
his eyes gleaming, 'you'll never guess what else she said, though
I'm not sure whether it's true or just her rambling on.' He paused
for effect. 'What she said was that they weren't highwaymen at all,
but highway
women!
Would you believe it?'

'I reckon I'd
believe just about anything right now,' Paddy retorted. He turned
to Sean. 'Nip back out to the wagon and bring in that other wench.
I've a mind I know where I've seen her before, but young Toby here
can tell us for sure. If I'm right, then the sooner we get out of
here the better, though I'm doubting what we have to tell will be
welcome news to Master Handiwell.'

'This was my
father's,' Hannah Pennywise said, and straightened up with some
difficulty in the corner where she had removed the small section of
flooring. She carefully pulled the layers of sacking away from the
object she had retrieved from the hidey-hole to reveal a curious
pistol-like weapon. It had a handle and a flintlock mechanism and
was small enough to be held in one hand, but the barrel was unlike
anything James Calthorpe had ever seen on any weapon other than a
full-sized blunderbuss. It was trumpet-shaped, and across the
muzzle measured a good five to six inches.

'It hasn't
been fired these past fifty years,' Hannah went on, 'so only the
gods know what will happen when the trigger is pulled next. Do you
know anything about this sort of thing, lad?'

James held out
a hand and carefully took the weapon from her. 'I think it's a very
early flintlock mechanism,' he ventured a dubious guess. 'Is it
loaded?'

'Hardly, but
there's powder in a pot on the shelf somewhere, and a bag of small
balls I've been using as a doorstop since my pa died.'

'Let's see how
the flint is then.' James raised the cumbersome pistol, cocked the
hammer and pulled back on the trigger. There was a rasping clack of
metal followed by a bright shower of sparks. 'Astonishing,' he
muttered. 'It looks like it'll still work, but to be honest, I've
not the slightest idea how something like this should be
loaded.'

'Ah, well I
have,' Hannah assured him, 'so you just pass it back over here and
hand me down that black pot above the bed there. I doubt there's
enough powder for more than one decent shot, but then I also doubt
whether there'll be time to reload for a second go anyway.'

'If that thing
delivers as bad as it looks,' James muttered, 'I doubt there'll be
much need of a second shot. The only trouble as I see it,' he added
nervously, 'is that something like that is hardly very
selective.'

'That it
ain't, and it also ain't much good beyond about fifteen paces, but
close up anything within several feet either side is like to be
ripped apart.'

'And Matilda
is going to be right in the line of fire,' James pointed out.

Hannah
sniffed, and took the pot of powder he passed her. 'Don't think I
don't know that,' she said, 'but then beggars can't be choosers,
and apart from that other pistol, this is all we've got. So, you
take the other gun and I'll have this one. I expect you can shoot
straighter than I ever could, let alone now I'm an old biddy, so
it'll be up to you. Try to drop that black bastard Crawley first.
If I'm any judge, he'll have Matilda close to him to hide behind.
If he's got his other man with him I'll try to get a clear shot at
him, so you'll have to be quick and try not to miss. There won't
likely be any second chances.'