The Devil's Surrogate (5 page)

No matter how
beautiful the female, no matter how pitiful or how brash even, Ross
treated them all in the same fashion; maintaining a rigid
discipline within himself he was then able to impose upon his
charges. Even when he finally took a girl - be it for the umpteenth
time, or be it an actual deflowering as had been the case with this
new arrival, Sarah - he did it primarily as he did everything else,
and only when he had begun to take his victim down to depths she
had previously never known existed, then and only then might he
permit himself the luxury of actually enjoying the act.

He smiled contentedly to himself as the second barn came into
view through the thinning screen of trees. The building had lain
derelict for many years and its restoration had been Ross's idea,
and then his personal project, carried out with the enthusiastic
backing of his employer, Roderick Grayling. The furthest structure
from Grayling Hall itself, and still more than a mile-and-a-half
from the nearest estate boundary, this
Conditioning Centre
- as Ross had
himself named it - was still the object of some mockery by his
fellow trainers, or at least by those of them who had yet to put
its facilities to the proper test.

The C.C. had
to be used properly; it was a waste of time bringing the girls out
here for just a few hours and then returning them to the main barn,
where they would once again be accompanied by their peers and the
general hubbub of their shared misery in surroundings that, if not
exactly comfortable, would at least have begun to take on a
familiar and reassuring atmosphere. As far as Ross was concerned,
that reassurance had to be earned, and would be all the more
appreciated when a girl had spent at least two or three days in the
isolation of his centre subjected to the various devices his
peculiarly inventive Scottish mind had created.

After a
protracted session in the C.C., even the most truculent slave would
become docile and cooperative. Even girls who had been raised in
the most affluent circumstances would willingly crawl on their
knees and abase themselves in all manner of potentially profitable
ways to avoid repeating the experience. A prudent Scot if ever
there was one, and a man not given to wasting time any more than he
was given to wasting money, Ross exposed each newcomer to a short
session in the C.C. However, a prolonged spell in this centre was
always eventually necessary, as had been the case with Kitty.

After the
short session, when the girl returned to the main establishment,
his expert eye soon told him which captive would need further full
conditioning and which one was already so chastened by even that
short exposure that her training would continue without trouble.
There was little point in any of his charges trying to fool him in
this respect, and he was also never fooled by a temporary state of
shock.

Titty Kitty,
despite her apparent willingness to slip into her new role, was a
case in point. Yes, she would already go down on her knees and use
her mouth to bring any man to arousal and orgasm, and she would
apparently enjoy using her generous tits to masturbate anyone who
told her to, yet she still retained a streak of individuality no
master could tolerate in a pleasure slave.

Now the other
girl, Sarah... Ross sighed, and then smiled. Yes, this one was a
different kettle of fish entirely. A demure virgin upon her
arrival, even his rough deflowering had failed to elicit the sort
of terrified reaction expected of girls of her class and
upbringing. Instead, she seemed to have slipped away into another
world, into a trancelike existence where little seemed able to
penetrate.

Was it all an act? He shook his head, unable to decide as he
watched her beautifully rounded buttocks and wide hips swaying
before him. If it
was
an act, then she was a very good actress indeed, but a day or
so in the C.C., two or three days, if necessary, would determine if
she was good enough.

Oh yes, there
was little chance of Mistress Sarah Merridew being able to pull the
wool over his eyes once he had her inside his centre, and if she
was pretending it wouldn't matter anyway, for by the time he
brought her out again she would certainly not be acting. He had yet
to fail in the few months since the inception of his experiment,
and he did not expect to begin failing now.

'Dead, you
say?' Thomas Handiwell peered at Ned Blaine as if he were having
difficulty seeing him clearly, his red-rimmed eyes betraying both
his lack of sleep and his mounting concern.

'Aye,' Ned
replied, eyeing the shelf behind the bar with ill-concealed
interest, for news of such import was certainly worth a generous
shot of either rum or brandy. 'Mary Slane found him not half an
hour since. Went in to do her turn on the cleaning, and ran out
wailing like the wind through the trees of hell, so they say.'

'More foul
play?' Handiwell voiced the question aloud although he was talking
more to himself.

'They say it
was suicide,' Ned quickly answered him, 'that he took his own life.
He put a rope around his neck and jumped off that big ladder as is
kept for changing the bell ropes, and stuff. Ripped his head clean
off. John Slane found it under a pew seven rows back. Must have
rolled quite a way... damn it, Thomas, all this running to carry
news gives a man a fearsome thirst!'

Taking the
hint, Handiwell began to move around behind the counter, his brain
already busy trying to assimilate this latest news and the impact,
if any, it might have on their own problems. One of the troopers
had ridden off back to Portsmouth carrying a despatch from Captain
Hart to Colonel Brotherwood outlining the situation and requesting
additional troopers, as well as a magistrate to sign a warrant so a
proper investigation of the Grayling estate could be carried out.
In theory, at least, this should not be affected by the death of
one fairly unimportant country minister.

However,
Thomas knew only too well that things never went as smoothly as
they might in a perfect world, and here in the countryside the mere
fact of a good milker suddenly going dry could start tongues
wagging with allegations of anything from witchcraft to the coming
of the Day of Judgement.

A priest with
his head ripped off in his own church.

Was there any
connection with the Grayling situation? Thomas shook his head as he
turned to place a generous measure of dark rum in front of Ned. It
wasn't likely, at least not a direct connection. But then there was
this fellow Crawley who had seized young Matilda Pennywise and
turned half the village on its head. Thomas had not been present to
witness the spectacle himself, but apparently the men folk had
gathered like hungry wolves to watch the poor wench being
scourged.

The inside of
the barn, Kitty quickly saw, had been divided up into several
separate sections, each one leading off a main passageway running
the entire length of the near side of the building. The doors to
three of these sections were closed, and whether or not they were
occupied was impossible to tell. Certainly no noises came from
within any of the rooms; the only sound was that of the birds in
the trees outside muffled by the timber walls.

Ross thrust
both girls ahead of him down the corridor until they reached the
final door, which stood wide open. The light was less bright
inside, coming from a series of narrow slits set high beneath the
eaves, so Kitty was able to navigate around the various obstacles
that sat in the centre of the enclosed space. Peering out through
the eye slits in her hood, she tried to determine what these
various contraptions were, but the shadows, combined with the
intricacy of their construction, made this all but impossible. She
could be sure of only one thing: whatever their purpose was, none
of these structures had been designed with her comfort in mind.

'Get
yourselves over to the end,' Ross snapped. 'Up on those benches,
both of you, and be quick about it.'

As the two
women stumbled forward, Kitty's eyes made out that the end wall had
been divided into four sections, each of which boasted a wide bench
set a couple of feet off the ground in the manner, she imagined, of
bunk beds aboard ships. At either end of each bunk a chain dangled
from a sturdy looking staple that terminated in a broad leather
collar from which hung a metal lock. Simple, but effective, she
thought. A slave on her bunk could be tethered by the neck and left
with sufficient leeway to stretch out to sleep, and maybe just
enough slack in the chain to step down from the bench and make use
of the iron pail that she now saw had been placed beneath each
bunk.

'Home sweet
home,' Ross said, chuckling, 'at least for a few days, depending on
how the pair of you behave yourselves.' He reached out and brought
one of the collars up to Kitty's neck, securing it over the collar
already resting around her throat, and the lock clicked with a
hollow finality. A moment later, Sarah had been similarly secured
on the next bench, at which point Ross turned away without another
word and strode back out into the corridor.

Kitty blinked,
shook her head, and sat for several seconds listening to the sound
of his boots retreating along the stone floor, and then silence
descended once more, a silence broken only by the distant, and now
almost mocking, twittering of the feathered creatures outside.

'A hunt you
say, Grayling?' Sir Peregrine Wellthorne raised an eyebrow, and
sniffed. 'But why waste my time here on something I can do equally
well at home? In fact, and begging your pardon, but the Wellthorne
hunt rides over some of the finest countryside in all England.'

'Yet perhaps
it does not have such interesting quarry,' Roderick Grayling
suggested. He raised the brandy bottle towards his visitor, who in
turn eagerly held out his glass. 'No sir, I would not offer to
waste your time on something you can do better at home. A hunt here
at Grayling is like no other hunt you will ever see.'

'And this
quarry you hunt? Fox? Deer? Hare?'

'Birds,'
Grayling replied, his smile broadening. 'Feathered little birds of
a species never seen outside this estate, at least not to my
knowledge.'

'Aha, fine
plump fare for the pot?'

'Fine fare
indeed, though not so plump, and not for the pot, though I'd wager
they'll whet your appetite for certain.'

'Ah, I think I
have your gist now, sir. These birds would maybe have had their
wings clipped, is that what you're saying?'

'Clipped
indeed, Wellthorne, but still they make fair sport. We've kept one
or two back for the purpose and my lads are quick to spot any new
talent. Adam has his eye on one in particular I suspect will suit
you perfectly. Plump of breast and with the look of a sporting
bird, he tells me.'

Wellthorne
snickered. 'Sounds fascinating. So, when does the hunt begin?'

Grayling
sipped his brandy. 'What say you this afternoon, sir? It will take
an hour or two for the prey to be properly prepared, and I for one
hate to hunt on an empty stomach. Some cold meat first would not be
amiss, I think, and then we will be all the more appreciative of
the warm meat we chase afterwards!'

'Definitely
not foul play?' Handiwell asked again.

Ned shook his
head. 'Definitely not.' He eyed the rum bottle once more.

Thomas
Handiwell sighed. Ned Blaine's seemingly unquenchable thirst made
gathering information more than a little costly. 'And you say
Crawley has taken charge of the church itself?'

'Aye, that he
has, he's got five or six of the village men with him now, some of
the worst idlers and ne'er do wells for five or six miles
hereabouts, including those two lads from Dummer. Paid them, I
reckon, and probably promised them more. They've locked off the
church completely.'

'Well, they
won't be able to keep it closed off for ever,' Thomas pointed
out.

Ned seized the
proffered rum with ill-concealed eagerness.

'Someone will
have to ride and tell the constable. Mind you, Roderick Grayling
should also be told. Whilst the earl is away, his son is acting
magistrate, I believe.'

'Crawley is
saying it's no business of anyone save the church. Reckons he's
sent a messenger to the bishop and that's an end of it. There's to
be a funeral late this afternoon.'

'And what
about the girl, Matilda? Word is the rogue was intending to hang
her.'

'People are
saying she's still going to swing, but Crawley has postponed the
event out of respect to Wickstanner. Mind you, he ain't intending
to put it off for long, by all accounts. Word is she's in for it
tonight at sunset after the burial. Someone ought to do something
about that, I reckon.' He eyed Thomas meaningfully.

The innkeeper knew that
someone
meant himself, possibly the only man in the
village, besides the miller or the blacksmith, whose word carried
any weight. However, as in most things, the church or its
emissaries - even one whose credentials were as dubious as
Crawley's - still carried the most weight of all, and there were
also those in the village and its surrounds who would welcome a
public execution as free entertainment. 'Maybe the blackguard will
accept an appeasement,' he said finally. 'These bastards are
usually as interested in gold as they are in spreading or
protecting the word of the Lord, if not more so. Go down to the
church, Ned, there's a good fellow, and see if you can speak with
this Crawley. Tell him I'd be prepared to offer a reasonable sum
for his efforts to save the girl's immortal soul so long as her
earthly body is spared. I'm sure you can word it so the thieving
crow understands what it is I'm saying.'