The Devil's Surrogate (20 page)

'Here,' said
an indignant voice at the rear of the spectators, 'I don't like
being called no fool.'

'Then don't
act like one, Josh Avery,' Thomas snapped, recognising the speaker
without needing to turn his head. 'I had you marked as a man with
some sense, and now I find you in here with this motley bunch,
hanging on the every word of a man who's probably got more innocent
blood on his hands than I've had hot stews.'

'So,
innkeeper,' Grout sneered, 'you take it upon yourself to decide who
is innocent and who is not, do you? Master Crawley has all the
proper warrants, and the authority of this and many other parishes
to carry out God's work. So have a care, or else people here might
think you're trying to blacken us just to save that witch, and then
they might wonder just why a so-called honest innkeeper should be
so worried about her. We already know she has the old woman and the
miller's boy in league with her, and that they murdered a good and
true servant of the Church, for which crime they'll answer in due
course, I can assure you. Maybe you want to see your name added to
that warrant as well?'

There was a
mixture of muffled laughter and mutterings indicating possible
agreement, but Thomas was unmoved even though he knew there was
little point in trying to interfere. If Brotherwood sent troops up
from the coast, then maybe the girl's life could be saved, for he
was certain Crawley and his cohorts were acting illegally. But
meantime, these ignorant fools would not dare to back him against a
man they believed was acting for the Church.

On the other hand, there was something he
could
do, no matter how little the
naked girl standing waiting to die would benefit from it. He
reached out, and before Grout could react seized the flagon of ale
from his hand and dashed it to the floor. 'Well,' he snarled, 'if
you're so worried about my integrity, then I'm sure you wouldn't
want to risk drinking in my establishment.' He kicked the flagon
aside and it clattered against the base of the counter. 'So, you'd
oblige me, master so-called hangman, if you'd take your custom
elsewhere, for it's not welcome under this roof and neither are
you!

'And as for my
name on any warrant,' Thomas continued, his voice icy, 'I don't
think I'm the one who needs to worry about that.'

'You know
what's to be done.' It was a statement rather than a question. Adam
Portfield knew his younger cousin, Daniel, had been involved in two
of these special hunting events since his arrival at Grayling Hall
at the beginning of the summer, and that his brother's eldest son
was also a bright lad and a quick learner. 'Just take your time and
use your eyes. Some of them don't bother staying around to wait for
their catch to be collected, but they're at least supposed to get
them to the side of the nearest path and tie one of the yellow
markers somewhere easy to spot at the closet fork back this way.
They should have put their own markers about the girls' necks, so
go careful you don't pull any off by mistake.'

'What if they
don't have any markers?' Daniel grinned back at his cousin, the
inference obvious in his expression.

Adam shrugged.
'If they don't have a marker, then that's not your fault and
there's not much you can do about it until we gets all the birds
back here. Then they can sort it out amongst themselves, but
there's not usually any problem.'

'What if I
find any still on the loose?' Daniel asked. 'Do I catch 'em and put
'em in the wagon with the others?' He nodded to the small wooden
vehicle that stood, its patient horse grazing contentedly, by the
side of the main path from the barn.

'Best not,'
Adam said, 'at least not until after the second bell, and then
don't waste any time getting back here with what you have. Any
that's still out there will come back soon enough after they've had
a night out there with nothing to eat or drink. There's often one
who thinks she's a bit smarter'n the others, but after the first
time they try to get themselves picked up before dark.'

'I thought
most of this clutch were new girls,' Daniel observed.

Adam nodded.
'Aye, that's true enough,' he agreed. ''Twas a mistake selling as
many of the experienced ones as we did last month, but then his
nibs insisted, and he didn't want to let down that French crowd.
Something to do with their king's birthday, apparently, but it's
none of my business.'

'There's some
promising ones from the past few days' intake,' Daniel said.

Adam smiled,
because the lad was already sounding like an expert. Indeed, he had
shown himself to be well suited to the job here. Tall and
well-muscled, even though the wiriness of youth was still awkwardly
apparent in his movements, he could have had his pick of the women
in any village, and Adam had noticed how the slaves here tended to
watch him more closely than they did any of the other overseers.
'Well, we're going to have our work cut out, and no mistake,' he
replied. 'I'm going to need to go up to London again soon and see
if we can't find ourselves a few new suppliers' names. Business is
looking up, especially with so many white slaves wanted for the
Indies. It's going to be busy around here over the next few
months.'

'Fine by me,'
Daniel declared, turning towards the wagon. 'The more we are, the
merrier, as they say.'

'Aye, and
don't you get back here too late by getting too merry with those
girls, either,' Adam warned him. 'A quick tupping or two is fine,
but you mind you don't go making too much of a meal of it, and
don't let any of the hunters see you getting in on their game. You
and George Hawkin are just supposed to be the deliverymen.'

'Yes, cousin,'
Daniel said soberly, but both of them knew he would sample every
single girl he found, as indeed would the older George Hawkin, who
had been driving wagons for the estate and taking care of such
unusual cargo ever since the inception of the Grayling operation.
'And I leave everything to the west of the old drive path to
George.' He raised a hand in salute and strode away across the
grass, whistling tunelessly.

'Right,' Adam
called after him, 'and make sure you give each girl a drink when
you find her. You can bet your life the buggers don't bother
lubricating that end of 'em when they're caught, so they're
probably gasping for water by the time you find 'em. Even more than
you're gasping for the other thing right now,' he added under his
breath.

'He's still
breathing, Paddy,' Sean Kelly said, rolling the unconscious
black-garbed and masked figure over onto his back and pressing his
fingers against the side of his neck.

'Well, I only
gave him a small tap on the side of the head,' Paddy explained. 'No
point in killing a man unnecessarily, especially not when his
back's turned and his cock's taking all his attention. Somehow,
that's not quite sporting, is it?'

Kitty, who had
been the sole focus of the unfortunate hunter when Paddy pounced on
him from the bushes, groaned as she sat up. The gag had been
replaced in her mouth for the sake of authenticity, and now she
could only stare silently at the scene before her.

'Get that
stuff off him,' Paddy ordered, 'and then find something to tie him
up with, in case he comes around. Here,' he said, offering Kitty a
hand, 'let's have you up and get that thing out of your mouth
again. Maybe it'd be put to better use on him,' he added. 'Wouldn't
do to have him hollering for help before we're finished.' He stared
down at the prone figure as Kelly set to work loosening his
clothing. 'I reckon he's near enough my size,' he observed, 'so now
all we need to do is find another one about the same stamp as you,
me lad.'

Her limbs
grown mercifully numb, Harriet hung limply in her bondage, her eyes
closed against the lowering sun and against the prying gazes of the
village men beginning to venture closer to her scaffold. Crawley's
recruits would keep them back and prevent them from actually
touching her, she knew, but they would do nothing to stop them
getting their fill of her nakedness, and they themselves could not
resist the occasional taunt at her expense.

The afternoon
was growing late and shadows were beginning to stretch across the
grass... two hours until sunset, perhaps a little more. She tried
not to think of her father and how he would feel when news of her
death reached him. The shock might well finish him off, and perhaps
that was for the best. To live on as he was without her there to
care for him, and to suffer the knowledge of how shameful her end
had been, that was too horrible to contemplate. The fact that she
had been done to death mistakenly, in the place of another, would
do nothing to ease his shame, and neither would it bring her back
to him.

She half opened one eye and peered down at the little group of
spectators. They were all faces she knew well enough, and it was no
surprise to see them gawking up at her. There were even women
amongst them now, two stone-faced old biddies who worked at the
mill, and a younger woman who sometimes worked for Thomas Handiwell
cleaning bedrooms and sweeping floors at the
Black Drum
.

Poor Thomas,
she thought. His shame would be even worse than her father's if he
ever discovered the truth about his beloved Jane. But then a
father's love is blind, and Jane was as devious and deceitful as
her father was straightforward and honest. Would he ever know of
her murderous treachery? Despite everything, Harriet found herself
praying he never would.

Jane leaned
back against the tree as she watched Oona relentlessly penetrating
the hapless Isobel with her monstrous erection. She had loosened
the belt of her breeches and unhooked the front far enough to
enable her to insert one hand down into her crotch, and she was
working her fingers into her wet cleft in time with the dog-girl's
thrusts.

'Common
taproom whore, am I?' Jane whispered to herself, repeating one of
the insults she knew the young noblewoman had used when describing
her to one of the guests at the hall that summer. She longed to
pull Oona off Isobel, throw the aristocratic bitch onto her back
and straddle her arrogant face. She wanted to force her to use her
mouth to finish off what her own fingers had started, but that
would mean giving her victim back the use of her tongue, which
would make it difficult to explain why she had not released the
silly creature for Bressingham to find.

'No, my lady,'
Jane hissed beneath her breath, 'maybe you're more suited to the
dog fucking you after all.' Somewhere in the distance a shot rang
out, but Jane barely registered it. Vaguely, she wondered if the
marksman had found his target, and considered the possibility of
allowing Isobel to escape long enough to feel the burning sting of
a shot in her buttocks. But for the moment there would be no
dragging Oona from her victim until she had sated her animal lust.
After that, she really ought to start back towards the house with
her, for ferocious as the bizarre creature already seemed, without
the regular dosages of the herbal extracts Roderick Grayling bought
from his contact in London, she would quickly grow even wilder
still. Oona was capable of turning on her handlers when even the
threat of the whip did nothing except heighten her murderous rage.
Besides, news from the village was that Jacob Crawley intended to
hang the girl he still thought of as Matilda Pennywise at sunset,
and Jane was determined to be there to watch. Of course, there was
a chance the so-called witchfinder might discover his mistake
before that, but it was not likely, not now that three of his
latest converts had been quietly paid to make sure the mask and
bridle were not removed before the sentence was carried out.

On the ground, Isobel was moaning and whining. She sounded as
much like a dog as the hermaphroditic human canine Oona. Jane
sniggered, and then groaned herself as a small orgasmic shock
surged through her, forcing her to grab the tree trunk with her
free hand as her knees buckled. 'Ah, yes,' she gasped, 'no doubting
who the real bitch is now, my not-so-proud little lady, even though
you
do
look more
bird than dog at the moment.'

'The innkeeper
fellow could be trouble, Master Crawley,' Silas Grout muttered.

Crawley
frowned and peered through the small window beside of the main
church door. Outside, a few people were already gathered by the
graveyard wall, but their attention was more on the spectacle
provided by Harriet than on the forthcoming funeral of their
beloved clergyman. 'Times have changed, Silas,' he said, 'and not
for the better. Only a few years back, no man would have dared
speak up against the righteousness of our work, and yet now even
the bishops have their liberals among them.' He turned back to
stare down the gloomy length of the church, in particular at the
dark stain that spread across several of the flagstones.
'Wickstanner was a fool, but no worse than many of his fellows
nowadays. They'll like as not send another in his place that's even
more stupid. I should have realised what his game was a lot sooner
than I did.'

'Revenge is a
terrible driving force, master,' Grout said. 'But now we're
involved far too deep to pull back, surely?'

'I think so,'
Crawley said. 'Besides, the Pennywise wench is evil, and no
argument about that, not in my book. She'll drop as she should, and
then we'll away from here during the night.'

'What about
the old witch and her money?' Grout prompted.

Crawley
chuckled, an awful grating sound. 'There's still time for that. I
think she'll show up to try and save her damned granddaughter, but
the villagers will grab her and keep her out of our way. They may
even hang her and the miller's boy for us.'