Cauldron of Fear (4 page)

The warmth of
the late summer sun was fast fading as it dipped towards the far
hills with what seemed to be growing speed, and the shadows of the
trees and the huge barn structure stretched far across the deserted
meadow, as the heavy timber-sided wagon lurched unsteadily up the
rutted dirt track behind two disinterested looking cobs.

The driver, a
thickset fellow of indeterminate middle age, dressed simply, though
in good quality cloth, pushed his floppy hat to the back of his
head, scratched behind his right ear and then hawked up a huge glob
of spittle, which he expelled towards the bushes with surprising
velocity. Like his horses, he seemed little interested in his
surroundings and looked tired and dusty, evidence of a long day's
journey.

As the
plodding horses drew close to the barn they slowed and stopped,
both without any visible or audible sign of instruction from the
man. One snorted and tossed his head, but even this seemed a
half-hearted effort, whilst its companion remained motionless, only
the occasional twitch of its ears distinguishing it from a
statue.

The driver
hawked and spat again, studied his unused whip with the air of
someone who has just remembered something, and placed it tidily on
the bench seat at his side. He stretched his shoulders back,
arching his neck and just caught in time the hat that was too loose
fitting to stay in place under such duress. Then, with a sigh and a
grunt, he began to climb down from his perch, landing heavily on
the hardened mud as the door at the end of the barn swung open.

'You're nearly
two hours late.' The speaker was a younger man, perhaps not yet
thirty, with dark hair cut close to his skull, in the Puritan
fashion. He wore polished leather breeches and a stiff leather
waistcoat, over a loose-sleeved shirt of pale lemon silk, and moved
as languidly and easily as the older man moved stiffly.

The driver
grunted and gave him a look of contempt. 'Military had the road
blocked half the morning,' he said, without any hint of apology.
'Wagonloads of cannon going down to Portsmouth, along with a few
hundred casks of powder, so I heard. They don't like the likes of
us getting too near that sort of convoy, so all other travellers
have to wait up till they're well clear. Not that I'm complaining,
mind. Wouldn't want to be anywheres around that cargo if'n a stray
spark from a pipe went the wrong place.'

'You could
have looked for another route,' the younger man suggested. 'I don't
like the idea of you and this wagon just standing around,
especially not in a crowded area.'

'Master
Hawkin,' the driver said flatly, 'if there were another road I'd
have taken it. As it stands, the only other way would have been
around the back of Harting Hill, which be about twenty miles off
the beam. These two nags are willing enough and they'll plod all
day and all night if'n I ask 'em, but you're talking another four
hours, maybe five, so if'n I'd gone that way I'd not have been here
much afore ten tonight, if then.'

'And your
cargo has been well behaved?' George Hawkin said, ignoring the
driver's explanation as if it were totally unimportant.

The older man
nodded. 'Quiet as four little corpses,' he said. 'Sleeping like
innocent babes and unlikely to wake afore midnight, if'n I'm any
judge. Swallowed their medicine good as gold and out like lights
not ten minutes after.' Sam Perkins did not like George Hawkin very
much, but then that was not really surprising, as Sam did not like
anyone really, himself included when he was in his cups.

But in
addition to Sam's general lack of sociability, there was the fact
that George, in his opinion, had ideas far above the station of a
man whose father had been a swineherd all his life and whose mother
had worked in the scullery of a country house that had not even
been very grand. Quite how Hawkin had risen to become Roderick
Grayling's steward at Grayling Hall, Sam had no idea, but then the
nobility were a rum lot at the best of times, and the Graylings
among the rummest.

Still, he
reflected as he trudged around to the rear of the wagon, they paid
him well, both for his work and for his ability to keep a still
tongue in his head, and the job had occasional little perks, just
so long as George Hawkin never got to find out. He reached up and
inserted a heavy key into the formidable lock that secured the
equally formidable door, turned it and swung the thick oak section
to the side, revealing a sight that most anyone else would have
found remarkable, if not bizarre, but to which both men had long
grown accustomed.

The three
young women lay side by side, a thin layer of sacking between their
near naked bodies and the rough hewn planks that formed the floor
of the wagon. They lay on their backs, their faces, eyes closed in
drugged sleep, facing upwards, arms by their sides, wrists cuffed
there to the thick leather belts that had been laced and locked
about their slender waists and from which further straps, roughly
elongated triangular in shape, descended to cover their sexes,
passing between their thighs and locking again to the lower edges
of the waist belts at the small of the back. They would, Sam knew,
remain in these chastity-enforcing devices for several days, with
further humiliating refinements yet to come.

'Pretty little
trio, b'ain't they?' he chuckled. In the pocket of his breeches the
other key, much smaller than the one he had used to unlock the
wagon door, seemed to grow larger and his hand went inadvertently
to where it pressed against the thick woollen material, as if to
satisfy itself that the bulge there was only in Sam's imagination.
He wondered what Hawkin would say if he knew that Sam had that
particular key, or how he frequently made use of it during stops in
the journey down from south London.

He chuckled
again, but this time to himself, as he wondered how many little
Sams there might now be, running around somewhere out beyond the
seas, in the Orient, or maybe in the New World, for these girls,
despite their initial rigorous training and 'breaking in' period
would always be well on their way to their new masters long before
any evidence of what he had been up to might show.

'Papers all in
the box there?' George Hawkin said tersely, leaning in to slide the
small walnut-veneered portfolio towards him and not deigning to
comment on the physical attributes referred to by the older
man.

Sam sniffed
and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. 'What d'ye think,
George Hawkin?' he snapped. 'Think I'm beyond seeing to a few
simple details, is it? Don't you forget, lad, I remembers youse
when you was runnin' around barefoot and damned nearly bare-arsed,
and I bin runnin' this damned wagon up and down for his lordship
and now his boy maybe twenty-five years in all now. Never lost a
wench and never lost a scrap of the damned paperwork in that time,
neither!'

'And never
learned to read any of it, either,' Hawkin rasped, tucking the box
under his arm. 'Well,' he said, turning on his heel, 'don't just
stand there, start bringing them inside.'

'Me?' Sam
cried, feigning indignation. 'Where's that good-for-nothing lad
William then? I'm a bloody driver, not a porter.'

'Then you'd
better start keeping better time,' Hawkin grinned evilly. 'I sent
the lad off for his supper an hour since, so there's just you.'

'Supper?' Sam
echoed. 'Some of us ain't had bleedin' dinner yet.'

'The sooner
they're inside, the sooner you get fed,' Hawkin pointed out. 'And
there's a little extra treat for you tonight. Master Roderick has
picked out a nice bed-warmer for you, very handsome little
blackamoor wench we bought a week or so since. Ladies maid, she
was, and great big eyes.'

'Big eyes and
small teats, I'll wager,' Sam replied sullenly. 'All the same,
these black wenches, and they jabber away all the time you're
tuppin' them, all in their heathen tongues. What about the lady she
was maid to?'

'Hah!' Hawkin
made a wry face. 'You don't think the young master would waste
quality like that on the likes of me, let alone you? No, that one
is already heading east and a good bounty she's fetched.
Fair-haired, sweet-faced and tight-crossed legs - at least, when
she first got here. Not a day over twenty and probably a virgin,
but she seemed a quick learner and there's only one stiffness
she'll have from now on.'

Jane Handiwell
wriggled into the tight breeches and began lacing them even tighter
about her generous hips, finally drawing the wide belt about her
waist and fastening the ornate cat's head buckle and cinching
herself as tightly as possible.

Turning, she
studied her reflection in the tall mirror and pursed her thin lips.
Yes, she thought, ruefully, with her hair tied back and the
masculine shirt, she made a more than passable male - better than
she made a woman, she added bitterly, and her thin nostrils flared
momentarily, but her anger had no time to grow, for a quiet knock
on the bedroom door heralded the arrival of her maidservant,
Beth.

The
seventeen-year-old orphan already boasted a larger bust than her
mistress and wore tops that plunged away to reveal plenty of it,
the laced bodice pushing the twin globes into prominence. Her hair
was red, a deep gingery mane that steadfastly refused to obey even
her most ardent attempts to control it, and the freckles on her
cheeks ran their own riot in sympathy.

Jane
considered her own thin, straight black hair and her lips twitched
again, but she knew she should not take it out on Beth, for the
poor girl could not help her innate prettiness and only displayed
so much cleavage as she did on Jane's specific instructions. Those
breasts, Jane knew, were as much hers as they were the younger
girl's, and Beth worshipped her mistress with a devotion that
bordered on fanaticism.

'Nearly ready,
miss?' Beth whispered, closing the door quietly behind her. 'The
master's left for his cousin's at Petersfield and I've saddled up
Marquis ready for you. He's in the usual place, just behind the
three oaks.'

'Good girl,'
Jane smiled and bent to plant a kiss on Beth's cheek, fondling one
breast familiarly as she did so. She felt Beth tense and let out
her customary low moan, her eyelids flickering closed and then open
again. 'Later, my sweet,' she cooed. 'Be in my bed and make sure
it's nice and warm for when I return, eh?'

'Yes, miss,'
Beth smiled widely, her green eyes sparkling with anticipation.
'And I'll warm a bottle of brandy for you.'

'Warm it
between your bubbies then, my little dove,' Jane grinned. She
reached for the frock jacket that hung across the foot-rail of the
bed, and Beth immediately took it from her, holding it up so that
her mistress could slip her arms into the sleeves the more easily.
Then, as Jane sat upon the edge of the bed, Beth knelt to slip her
feet into the sturdy riding boots, lacing them and fastening the
three additional buckles on each.

'You be
careful tonight, mistress, please?' Beth said, standing up again
and straightening her skirts. 'There's talk that Lord Grayling has
been onto the magistrates to get army patrols on the roads at
night. Too many people complainin', especially the coach companies.
Fair crippling their trade on the overnights, so they say.'

'Lord Grayling
hasn't been at the Hall these past six months,' Jane chuckled.
'He's in the Indies, they say, looking for new ways to line his
deep pockets.'

'But the son
is still here, mistress, and they do say as how he's a harder nut
than his pa, so they do.'

'There's no
nut that can't be cracked, if'n it's hit right,' Jane retorted.
'And Roderick Grayling is no exception to that rule,' she added,
with a malicious grin. 'He's no threat to our little game, so don't
you worry that fuzzy little head of yours with such nonsense.'

Beth looked
unconvinced, but she turned, opened the closet and took out the
long black cape and held it up for Jane to put on and fasten the
neck clasp. The tricorn hat completed the outfit and Jane returned
to the mirror for one final inspection. Yes, she thought, in poor
light and especially once she donned her mask, she would pass
easily enough for a man, and besides, the only people close enough
to make any objective judgement would be too busy looking at her
two things than her face.

The two
pistols were a pair, bought during a visit to London, from a
gunsmith who had assured Jane that they were of a unique design,
handmade by a craftsman in India and designed so that although they
fired a smaller ball than was usual, their accuracy surpassed any
other hand weapon he had ever tested. And he had not been
misleading her, Jane knew, for she could drop a rabbit at fifty
paces with either weapon; no mean feat in an age when firearms were
still very much at the stage of hit-or-miss.

Carefully,
Jane hefted the beautifully balanced pistols, weighed them lovingly
for a moment or two, and then tucked them through the specially
adapted belt.

'Right then,
my little kitten tongue,' she said, regarding Beth kindly, 'I'm off
to the hunt, or I'll be late and my friends will start worrying,
knowing them as I do. Make sure the side door is unbolted once
everyone else is asleep, and don't forget my warm brandy. The
nights are growing chillier out there now and I'm sure I'll be
needing something to drive away the cold, eh?'

Sarah
Merridew's schooling had not extended to biology, and she had no
idea of just how many bones there were in the human body, just that
now, she thought, there seemed to be an awful lot and every one of
hers ached from the constant jolting of the coach. The small square
of blanket she had earlier folded and placed carefully beneath her
bottom did little, if anything, to cushion the repeated impacts,
and how she now wished she had been able to afford the extra two
shillings it would have cost to travel in one of the more luxurious
coaches that plied the route from London to the coast.