“You, too, sweetie.”
* * * *
Mark’s flat took up the whole of the second floor of a Victorian terrace house. It had been his from his second year at Bristol University; a warm, welcoming place and a familiar haven. Back then he had shared the rent with three others, but over time he had gradually become the sole occupant. Now he had a living room, two bedrooms and a study as well as a recently modernised bathroom and a good-sized kitchen. It was home in a very special way.
But Mark could not settle. Restless, on edge, vague doubts swirling around in his head, he prowled study and living room, unable to be still. That didn’t change throughout the remainder of the day, and when he finally went to bed, he couldn’t sleep for a long time. Random thoughts kept running in circles like rats in a wheel.
Jack Faulkner. Talk about missed opportunities. He might have had a chance there… He should have left a note, but Josie would probably have burnt it. Perhaps his grandmother was right. He should have stayed. Or at least, not left the area completely. He should go back. There were other villages with pubs. He could set up a base nearby and work on the puzzle within striking distance of the Fitzes.
Carol Fitzwarren. God, all that blood. Another life lost, maybe two.
Blood. Mark turned over, barely awake, and kicked off the lightweight duvet. The Indian summer still pumped out warm weather day and night, but he couldn’t summon up the will or the coordination to get out of bed and open another window.
Jack. Regret became a sullen ache in his chest. It would have been good to have dinner with him, talk over their day, maybe even bounce theories and ideas off him.
But it would be more likely Jack would be a sceptic and pour derision on the whole paranormal scenario. That was his dates’ usual reaction, when he was unwise enough to tell them what he did for a living. Ghost stories and curses were great in novels and films. In real life, they were jokes and treated like it by most people Mark knew. Including Goldstream and Dominic Waldron, off-camera. So perhaps not. He did not want to see that amused condescension on those gypsy features. Or, even worse, scorn. The ache grew sharper. He turned his pillow over and rested his cheek on the cool cotton, then flopped onto his back and spread-eagled across the double bed.
Blood to blood.
If he found the circle…
And Mark drifted into a deep sleep, carrying the thought with him.
Blood…
* * * *
BBC Radio Four’s Today programme jerked Mark awake at seven-thirty, snatching him out of a dream when he was just about to discover whether Jack Faulkner’s tan stretched all over his remarkably toned body. His cock lay hot on his belly, morning-hard and secreting pre-come slick on his skin. Tuning out the presenter’s mellifluous voice, he cupped his testicles in his hand, gently kneading the sac. It had been a while since he’d had a lover. His relationships were casual and rarely lasted more than a few months, each one drifting to a close without recriminations or regret on either side. He didn’t really need anyone in his life, but waking up beside a lover and indulging in slow, sweet morning sex was always a plus.
He didn’t consciously think of Jack Faulkner as he slowly worked himself towards orgasm, his other hand teasing his nipple. But in his head it was Jack’s mouth kiss-biting the pebbled nub, not his own fingers lightly pinching. And the so-soft brush of the sheet over his sweating skin became the sweep of Jack’s long hair as he bobbed over Mark’s cock, taking it deep into the wet cavern of his mouth and sucking. He climaxed with a hitching gasp, the unexpected force of it catching him in mid breath.
After breakfast, Mark did what he should have done right from the start, before he even set foot in Steeple Westford. He Googled Westford Castle. The image that arrived on his screen was no full-blown castle. It was more of a fortified, but not very defensible, Medieval manor house. Two squat towers sat one at each end of a continuous range, consisting of a hall with huge windows and private apartments set between the hall and the south tower. Along with the more ruinous north tower, none of it looked to be fit for habitation.
The gatehouse was another matter. It had been built a lot later and was far larger than just a simple gatehouse. A long building, its ground floor walls were part chalk blocks, part flint in the local chequerboard tradition, while the two upper storeys had once-white plaster between dark, crooked timbers. Curtains graced the small, lead-paned windows, and smoke rose from the chimneys. A cobbled road led up to the gatehouse through the wide arch that divided the ground floor in half and into a grassed courtyard. Bright flowerbeds could be seen through the arch. It could have been a postcard in a souvenir shop.
The account that went with the picture claimed that Westford had been built by Lawrence Fitzwarren in the late thirteenth century and was the finest and best preserved fortified Medieval manor house in England. After giving a brief history, the article stated that the castle still belonged to the Fitzwarren family, who lived in the gatehouse, and they did not open it to the public. Then it went on to elaborate on what Mark had already seen in the Reverend Simpkins’ book:
Like any historical site, Westford Castle has its fair share of stories and ghostly happenings. The most well known is that of Sir Belvedere Fitzwarren. The rivalry between the Fitzwarrens and the Curtesses of nearby Eastbridge began in 1281 when Lawrence acquired the land that Julian Curtess also wanted. It culminated in 1644, in the middle of the English Civil War, with Sir Belvedere accusing Sir Jonathan Curtess of witchcraft and unnatural practices. He led a mob that drove Sir Jonathan out of his home and caused a young man of the household to be burned alive at the stake. It is said that Sir Jonathan lived for a month in the wilds of Salisbury Plain, hiding in a shepherd’s hut near an ancient circle of standing stones, and there, crazed with grief, he carved his curse into one of the stones of the circle. According to local legend, it read, “I curse you and your children’s children, that you shall all live out your allotted years, and that they shall be filled with grief and loss and betrayal, even as you have betrayed and bereaved me.”
Sir Jonathan was indeed betrayed and captured, but instead of being brought before a judge to face his accusers, Sir Belvedere had him burned to death in the centre of the stone circle. Sir Belvedere then bought Eastbridge Hall and all its estate from Sir Jonathan’s distraught widow, Sarah, for a token handful of sovereigns.
Needless to say, the circle has never been found, though legend has it that Sir Belvedere, believing he could break the curse, had it pulled down and the stones reused in the refurbishment of Westford Castle, laying the carved stone as the threshold to his gatehouse, so he and his heirs could show their contempt of Sir Jonathan and his curse by trampling over it every day. But it seems that the curse was too potent. Tragedies have followed the Fitzwarrens ever since, and the ghost of Sir Belvedere has been seen and heard in the Solar and Great Hall, bewailing his grief and guilt.
“I bet you are,” Mark said aloud, and emailed the link to his grandmother. “So where the hell is that bloody circle?”
Remembering Jack’s aerial photos, Google Earth was the next logical step. But although the display showed him plenty of strange markings on the ground, he hadn’t a clue how to interpret them. So that opened up an interesting option. Mark searched for the Red Lion and dialled the onscreen phone number. A man answered, and Mark breathed a sigh of relief. If it had been Josie, she might have recognised his voice.
“Good morning,” he said. “Could you put me through to Jack Faulkner? He’s staying with you for a few days.”
“Just a minute.” A long pause, then, “Sorry, sir. Mr. Faulkner isn’t in his room and probably won’t be back until this evening. Can I take a message?”
“Yes, please. Ask him to call his research assistant as soon as possible.” He reeled off his mobile phone number before the man could ask for his name. “Thank you,” he finished, and ended the call. Hopefully Jack would remember swopping job details with him and be intrigued enough to call back.
For the rest of the morning, he worked on a couple of Goldstream assignments, writing up the information he’d gathered over the last week. Needless to say, Steeple Westford and the Fitzwarrens would not be added to the list of possible Waldron investigations.
After lunch, while it could not be said Mark had forgotten about Jack and the Fitzwarrens, a headless horseman who haunted a crossroads in Somerset had all his focus. So when his mobile rang at just past one o’clock, he nearly fell out of his chair.
The small screen informed him it was an unknown caller, and a rush of pleased surprise ran through him when Jack’s voice answered his crisp, “Mark Renfrew.”
“Hiya,” the archaeologist said cheerfully. “Are you okay?”
“Um, yes?”
“Good. I was a bit worried when you disappeared so quickly. Phil Fitzwarren told me about the accident and that some of the villagers were looking for a scapegoat. Which completely horrified him, by the way. He isn’t blaming you.”
Mark snorted, indignation covering his relief. “I should bloody well think not! How’s his sister-in-law?”
“Not good.” Jack’s voice became sombre. “They had to give her a Caesarean. The boy’s nearly three months premature, apparently, and he’s in Neonatal ICU at Salisbury. She’s in a coma. Hit her head on the curb when she went down and fractured her skull. She’s in ICU as well.”
“Oh, shit,” he groaned.
“Yup. That just about sums it up. Add it to all this hysterical claptrap about a centuries-old curse, and things are a bit hairy over here in Steeple Westford. But I’m thinking you didn’t want to get in touch about that,” he continued, the smile back in his voice. He sounded hopeful, Mark realised, and something warm grew under his ribs, taking him by surprise.
“Well, I, uh, wondered if I could take another look at your aerial photos,” he said, unaccountably off-balance.
“Oh. Okay. No problem.” This time Jack sounded almost disappointed. Then his tone brightened. “Tell you what. I’m going to give a preliminary report to The Powers That Be first thing tomorrow. I could bring them to you this afternoon, if that’s okay?”
“Yes,” Mark grinned. “That would be great! Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“No problem,” he said again. “Give me the address and you can tell me what the research assistant I didn’t know I had needs my photos for.”
Mark’s grin faded. “If you want,” he said, trying to keep the reluctance out of his voice. “Flat 3, 79 Carnegie Road, Staple Hill.”
“I do want.” Yes, there was a definite purr in the three words, and Mark flushed. “Damn. I have to go. Josie has just brought me the biggest steak in captivity. See you later, Research Assistant.”
Mark put down the phone and leaned back in his chair. An uncomfortable mixture of trepidation and elation settled in his belly. He had no more doubts. Jack was gay, and interested in him. After the unpleasantness at Steeple Westford, it was a welcome discovery.
* * * *
Two hours, twenty-three minutes later, Mark’s doorbell rang. He loped down to the ground floor and opened the door to see Jack smiling at him, the afternoon sunlight striking reddish highlights in his black hair. He had a pack on his back and an A4 folder in his hand.
“Door to Door Deliveries at your service,” he announced, executing a snappy salute with the folder.
“Thanks.” Mark returned the smile, ridiculously pleased to see him. “Come on up.”
He led the way up the wide staircase, very aware of those sharp grey eyes on his back, and recalling too well his wank-fantasy of the morning. He was glad he’d put on his light brown cargos that morning. They were baggy enough to hide any embarrassing reactions he might have around his guest.
“Nice,” Jack said appreciatively when Mark ushered him into the flat. “You work from home?”
“Yes, but I’m on the road a fair bit as well. Can I get you a coffee? Tea? Something cold?”
“Long and cold would be great. Preferably non-alcoholic though,” he added regretfully. “I could kill for several beers, but I have to drive.”
“Take a seat, I won’t be long.”
When Mark came back from the kitchen carrying two condensation-dripping bottles, Jack had sprawled on the couch with his long legs stretched out, completely at his ease. He looked, Mark admitted wistfully to himself, as if he belonged there. He had spread out the photographs on the coffee table in front of the couch, so Mark put the bottles within easy reach of them both and dropped into the armchair.
“So here they are,” Jack said. “What exactly are you looking for? Come to think of it, you never did tell me what kind of research you did. You’re not a rival digger, are you?”
“No, nothing like that. Well, maybe slightly similar. Local history, mainly. A little genealogy.” Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Jack seemed the type to ask a lot of questions Mark did not want to answer. He picked up one of the photos, put it down again. “Can you leave these with me?” he asked. “I only need them for a short while.”
“Nope. No can do. Tell me what you’re looking for, and I can probably point you in the right direction.”
“If an old circle of standing stones had the stones taken away, would you be able to see the site in one of these?”
“Almost certainly. The pits where the stones had stood would show up dark in a ploughed field, as greener features in crops. Is that it? A robbed-out circle?” Mark nodded. Jack gazed at him, frowning slightly. “Not the one in the Fitzwarren fairytale, surely?” he asked in disbelief.
Mark reddened and glanced away.
“Yes,” he said coolly. “Is that a problem? After what happened, I want to find out everything I can.” He didn’t want to hear ridicule from this man.
“Okay.” Jack shrugged, his expression unreadable.
“In that case I may have to disappoint you. I haven’t noticed anything like that among these. Admittedly, I haven’t been looking for one,” he added thoughtfully. “The Neolithic wasn’t in the Uni’s remit.” He twisted the top off his bottle and took a long drink, then started to examine the images more closely, one by one.
“I’m probably being a moron,” Mark said, “but why dark or green?”
“Hm? The foundation pits? Because they get silted up and that shows in a chalky ploughed field. All that depth of soil means plants can put down deeper roots, so in a drought they stay greener than the crops around them. The layers of dirt over the remains of walls are thinner than the rest of the field, so plants are parched quicker in hot, dry conditions.” He rooted out the villa photo. “The walls show up really well on this one, and the ditches of the earlier settlement are these dark shapes.” Mark slipped on his glasses and peered at it.
“Got it. It’s easy when you know what you’re looking at,” he said wryly.
“On chalk downland, it is,” Jack responded, smiling.
They fell into a companionable silence, Mark, with his glasses in place, studying each photo as Jack discarded it. After a while, the archaeologist started to point out the features that showed up on them, and Mark began to pick them out before Jack indicated them, even though he couldn’t interpret more than a few. But a lot of his attention was on his visitor. Jack had pulled his hair back and used a rubber band to fasten it into a ponytail. That threw his aquiline nose and strong jaw into prominence, and the shadow of a day’s stubble accentuated his cheekbones. His rather heavy black eyebrows were drawn down in a slight frown of concentration. Silver gleamed in his earlobes; one ring in his left and two in his right. Definitely piratical, though the impression was a little lessened by the small happy smile that curved his generous mouth. Mark just wanted to kiss him. Among other things. But this was neither the time nor the place. There was another consideration. What had been sheer lust and nothing else was transmuting to something more. The desire, hunger, was still there, but it had been joined by an embryonic friendship that Mark was determined to foster as well.
Resolutely he turn
ed his thoughts to Jonathan Curtess, and that deflated his growing erection faster than a cold shower.
Chapter Four
Two dozen images in, Mark got up to make coffee for them both. When he came back with a tray of steaming mugs and a packet of chocolate biscuits and placed it on the end of the coffee table, Jack held up a photo.
“Hold on to that one,” he said, handing it over. “It’s a possible.”
“Okay.” Mark stared at it. An expanse of yellow grain filled most of the picture, bounded by hedges on three irregular sides and on the fourth by a stretch of woodland.
Close to that boundary and spaced out between the corners were faint hints of a greener gold, two patches and another half of one disappearing under the hedge between field and copse. If he squinted he could just make up out a curving smudge of greenishness running outside those possible cropmarks. Mark knew there were psychics who could dowse maps. It wasn’t part of his talent, but he found himself wishing for it. The photo told him absolutely nothing.
He needed to be there, in that field.
Jack had finished going through the rest of them while he was studying it. “Can I take another look at that one?” he asked suddenly, and Mark startled. “What’s up? You’re a bit on edge, aren’t you?”
“Sorry. Got a lot on my mind.”
“That business at Steeple Westford really shook you, didn’t it?”
“You have no idea,” Mark muttered. “Yes, you could say it did.”
“Don’t let it get to you, sunshine.” Jack leaned over and patted his knee. “We’ll get it sorted, one way or another. Right. What we might have here could be foundation pits, and this might possibly be an enclosing ditch and bank, making it your typical henge monument. If it is, then the rest of the circle is in the trees. Or they could be natural features, where trees were felled when the field was extended into the copse, and that’s an older boundary ditch. It’ll take an excavation to tell which it is, or if it’s something completely different.”
The Fitzwarren Inheritance Page 3