“As to why I do it, that isn’t quite so simple. Gran calls it the Renfrew Talent. It can be more of a bloody nuisance, and for some of us, it’s a curse in its own right. Gran gets premonitions. She says Dad had the same version as me, only not as strong. But he couldn’t cope with it, didn’t want it. He tried to suppress it all the time, and it nearly drove him crazy. He started to drink.” Jack’s arm slid around his shoulders and eased him into a loose embrace.
“Basically, he drank himself to death. Drove his car into a tree. I was ten when he died. My mother couldn’t cope with her husband and son having the Talent. She washed her hands of me, played the part of a token mother, and Gran brought me up. When I was fourteen, she buggered off and lives in Spain now.”
Jack’s hold tightened, but Mark shook him off. “I didn’t tell you that for sympathy,” he snapped. “But to show you the kind of fallout that can happen, okay? Gran uses her premonitions when she can. Dad suppressed and paid the price. I use it just enough to do my job and ease the pressure. If I’d just sat on it the way Dad did, I’d be in the loony bin by now because all the psychic connections can build up in your head. They need an outlet, a voice, and to be listened to. If they don’t get it, you go into overload and basically shut down. That’s what I did with this Curtess connection. And paid the price.”
Jack didn’t speak for a few moments, then said, “Okay. I promise I’ll keep an open mind. Can I hold you now?”
Mark gave a choked laugh and turned to him, finding open arms waiting and an unsmiling, anxious lover ready and willing to offer whatever he needed. Right then, he needed to hold and be held, and for a long time, that’s what he received. Jack wrapped him close, tucked Mark’s head under his chin, and pulled up the sheet to cover them both. He didn’t say anything, just rubbed gentle circles on Mark’s back and pressed random kisses to his brow while the day wore on.
Late afternoon became evening, evening deepened into night, and the something tentative that had come into being while they studied the aerial photos began to consolidate into a deeper connection. Their silences were comfortable, and when they did talk, it was easy and light.
At Mark’s prompting, Jack talked about his travels, the excavations he’d been on, and some of the outrageous, hilarious things that had happened on those digs. His love of and enthusiasm for his chosen career came through every word, and Mark knew he was falling ever more deeply for this man. He couldn’t bring himself to care that there would inevitably be heartache further down the line.
“It’s getting late,” Jack finally murmured into Mark’s hair, but made no effort to move. “I should go.” He didn’t sound enthusiastic about the idea.
“Stay,” Mark said.
“Okay.”
Chapter Five
Waking came too soon for Mark, courtesy of Radio 4. He awoke enough to turn off the alarm, then sank back into enfolding arms. Jack muttered something indistinct into his neck and snuggled closer, a warm solidity at his back. A hard cock nudged the back of Mark’s thigh, and Jack stroked his hand down Mark’s belly to cup his cock and balls in a gentle but proprietary hold. Mark edged his hips back into the curve of Jack’s body and wriggled slightly. Jack chuckled and pushed back. His cock slid along Mark’s perineum to nudge his balls, and they both gasped.
“Morning sex,” Jack whispered. “Gotta love it.”
“Mmm,” Mark agreed drowsily. Jack eased away and fumbled under the pillow, and a pleased grunt told Mark he’d found what he was looking for. Moments later, Jack smoothed cool lotion between Mark’s thighs, then his slicked-up hand took firm hold of Mark’s interested cock.
They rocked together, slow and lazy, and Mark just let himself float on the pleasure as Jack lifted them on that leisurely sweet climb to completion. He was beginning to get the idea that Jack was more of a top than a bottom, and right then Mark was more than happy about it. The time for facing breakfast and the rest of the day —and with it the Fitzwarren/Curtess tangle— would arrive soon enough.
* * * *
Breakfast was as easy and comfortable as their growing relationship. It was a time for plans as well as fuelling up on toast, fried eggs and bacon.
“Are you going to be here all day?” Jack asked, helping himself to more tea. Mark nodded, then shook his head.
“The morning, yes. I want to do some research on the Curtess/Eastbridge side of things, book into a pub or B&B if they have one.”
“Thought you would,” Jack sighed. “I’ll be honest, I don’t believe in all this curse and psychic stuff, but obviously you do. So if you like, I’ll come along to make sure you keep your feet on the ground.”
Mark’s heart lifted. “You will?” He grinned. “That’s great!”
“Yes, well, archaeologists deal in solid hold-in-your-hand facts, and it seems to me you need someone around with a good grasp on reality. Besides, if Bristol Uni decides on the Romano-British villa site, and I think they will, I’ll be going back that way to wheel and deal on their behalf with Farmer Barnes and Charlie Fitzwarren.” He paused. “I can stay in Eastbridge as easily as Steeple Westford,” he added. “Not being pushy or anything, but I like being with you.”
“The feeling’s mutual,” Mark said, giddy delight bringing a flush to his face.
* * * *
According to Google, Eastbridge had two pubs.
One, the Burning Man, Mark rejected out of hand on the strength of its name alone, and he phoned the Bridge Inn.
He and Jack had already discussed arrangements, so he booked two rooms, though a double room would have been their preferred choice. Neither were sure how that would have gone down in the village, and Jack might have to spend time in the area until the training dig deal went through.
Halfway through the morning, Mark received a text from Jack.
Good news - they’ve gone with the villa, and they want me to be assistant site director for the season. Don’t know how long I’ll be here finalising. See you at the Bridge.
Take care. J.
He needed to know nothing else. Mark threw together an early lunch, and as soon as he’d eaten it, he loaded his case into his car and drove out of Staple Hill, heading east.
Eastbridge turned out to be a smaller version of Steeple Westford. The Bridge Inn stood right where it should, beside the old stone bridge and backing onto the river. Mark’s large, airy room overlooked the beer garden and the river. The one allocated to Jack was opposite his and faced the main road through the village.
As soon as Mark entered his room, he looked up the Fitzwarrens in the phonebook conveniently supplied along with tea and coffee-making facilities. He made a note of the number, purely for future reference, but within five minutes, he reached for his mobile without really knowing why or what he planned to say.
“Hello?” said the vaguely familiar voice, and Mark took the chance he’d guessed right.
“Phil Fitzwarren?” he began. “This is Mark Renfrew. We met briefly—”
“Yes. I remember.” The man wasn’t exactly hostile, but he wasn’t welcoming either.
“I, um, can we meet? I’d like to talk to you about the curse.”
“No. What’s done is done.”
“I might be able to help.”
“What?” Phil sounded taken aback.
“Will you meet me and give me a chance to talk? Anywhere you want. I’m in Eastbridge at the moment.”
The silence stretched, and Mark began to think Phil didn’t intend to answer. “Here, and as soon as you can make it. Turn left at St. Michael’s into Castle Lane and keep on driving. I’ll be waiting.” He ended the call in the middle of Mark’s heartfelt, “Thank you.”
He stayed long enough to send a text to Jack, letting him know not to expect him to be at the Bridge Inn, where he was going and why, then hurried down to his car.
Ten minutes later he turned his car into Castle Lane. It wound an erratic course between high overgrown banks with hedges growing rampant on their crests and was so narrow the
weeds brushed the sides of Mark’s car. The only passing places were where field gates broke the line of the banks. If he met another car or, God forbid, a tractor, one of them would have to back up.
Then Mark rounded another corner and saw the non-ruined tower of his destination showing above a line of trees. A few more bends and the gatehouse sat before him, a wide gravelled space in front of it. A battered and mud-plastered Range Rover sat there, and as he pulled up beside it, Phil got out and waited for Mark to join him.
The image on Mark’s computer screen had not done justice to Westford Castle. The seventeenth century gatehouse, with the backdrop of older towers, was more than impressive. It was beautiful.
“Not bad, is it?” Phil said as Mark paused to take it all in.
“It’s amazing,” he answered sincerely. “I can see why you’d fight tooth and nail to keep it.”
Phil shrugged. “We’ve done our best for centuries, but now…the odds are stacked against us. But we had one piece of good news this morning. Carol’s awake, and they expect her to make a full recovery. She came round last night.”
The relief that swept over Mark came close to weakening his knees. “Thank God,” he said. “Um, her baby?”
“Not so good. He’s only had twenty-nine weeks in the womb, so he’ll be in the NICU for ages. His lungs aren’t developed properly, he doesn’t weigh much over a pound—” Phil’s voice broke, and he coughed to clear his throat. “Sod it, she’d only gone to the post office to buy a bloody lottery ticket!” He looked away for a moment, obviously fighting emotion. “We’re not accusing you, Mark. None of us are, not even Di once she’d cooled down.”
“Even so…” The words trailed off as he tried again to find something to say that wouldn’t make him sound as if he was channelling Dominic Waldron.
“You said you can help,” Phil said. “How?”
“Well, I’m a psychic,” Mark admitted cautiously.
Phil shrugged. “So what makes you think you can do better that the other psychics Dad hired?”
“For one, I don’t need paying. I’m not in this horror story for the money. Two, I’ve got a vested interest in it as well, being related to the bastard.” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “There’s an outside chance I can find out how to interpret that writing in the church.”
“That would be useful, I suppose.” Phil sounded doubtful, and Mark couldn’t blame him.
“So I’d like permission to go onto your lands and look for the circle.”
“The—?”
“Where Jon Curtess and maybe that other poor sod died.”
“How can that help? It’s been lost for centuries.”
“Won’t know until I find it,” Mark answered. “Will you let me try?”
“As far as I’m concerned, you can. But it’s not down to me,” Phil said. “Charlie is the one you have to convince, and right now he’s with Carol in Salisbury District Hospital. So lay out your sales pitch, and I’ll do my best to bring him onside.”
“Well, I pretty much have,” Mark replied, and Phil’s gaze became quizzical.
“You’re not very good at this, are you?” he drawled.
That stung. “No, I’m not,” Mark snapped. “I’ve spent most of my life hiding what I can do, not advertising it. Let’s get down to business, shall we? Starting with the curse-stone?”
“Okay.” Phil turned away. “It’s one of the threshold stones in the gatehouse archway. Come on.”
Side by side, they walked up the wide cobbled path towards the house. As they grew nearer, Mark slowed down, bracing himself for an impact similar to the one from the stone on St. Michael’s. It didn’t come. He halted inches from the first slab. Nearly three feet wide, the grey and weathered sarsen stretched the breadth of the passageway through to the courtyard beyond. Wheel ruts had been worn across its surface, and the stone held no trace of Jonathan Curtess.
“This isn’t it,” Mark said, and strode quickly to its brother at the inner threshold. “Nor is this. Where is it?”
Phil didn’t speak. Mark looked around and across the grass ahead of him he saw the thirteenth century hall. The porch towards the north end of the structure seemed to be of a later date, on a par with the gatehouse. Seventeenth century, then. It drew him like a lodestone, and he started towards it, almost running.
“Whoa!” Phil caught his arm. “Slow down. Remember what happened to you in St. Mike’s.”
“It’s there,” Mark said accusingly, pulling against the restraint. “In that doorway, not the gatehouse.”
“Yes,” he admitted. “Just wanted to be doubly sure you’re genuine. You’d be amazed how many so-called psychics threw wobblies back there. That’s how Dad winnowed them out. Let’s go back to the house. You don’t need to go closer to it.”
“Yes,” Mark said grimly. “I do.” Phil let him go, and he started walking.
Chapter Six
The vindictive hatred that struck him was ten times worse than before, and it sent Mark to his knees, doubled over and retching. Phil grabbed his shoulders and tried to pull him back, but Mark shook him off and struggled to his feet. He felt as if his heart and lungs were being crushed, but he managed to put one foot in front of the other until he’d edged close enough to see the words engraved on the sarsen. Only at the ends of the stone were they still visible.
Centuries of footfalls had worn the inscription away from the centre. He forced himself to take the final step that would put the stone under his feet.
A reddish haze obscured Mark’s vision, and sudden warmth spread over his upper lip. Phil shouted his name, a rising panic in his voice. Then strong arms closed around him, and he was lifted, swung around, and half-carried, half-dragged away from the threshold. When the world finally stopped spinning, he found himself lying on grass, head and shoulders supported against a familiar chest, and Jack’s upside-down face bent over him, pale and anxious.
“Mark?” he said. “Are you with us? What the fuck are you trying to prove?”
“Hey!” bellowed another voice. “Phil, who the hell are these people? What’s going on? Why is he bleeding?”
“Bleeding?” Mark wheezed, raising a shaking hand to his face. Blood was sticky around his mouth, and he could taste its metallic tang in the back of his throat.
“You’ve had a nosebleed,” Jack said quietly. “Don’t try to move, just stay still for a moment.”
“Who is he?” the newcomer demanded. He stood at Phil’s side, and the similarities between them told Mark this had to be Charles Fitzwarren. A couple of years older than his brother, he was taller, heavier, and he currently had a pugnacious thrust to his jaw that spoke of temper barely held in check. Phil gave him a fast explanation, and Charlie’s expression went from anger to contempt to a reluctant hope.
Mark didn’t pay them much attention. He stared at his gory fingers, and fury grew in him.
“Fuck this,” he hissed and twisted out of Jack’s embrace. He lurched to his feet but didn’t get very far before he fell to his knees, blood flowing from his nostrils again. So he crawled, despite Jack’s efforts to stop him, until he reached the stone. Then he slapped his wet hand on it, leaving a dark print on its gritty surface. “Blood to blood, Jonathan Curtess! I’m serving notice, you vindictive son of a bitch! I am going to stop this.”
“Sure you are,” Jack sighed, hoisted him into his arms, and carried him back to the centre of the courtyard.
“This is insane,” Charlie growled as Jack set Mark on his feet, but there wasn’t much conviction in the words.
“All of us, in the house, now. I need coffee, and we are going to talk. Do you need a doctor, Mark? I can get Doc Lester here. He’s a good friend of the family.”
“No, I’ll be fine,” he replied, red-faced and embarrassed by his melodramatic outburst. “Can I go somewhere to wash my face?”
“No kidding,” Phil muttered. “And change out of your shirt. You look as if you’ve just walked out of an abattoir. I’ll go and g
et one of mine.”
“Thanks.” Mark carefully took stock of himself. His head throbbed, but not quite on the edge of actual pain, his chest still ached from that implacable compression, and his nose seemed to have stopped gushing. He could have felt a lot worse. Jack, though, hovered as close as a lioness with one cub. While Mark appreciated his protectiveness on one level, it wasn’t a good idea to advertise it quite so much in front of a man they wanted to work with. Surreptitiously he dug a sharp elbow into Jack’s ribs and moved away from him. He hadn’t been subtle enough.
Charlie gave him a wry smile. “Don’t bother on my account,” he said. “Phil’s as gay as a rainbow flag. Come on into the kitchen and get cleaned up.”
Jack obviously decided that was all the permission he needed and hooked his arm around Mark’s ribs as they followed Charlie up a couple of steps and into the gatehouse. “I don’t like that kind of scare,” he said into Mark’s hair. Mark didn’t answer. He wasn’t particularly fond of them himself, but he did enjoy the feel of Jack’s supportive arm.
The large, shabbily comfortable kitchen looked as if it hadn’t been modernised in the last sixty years. Phil took him up the winding stairs to the bathroom, where the claw foot cast iron bath and old-fashioned chain-pull cistern above the toilet reinforced his initial impression. When he had washed off the gore and changed into a dark blue polo shirt Phil provided, he returned to the kitchen. The others were sitting around the massive refectory table, staring at each other. Mark pulled out a chair and sat down.
The Fitzwarren Inheritance Page 5