The Betrayal (8 page)

William Goode pressed his hands against the sides of his face. But the anguished screams of his wife and daughter invaded his ears.

I'll hear their screams forever.

Eyes closed, he could still picture their bodies twisting on the flaming stakes, still see their melting faces, their fiery hair.

He had tried to run to them.

But the two officers had held him back, pushing him to the ground, holding him on his knees as the choking black smoke fogged the sky and the howls of agony rose higher than the flames.

Martha. Susannah.

My family …

William was still on his knees when the fire had
been doused and the silent crowd had departed. He hadn't noticed that he was alone now.

Alone with his grief.

Alone with the stench of the smoke in his nostrils.

Alone with the screams of his wife and daughter ringing in his ears.

They burned so brightly,
he thought, sobbing.

They burned as bright as stars.

The ground beneath him was puddled with his tears.

He raised his eyes to the night sky, the color of coal, pierced with pale white stars.

I know you're both up there,
William thought, climbing unsteadily to his feet.

I know you are both up there, bright as stars.

He uttered one last, wrenching sob. Then his grief quickly gave way to his fury.

He strode home through the silent, deserted commons, his eyes held straight ahead. The fire faded in his mind, faded to dark, shifting images, pictures of Benjamin and Matthew Fier.

His fury grew with every step.

Betrayed.

They betrayed me and stole my life.

“William?” A voice startled him at his front door. It took him a while to erase the hated images of the Fier brothers and focus on the dark figure in his doorway.

“Mary Halsey!” he whispered.

She held the baby up to him, wrapped tightly in a wool blanket. “Take the baby, William. Take George.”
“No.” William raised his hands as if to fend the baby off.

“He is your only family now,” Mary Halsey insisted, thrusting the baby forward. “Take him. Hold him, William. He will help you get over your grief.”

“No,” William repeated. “Not now, Mary Halsey. There is something I must do first.”

He startled her by pushing past her and entering his house, closing the door hard behind him.

The house was dark, nearly as dark as William's thoughts. The fire had long since burned out.

William moved quickly through the darkness to the back of the house. He pulled open the door that led to his special room, the tiny, secret room behind the wall, where even Susannah and Martha had never gone.

The room where the black candles were always lighted.

He stepped into the flickering orange light and pulled the door closed behind him.

Whispering the ancient words of the purification ritual, William removed the scarlet hooded robe from its hiding place beneath a stack of wooden boxes and pulled it around him.

William could feel the power of the robe even before he lowered the hood over his head.

Bowing his head three times, William gazed around the circle of candlelight. Then he dropped to his knees on the dirt floor and began to chant the ancient words he knew so well.

My wife and daughter were innocent,
William thought bitterly as he chanted.

They were innocent.

But I am not.

They had no knowledge of these dark arts.

But I have practiced them well.

Whispering the ancient dark curses, he began to scratch signs of evil in the dirt floor. He was breathing hard now, his heart pounding in his chest.

Under the satiny scarlet hood he glared, unblinking, at the ancient symbols he was scratching in the dirt. A grim smile formed on his trembling lips.

Innocence died today,
William Goode thought as he summoned the spirits of evil he had summoned so many times before.

Innocence died today. But my hatred will live for generations.

The Fiers shall not escape me.

Wherever they flee, I will be there.

My family 's screams shall become the Fiers' tortured screams.

The fire that burned today will not be quenched—until revenge is mine, and the Fiers burn forever in the fire of my curse!

“That's how it began. That's how it all began more than two hundred years ago,” Nora Goode said.

Staring into the yellow candle glow, she set down her pen. Her slender hand ached from writing.

How long have I been here? she wondered, allowing her eyes to trail down the melting wax on the side of the candle.

How long have I been seated at this narrow table, writing the story of my ancestors?

The candle flickered, reminding her of the fire. Once again she saw the burning mansion. Once again she heard the anguished screams of her loved ones trapped inside the blaze.

How did I escape? Nora wondered, staring intently into the flame.

I don't remember.

How did I get here?

Someone brought me here. Someone found me. Someone found me on the lawn, staring into the fire, watching the mansion burn.

Someone helped me away from there and brought me to this room.

And now I must write it all down. I must tell the whole story. I must explain about the two families and the curse that has followed us through the decades.

Nora picked up the pen. With a trembling hand she straightened up the stack of papers on the small table.

She leaned toward the smooth yellow candle flame.

I must finish the story before the night is ended, she thought.

So little time.

Susannah and Martha Goode burned in 1692. Now my story picks up eighteen years later.

Benjamin and Matthew Fier are once again successful farmers. Matthew's wife, Constance, has given him a daughter, Mary.

Benjamin's son, Edward, is a grown man. He never married Anne Ward, but he has married Rebecca, a woman from a nearby village. They have a son named Ezra.

So much to tell. So much to tell …

Taking a deep breath, Nora bent over the table. A few seconds later her pen scratched against the paper as she resumed her dark tale.

“Sometimes I think this family is cursed,” Benjamin Fier muttered, pulling his chair closer to the long dining table. He shook his head unhappily, his disheveled white hair glowing in the fading evening light that filtered through the window.

“You are starting to sound like a crotchety old man, Father,” Edward said, laughing.

“I
am
a crotchety old man!” Benjamin declared with pride.

“How can you say we are cursed?” Benjamin's brother, Matthew, demanded, sniffing the aroma of roast chicken as he entered the room. “Look how our farm has prospered, Benjamin. Look how our family has grown.”

“I can see that
you
have certainly grown,” Benjamin teased.

Matthew had become quite stout. As he took his place at the table, everyone could see that his linen shirt was stretched tight around his bulging middle.

“Uncle Benjamin, are you teasing my father again?” Mary Fier scolded. Matthew's daughter Mary set a serving platter of potatoes and string beans in front of Matthew.

“Well, don't you look like Queen Anne herself!” Benjamin roared at Mary.

Mary blushed. “I put my hair up. That is all.”

Mary was seventeen. She had long copper-colored hair, as did her mother, Constance Fier. She also had her mother's creamy, pale complexion and shy smile. She had her father Matthew's dark, penetrating eyes.

“Why do you scold Mary?” Constance demanded of Benjamin, sweeping into the room, holding the platter of roast chicken in front of her long white apron. “Mary worked all afternoon, peeling potatoes and snapping the beans for your dinner.”

“I also picked the beans,” Mary added grumpily.

“He was only teasing, Cousin Mary,” Edward said. “Weren't you, Father?”

Benjamin didn't reply. He had a faraway look clouding his dark eyes. He stared at the narrow window.

“Father?” Edward repeated.

Benjamin lowered his eyes to his son with a frown. “Were you addressing me?” he barked. “Speak up! I am an old man, Edward. I cannot abide mutterers.”

“Where is Rebecca?” Matthew demanded, his eyes searching the long, narrow dining room.

Rebecca, Edward's beautiful young wife, always seemed to be the last to the table.

“I believe she is tending Ezra,” Edward told his uncle.

“Your son has been trouble since the day he was born,” Benjamin grumbled. His booming voice had become raspy and harsh.

“Ezra is a difficult child,” Edward admitted to his father, accepting the platter of chicken. “But I believe you go too far.”

“I'm his grandfather. I can go as far as I please,” Benjamin bellowed unpleasantly. “If you don't like my remarks, Edward, go eat your dinner at your own house.” He pointed out the window toward Edward's house across the pasture.

“Hush, Brother,” Matthew instructed, raising a hand for peace. “Let us enjoy our dinner without your usual sour complaints.”

Rebecca entered, pulling Ezra behind her. It was evident from Ezra's wet eyes that he'd been crying. Ezra was six but acted as if he were much younger. Rebecca, sighing wearily, lifted him into a chair and told him not to squirm.

Rebecca had straight black hair pulled back from a high forehead, olive-green eyes, and dramatic dark lips. She had been a high-spirited, giggly girl when she married Edward, but six years of mothering Ezra and helping out on the farm had brought lines to her forehead and a weariness to her voice.

“Will you eat some chicken now, Ezra?” she asked.

“No!” the boy shouted, crossing his arms defiantly in front of his chest.

“He has a strong will. He is a true Fier,” Benjamin growled approvingly.

“I am not!” Ezra cried peevishly. “I am Ezra. That is all.”

Everyone laughed.

Rebecca dropped a chicken leg onto the boy's plate.

“Eat your dinner,” she instructed softly.

“What a fine family we are,” Matthew said happily, patting his large belly. “Look around this table, Benjamin. Look at our children and grandchildren. And think of our prosperous farm and trading store. How can you say this family is cursed?”

Benjamin chewed his food slowly before replying. “Cursed,” he muttered after swallowing. “The new roof shingles. Edward finished putting them up just last week. And last night that thunderstorm washed away half of them. Is that not a curse?”

Edward chuckled, “Only a few shingles were blown off, Father,” he said, reaching for his pewter water cup. “There will still be light after dinner. I will go up on the roof and examine it closely. I am certain it is but a minor repair.”