The Frenchman (A Legacy Series Novella) (The Legacy Series Book 3) Page 5

  “Bartholomew?” she questioned as she peered at her son quizzically. “How would he have known your father? He’s only been in Warminster for a few years, long after your father left us.”

  A pained look came to Darren’s face, as if he regretted telling her the truth. “The reason Bartholomew says my father might have been a werewolf is because he is a werewolf too, and must sense that… that I’m a werewolf as well.”

  Martha couldn’t stand that word any longer. “You are not a werewolf, Darren. Neither was your father and neither is Bartholomew. They do not exist!” she cried, more frustrated tears brimming in her eyes and blurring his features. Witches and devils were easy enough to believe, but werewolves? Simply out of the question.

  “Mother, I know no other explanation. It’s ridiculous, I know, but –“

  “That’s exactly what it is,” she interrupted again, feeling her heart pound ever faster beneath her breasts. “It’s ridiculous and I won’t have any more talk of it.” Martha took a breath that was meant to calm, but her tone suggested the opposite. “I will call for the doctor and he will prove that you are not a werewolf. There is a logical explanation for all of this and –“

  Now it was Martha’s turn to be interrupted as one of her maid servants rushed into the chamber, unannounced.

  “What is it, Bessie?” Martha reproached, but neither she nor Darren moved from their place.

  It was only then that she heard a slight commotion building outside the walls of their home.

  “Mistress, there’s trouble outside. They’re demanding to see Master Darren.”

  Darren was the first to rise from his knees and start toward the door, but Martha nearly tripped over her dress hem trying to grope for his arm.

  “No, don’t go to them!” she insisted. They came into the hall and Darren went still. The maid servant waited by the door, nibbling on her fingernails with nervous eyes shifting in their sockets. Martha’s frantic hands finally found purchase on her son’s shirt sleeve.

  “I can’t stay,” Darren told her as he turned to regard her with a new, frightened expression that conveyed the utmost pity and regret. “Neither can you, mother. They’ve come to take me. I can hear them. They won’t stop until they have me.”

  The front doors were hammered upon and angry, unintelligible shouts floated up to them. How could he possibly understand any of that mob?

  Martha squared her shoulders. “They can take all the wheat and the cattle, but I won’t let them have you.”

  Darren turned and took his mother by the arms. “Mother, they think I’m –“ for a fleeting second, he looked to the maid and back to Martha again. “They think I’ve committed a crime.”

  It took her a few heartbeats to realize what he truly meant. Darren wasn’t the only one who thought he was a werewolf. The people did too. He had tried to tell her about something that happened in town. She could easily see how such a superstitious people could mistake her son’s newfound health as a sign of witchcraft or other demonic influences.

  “What happened?” she demanded.

  “I… It’s a misunderstanding, I assure you. They saw something. If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

  Martha turned to her quivering maid servant and flapped her hand. “Bessie, go away. Make sure no one leaves the house.”

  The maid servant curtsied and hurried away before Martha turned back to her son. “Tell me. Now.”

  “My eyes,” Darren said, trying to find the words. “They changed. They became like a wolf’s and were gold.”

  “That’s impossible,” Martha insisted as she shook her head with a tendril of hair slipping from the pins that held it back from her face. “No one can change their eye color. It must have been a trick of the sun. Your eyes did always look lighter in the sun.”

  “No, mother,” he asserted, his word thick with severity. “They were gold. Bright gold. I saw them in my own reflection and the villagers all saw it. I saw Bartholomew’s eyes change in the very same way.”

  Martha could feel her composure slipping like loose sand through her fingers. “Prove it. Make them change now and I will believe everything you say.”

  Darren winced at the command. “I don’t know how, mother. It happened so suddenly in town and I –“

  The banging from the first floor persisted, their shouts growing louder and more urgent. Martha could hear some of the servants argue back that Darren wasn’t in the house. Loyal, every one of them, even in the face of an angry horde that was out for blood.

  Martha took her son’s hand in hers, marveling how large it had grown since the day before. “It doesn’t matter. You’re not a werewolf and I won’t let them take you.” Thinking quickly, Martha pointed toward the other end of the hall. “Go through the servants’ corridor and run to the woods. Hide there. I will come for you when they are gone.”

  Darren refused and his nostrils flared. “No. I won’t leave you to them. God only knows what they’ll do to the mother of a…” He paused to pick his words. “The mother of a man who destroyed a lot of merchandise by accident.”

  She was glad that he didn’t utter that word again. Martha might have screamed otherwise. “I will settle it then,” she said, giving his arm a reassuring pat. “Go, now. I will see you this afternoon.”

  Her son grabbed her about the shoulders and kissed her cheeks. It had been a long time since he had kissed her in such a way and the scratch of his stubble was unexpected. Though, each touch was laden with immense love and appreciation for her.

  Darren rushed out of sight, down the hall and through a corridor that would lead to the kitchen where he could make his escape. Martha watched him go, her heart bursting with both sadness and joy. Finally, her son was well; how was of no consequence. Werewolf, witch, alchemist, it didn’t matter. This time of turmoil and confusion would pass, she was sure of it. The truth would be known either way and she welcomed it, whatever it was, as long as it didn’t have to do with monsters and fairytales.

  First, she would deal with the real wolves at the door.

  Darren ran as fast as his legs could carry him, through Lockleat Forrest, past Cley Hill, and toward George’s hut. If his old friend could not give him an answer, he would turn to Bartholomew and the elusive father figure whose name he didn’t even know. If he could probe his mother a little more, demand the facts from her, perhaps she would confess that there was something not quite right about his father and confirm one of the only theories he had in his possession.

  Still holding out hope that there was a simple, scientific explanation for everything, Darren broke through the dense underbrush, following the clustered scents of herbs and firewood smoke. Amongst them, he could smell George and the fading aroma of the stew Darren tried to ingest earlier that morning.

  Darren slammed his fist against the hermit’s door to knock and make his presence known, but inadvertently bashed the wooden panel off its rope hinges, taking bits of the mud plaster with it.

  George let out an expletive and soup spilled onto the dirt floor of his hut as he started to his feet.

  “What in God’s name… Darren?” The hermit’s wide eyes roamed over his young friend’s body from toe to brow. “What happened to you?” he asked, a bit of soup drooling from the corner of his mouth.

  Darren came forward, arms outstretched. “Do you not know?” The harried inflection of his words told the story of a young man who had been through hell all before noon. “What did you give me last night? What caused all of this?”

  He lifted the edge of his tunic to show George the sculpted muscles of his torso. George let out a long whistle and let his jaw drop. “I didn’t do this,” he muttered in a daze. “No natural thing on earth can produce this overnight.”

  Darren had been afraid of that. George was his last hope, the only string of reason left before he had to resort to the fantastic and insane. He let his tunic drop to conceal the miracle once more, this new wretched body that he had been glad for now seemed like such a bu
rden.

  “You didn’t…” Darren began, feeling the world around him grow dim and lifeless. He had this sensation before, just before he was about to faint. Yet the release of unconsciousness did not come. He remained standing, though all he wanted to do was collapse in a heap and sob.

  George took a few bounding steps forward and set his bowl down upon his work table. “What happened, Darren? Tell me.”

  He shook his head, gaze distant and unblinking. “I hardly know. I woke up this way, I swear it.” Darren went on to tell George about the pain, the extra abilities, the incident in town, Bartholomew, everything he could.

  “Can you help me?” he finally asked, ready to fall upon his knees and beg the man for another miracle, another elixir or lotion to rid him of this cursed nightmare.

  George shrugged and blabbered out a few inarticulate mumbles, but it had seemed the man was on the edge of madness. “I can’t help you, because I don’t know how this happened. You should go to Bartholomew. He might have answers.”

  Just as George finished his suggestion, a sound met Darren’s ears, as clear and piercing as anything he had ever heard. A scream. A wailing of pure agony and terror that heralded the end of his life as he knew it.

  Without a word to George, who wouldn’t have heard the desperate cry, Darren fled from the hut and ran back into the woods. The smell of smoke was thick in the air now, though the sky hadn’t yet been blackened by the harsh reality of what must have been unfolding on the farm.

  Shouts, taunts, the screaming of women, and the crackling of wood as it was burned to cinders joined the pandemonium. By the time Darren ran the few miles back to the estate, the house and barn were already engulfed in the flames of hate.

  The superstitions of the people had disrupted their lives, calling for the blood of the man who showed himself to be different, to be something that was perhaps not human. Their frenzy amassed into a rally of fear and loathing so powerful it had spilled onto the farm, the estate, and his family. They didn’t know his story and they didn’t care. All they wanted was the threat eliminated.

  Darren watched from the other side of the farrow field, concealed in the hedges as he watched his home make its way to becoming nothing more than a memory.

  It wasn’t the house that bothered him. It wasn’t the sobs of the servants as they were pushed and harassed that made the bitter rage boil in his blood. It was the sight of his mother being dragged by her hair into the open that brought the cold golden shade back to his eyes.

  A firm hand grabbed him, but he already knew who it was that detained him.

  “Don’t,” Bartholomew growled.

  No matter how hard Darren tugged to get away, Bartholomew was stronger and held him back from running into the field to save his mother from the mob.

  He listened to them question her, berate her, call her a whore and a conspirator. They demanded to know where Darren was and what pact he had made with the devil to give him the strength and imperviousness of a man possessed.

  Tears stung at his eyes when she refused to tell them anything, claiming that her son hadn’t come home since the evening before. They pushed her further, asking if she was in league with the witch. They asked about George and how Darren could have grown so strong overnight. Still she would not tell them anything.

  Darren fought harder against Bartholomew, the evil and primal essence in his chest fuming with wrath. Still the simple baker, who was more than he seemed, restrained him with hardly any effort.

  When they had enough of her obstinacy, the mob seized her and approached the flames that ate away at his home.

  “No!” Darren shouted, but he was too far from the riot for any of them to hear.

  His mother screamed, crying for help and mercy. They didn’t care. One of the men who carried a pitchfork drove the butt of the staff into the charred front doors while the rest brought Darren’s mother to the threshold. With one sweeping motion, they threw her inside the blazing home as beams and walls came tumbling down around her.

  Darren twisted and pulled against his captor, but Bartholomew would not give an inch. The dying screeches of his mother rang in his ears louder and louder until it was all he could hear. His mouth opened to let out a monstrous roar of anguish to drown out the tragedy before him.

  Servants rushed to the aid of their mistress, but found themselves on the dangerous end of makeshift weapons. The mob cheered as they chanted for Martha’s speedy demise for consorting with demons and witches. All the while, they reveled in the murderous thrill of their insurrection.

  They came for a witch and instead, they settled for his mother. He heard rumors that they were going to George’s hut next. Darren’s roar died away into a shrill, weeping whimper. He fell to his knees, defeated and shaken by all that had happened.

  All the while, the aching and swirling chaos in his soul would not rest. It shuddered and wailed with him, mourning just as he did. Somehow, it understood him and as if he were truly possessed, Darren understood it. The nameless entity, which he had not recognized before that day, became a storm of feeling within him. It frightened Darren, but somehow gave him solace as well. He was not the only one to suffer, not the only one to come undone. Yet what was this thing inside of him? Why was it there? What was happening to him?

  Now, more than ever, he wished this were a nightmare. He wanted to wake up in bed, wracked with a fever, as his mother mopped his brow one last time. No matter how he tried to awaken, Darren continued to stare up at the fiery anarchy in front of him, wishing that he were inside the burning wreckage instead of his precious mother.

  Chapter 5

  Night fell over the county a few hours after darkness had fallen over Darren’s life. Clouds obscured his view of the stars and the bright sliver of moon above as the rains came. It was as if nature itself was trying to wash away this nightmarish hell that had taken residence in Warminster.

  Chaos erupted in the town as the hunt for the witch continued. They would not find him. Instead, they settled for the blood of innocent men and women who did not conform to the image that society had set for them. Old women with disabilities, grumpy men, and reclusive spinsters were targeted, dragged from their homes and thrown into the dank and dirty jail. Some citizens were impatient to see the misshapen lives blotted out and took a few into the square to lynch them.

  From his place, sitting under a sheltering elm in the dense woods outside of Warminster, Darren could hear their cries for mercy and pardon for living. Cold and dead inside, he did not come to their rescue. Why should he go to them when he couldn’t even save his own mother?

  Bartholomew did not restrain him now, but stood close by in the open air where the rain dumped upon his head and shoulders. Both of them were soaked, their tunics and trousers drenched and clinging to their bodies. Darren’s hair hung heavy to his scalp and forehead as droplets of rain found their way past the canopy of branches to soak him through.

  As the heavy raindrops crashed into the leaves above, making them quiver and rattle with terror for the torrent that had been unleashed, Darren seethed in his own quiet rage. He hated the people, hated their ignorance, hated whatever it was that he had become, sparking such a riotous change in the people, and provoking them to become murderous, single-minded fiends.

  He wanted to hate Bartholomew for holding him back while his mother’s flesh burned to ash inside the ruins of their home. After they fled the farm, he tried to tell Darren that it was for their own safety. If he had gone to his mother’s aid and rescued her from the flames without being hurt himself, it would not help his case to convince the villagers that he was human and not in league with the devil. If he went to kill those that murdered his mother, the authorities would come to investigate the slaughter and it would put them both at risk.

  They were selfish reasons to Darren’s mind. Whatever he intended to do, it might have all led to his death or the revelation of some dark supernatural secret, but at least his mother would be alive. At least he could have seen
her one last time.

  Even George had fallen prey to the mob. Hours earlier, they had gone to his hut and ransacked its contents. From his safe hiding spot in the forest with Bartholomew, he did not hear the hermit’s cries or shouts. Perhaps he knew what was to come and left the area before he would be next.

  Only Darren and Bartholomew remained untouched by the witch fever that inflicted the townspeople. They had been waiting there for what seemed like an eternity and Darren was sure he hadn’t moved a muscle except to blink and breathe since they came there to hide.

  Bartholomew spoke, of course. He told Darren about werewolves, about the unholy beasts that they turned into once a month under no duress from the moon. He talked about silver, wolfsbane, and the need to stay inconspicuous in society.

  He, himself, had traveled around England and Scotland, moving his bakery every ten or so years to avoid detection. They did not age as humans did, but slower and more gradual. He was hundreds of years old, but there were others far older than him.

  The werewolf baker spoke of alphas, betas, omegas, and packs. He spoke of their strengths and weaknesses and the dangers of what would happen if they were discovered. The world already had a vague idea of what werewolves were, but it was not all true. If it were possible, the human race would never know the truth. What little they did know was dangerous enough.

  Witches were the craze now. Towns all over the country buzzed with rumors and suspicions of so-and-so casting spells and curses upon unsuspecting children. Just as Warminster had fallen under the vicious, red glare of the obsession, plenty more had fallen to the hysteria. Each one became graveyards for the odd, the recluse, and the unwanted.

  Some witches who were burned were genuinely benign. They were humans who had the unfortunate luck to be put under scrutiny by the neighbors and they paid for it with their lives. Others, Bartholomew said with a definite air of regret, were werewolves such as they were, who would not die so easily. It was those cases when hanging a man was not enough and they resorted to the pyre to snuff out their unnatural lives. It was a slow, agonizing death, but it was possible, even with their quick regenerative abilities.