The Betrayal (7 page)

“It is of the finest brass,” William replied. “It was craned by my father.”

“I will take it as part of the payment,” Matthew announced, still examining it. “Since you do not have the full one hundred pounds to pay me.”

“Take it,” William replied with a wave of his hand. “Take everything I own, Matthew. Just return my family to me safely.”

Matthew lowered the warming pan and gazed around the small room. “Speaking of your family, where is little George?” he asked.

“Mary Halsey next door has taken the baby,” William replied unhappily. “He needed a nurse. And I could not bear to look upon him, to see his innocent face and know that he would grow up without ever knowing his mother or sister.”

A loud sob escaped William's throat. He wiped tears from his eyes. “I will get you your payment, Matthew,” he said in a voice trembling with emotion. “Then will you speak to Benjamin tonight?”

Matthew nodded solemnly. “Your family will be released tomorrow at sunset. Your troubled heart may rest easy, William.”

His head still spinning, William eagerly made his way to the back of the house, where his life savings were hidden. As he pulled the heavy cloth bag up from under a loose floorboard, he felt as if his heart were about to burst.

Martha will be home tomorrow night!

Susannah will be home too!

We will all be so happy again. What rejoicing we will do!

He hoisted the bag to the front room and sat down at the table to count it out. William Fier, carrying the brass warming pan in one hand, made his way to the table and peered over William's shoulder at the large coins.

“Eighty pounds,” William said finally, shoving the pile of coins toward Matthew. “I am left with two copper shillings. But I am a rich man!”

“Yes, you are,” Matthew agreed, his face completely expressionless. As he leaned forward to collect the coins, the pendant he wore around his neck fell in front of William's eyes.

It was so unusual that William couldn't help but comment on it. “What an interesting amulet you wear, Matthew,” he remarked.

Matthew stood up and fingered the amulet, as if seeing it for the first time.

The silver disk sparkled with blue jewels. The jewels were grasped by a silver three-toed claw. Matthew twirled the disk in his fingers. On the back three Latin words were inscribed.

William struggled to read the words:
“Dominatio per malum.

“Quite unusual,” William said. “What do the words mean?”

Matthew tucked the amulet back inside his doublet. “Just an old saying,” he replied with a shrug. “The amulet was given to me by my grandmother before I
left our village. I wear it only as a reminder of that wonderful old woman and of my previous life, a life of poverty and struggle.”

William raised his eyes to Matthew's, studying his face in the dim firelight. “I have heard such a claw referred to as a demon's claw,” he told his visitor. “It is said to have powers.”

For a brief moment Matthew's mouth remained open in surprise. When he regained his composure, he said, “I know nothing about powers or demon's claws. Nor should you, William Goode.”

“No, of course not,” William said quickly, lowering his eyes.

Matthew Fier collected the remaining coins. Then, carrying the brass warming pan, he made his way to the door, his cloak sweeping behind him. He lowered his hat onto his head and turned to gaze back at William.

William hadn't risen from the table. His entire body was trembling. Trembling with joy. With eagerness. With relief. “My family—” he managed to say.

“I will make sure of everything,” Matthew Fier promised. Then, pulling his heavy cloak closer about him, he opened the door and disappeared into the night.

The next evening William Goode hurried across the commons toward the prison. A small flock of sheep interrupted their grazing to raise their heads and mutter their surprise in his direction.

The sun spread rose-colored waves across the evening sky as it lowered itself behind the trees. A pale half moon was already visible, just poking over the shingled roof of Benjamin Pier's two-story house.

The day had gone by in a haze for William. Mary Halsey had brought him his midday meal, but it had gone untouched. He had intended to mend the fence around his wife's small kitchen garden but hadn't the strength.

Time had stood still, and William Goode frozen with it.

Only when the sun had begun to sink and evening
approached had William sprung to life. Now he moved quickly past squawking chickens and a lowing herd of scrawny cows, eager to be reunited with his beloved family.

Eager to hug them, to touch them. Eager to share the warm tears that would flow, the happy tears that would wash away the terror, erase all of the nightmares. Eager to bring Martha and Susannah home.

As the low, gray prison building came into view, William's heart began to pound. So much joy! So much relief! Panting loudly with excitement, he slowed his pace. Then he stopped to catch his breath.

A yapping hound ran across his path. William looked up to see a crowd in front of the prison entrance.

They've come to share my joy, he realized.

Their faces were hidden from him, hidden by dark hats and hoods. But he knew they were his neighbors, his friends, grateful for the reversal of the unjust verdict, grateful for the Goodes' change of fortune.

As he approached them his knees felt weak, his legs trembly. He forced himself to take a deep breath and hold it. He could hear their murmuring voices as they huddled near the prison doorway.

This is the happiest day of my life, he thought.

And then the door swung open. An officer appeared.

Another officer stepped out in front of the murmuring crowd.

Susannah came next, her head lowered as she walked through the doorway. Martha Goode followed close behind, her shadow blue against the hard gray ground.

“Susannah! Martha!” William called, pushing eagerly through the crowd of well-wishers.

They both raised their eyes and searched for him.

“Here I am! Martha! Over here! Susannah!” William called happily. He stepped to the front of the group of onlookers, breathing hard, his face red, his vision already blurred by happy tears.

“Martha! Susannah!”

He watched for them to be released.

But to his surprise, their hands were tied behind their backs.

William gasped as one of the officers turned and shoved Martha from behind, pushing her hard, causing her to stumble forward.

“Martha!” William cried.

She saw him finally and called out to him, a mournful expression on her face.

“Do not worry!” he called. “They are releasing you now!”

“Father!” Susannah cried shrilly, her face also twisted in anguish. “Help us, Father!”

“Do not worry—” William started. But his voice caught in his throat as he saw the officers force his wife and daughter toward the low mounds of straw.

“Father—!” Susannah pleaded.

“William! William! Help us!” Martha cried.

“Wait!” William shouted.

Someone tried to restrain him. “It is all in the hands of the Maker,” he heard someone mutter. “Let us pray for their souls.”

“No!” William screamed. He pulled away, jerked
himself free, and began running toward them. “Stop! Stop!”

To William's horror, Susannah and Martha had already been marched to the straw piles and were being tied to tall wooden stakes.

“Nooooo!” William's scream of protest raged in the evening air like the howl of a desperate animal.

His vision blurred by angry tears, he burst forward, howling his rage, a frantic wail of protest. He stopped short when he saw Benjamin Fier at the edge of the crowd, overseeing the proceedings, hands on the sides of his long black cloak, his face hidden in the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat.

“Benjamin—!” William screamed, grabbing the magistrate from behind by the shoulders. “Benjamin—you must stop this now! Free them! Your brother promised me—!”

With a desperate sigh William spun him around by the shoulders … and gazed into an unexpected face.

“Giles!” William croaked, his voice a shocked whisper. “Giles Roberts!”

“William, please let go of me,” the deputy magistrate said softly.

“Giles? But … but …” William stammered breathlessly, too astonished to think clearly.

Susannah and Martha were now tightly secured to the stakes. The two officers were moving forward with lighted torches.

“Stop them, Giles!” William demanded. “Stop them at once. Where is Benjamin? Where is Benjamin Fier? I must speak to him before … before …”

Giles Roberts took a step back, freeing himself from William's grip.

“William, have you not heard?” he asked, staring into William's tear-filled eyes. “Benjamin and his brother, Matthew, fled the village before dawn this morning.”

“Fled the village?” William cried frantically, staring over Giles Roberts's shoulder to the straw piles where his wife and daughter were twisting in terror against the wooden stakes that held them.

“Before dawn,” Giles repeated solemnly.

“But I paid Matthew—!” William cried. “I paid him to—”

“The Fiers robbed us,” Giles told him. “They emptied the storehouse. They left us no food for winter. They took everything. Everything.”

“I—I don't understand!” William cried, feeling the ground tilt and whirl beneath him. He shut his eyes, tried to steady himself.

“They loaded all their belongings onto wagons,” Giles told him. “And they disappeared with all of our supplies.”

“But didn't they speak to you before they left?” William demanded, desperately clutching at Giles. “Didn't Benjamin tell you? Didn't Matthew tell you?”

“They didn't speak to me, William,” Giles replied softly. And then he added firmly, “Please let go of me.”

“But the sentence against my wife and daughter was to be reversed! They are to be freed, Giles! Benjamin should have told you. He should have—”

“He told me nothing,” Giles said. The deputy magistrate's features grew hard. “The sentence must be carried out.”

There was no use struggling, Susannah realized.

Her hands were tightly bound. She could not free herself from the stake. It poked uncomfortably into her back. Her wrists throbbed against the tight cords. Her shoulders ached.

She raised her eyes to the sky. The sun had lowered itself behind the trees, the trees she had loved to walk among. The piney sweet-smelling trees that had brought her so much joy. The trees where she and Edward had hidden during their brief secret meetings, during her brief happiness.

Lowering her eyes, she thought she saw Edward.

He stood at the edge of the crowd, staring back at her.

At first Susannah saw hurt in his eyes. Pain.

But as she gazed at him, his face appeared to harden before her eyes, until it became a mask of cold hatred.

She cried out—and realized it wasn't him.

It wasn't Edward.

The boy didn't look at all like Edward.

Two circles of yellow light approached from out of the grayness.

Two torches.

“Mother—” Susannah cried. “Mother, will it hurt?”

Tears streamed down Martha Goode's swollen cheeks. She turned her face from her daughter, struggling to stifle her sobs.

“Will it hurt, Mother? Tell me, Mother—will it hurt?”