The Psychic's Tale

By Chris Quinton

"I curse you and your children's children, that you shall all live out your allotted years, and that those years shall be filled with grief and loss and betrayal, even as you have betrayed and bereaved me."

Four hundred years ago in rural England, a mob burned two men to death, but not before one of them, Jonathan Curtess, hurled a dreadful curse at the mob's leader, Sir Belvedere Fitzwarren. The curse has followed the family through the centuries, bringing grief and loss to each generation.

Mark Renfrew is a closeted psychic and openly gay. When his grandmother discovers a family link to a 17th century feud and a still-potent curse, she insists he investigates and do his best to end it. When he travels to the village of Steeple Westford, he meets and falls for Jack Faulkner, an archaeologist. He also meets the Fitzwarrens, who are facing yet another tragedy.

Then Mark learns that the man who cursed them had twisted the knife by leaving three cryptic conditions that would lift the curse, and he knows he has to try to break the curse his ancestor had set.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Quinton
• Release date: Feb 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005472146

Chris Quinton

Chris Quinton  Chris started creating stories not long after she mastered joined-up writing, somewhat to the bemusement of her parents and her English teachers. But she received plenty of encouragement. Her dad gave her an already old Everest typewriter when she was ten, and it was probably the best gift she'd ever received – until the inventions of the home-computer and the worldwide web. Chris's reading and writing interests range from historical, mystery, and paranormal, to science-fiction and fantasy, writing mostly in the male/male genre. She also writes the occasional male/female novel in the name of Chris Power. She refuses to be pigeon-holed and intends to uphold the long and honourable tradition of the Eccentric Brit to the best of her ability. In her spare time [hah!] she reads, or listens to audio books while quilting or knitting. Over the years she has been a stable lad [briefly] in a local racing stable and stud, a part-time and unpaid amateur archaeologist, a civilian clerk at her local police station and a 15th century re-enactor. She lives in a small and ancient city not far from Stonehenge in the south-west of the United Kingdom, and shares her usually chaotic home with an extended family, three dogs, a Frilled Dragon [lizard], sundry goldfish and tropicals

Book preview

The Psychic’s Tale

by

Chris Quinton

Part One of The Fitzwarren Inheritance

A Trilogy from a Trio

Continued in The Soldier’s Tale by RJ Scott

Concluded in The Lord’s Tale by Sue Brown

Cover Artist: Meredith Russell

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from

the Author, Chris Quinton.

Piracy is Theft

The royalties from the sale of my books helps to support my family and pay essential bills. If you like this story, please spread the word and tell others about it, but please don’t share it.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

About Books #2 & #3

About Chris Quinton

Chris’ Bibliography

Dedication

To the Usual Suspects – as always, thank you for your support, nags, kicks in the arse,

copious amounts of tea, beer, wine, and encouragement.

You make writing even more of a pleasure.

Chapter One

From a book written in 1899:

—The History of Steeple Westford by the Rev. Horace Simpkins—

So in the autumn of the year 1644, Jonathan Curtess cursed Belvedere Fitzwarren, saying, I curse you and your children’s children, that you shall all live out your allotted years, and that those years shall be filled with grief and loss and betrayal, even as you have betrayed and bereaved me.

* * * *

Mark finished reading the page, then closed the small leather-bound book and pushed it away from him. Where did you find this? he asked, interested despite the unease in his gut.

I found it in the Records and Resources section of Branches. It’s an online genealogy site, his grandmother added helpfully. It’s amazing what you can find on the Web.

No argument there. Okay, so we’re descended from this Curtess bloke, he said, taking off his glasses and dropping them into his shirt pocket. But I don’t see what it’s supposed to do with us. Alice didn’t say anything. Just pursed her lips and glared, a surprisingly effective tactic despite her round cheerful features framed by untidy curls of thick white hair. I wish you’d never started this genealogy craze. Just let it go.

I can’t. We can’t. Her green eyes blazed with crusading zeal, and Mark groaned quietly to himself. An injustice was done, she continued, and nothing can repair the damage it’s already caused. But it has to end. If I could walk farther than the end of the street, I’d do it myself. I can’t, so it’s up to you.

Don’t be ridiculous. Even as he said it, Mark knew he was wasting his breath. Once his grandmother got the bit between her teeth, she took off like a metaphorical racehorse—or in this case, a warhorse—and it would take an Act of God to deflect her. Sometimes he regretted introducing her to the Internet, especially when she started hunting down records of ancestors and discovering some interesting characters. The Renfrews, it seemed, were descended from an infamous warlock. Or witch. Or sorcerer…

I looked them up in the phone book. The Fitzwarrens still live in Steeple Westford, and the curse is still working. I found the archive site of the local paper, and Sir Charles Fitzwarren and his eldest son were killed in a car crash ten years ago. A tree fell on them in that terrible storm. No one found them until the next day. Poor souls.

Gran, accidents happen. Uncle Harry died falling off a ladder. Dad was pissed as a newt and drove his car into a tree. No one had cursed them as far as I know.

She took no notice, just carried on over him. Sir Charles left a wife, three sons and a daughter. Since then, the next eldest boy has died of leukaemia, and soon after that, their mother took an overdose. You have to do something, Mark. Two pairs of green eyes locked gazes and glowered at each other. Mark looked away first, a wry amusement twitching his lips.

Yes, Gran, he sighed, humouring her. What, exactly? How am I supposed to break a centuries old curse that’s probably made up out of whole cloth by an enterprising yokel to impress the tourists?

How would I know? Alice snapped. All I can do is interpret dreams and field the occasional premonition. You’re the high-powered psychic. You work it out! She never referred to him as a medium, preferring the more general term for some reason she didn’t seem to feel obliged to properly explain. Pass me my knitting and make me a cup of tea, there’s a dear. And help yourself to the fruit cake. You’re too skinny! Even your boyfriends say so.

That complaint reared its head every time he visited. They do not! Mark protested. Paddy said I had interesting bones, that’s all, and I haven’t been with him for over a year.

Exactly! she said triumphantly.

He was talking about my face, he reminded her. He’s a professional photographer, so I’ll take it as a compliment.

Too skinny, Alice insisted. If you ever relaxed and stayed still long enough to sunbathe, they could use your ribs as a xylophone, and I’m still waiting for that tea.

Muttering under his breath, Mark retreated to the small kitchen and busied himself with kettle and teapot. No teabags for Alice Renfrew. Oh, no. Had to be Twinings Darjeeling loose-leaf tea brewed in her Royal Doulton teapot and drunk from a mismatched Royal Doulton cup and saucer.

He smiled affectionately as he waited for the kettle to boil. At eighty-six, Alice lived in a warden-assisted ground floor flat in Wilton and, on good days, tottered with her walker frame as far as the nearby post office. On bad days she used her Broomstick, the scarlet mobility scooter that had inspired the local kids to grant her the nickname of Hell’s Granny.

But, frail though her plump body might often be, her mind and her wit were still sharp. Most of the time. He visited Alice once a month, staying for a few days to do any odd jobs she needed and driving her out to her favourite haunts. It was no hardship.

Alice had been an anchor and safe harbour most of Mark’s life. For as far back as he could remember, his father had spent most of his waking hours in a whisky bottle. Edward Renfrew had died when Mark was ten, when Mark’s own psychic ability had begun to show up