Bishop laughed. “Edward and Nicholas are only eight months old. Even they couldn’t be strong enough to beg with their father and hold him here.”
Philippa said, “Actually, Crooky spoke for them, didn’t you?”
The fool straightened to his full height, which didn’t quite bring him to Merryn’s armpit, and sang, head thrown back, to the high hall ceiling,
“The king has spoken, his will is done.
No more will my lord catch thieves for fun.
He’s here to sleep, and then
before he sleeps, he will—”
Crooky fell over onto his back, pounded his head with his fists, and howled. “I ruined it. I wanted to sing about how the master makes the mistress yell her head off when he pleasures her, but I ruined it because I didn’t follow my vision. Ah, but now that you know what I should have sung, it wasn’t so very bad, now, was it?”
“No, Crooky,” Philippa said, “it wasn’t so very bad. I do not yell my head off, you fool.”
“Ha,” said Dienwald, “you yell so loudly poor Prinn the porter believes St. Erth is being attacked. What you sang, Crooky, it was a worthless truth, all those ridiculous notions tied together. You must scratch your lousy head and come up with something better. We have guests, after all, worthy guests.” And Dienwald rose, kicked the fool and sent him rolling into the rushes.
34
DIENWALD SAID TO BISHOP, “My men are excited, flexing their muscles, bragging about their prowess. They haven’t had any villains for a good fortnight. They’re ready to gullet the soldiers holding Penwyth. I hope you have a good plan.”
“Aye,” Bishop said, looking into the distance at Penwyth, “I have a plan.” And he smiled. Dienwald didn’t push him. Bishop would tell him when it was time.
Bishop was thinking how very odd it was that everything was green—the fields, the bushes, the trees. The earth was rich and dark with life and moisture, wildflowers dotted the landscape. There was no more drought at Penwyth. But why had it happened in the first place? The prince hadn’t told him. Bishop blinked. Somehow, it had been tied to the curse, mayhap even tied to his coming. He remembered the cloud of despair that had hung over the dying earth and felt relief fill his soul.
Bishop and Dienwald rode at the fore of their group. Behind them, beside Merryn, rode Gorkel, a man who could crush three men’s heads at the same time.
Dienwald looked briefly over his shoulder, then said, “Merryn shouldn’t be with us, Bishop. This could be highly dangerous.”
“Actually, I couldn’t carry out the plan if she weren’t with me. She’s very necessary. There’s really no choice in the matter. I will see that no harm comes to her. But you know, Dienwald, I should like to know how you managed to keep Philippa at home.”
Dienwald grimaced. “The truth is I had to bribe the wench.”
Bishop raised a dark brow.
“I told her I would I would speak to Graelam about a marriage contract between little Harry and my Eleanor.”
“An excellent match,” Bishop said, “but I still cannot believe Philippa agreed to remain at Sr. Erth for that paltry bribe, since I imagine you would have made a match with de Moreton in any case.”
“I would have. Since you are soon to wed Merryn, Bishop, let me give you a hint about dealing with a stubborn wife—never hesitate to lie to gain your ends. I spent hours yelling and swearing that I would never be allied to de Moreton’s family.” Dienwald grinned. “I was really quite good. Then I let her beat me about the head, yell at me, claim I was an idiot. Aye, my dearest wench sees this as a remarkable victory.” He began whistling, very pleased with himself.
They heard Gorkel the Hideous laugh behind them. It was a terrifying sound.
Dienwald swiveled in his saddle. “Merryn made Gorkel laugh. It is amazing how much the girl pleases him. You are a lucky man, Bishop. Now, enough about future weddings. Tell me your plan and what you wish me to do.”
Inside Penwyth, Fioral of Grandere Glen, twenty-two years old, convinced that he was invincible and more clever than most men who inhabited the earth, rose from Lord Vellan’s chair, where he’d sat himself in comfort and authority for nearly the past sennight, and said to his master-at-arms, Dolan, “This waiting grows monotonous. We need some entertainment. Bring in one of the old relics.”
Dolan brought in the old man Crispin, simply because Crispin told him to. Crispin didn’t want his men to be tortured by this mad whelp. He’d been their leader for so many years he couldn’t begin to remember when it had all started. As for Dolan, he was weary to his bones because he was so worried, nay, he was downright afraid. He knew something bad was going to happen. He realized well enough that since his young master hadn’t died of the curse, and still looked healthy as a stoat, he thought he’d won. In fact, Fioral seemed happier, more content, than Dolan had ever seen him. But now this. Dolan cursed under his breath. What did he want to do to Crispin, a harmless old man who was close to becoming his friend, but who would, naturally, stick a knife through Fioral’s heart if given the chance.
It was obvious that the curse wouldn’t work unless and until a man married the granddaughter, Merryn de Gay. As far as Dolan was concerned, if he and the men managed to leave this place with most of their hides intact, he would feel blessed. He rather hoped that Fioral would wed Merryn de Gay. Then he just might topple over, and good riddance to him. It had become very clear over the past days that Fioral wasn’t nearly as astute as he believed himself to be.
As for Crispin, he knew well enough that the young man was bored, knew Fioral was probably going to torment him. Would he kill him? Crispin didn’t know. Like Lord Vellan and Lady Madelyn, he was very worried about Merryn and Sir Bishop. Where were they? What was happening to them? Oh, God, there was simply nothing to know save that this young dolt was sitting in his master’s chair, lording it all over everybody, and now the fool was bored, looking for sport, and Crispin knew he was the sport. At least Fioral had kept his promise. He hadn’t killed anyone. Yet.
Dolan gently pushed the old man, Crispin, in front of Fioral. He was worried what Fioral would do. A bored warrior could be more potent than a real curse. Ah, the damned curse. Fioral was convinced that the curse was all a lie, despite all Lord Vellan’s endless tales, told in great, horrific detail, all about the deaths of the first four husbands, each recounting gorier than the last.
Fioral was thinking about the third husband’s death as he rubbed the back of his head. The sore hadn’t gotten any better. It felt larger, as a matter of fact. Fioral forced his hand away from his neck and looked at the old man who stood beside Dolan.
“Your name is Crispin and you are Lord Vellan’s master-at-arms.”
“Aye, for many years more than you’ve been walking this earth, young thief.”
Fioral got up from Lord Vellan’s chair, went to the old man, raised his fist, and slammed it into Crispin’s jaw. The old man would have collapsed to the rushes had Dolan not held him up. Dolan, because he realized another blow was likely, gently eased the old man down onto the rushes and lightly pressed his hand against Crispin’s shoulder to keep him down.
Fioral stood over Crispin, tapping his foot, his arms crossed over his chest. “How many years would that be, old man?”
Crispin felt his old bones shudder and heave from the force of the blow. The rushes felt good. He wasn’t about to move. “I was the master-at-arms at Penwyth before your father was born.”
“Do you believe in the curse?”
“Aye, certainly. Only a stupid man would disbelieve the deaths of four husbands.”
Fioral leaned down to strike Crispin again, but Dolan grabbed his arm. “Nay, my lord, leave the old man be. Remain above his insults. Realize that all who live here at Penwyth are a superstitious lot, and since it looks like all the people have lived here since the dawn of time, it’s obvious that they would become only more superstitious as time went on.”
“Ah, so it is all that clear to you, then, Dolan?”
Dolan nodded. He heard the softness in the master’s voice and it curdled his belly.
Fioral grew still. The sore on the back of his neck throbbed and dug deeper. He wanted to rub it. “You dare to lay your hand on me, Dolan?”
He’d been a fool, Dolan thought as he felt the hand of fear drawing close. In that hand would likely be a knife, his master’s favored weapon, and that knife could slide so easily into his chest. He held himself very still. “I meant no insult. It is just that all the old folk are just that, old and thus no threat to us. There is no reason to kill them.”
“He’s right, you young fool. Leave Crispin alone. He’s a good soldier, a solid man, and he’s done naught to you.”
Fioral jerked around to see Lord Vellan stride into the great hall, with perhaps not as much vigor as he once had, but he was still impressive, that old man, particularly wearing his beautiful ermine-trimmed tunic, just finished for him, he’d heard one of servants mention, by Lady Madelyn. Fioral couldn’t believe the mad old crone could still make such fine stitches, her fingers were so knotted and gnarled. He wanted that tunic. It was fit for a king, not this doddering old fool who should have been sent to hell years before.
Fioral said, “You will answer for your man’s rudeness, my lord?”
“Oh, aye, that I will. Tell me, Fioral, what did Crispin do to so enrage you? Did he attack you? Threaten to run his sword through you?”
Fioral spit, not more than an inch from Crispin’s head. “I would prefer to kill you, old man, and then it would all be over.”
Vellan said, “Nothing would be over, you idiot. Sir Bishop will return soon, and he will draw your fingernails off your hands, one by one, and I will laugh when each one drops to the ground and your howls resonate from the keep walls.”
Fioral couldn’t help it. He looked down at his hands, his fingernails, blunt, short, dirty, and strong. He looked up. “This Bishop of Lythe is probably dead, my lord, and you know it as well as I do. He just up and left and took Lady Merryn with him. What do you think happened to them? They went perhaps to London to see the king? I don’t think so, and neither do you. They’re dead, killed by bandits. I would have killed them had I seen them before arriving here at Penwyth.”
No one said anything because no one wanted to die. Lord Vellan just continued looking at him as if he were a bug to be trod upon. Fioral paused a moment, then said, “No, let us say that there is a curse here at Penwyth. This Bishop took Lady Merryn away from Penwyth and forced her to wed him, believing the curse wouldn’t touch him. But it did. What do you think of that, my lord? Bishop of Lythe is dead because this curse of yours can act anywhere, anytime.”
“All right,” Vellan said. “If the curse killed Bishop, then where is my granddaughter?”
“She is on her way back to Penwyth. She will come back to me, to wed me, her rightful husband.”
“You have no right here, Fioral,” Lord Vellan said. “You will die for your impudence. All your bragging, it is nothing.”
Fioral walked to Lord Vellan, drew back his fist, and would have slammed it into the old man’s jaw, but in that instant the sore on Fioral’s neck seemed to explode. He felt his skin tearing, pus spewing out, disease pouring through him, eating him alive. By all the saints’ blessed sins, he felt fear tear through his belly. He clapped his hand over the sore and ran out of the great hall.
Slowly, Crispin stood up. He brushed the rushes from his trousers, raised his head, and said to Dolan, “Something is very wrong with your master. Other than his madness.”
“Aye, it’s a sore on his neck that doesn’t heal. I will go see to him.”
Lord Vellan was laughing, then yelled after the young warrior, “The Penwyth curse is many-faceted, is it not, Fioral? Just look at you, rotting from the inside. How does it feel knowing that you will soon die and nothing you can do will stop it?”
Vellan laughed and laughed as he watched Fioral disappear up the winding stone staircase, Dolan at his heels. Then he began hiccuping, and even that felt very good. He said to Crispin after he’d swallowed some warm ale, “So where do you think Bishop is?”
“I pray he is close, my lord.”
“Aye, me, too, Crispin. Me, too.”
Not more than an hour later, when the afternoon was sinking over the hillocks into the western horizon, Dolan came into the great hall. He stopped in front of Fioral, who now had a bandage on his neck and was sitting again in Lord Vellan’s chair, holding himself quiet as a stone. “We have visitors, my lord. An old man and an old woman, asking to be allowed to see you. They say they barely escaped bandits. They beg for protection.”
“Tell them to go elsewhere or we’ll slit their scrawny throats. Penwyth needs no more ancient varmints.”
“They said that they can tell you about the whereabouts of Lady Merryn de Gay.”
Fioral rubbed his jaw. The sooner he got his hands on the girl, the sooner he’d be the lord of Penwyth. And then the dreadful sore on his neck would heal. He was sure of it. He nodded. “All right, then, bring them here. Dear God, are there nothing but crumbling old bones littering this miserable place?”
When the old man and woman shuffled into the great hall, Fioral knew he’d never seen two uglier specimens. The old woman looked hideous, all scrawny, hairs sticking out from three warts on her face, a face that could sour a man’s belly with but a look.
The old man was just as bad, bent and hunchbacked, dirty gray hair hanging over his face and down his back, his teeth black.
Fioral said, lounging back in the chair, “I allowed you into my keep. You will tell me now what you know of Lady Merryn de Gay or I will slit your withered old throats.”
35
THE OLD MAN TOOK A faltering step forward. He bowed, holding his back as he righted himself again, and said in an ancient, croaking voice that sounded to Fioral as though it was filled with the echoes of time, “My wife is a seer, my lord. On the night of the full moon—tomorrow night—she will be able to tell you exactly where the lady is.”
“This old hag, a seer? If that is true, then why must she wait for a full moon?”
The old man shrugged, and it looked painful, that shrug. “I know not the answer to that, good lord, but it is true. Nothing happens if there isn’t a full moon. Then I will press my hands against her head. While I’m squeezing her head, the full moon must be shining down on her head, and she sees clearly.”
“Aye, it is the way,” the old woman said, stepping up, “of the Witches of Byrne. When the old man dies, then my powers will die also because it must be his hands to press against my head. No others will do. It is our bond and it works well. Will you protect us, my lord?”
The sore on Fioral’s neck pulsed hot.
Lord Vellan walked into the great hall at that moment and started when he saw the doddering old man and woman. Fioral called out, “The old hag claims to be a seer, my lord. She claims she can tell me where your precious Merryn is at this moment.”
“She can, can she? Hmmm.” Lord Vellan walked up to the pair and looked them up and down.
“Ah, I see. She has the witch’s eye. I can see it now that I look at her closely. Is my granddaughter all right, old witch?”
“Aye, she is, for the moment, my lord. So is Sir Bishop of Lythe, who is with her. I will show the young master here where she is so that he may fetch her and kill the bounder who has her.”
Vellan took a step back, a shaft of fear knifing through him. “How do you know his name, old woman? What is this? Where do you come from?”
Suddenly the old woman stiffened, stared hard at Fioral. “You are ill,” she said. “What is wrong with you?”
Fioral touched his fingers to the bandage on the back of his neck. “You can see this, can you? For one so ancient, your eyes work remarkably well. It is nothing, just a small sore that annoys me.”
“It’s not nothing, my lord,” she said, and somehow she knew that it truly was bad. “It’s snaking into you, making your innards rot, that’s
what it’s doing.”
“What is this? Come, old woman, can you heal the sore?”
The old woman’s eyelids fluttered, closed. She threw her head back and said in a loud, too deep voice that sounded from one end of the great hall to the other and made everyone shudder with fear, “There is evil in that sore, and it is eating its way through you. It seems to me that the sore is retribution. What have you done to deserve this?”
Fioral didn’t like this at all. “Damn you, answer me. Are you a healer, old woman?”
“Nay, my husband here is the healer. I see the evil in you; he can remove it.”
Fioral was on his feet in an instant. “Old man, come here.”
The old man shuffled to Fioral and stood right in front of him. He was looking at the strip of white wool tied around Fioral’s neck. “My wife must know what evil you have done before I can help you.”
Fioral gnawed on his lower lip, said nothing.
Lord Vellan strode forward, stood right in the old man’s face. “This young thief has come into Penwyth like four others before him, demanding to wed my granddaughter, demanding to lay his boot upon our necks. Is that evil enough, old man? Will that sore on his neck kill him? It should, for he is worth nothing at all. I beg you, don’t heal him. He isn’t worthy.”
Fioral, enraged, jerked his stiletto out of his tunic sleeve, ready to spear the sharp point through Lord Vellan’s heart.
The old witch shouted, “You kill him and that sore will spread until your whole head spouts pus!”
Fioral stopped. He was breathing hard. “What is this? The sore isn’t from the damned Penwyth curse. I had it before we came. It has merely gotten a bit worse.” He clapped his hand to his neck, and yelled. It was so hot he could not even press his palm against the wool bandage. Oh, God, what was wrong? “Heal me, old man. Heal me now or I will kill both you and your miserable wife.”