The Penwyth Curse Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Penwyth Curse

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2003 by Catherine Coulter

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

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  ISBN: 0-7865-4718-9

  A JOVE BOOK®

  Jove Books first published by The Jove Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: June, 2004

  Titles by Catherine Coulter

  The Bride Series

  THE SHERBROOKE BRIDE

  THE HELLION BRIDE

  THE HEIRESS BRIDE

  THE SCOTTISH BRIDE

  PENDRAGON

  MAD JACK

  THE COURTSHIP

  The Legacy Trilogy

  THE WYNDHAM LEGACY

  THE NIGHTINGALE LEGACY

  THE VALENTINE LEGACY

  The Baron Novels

  THE WILD BARON

  THE OFFER

  THE DECEPTION

  The Viking Novels

  LORD OF HAWKFELL ISLAND

  LORD OF RAVEN’S PEAK

  LORD OF FALCON RIDGE

  SEASON OF THE SUN

  The Song Novels

  WARRIOR’S SONG

  FIRE SONG

  EARTH SONG

  SECRET SONG

  ROSEHAVEN

  THE PENWYTH CURSE

  The Magic Trilogy

  MIDSUMMER MAGIC

  CALYPSO MAGIC

  MOONSPUN MAGIC

  The Star Series

  EVENING STAR

  MIDNIGHT STAR

  WILD STAR

  JADE STAR

  Other Regency Historical Romances

  THE COUNTESS

  THE REBEL BRIDE

  THE HEIR

  THE DUKE

  LORD HARRY

  Devil’s Duology

  DEVIL’S EMBRACE

  DEVIL’S DAUGHTER

  Contemporary Romantic Thrillers

  FALSE PRETENSES

  IMPULSE

  BEYOND EDEN

  FBI Suspense Thrillers

  THE COVE

  THE MAZE

  THE TARGET

  THE EDGE

  RIPTIDE

  HEMLOCK BAY

  ELEVENTH HOUR

  To Karla Peterson

  You’re beautiful, smart, talented,

  and have great taste in books.

  I wish you the very best in the years to come.

  —CATHERINE COULTER

  1

  Four Years Earlier . . .

  Penwyth Castle

  Cornwall, England

  May 14, 1274

  SIR ARLAN DE FROME pulled up his destrier and raised his mailed hand to halt the thirty-two men behind him, experienced and hard, mercenaries all. Horses whinnied, dust swirled, and Sir Arlan smelled fear. Maybe it was churned up in all that dust, or maybe it was in the very air itself. Sir Arlan was familiar with this smell and he liked it, particularly when it poured off a man who had something Sir Arlan wanted.

  Sir Arlan saw it in the faces of the men who lined the ramparts of Penwyth Castle, the tidy hold that would soon be his. The town of Penwyth, nestled in the shadow of the stone walls of the keep, quickly became deserted when the people saw him coming. He hadn’t let his men stop to loot. After all, it would become his village soon. The keep itself stood solid as the granite of Cornwall’s cliffs, atop a rise that looked toward the sea off Land’s End, a barren hunk of land that stood between Penwyth and enemies from the sea come to attack England. It was a keep of great strategic value, and Sir Arlan knew in his bones that King Edward would be delighted to make him the heir, once, naturally, he already had Penwyth in his grasp.

  Penwyth Castle—would be his by conqueror’s right. Once the girl was his wife—what was her name? Something strange. Lady Merryn, that was it, a silly name, romantic, a name the bards would doubtless sing ringing verses about. Once he married the girl, it would be another encouragement for the king to make him the Penwyth heir. There would be none to gainsay his ownership. He would take the title of Lord de Gay of Penwyth. And why not? His own name, given to him by a bastard father who’d hated him, held no prestige, no power. But Arlan de Gay—it was a good solid name, with at least four generations of steadfast reputation backing it up. It sat well. Sir Arlan smiled. The old lord wouldn’t be alive that much longer, now would he? He wouldn’t really want to stay around, would he, now that the next generation had arrived?

  He had no intention of razing Penwyth, since it would soon belong to him. He didn’t want to kill the soldiers or the servants or the serfs who worked within the keep walls, only as many as it took to make the others believe that he was indeed now their master and they owed him their lives.

  He looked around the fertile green land, at the flourishing crops, and smiled.

  Sir Arlan hoped the old buzzard who was sitting in the lord’s chair had a lot of gold hidden away. Those men whom he couldn’t entice to remain with him, he would have to reward or kill. He wanted no looting, no excessive violence.

  Aye, there was naught but an old man, an old woman, and a young girl. Fourteen was the age he’d heard, an excellent age for marriage, ripe enough for the marriage bed, young enough that after a couple of clouts to the head she wouldn’t ever think to flout him or his wishes. It was good.

  He looked up to see a score of faces lined up along the ramparts, staring down at him. He’d heard rumors about all the soldiers here at Penwyth, but he’d discounted them. He would soon see.

  He motioned for his lieutenant, Darrik, to ride forward to present his terms. Darrik had a magnificent voice, hard and deep, and it would carry all the way to the sea beyond Land’s End.

  Arlan nodded to him.

  Darrik called out: “Lord of Penwyth, soldiers of Penwyth, tenants one and all. There is no heir to Penwyth. Sir Arlan de Frome agrees to wed with Lady Merryn de Gay and to entrust unto himself, as heir, the welfare and safety of all Penwyth lands until such time as Lord Vellan de Gay dies. Then Sir Arlan will become Lord of Penwyth.

  “No one will be harmed if the drawbridge is lowered and we are allowed to enter in peace.”

  “Well done, Darrik,” Arlan said, even as he smiled at all the outraged shouts, the loud murmurings, men leaving the ramparts, doubtless to run down to tell Lord Vellan that there was a lion at the gate.

  A bit of time passed—not much, but Sir Arlan was an impatient man. His destrier fidgeted as his master grew more agitated.

  He spoke to Darrik in a low voice.

  Darrik shouted, “Open the drawbridge or your blood will be forfeit!”

  Another bit of time passed, and then came the loud winching of the wrist-thick chains as the drawbridge slowly lowered over the brackish water, deep and stagnant, and a good dozen feet wide. It was happening, just as he’d wanted it to. It was a sign from God.

  Nev
er was a keep taken so easily. Sir Arlan led his men over the wide wooden bridge, looking upward at the portcullis that, in times of war, could drop down, its pointed iron bars embedding deeply into the earth, or spearing into an enemy. They rode through the outer court, narrow and thick-walled, through a double set of open gates into the inner bailey. Scores of people had gathered there, all of them still, staring at him and his men, children clutched to parents’ sides, animals quiet and wary, heads raised, as if scenting the danger. Everything was normal, it seemed to Arlan, except for the silence. Well, silence wasn’t a bad thing—it showed respect to the new lord.

  There wasn’t much dust for the horses to kick up in the inner bailey. Arlan smiled when he saw Lord Vellan de Gay standing on the bottom stone stair of the keep. His granddaughter stood behind him, nearly out of sight, but he glimpsed her peeking around her grandfather to see the man who had so easily taken their keep. Her soon-to-be husband. Aye, it was good.

  Lord Vellan didn’t look away from the big man, covered in chain mail, who was riding straight at him. At the last moment, Sir Arlan pulled his powerful destrier to a halt not six feet from Lord Vellan.

  “My lord, I am Sir Arlan de Frome of Keswick. I am here to save you from marauders who would raze your keep and kill all your people.”

  There was a frozen moment of silence, then, “Doubtless I am blessed that you came to save me,” said Lord Vellan.

  An impertinence, but Sir Arlan let it pass. He was an old man and old men had their pride, even when they had nothing else. Sir Arlan said, “You have need of an heir, my lord, and your granddaughter has need of a husband. You now have both standing before you.”

  “My son died but a fortnight ago,” said Lord Vellan. “You made good speed to get here.”

  “Aye, I did. I wanted what was mine. Where is my future wife?”

  Lord Vellan said, “Before you see my granddaughter, Sir Arlan, before you announce that you are here to become my heir, I feel it only fair that I warn you.”

  Sir Arlan laughed. “Warn me? Warn me about what?”

  Lord Vellan said, his voice lowered just a bit, “For hundreds of years, this land, all the different fortresses that have stood here, all have been protected by a curse fashioned by the ancient Celtic Druids. These Druid priests held the honor and safety of this land dear. Never in the hundred years that this Penwyth fortress has stood have these lands been invaded and taken. Indeed, none of the fortresses that existed on this site in the past fell to an enemy. They weathered and fell on their own over the centuries. But no man brought them down, because this place was protected by the ancient Druid curse.”

  “The Celtic Druids? Those blood-covered monsters died out hundreds of years ago, old man. I have no fear of any Druid priests or their prophecies. You only claim that none of the fortresses built on this site were conquered. You have no proof that this is the case. Aye, I think you are lying, old man, and it angers me.”

  “I am not lying, nor am I speaking of an ancient prophecy. I am speaking of a curse. There is no curse more potent than a Druid curse.”

  Sir Arlan heard some movement behind him, nervous movement by some of his men, the superstitious fools. He said, his voice loud and laced with scorn, “I have heard of no such curse. A curse from the Celtic Druids? That is nonsense, and you know it. I will not be frightened away by this stupid tale.”

  “Few have heard of the curse, that is true,” said Lord Vellan. “But that doesn’t make it any less real. Would you like to hear the curse? It has come down whole and pure through countless centuries of strife and chaos.”

  Sir Arlan dismounted and handed the reins to one of his men. “No, I don’t wish to hear any blasphemy. I care not about a curse that doesn’t exist save in your ancient brain. We will come inside, I would inspect my new great hall. I would meet your priest, for I wish to be married before the sun sets. Where is the girl?”

  A skinny child, dressed in boy’s trousers, a loose woolen shirt, hair scraped back in tight, thick braids, stepped around Lord de Gay. The old man grabbed her arm, as if to hold her back, but she shook him off and stood straight and tall in front of Sir Arlan.

  “I am Merryn de Gay.”

  “And I will be your husband come nightfall,” he said, reminding himself that she was still a child, and surely she would improve with age. He walked up the steps and looked at her more closely.

  She wasn’t at all appetizing. But as long as he could fit himself between her skinny legs and breach her maidenhead, nothing else mattered. Sir Arlan didn’t have any problem at all with this scrap of humanity becoming his bride. He doubted a gown would make her any more toothsome, since she had no breasts or hips to draw attention, not a single curve on her small child’s body. On the bright side, he didn’t think she could get any worse.

  “Aye,” he said, after looking at her, “I will be your husband by eventide. You may address me as ‘Sir Arlan’ or ‘my lord.’ ”

  “I will not address you as anything. You are an intruder. If we hadn’t let you in, you would have been perfectly satisfied to kill everyone. You are here to claim what was my father’s and is now mine. Go away or the curse will kill you. The Druid priests who placed the curse owed a great deal to my ancestors.”

  Sir Arlan heard his men speaking quietly behind him. He said, “I care not about such nonsense. There is no curse, or if there is, it is as meaningless as a goblet of wine that disappears quickly down a man’s gullet.”

  She said very softly, leaning toward him so that she wasn’t more than an inch or two from his face, “It is really a very simple curse, Sir Arlan. If you don’t leave, you will die.”

  “Ah, so, long ago Druid priests knew of you, Lady Merryn? Mayhap they saw you in the dead eyes of one of their sacrifices?”

  “Mayhap,” Merryn said.

  Lord Vellan grabbed her hand and nearly threw her behind him. He had rich white hair and an even more luxuriant white beard that cascaded down his chest to come to a point just above his wide leather belt. He yelled, “Listen, all of you. Sir Arlan may dismiss the ancient curse, but it is quite real. The Witches of Byrne, who are descendants of the Druids, have blessed it. They have claimed this land to be held apart from violence and strife. Aye, for hundreds upon hundreds of years Penwyth has been protected by forces mightier than a few paltry men astride horses.”

  Lord Vellan heard a man ask, “What is the curse?”

  Lord Vellan shouted, “You see my granddaughter, her red hair, her green eyes? She is the image of an ancient priestess who once lived on this site hundreds upon hundreds of years ago. The story goes that an enemy came to that ancient Penwyth and claimed both her and the fortress. The Druid priests collected here, outside the wooden fortress walls, and pronounced the curse. The enemy died a dreadful death, Sir Arlan.”

  More murmuring voices. “What death? What happened?”

  “The enemy fell into a cesspit and strangled to death on waste and rot, all his men looking on.”

  “You weave a ridiculous tale, Lord Vellan! A cesspit with his men not aiding him? There is no damned curse!”

  Lord Vellan smiled. “Listen, all of you!

  “The enemy will die who comes by sea.

  The enemy by land will cease to be.

  The enemy will fail who uses the key.

  Doubt this not,

  This land is blessed for eternity.”

  “What key? What key is there to use? What is this, old man?”

  Lord Vellan shrugged. “I simply recite the ancient curse to you. If there is a key, its meaning is long forgotten. But you come by land, Sir Arlan, and that means you will die if you do not leave peacefully.”

  Before Sir Arlan could spit, Lord Vellan called to the men grouped behind him, “I do not know how he will die because no one has ever before taken Penwyth, but Sir Arlan will die unless he leads all of you away from here at once. Will the rest of you die as well? I don’t know.”

  Sir Arlan didn’t spit. He knew his men were frightened
; perhaps he felt a niggling bit of fear himself, but it didn’t matter, and so he threw back his head and laughed, loud and deep. “That’s it, old man? That’s the stupid curse? I heard nothing about your precious granddaughter in the curse.”

  Lord Vellan shouted, “This is the rest of the curse. Look at my granddaughter, and know it is true!

  “Maiden’s heart pure as fire

  Maiden’s eyes, green as desire

  Maiden’s hair, a wicked red

  Any who force her will soon be dead.”

  There was utter silence. Lord Vellan saw that Sir Arlan’s men were afraid. Good. He said, “It is simple and straightforward, Sir Arlan. Two parts to it. What more need you?”

  Merryn said, “A curse should be simple because men are required to understand it.”

  Sir Arlan raised his mailed hand, his fingers closed into a fist to strike that insolent child’s face. No, he would hold to his control. He smoothed out his hand. He was the one with the power. Aye, he had the strength, the might of his men, all loyal to him—or they’d better be. “I see,” he said. “And you pretend that you are a witch, Lady Merryn? You believe that this curse was prepared especially for you? Or all green-eyed witches with red hair throughout the years?”

  The girl shrugged and looked at him as if he were dirt beneath her boy’s boots.

  Merryn said, “There is a girl in every generation who has red hair and green eyes, going back to the beginning of time.”

  He said, “Nonsense. You have no way of knowing that.”

  Lord Vellan said, “It is true that none of it is written down. The curse has passed down over the years until at last my grandfather wrote it down so it would never be lost. Had it been lost, why, then you would have done what you have done, and died, without due warning.”

  Sir Arlan laughed again. He stood very close to Lord Vellan de Gay, on the same step. They were the same height and that surprised him. Lord Vellan was an old man, shoulders rounded, thin as a snake, aye, even scraggly he was, despite all that thick white hair, and he should be bowed over, no taller than Sir Arlan’s armpit. But no, the old man was staring him in the eye.