The Penwyth Curse Page 6

  Merryn said, “I believe my fourth bridegroom—a Sir Basil of Ware, did believe my grandfather, but you see he had fifty men at his back, and he’d promised them riches and a home, and thus he could not back down. I could see that he had heard stories and that he was afraid.” She sighed. “He told us that the king had sent him. It was a lie, and the curse knew it. He didn’t seem too greedy a man, but it didn’t matter. The curse said he would die and so he did.”

  Lord Vellan said, “He refused to eat at his own wedding feast, claimed he wasn’t hungry, but it was obvious to all that he was afraid of poison. He claimed he simply wanted to take his new bride to the marriage bed.”

  “What happened?” Bishop couldn’t help himself, he sat forward, nearly knocking over his goblet.

  “He took my hand,” Merryn said, “and forced me to rise with him. He kissed me in front of all the company. He told me to drink his wine. I drank it. Then he lifted the goblet and drank himself.

  “He kissed me again and again. Then he drank more wine. He was laughing and laughing when suddenly he fell, dragging me down with him. He whimpered as blood spurted from his mouth and nose. It took him a long time to die. All believe it was because he lied about being sent by the king.

  “His men were terrified. They were gone before I could even drink a toast to Sir Basil’s untimely death.”

  “None of your four husbands ever bedded you, Lady Merryn?”

  “That, Sir Bishop, is something I share only with God at my evening prayers.”

  Lord Vellan said, “The king writes that you are to relieve Penwyth of its curse, that you are a man versed in dark and ancient lore, that you have powers many do not comprehend, and that if anyone can succeed in cleansing Penwyth, it is you. This is what the king commands.”

  “Aye, it is.”

  “If you do succeed, then you will leave me open to the next man who wishes to steal Penwyth. It is a bad thing, Sir Bishop.”

  “The king, wisely, does not wish to have long-dead curses plaguing his lands, killing his people. This is what the king wishes. I am his emissary. I hope that the purveyors of this curse, be they spirits or mortals, realize that if I am killed, the king will simply take Penwyth and you will all be dispossessed, likely slain.”

  “It is a terrible thing,” Merryn said. “The king punishes us. It makes no sense. My grandfather’s grandfather was given these lands by King Henry II in 1174. You would give us to the next greedy landless knight who comes along.”

  He shrugged, said nothing at all. He watched her face turn nearly as red as her hair. Let her explode with rage. Let sweat trickle down her face. He looked at Lord Vellan. The old man had no expression whatsoever on his seamed face. Then, quite suddenly, he smiled, a ferocious smile that was filled with enmity and guile.

  Bishop knew in that instant that he had to tread very carefully around the old man. If the king had asked him at that moment, he would have sworn the old man had poisoned all four husbands, that no curse was at work here at Penwyth. But he could do no more. He’d already done the best he could to protect himself.

  6

  MERRYN RAISED HER FACE to the sky. “Did I feel a raindrop on my nose?” She wiggled her nose, batted at it, and said, “Oh, my, no, no rain. I do believe it was just more blowing dust. So where is this rain you predicted, Sir Bishop?”

  Bishop turned at the sound of her voice. He was standing atop the ramparts, near one of the four circular towers, looking out over his future lands. He was congratulating himself on still being alive. He leaned back against the thick stone wall. A guard stood some twenty feet away from him, his gray hair blowing in the hot wind. Another old man. Did Penwyth breed old warriors or perhaps old warriors from other places congregated here for their final years? He didn’t mind them at all. Once Penwyth was his, he would find out.

  He crossed his arms over his chest. He saw that Merryn’s sneer was back in full force, and said with as much control as we could muster, “I do not believe the rain will come today. Perhaps by tomorrow evening. How long has it been dry here?”

  The sneer fell away as she said, “Nearly six months without rain. People hereabouts believe it has something to do with the curse.”

  “Ah, I see. They believe the curse to be both a blessing and a blight.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So you believe that witches control the weather, with ancient Druid priests chanting at their backs, adding their power?”

  “No, I would not say that, but it is what some people believe.”

  “The drought started four years ago when the first husband came?”

  “It’s hard to remember. I think the weather began to change about that time. This last dry period started with husband number four, Sir Basil of Ware. There hasn’t been a drop of rain since.”

  “It sounds like Sir Basil cursed you.”

  She nodded. “Oh no, he was merely a man. It’s difficult to accept that the Druid priests are behind it, because truly I want to believe that God controls all things, including men’s fortunes.”

  She was standing beside him now, looking toward Land’s End and the sea. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The sun was high and hot, the wind harsh and gritty against her face. “Truth is, I don’t really know what to believe anymore.”

  “I told you that it will rain, which means that when it does, the people will believe that the ancient sprits have got their grit and strength back.”

  She shrugged, then said without turning, “You are the first comely young man to arrive at Penwyth.”

  “What?”

  “I was only fourteen years old when Sir Arlan came to wed me and steal Penwyth. After that, no man who came here was young, comely, or up to any good. Once, about three years ago, there was a merchant whom we allowed inside because he had goods to trade and sell. What he had, really, was a wagon covering ten men, and they were out to take Penwyth. It wasn’t the curse that time, it was our own men who slew them.” She shook her head again. “We lost Rupert, one of Grandfather’s oldest friends. Grandfather decided after that to allow the curse to work its will.”

  “I can see that. But about this comeliness, why do you say that about me?”

  “You are excellent to look at. Surely you must know that. Are you blind?”

  “No, I am not blind. Are there no young men hereabouts?”

  She paused a moment, pushed hair out of her eyes. “So you want comparisons, do you? Well, no young men to speak of, at least none I could consider marrying.” She paused, then frowned. “I came to tell you that my grandfather is ready to talk about how long you will be staying at Penwyth.”

  “I will remain here until everything is resolved.”

  “Then you will leave?”

  “Why are you so anxious that I leave?”

  She said nothing to that. As for him, he didn’t say anything either, because he was looking into those green eyes of hers, the color of a spring leaf freshly rained upon, and he was as hard as the castle stone he was leaning against.

  He said, “Do you fear that I will lift the curse and then another husband will ride in and force you to wed yet again?”

  “Given that it’s happened four times, only an idiot wouldn’t be concerned.”

  “What do you mean exactly that I look excellent?”

  “What? Oh, you wish me to fill your gullet with compliments, do you? Very well. You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen in my life. The blue is so dark as to be nearly black.”

  Beautiful eyes? A man with beautiful eyes? Hmmm. “You force me to be honest here,” Bishop said, looking down at her. “My eyes are nothing out of the ordinary. It is your eyes that make me want to—well, never mind that.”

  “Make you want to what?”

  “I have forgotten, and you would do well to forget it too. You know, Merryn, I really am quite competent as well as excellent-looking. I will lift the curse, then we will see. You could consider trusting me.”

  “Trust a man who just rode
into Penwyth hours ago, flinging his orders about? I don’t think that’s possible. Not after the four husbands who did the same thing. It occurs to me that you are here to lift the curse and then take me, just like all the others, only you’re smarter.”

  She was smart herself. He said, stroking his fingertips over his chin, “Do I have other excellent parts?”

  “Your feet.”

  He grinned. “What would you know about my feet?”

  “Your feet are big and that’s good because you’re a big man. I think all of your parts work well together.”

  “So my parts are in harmony.”

  “Exactly so. Do you want to know more about your excellent parts?”

  He very nearly nodded, but he had to keep his focus here, and that meant he had to avoid looking into her eyes. So she thought his eyes were beautiful, did she? He said, “How odd it would be to marry a girl who had already been wedded to four other men.”

  “I will tell you what is odd. To be wedded to four different men and have each of them drop dead before your eyes.”

  “Mayhap God will give you a man who will outlive you.”

  “That’s a nice thought, but I will not hold my breath waiting.”

  He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t going to be all that long a wait, but he didn’t. Instead, he turned to look east, toward a field where he saw six large stones in a rough circle. He pointed. “The stones set upright—I have seen many of them in Cornwall, and also in the western part of France.”

  “I do not know about the ones in France. The ones yon are called Menya Alber, and have stood there for as long as any can remember. There is also a place called Lanyon Quoit that is perhaps a burial chamber, but so old it probably existed before men walked on the earth. And if that is so, then how can it be a burial chamber? There is also the Nine Maidens Stone Circle, not far from Penwyth. It is said that the maidens were girls who danced on the Sabbath and turned to stone.”

  “I can feel the age of them,” he said. “I can smell their age in the air. It makes my skin itch to think about it.”

  She blinked, said, “Mine, too. How odd that we are the same in this.”

  “Let me add that I also admire your feet, perhaps more than you admire mine.”

  She couldn’t help herself. She looked down at the toes of her dusty old slippers sticking out from beneath her equally old gown. “My feet? You cannot even see my feet. Are you trying to drive me mad with jests?”

  Without a word, he came down on his haunches and lifted her gown until he could see the narrow cords that bound the slippers to her feet. He untied the knot, eased one slipper off her foot. “Ah,” he said, and raised her bare foot to set it on his thigh. “Would you just look at that foot? I thank the saints it is reasonably clean.”

  She wanted to snatch her foot away, but she didn’t do anything, just watched him look at her foot. Then he was running the pad of his thumb over each of her toes. Her toes quivered and curled. Then his hand cupped around her foot, stroking the arch. He said, “I was wondering if your feet would be too big. What a blessing that they are not.” He looked up at her and smiled. “What do you think about the curse?”

  Her breath whooshed out of her. Still, she left her foot where it was. She felt his hard thigh beneath her sole, the soft wool of his trousers, and the warmth of his big hand now closing about her ankle to steady her. This was all very odd. His fingers were now molding themselves around her heel. She said, “My feet aren’t too big. My grandmother has always told me my feet were just like hers and therefore perfect.” He was making her foot feel warm. It was absurd. She said not another word until he replaced her slipper and tied the cord together again. Slowly, he rose.

  She looked at the wine stains on his dusty gray tunic and said, “You will sleep in the steward’s chamber. I will send a servant to fetch your tunic. It must be washed. I do not want it to be ruined, at least by my hand. I know no more about the curse than you do. It is odd to see so many young men.”

  A black eyebrow went up.

  “You and your men. You are all young.”

  “Dumas, my master-at-arms, is nearly forty, a grand old age.”

  “You call nearly forty a grand old age? Our master-at-arms, Crispin, has reached his sixty-eighth year. As for you, you have yet to reach your twenty-fifth year, despite all that experience I see in your eyes.”

  “To gain sixty-eight years and still talk and walk and make sense and lift one’s arm—that’s an amazing thing.”

  “Aye, it is. I don’t want you to die.”

  Bishop thought that sentiment boded well. “Why not?”

  It was as if she’d just realized what she’d said. She closed down like a clam.

  “Is it because you admire my excellent parts so much?”

  “That could be a small measure of it,” she said, and looked down at the foot he’d stroked.

  He grinned. “I have been here for nearly four hours. I am still breathing.” He pressed his palm to his stained tunic. “My heart still beats.” He took her hand and flattened her palm against his chest.

  “Aye, it beats. Very strongly. I believe it is beating faster than it was just a moment ago. Why is that?”

  He quickly moved her hand. “My heart beats just as it should,” he said. “I think I may be safe, particularly since my death would mean yours and your grandfather’s as well. The writers of the curse couldn’t have intended that.”

  “No, they couldn’t.”

  “I will discover the truth, Merryn. I must. You know I cannot leave. If I did, my task unfinished, the king would knock my head into a stone wall.”

  She smiled at that, and showed him a deep dimple on her left cheek. It was the first glowing smile she’d given him. “You fear the king more than ancient curses?”

  “Oh, aye, I do. Do you believe the curse was fashioned especially for you, that some Druids hundreds of years ago said, ‘This is for Merryn de Gay and none other’?”

  “Do you believe my hair is as red as fire? A wicked red?”

  He looked at her wild red hair, blowing fiercely around her head in the dry wind. He nodded. “Aye, at least as red as fire, and beyond wicked.”

  He reached up, touched his fingertips to her hair. Slowly, never looking away from her, he wrapped some strands around his finger, over and over, until he was tugging her toward him.

  She shook her head and he released her hair. She said, “And are my eyes as green as desire?”

  “No, your eyes are as green as lust.”

  “Oh.” She blinked at that. If he wasn’t mistaken, and he knew he wasn’t because he was, after all, a man, she blushed.

  He said, “What do you know about this key? ‘The enemy will fail who uses the key’?”

  “An odd line, but I know nothing at all about any key. No one does, not even my grandfather.”

  “So the curse is for any and all females with red hair and green eyes who just happen to live at Penwyth?”

  She said nothing.

  “All right, tell me this. Is there a mare in season within the walls?”

  “Why, yes, my mare, Lockley. There isn’t a stallion about to cover her.”

  “My Fearless will cover her, willingly. He whinnied when he heard her; he caught her scent.”

  “I will think about this. I want to know his bloodlines, Sir Bishop. I want to inspect him, see that he is worthy of Lockley.”

  “I will swear upon Saint Cuthbert’s scabbed knees that Fearless’s withers are the finest in the land.”

  “You jest. I don’t know anyone who jests like you do.”

  “Do you consider it one of my many excellent parts?”

  “I have known you for a very short time, only the length of a well-attended banquet. This is all very odd.”

  “You may inspect Fearless. If it will gain him the mare, then he will doubtless allow it. You must explain his reward to him simply, no difficult words. As a wizard, I have merely to think my words to him and he understands.”
/>
  “You claim you can predict rain. Just maybe your damned destrier can understand what a person says as well. I don’t believe a man can be a wizard. Wizards are old and bearded, and they have strange mad lights in their eyes.”

  “Even a wizard must begin young.”

  “I still don’t believe it. You are a man, just a man, albeit a clever one.”

  “So you believe me clever?”

  “No. I didn’t mean to say that.”

  “You will see. Now, the curse. The Celtic Druids had no written language.”

  “The curse has come down from father to son or daughter from each succeeding generation. It was Lord Vellan’s grandfather who finally had a scribe record it. There’s nothing more to it than that.”

  She was lying and he knew it. He felt frustration boil in his belly. What was going on here? He said, “It is said that the Druids put their prisoners in wooden cages so they could burn them at night for warmth and sacrifice. Can you begin to imagine the smell of that?”

  “When my third husband vomited up white foam, I remember that the stench was beyond anything.”

  He did not want to imagine that. He said, “Very well. Now, the Witches of Byrne—a small cult of women who paint their bodies with white lead, color their hair black as a rotted tooth, and rub their teeth with the red berries of the brickle plant to show their ferocity and their desire for raw flesh—even the Witches of Byrne are difficult to find now, since they despise men. It is difficult to continue if there is no man to plant his seed in a woman’s belly.”

  She said, “My grandmother told me that the Witches of Byrne don’t despise men. They merely don’t trust them. They observe the horror that men bring, know that those same men would destroy them if they could. Surely you don’t deny that?”

  “Your grandmother?”