“The monastery is not so very old,” he said, then wondered how that could be so.
“You’ve been here before, haven’t you, Bishop?”
“Aye, I’ve been here,” he said, but she didn’t believe him. He dismounted and lifted Merryn down from Fearless’s back.
“Is this a magic place?”
He laughed. “Certainly not. It’s just a place that is somehow important, for a reason I have yet to learn.”
Fearless didn’t balk when Bishop led him into the cave through a tall, narrow opening overhung with the tangled branches of a bowed old oak tree. “We won’t go very far in,” he said over his shoulder.
Fearless whinnied. Bishop stroked his neck. “Here,” he said, “we will stay here.” Bishop handed Merryn some of the supplies.
To her surprise, once inside the cave, she saw that there was wood stacked against the wall. To her even greater surprise, Bishop seemed to accept it with no question at all.
When night fell but moments later, the fire was their only light. The walls of the cavern weren’t damp. They were actually warm, as Merryn discovered when she happened to lean one of the tent poles against a wall. Warm to the touch. How very odd.
“Do you know, Bishop, everything about this cave is odd. Just feel the warm walls. It is almost as if the cave is somehow welcoming us. But that’s impossible, isn’t it?”
She was right.
He just shook his head, and stretched out his arms. He felt the smooth sand beneath his palms, no hidden pebbles or sticks, and the air was clear and sweet. Fearless, once inside, immediately settled down to eat from the bag of oats from St. Erth’s stables. Every once in a while, he looked around him into the part of the cave that extended beyond their campfire, into the deep shadows, alert, as if someone was calling to him, and he shook his great head and blew.
Once Merryn had settled beside Bishop, both sitting atop the flattened tent, she said, “Can you tell me why we’re here yet?”
“Did I tell you that your hair is redder now than it was this morning?”
She touched her fingers to her hair. “No, you didn’t. That isn’t possible, Bishop.”
He said nothing, merely lay back against the cave wall, folded his arms behind his head, and stared at the cave ceiling. “It’s true.” Even in the dim light he saw flames dancing around her head. I’m going mad, there’s nothing else for me to do.
The fire was burning down, but the warmth didn’t diminish at all. The air was still, calm, warm. Bishop looked at the opposite cave wall, at the faint shadows cast there by the fire. As he watched, one of the shadows suddenly seemed to spread, darken, and grow larger. Merryn didn’t notice. She was drawing Penwyth Castle in the fine sand with a stick. She didn’t seem to notice anything at all. But Fearless did. He was nodding at that shadow.
Bishop couldn’t look away from it. The shadow was shifting, darkening here, lightening there, until it became a man. A man, he thought. It was a man, nothing else. Then it shifted again, twisting back on itself, and was only a shadow again, falling into strange forms like clouds in a summer sky.
But it was more than a simple shadow. He said nothing to Merryn. He didn’t want her to be frightened.
He realized in that moment that he recognized the man buried in the shadow. Bishop felt his heart begin to pound, loud, deep beats, but he wasn’t afraid. He waited quietly for the shadow to come to him. It moved. When it finally covered him, and he felt the sweet, dry air inside the cave fill his body, his fingertips began to tingle.
He heard Merryn’s voice as if from a great distance. She was calling to him, but he couldn’t quite grasp what it was or who she was. Slowly, he rose and stood in the middle of the cave, the shadow twisting around him, wrapping him tightly, and he said, “My wand. Where is my wand?”
And it was suddenly there, in his hand, and he was staring down at it. It wasn’t more than a foot long, beautifully worked, but still stark, elegant, and it fit into his hand as if it were part of him. It pulsed with light and power; he could feel that power fill him, become one with him, and he smiled into the fire, which was burning fiercely once again, much larger now than when he and Merryn had built it an hour before.
He turned and walked toward the back of the cave. The air was redolent with the smell of incense, a heady odor that filled him just as the huge shadow had. No, not incense, but the smell of a thick oak forest. Where was it coming from?
He didn’t know. He didn’t really care, he just kept walking. The cave seemed to go on forever, yet he knew it didn’t. He knew also exactly where he was going. He was striding through the cave, the roof now high above his head, the passage widening with each step he took. And his wand—surely just a finely wrought stick of some sort, but he knew it wasn’t—he held loosely in his right hand. It felt natural there.
He called back to Merryn, “Stay where you are. I’m all right.”
He heard her say something, but it was faint and distant.
Suddenly there was a low noise that was sharp and steady, a buzzing like a hive of bees flying toward him, louder and louder until he clapped his hands over his ears. The buzzing stopped.
He lowered his hands, realized that he didn’t have his wand. No, he had to have his wand. Where was it? He looked down at the floor of the cave, searching, but he didn’t see it. Rather, he saw a small circular set of stones some three feet high that surrounded a hole. Flagstones, just like the sarsen stones at the huge meeting place on the plains of southern Britain. He knew what sarsen stones were, knew the feel of them. He knelt beside the circle of stones and looked down into the hole. He could see nothing at all, just blackness. He had no idea how deep the hole was. He leaned down, reaching, but felt only air. He cupped his mouth and called downward, “Where are you? Come to me now.”
Nothing, just blackness.
He called out again, this time louder. “I await you. Come to me now.”
A light flickered far down in the blackness, just a small pulse of light, flickering wildly, like a candle flame in a wind. It grew stronger and stronger. He didn’t move, just watched the light come upward, and when it nearly reached him, he drew back as if stung by a bee from that buzzing hive he’d heard just moments ago. No, it wasn’t a bee, not a brief prick but a full-bodied hit, something else—
A hand slapped him.
He reeled back, but not far enough.
A hand slapped him again. Hard.
18
Present
Penwyth Castle
LORD VELLAN, CHESTDEEP in his bathing tub, said to Crispin, “What do you mean there’s another band of men outside the walls? Another brainless ass is here to claim Merryn? But the king himself sent Sir Bishop of Lythe.”
“It seems this man doesn’t know about that, my lord. He’s got at least twenty men, and he’s demanding to come in. He’s demanding to wed Merryn.”
“He can’t do that,” said Lady Madelyn. She stroked the soapy sponge down her husband’s back, thinking his bones were too thin and meager now. She could feel the bones through the sponge. On the other hand, it was no surprise, for she’d felt his bones through the sponge for more years now than she could remember.
Lord Vellan ran his fingers through his wet, grizzled white hair, his magnificent hair still so thick, his pride. “By all the arrows that pierce Saint Sebastian, it is madness, their leader is mad. Aye, I will come.”
Ten minutes later, Lord Vellan climbed the ladder behind Crispin, ready to catch him, for Crispin’s balance wasn’t all that good anymore. Both men were panting by the time they reached the top of the ramparts. Lord Vellan looked down at the bald-headed man who’d just pulled off his war helmet. The man looked up. Lord Vellan knew when a man was determined, and this one was. He was young, and like all young men Vellan had known, he believed himself invincible. Vellan said to Crispin, “This isn’t good.” He yelled down, “Who are you and what do you want?”
The man smiled, showing very white teeth, a full mouth of them, someth
ing Vellan hadn’t seen in his own mouth or any of his men’s mouths for many a long year. “Old man, I have come to claim Penwyth. I have come to wed the heiress.”
“If you take my castle, you will die.”
The man threw back his head and laughed loudly. The men behind him looked uncertain, then slowly each man began to laugh. It was a pathetic effort. Lord Vellan could see that they weren’t nearly as convinced of their master’s invincibility as he was himself. The man waved his hand, covered with black gauntlets that went up nearly to his elbows. His tunic was black, as was the rest of his garb. What affectation was this?
The man shouted, “Just look, it is as I was told. All those ancient old sods wearing chain mail, helmets covering their gray heads, none of them strong enough to fight off a frail woman. Aye, Lord Vellan, I have heard of the four husbands, how all of them died right after wedding your precious granddaughter.”
“Aye, all of them did. Are you mad that you want to be the fifth one?”
“I won’t die. You have a strange poison, all realize that now, despite the wild tales carried around by these husbands’ former soldiers. Aye, I’ve heard some of their tales. They speak of witches flying over their heads, flinging black smoke into their eyes, and strange white-garbed priests grabbing throats and choking the husbands to death. I’ve even heard that the devil himself strode in to stomp the husbands beneath his cloven hooves. Aye, there are all sorts of stories, but they would frighten only boys, not men.
“Aye, I know it is poison, for it could be nothing else. This curse of yours, it offends a warrior’s brain. I won’t touch the food you give me for my wedding feast. Bring your granddaughter. I would see her.”
“The fourth husband didn’t eat,” Lord Vellan said. “And he died as well. Just fell over dead.”
“That is a lie I refuse to believe.”
“She is to wed Sir Bishop of Lythe, sent by King Edward himself.”
He was silent, but just for a moment. “I have not heard of this, and thus it is a lie as well. Let me and my men in, old man, before we scale the walls and smite all the old warriors down. Think you they could do anything more than heave great curses at us?”
Likely not, Lord Vellan thought. He said, “Who are you? Where do you come from?”
“I am Fioral of Grandere Glen, here to claim my inheritance.”
“I have never heard of you. What is Grandere Glen?”
“It lies near the mouth of the great Loch Ness, in Scotland. I am a second son and thus must make my own way. Let us in, old man, or I will kill everyone in this keep.”
Lord Vellan knew there was no hope for it. He shouted down to Fioral of Grandere Glen, “Listen, Sir Bishop of Lythe took my granddaughter to”—oh, God, where did Bishop take Merryn?—“Aye, Sir Bishop took her to the earl of St. Erth. Since she is not here, you cannot wed her.”
Fioral cursed. The old man was lying, he had to be lying. Who the devil was this Bishop of Lythe? Here by the king’s command? Was he in league with Dienwald de Fortenberry, the king’s precious son-in-law? Aye, a rogue he was said to be, but the king merely waved away his misdeeds. If Sir Bishop of Lythe had taken her to St. Erth, then he would not be able to get to her.
Ah, but when Sir Bishop came back to Penwyth with her, and of course he would return, then Fioral would simply kill him and wed her himself.
He would be the sixth husband. The number six had always been lucky for him. He smiled. No doubt the priest in residence here at Penwyth had memorized the marriage ceremony by now. He smiled at his own wit. Aye, this felt right to him. He spoke to the men behind him. One by one, slowly, they nodded.
Dolan, his master-at-arms, came close and said, out of the hearing of the rest of the men, “Fioral, we could lie in wait between here and St. Erth, kill this Bishop of Lythe, and bring the granddaughter back here.”
Fioral thought about that, then shook his head. “Nay, we must be in the position of power. I will be here, sitting in Lord Vellan’s chair, alive and laughing when this Sir Bishop returns with her. Then he is a dead man. And I? Why, then I’ll soon be the fifth husband.”
“Or the sixth, more likely,” said Dolan. “If this vaunted curse hasn’t laid Sir Bishop in his grave.”
“Or the sixth,” Fioral said, “if he wedded her elsewhere and has not been struck down.” He eased his helmet off his head again because it chafed the back of his head. “I think the old man is telling the truth. Were I this Bishop of Lythe, I would take her to St. Erth.”
“If he did,” Dolan said, “it means that he believed the curse and took her away from here so he wouldn’t be butchered when he wed her.”
“The fool. It is poison, plain and simple poison. No ancient Druid spirits are lurking hereabouts, no Witches of Byrne are crouched down in the scrubby trees.”
Dolan sincerely prayed his master was right.
Fioral called up to Lord Vellan, “We are coming into Penwyth. Lower the drawbridge or I will kill every man, woman, and child within. I will spare none. If you allow us to enter, then all of you are safe.”
“But not the animals,” Dolan said. “We need to eat while we wait for this Bishop of Lythe.”
“I wonder, does the wretched Penwyth curse travel around with the heiress?”
Dolan shook his head. “That is hard to accept.”
Fioral chewed that over, then paused a moment.
He laughed as he watched the mighty drawbridge being winched slowly down over the moat, which, he saw, had only three feet or so of water in it. The water didn’t look stagnant, green with rotted vegetation. It seemed fresh.
He’d heard about a drought plaguing Penwyth, and perhaps the plants and trees and crops he’d seen were a bit dry, but the air was fresh and there was water in the moat. No drought, just another wild tale, like that wretched Druid and witch curse. He thought he would perhaps kill one of the old warriors, just to show Lord Vellan that he was serious, that he was here to stay, that this was now his keep, and these were his animals and his old graybeard warriors, whose brains, he hoped, were not frozen back in time with the desperately foul King John.
He was smiling even as he spurred his destrier forward, hooves clattering on the thick wooden drawbridge. Mayhap he’d kill old Lord Vellan. Then everyone would know that any poison would bring death to all of them.
The Tintagel Cave
Bishop grabbed for the hand that had struck him. He caught only dead air.
This slap to his cheek caught him off balance and sent him onto his back on the floor of the cave. He sat there, angry and utterly confused.
He crawled back, leaned over the black hole, stretched his arm down its full length. That damned hand it couldn’t be all that far down. The hole couldn’t be deep at all. “Damn you, come out of that hole.”
He heard laughter, he knew it was laughter. It was growing fainter, as if whoever had struck him was climbing back down into the hole. That meant there must be a ladder of sorts.
Bishop leaned over the edge of the circular stones, and felt around for a ladder or a rope, something. He paused, listened. He could hear nothing now, could feel nothing, not even any movement in the air.
Then, suddenly, he heard soft breathing right beside his left ear. He jerked around, but no one was there, nothing was there—but then he knew, just knew. He looked down in the blackness. He didn’t want to, but he did. He even leaned down into it.
When two very strong hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled him into the hole, he wasn’t surprised, but he was terrified. Then he was free, no hands on him, and he was falling and falling.
And he made no sound at all.
Sometime Else
The prince awoke slowly, stretched. In that instant he knew he wasn’t alone. Someone else was drifting over him, through him, settling in, but he was still himself. He felt the other’s hunger, his aches from sleeping on the floor of the oak forest.
The prince of Balanth shook away all the nonsense and took stock. He knew he was still in her
oak forest, and he was alone. Yet again, he was alone.
He threw back his head and yelled, “Brecia! Come here, you damnable witch. Show yourself.”
There was a slight shifting of the air, making it shimmer, and she was suddenly standing there, right in front of him, her arms crossed over her breasts. She looked furious.
“Brecia,” he said, and stuck out his hand to take hers.
She looked at that hand, brown, strong, the blunt nails. “Your hand, prince? Why, were I stupid enough to touch your hand, you might just turn me into a toad. Where is your wand?”
“You, a toad? You would make a dangerous toad. You would gather all the toads together, overthrow the local toad government, and make yourself their queen toad. My wand? That is a good question. I don’t know where my wand is. It seemed to leave me, not long ago. Isn’t that odd? I don’t remember. I don’t know why I’m here, sleeping in your forest, either. Something strange has happened that I don’t understand. Did you put a spell on me, Brecia?”
When she didn’t take his hand, he finally drew it back.
She said slowly, “There is something different about you, prince. Mayhap the gods came to you, ordered you to curb your arrogance, your violence?”
He seemed, to her eyes, to take this seriously. “Why, no, I don’t think so. Do you believe I am too arrogant? Too violent?”
Something was strange here, he was right about that. She nodded slowly. “Aye, sometimes I have seen you so.”
“Why was I sleeping, Brecia? In your oak forest, away from your fortress?”
“It was night. It was good that you slept.”
He looked around. “But here? Alone in your forest? Nothing at all to protect me?”
“Why would you need anything to protect you? Aye, I see. It’s because your wand is gone.”
“I don’t think so,” the prince said. “I was in your fortress. I’d tied you down, but then, even without your wand, you disappeared. Where did you go, Brecia?”
“I didn’t go far, just off to your left, if you would know the truth. I wanted my wand back. I heard you laughing.” Why, she wondered, had she told him the truth? She never had before. He was too dangerous, this wizard prince was too powerful, this prince she’d wanted so desperately three years before. She said, “I think you simply decided to leave my fortress, to leave my oak forest, but you tired and decided to sleep here.”