“Aye,” Dienwald said, “that is true. Hmmm. This teases my brain, Bishop. The king has given you the witch and Penwyth. Edward must have great faith in you.”
“So now she’s a witch?” Bishop said, and felt the very nice lamb he just chewed fall in a knot to the bottom of his belly. “A witch? By all the saints’ swollen bellies, before, she had a chin and good teeth and beautiful red hair. And now you can call her a witch?”
“My husband is amusing himself,” Philippa said. “Merryn isn’t a witch. At least I don’t think she is. She’s no longer a child. She was first wed when she was only fourteen; at least that is the legend that has grown up about it. The fact is, I’ve never seen her, and my lord here has seen her but once, two years ago, so you must give all his fine descriptions their proper weight.”
Dienwald said, “Be quiet, wench. I feel things, deduce all sorts of brilliant conclusions from the barest of facts. Now, I can see from your face, Bishop, that you have no intention of riding up to Penwyth’s walls and announcing yourself as the fifth husband. I have always believed you clever—at least I’ve believed it since you saved my Philippa. Come, tell us what you will do.”
And Bishop sat forward and said, “All right, I’ll tell you.”
An hour later, after Bishop had once again admired the small twin boys Philippa had birthed and lightly touched his fingertips to little Eleanor’s chin, he slept well in a narrow bed with a single window that gave onto the beautiful, still spring night and the rolling Cornish hills.
Before he left the following morning to ride the twenty-five miles to Penwyth, he thanked his host and told him, “I am not too young to be wed, but I am far too young to die trying.”
Dienwald said, “Don’t whine, Bishop. I was first wed when I had but eighteen years on this sweet earth. Since Edmund was the result, now I am glad of it. But you’re right. If a man must die, he deserves at least a decent wedding night.”
He yelled to his fool, Crooky, who was lying in the rushes, chewing on a bit of cheese. “Well, dimwit, sing a moving song for Sir Bishop of Lythe, who is now also Baron Penwyth. Aye, sing to the man who will battle ancient priests and curses.”
Crooky quickly swallowed the cheese, pulled himself up to his full height, which brought him to Bishop’s armpit, and bellowed to the rafters,
“The pretty knight goes a-wooing.
He hopes he won’t be fried.
Be she a witch? Be she a blight?
He hopes he’ll know afore he’s died.”
“That was miserable,” Dienwald said and kicked his fool in the ribs, sending him on a well-practiced roll through the sweet-smelling rushes. “A man isn’t fried, you codsbreath—well, if not fried, it’s true that a man can be boiled. I saw that happen once. It fair to curdled my guts. Philippa, what say you? Is frying acceptable?”
Philippa said, “It wasn’t all that good an effort, my lord. Shall I kick him as well?”
“Nay,” Dienwald said. “Nay, I hoved in his ribs and he did his roll, and did it well.”
“I’d rather be kicked by an almost-royal princess,” Crooky said, and gave a deep bow to Philippa. “The master has hard toes.”
“The last time she kicked you,” Dienwald said, “she nearly knocked your ribs out your back.”
“Sir Bishop,” Crooky said, bowing low, “I wish you Godspeed and I will strive to adjust my rhymes more pleasingly when you are next here. If you are next here. I wonder, can a knight be baked?”
Bishop wanted to kick the fool himself.
4
Penwyth Castle, Cornwall
THE CLOSER BISHOP DREW to Penwyth, the drier it became, which was odd, because from all he’d been told, from all he himself had seen, there should be as much rain in Cornwall as anywhere else in England, and there was more rain in the rest of England than most folk could bear.
It was as if a pall were hanging over the land, as if the Penwyth curse had burrowed into the earth itself. The ground wasn’t just dry, it was baked. Every rock, every bush, every tree had a thick layer of dust covering it.
Not good, he thought. A keep had to have farming, gardens, and orchards in order to survive, particularly out here at the very rump of England’s shores.
Something of a wild, harsh place at the best of times, the far west of Cornwall was, at the moment, a miserable hot baked hell. He wondered if King Edward had known this.
They came over a small rise, and there it was—Penwyth. Built during the reign of Richard Coeur de Lion, Penwyth dominated the land, a squat giant’s fist with thick outer walls. It brooded, its shadow nearly touching the small town of Penwyth that lay just to the east of the huge castle. It was built on a slope of land that gave a fine vantage in all directions. The gray stone walls looked dry too.
Bishop slowed Fearless as he looked up at Penwyth’s walls. His eleven men arranged themselves in formation behind him, their lances held upright in their left hands, their shields in their right hands, alert and ready for a fight. He knew they were scared, which was a good thing, since they needed all their wits about them.
He saw only five soldiers atop the Penwyth ramparts. That made no sense. On the other hand, four other knights had taken Penwyth without an arrow being shot.
Well, he wasn’t leading an army. That would be obvious to the meanest brain. Let the five soldiers look down upon them, let them be certain that there were no other possible enemies hiding behind him and his eleven men. Although he didn’t know where additional soldiers would hide. There weren’t many trees around the castle.
The castle was well fortified, the moat was deep, but it was empty now because of the drought, and the drawbridge was winched up tight. There were four round towers, each a good forty feet tall. He couldn’t see any soldiers in those watchtowers. This was passing strange.
He pulled Fearless to a halt at the edge of the moat and yelled, “I am Sir Bishop of Lythe. I have been sent by King Edward. I mean no harm to any of you. Let me and my men enter so you may hear the king’s command.”
A helmeted head disappeared. Time passed. A hot, dry wind blew that carried fine dirt to film the skin and find its way into every crevice of a man’s body.
His master-at-arms, Dumas, said from behind his right elbow, “I swear, Bishop, that I saw some gray hair flowing from beneath one of those helmets. What is this place?”
“I hope we will find out without any of us dying in the process.”
At last an old man appeared on the ramparts and called out, his hands cupping his mouth, “I am Lord Vellan de Gay. You say you are Bishop of Lythe. I have never heard of you. How do I know that you are come from the king?”
“I cannot very well overrun your castle, Lord Vellan,” Bishop called out, head thrown back. He’d removed his helmet, and now felt the hot breeze dry the sweat on his face. “I have only eleven men with me. You can see that there are no rocks or trees for other soldiers to hide behind. Surely you can risk allowing me to enter Penwyth. I swear on God’s holy brow that I mean no harm. I am merely the king’s messenger.”
Lord Vellan stood there, his thick gray hair, grown halfway down his back, lifted off his forehead by the hot wind. Bishop wished he could see his face, but he wasn’t close enough and there was too much hair whipping about the old man’s head, mixing with the long beard.
Lord Vellan said no more. In the next moment, the mighty winches ground harsh and loud, and the heavy wooden drawbridge began its slow descent over the dry moat.
Once down, the portcullis was raised. Bishop nodded to his men and lightly touched his spurs to Fearless’s sides. Suddenly his destrier jerked back on the reins, tossed his head, and whinnied loudly.
To Bishop’s surprise, there was a loud answering whinny. That was all he needed, to have a mare in season anywhere around Fearless, the most able and willing stallion in the kingdom. He should have had Fearless gelded, but he liked him tough as a soldier’s boot and mean as a viper.
He led his men beneath the portcullis, looking up fo
r a moment, to see the thick, sharp iron spear points directly above his head, which, if released, could cleave a man in two. He realized in that moment that this was his holding—or would be when Lord Vellan went to his rewards. Aye, it was his portcullis, his drawbridge, his empty moat.
He passed through the outer bailey, then through the open gates into the inner bailey, letting all the sounds fill his head. The smith’s hammering sounded like booming thunder. But just below it were dogs barking wildly, children screaming, and adults laughing and yelling. When he and his men rode into the inner bailey, silence fell, the smith’s hammering went quiet, even the animals stopped their racket.
Bishop knew what they were seeing. The soon-to-be fifth husband, the soon-to-be dead fifth husband, and they wondered how he would die. No, that wasn’t going to happen. He was smiling when at last he pulled Fearless to a halt not half a dozen paces from the deep stone steps leading up to the great hall.
He looked at the old man standing there, a sword hanging almost to the ground, fastened to a wide leather belt that cut him nearly in half. Tucked into that thick belt was the pointed end of his long gray beard.
Here stood more pride than in Bishop’s own father, a harsh man who’d had more honor than a man should have.
Bishop said, “Lord Vellan. I am Bishop of Lythe, here as a representative from our king.”
From behind the old man came a girl’s voice, not high and fluttery but sharp, filled with suspicion. “A bishop, Grandfather? He expects us to believe that the king sent us a churchman?”
Was this the girl who possibly had no bosom and no rabbit’s teeth and a nice chin? And beautiful red hair?
“You have misreckoned my name,” he said mildly.
She stepped from behind her grandfather, this girl he was to wed, this girl who would be his damned wife until he shucked off his mortal coil. She wasn’t smiling, so he couldn’t tell about her teeth. It was a good chin, raised too high at the moment, and stubborn. There was distrust seamed into what was possibly a nice mouth, but distrust, in this case doubtless laden with fear, hid all sorts of things.
“You say your name is the Bishop of Lythe. You are obviously a churchman. Why has the king sent us a churchman? Does the king wish you to exhort Grandfather, to tell him he will go to hell if he continues to insist that I, his granddaughter, a female, and thus of no value at all in the Church’s eyes, not be made his heir?”
“If your reasoning is as tortuous as those words you just spoke to me, then mayhap I should despair at your lack of wits,” Bishop said, knowing he’d insulted her just to see what she would say.
Actually, she looked eager to shove her grandfather aside and leap on him.
After a moment of dead silence, he said, seeing her fists clench, “No. That isn’t why I’m here at all.”
Lord Vellan said, even as he took his granddaughter’s hand and lightly squeezed it, keeping her in place, “This is my granddaughter, and heir, Lady Merryn de Gay. If you are not a churchman here to inform me as my granddaughter just said, then why do you come to Land’s End in the midst of a drought when everything is slowly dying around me?”
“The king sent me to expunge the Penwyth curse, my lord. I am not a man of the Church. I am a man of profound knowledge, a man of science. I am considered by many to be a wizard, gifted in the understanding of otherworldly phenomena.
“I have heard that this curse has smitten four men to their death. It is doubtless a powerful curse, but I will get rid of it.” Bishop smiled; he’d made all his claims without hesitation, looking Lord Vellan straight in the eye.
Lord Vellan blinked, and Bishop thought that was probably good. The old man then pushed his heavy silver hair back from his face and said hardly above a whisper, “A wizard, you say?”
“Aye, I say that.”
“I have never before met a man who is said to be a wizard. Well, then, about the curse. It has been good to us, that curse, for the four men who forced my granddaughter to wed them—all were villains, every single one of them. And now you’re telling me that the king wants you to rid Penwyth of its curse?”
“Aye, that’s it.”
“But don’t you understand? We want the curse,” Merryn said, stepping forward again, chin up, shoulders back, ready to slit his throat if given the opportunity, his men’s as well. “The curse has saved us four times.” She waved four fingers in his face. “The curse has saved me.”
“Madam,” Bishop said in a voice as stern as his father’s, “you have buried four husbands. You will bury no more. The king forbids it.”
“If it is the king’s wish, then so be it. We will not bury another one. Aye, we’ll let their miserable bodies rot in the fields. As for my four husbands, one of them was so repellent he didn’t have a single tooth in his mouth and I doubt he was much older than my father, who had all his teeth when he died, at least all of the important ones. Listen to me, sir. They were bad, all of them. I am very glad they are dead.”
“Which one didn’t have a single tooth in his mouth?”
“The third one, Flammond de Geoffrey,” Merryn said. “A mercenary who spoke little English.”
“When he forced her to kiss him, he gummed her,” Lord Vellan said, and shuddered. “It was dreadful to watch. Merryn clouted his ear. He couldn’t kill her since he had to have an heir from her, and so her punishment was to be the death of one of my men. He lifted his sword to run it through Crispin, held by six of his men, then he suddenly dropped it, stared straight up at the beams overhead as if someone were there, and started screaming and screaming. Then he vomited up mounds of white foam.”
“Aye,” Merryn said. “It just kept pouring out of his mouth as he screamed and choked. Then he finally fell to the floor, gagging and ripping at his own throat.”
It was a nice performance, Bishop thought. They did it well. Anyone listening would be petrified to his toes. He wondered if it was true. He said, “Your third husband has nothing to do with me, Lady Merryn. Now, I doubt any of the husbands particularly wished to wed you either, but a man does what he must to gain what he wishes to have.”
He could have sworn he heard her curse him behind her teeth. It would be a major task to educate her on the manners befitting a widowed lady. He went right ahead, ignoring her. “Now, again, you have misunderstood me, apurpose this time. I will speak it plainly so the meanest brain can understand: There will be no more deaths at Penwyth. It is the king’s command.”
She said something under her breath, but not under enough. “By God’s divine angels, this is idiocy, brought to us by an idiot.”
“I am not an idiot.” Bishop knew it was time to get all of them in line. A dose of fear should do it. He spoke loudly so that all in the inner bailey could hear him. “Heed me, madam. I am a wizard. I have my own powers. And if my powers chance to fail me, why then I am also a warrior, able to split a man’s head open with my sword.”
The girl shouted, “You, Sir Bishop, wizard and warrior, just how would you split open the head of the spirit of a Druid priest?”
“I should use my invisible sword,” he said and slashed his hand through the air. One of the old men-at-arms jumped back. “You see, he felt the sting as my invisible sword sliced through the air.”
She laughed. Bishop sheathed his invisible sword, smiling a bit himself. There was talk among the people in the inner bailey. He heard a woman say, “I felt the hiss of the blade, I did.”
“I smelled the heat of his sword,” another man said, and crossed himself.
Good, Bishop thought, that pleasing threat of the supernatural should bring even this loudmouthed girl in line.
A little boy said, “Father, is he the pope?”
“He is a sinner,” Merryn said. “Ah, but just look at how I’m quaking from the threat of his invisible sword.”
The sneer on her face was full-bodied, inviting a clout, but he contented himself with the high ground. “You will see. Now, are you and Lord Vellan agreed? No more deaths at Penwyth?”<
br />
“We have not the magic to prevent death, Sir Bishop,” she said, the sneer still well in place. “Think you that we are witches here?”
A witch, he thought. Aye, she could easily pass for a witch, what with that mouth of hers. He said, “I will speak even more plainly. There will be no more strange deaths at Penwyth, be they a husband of two hours or a tradesman who has cheated you.”
“Must we include a man who calls himself a bishop and expects us to treat him with unwarranted respect?”
He drew a deep breath and said, “If you kill me, you will have the king on your necks, doubt me not.” He paused a moment. He was content that Lord Vellan and the little witch understood him. At least Dienwald was right about her hair. Red as a sunset. Actually, red as sin, a wicked red, just as the curse said. He couldn’t tell the color of her eyes just yet.
He said, “I am thirsty, as are my men. We have ridden from St. Erth.”
“That is but twenty-five miles away,” she said. “If you barely had the endurance to cross that paltry distance, then as a wizard why did you not simply wave your hand above your head and present yourself to us in a puff of smoke?”
He ignored her. It was that or leap off his horse and strangle her on the spot. It was a pleasing idea. Bishop sighed. “Will you allow us to enter the great hall, Lord Vellan? I have the king’s writ for you so you can see that I am only stating his wishes and his commands.”
“Oh, aye, come in, come in,” Lord Vellan said. “Merryn, speak to the servants, have food and drink brought for the false churchman here and his men.”
“I am not a false churchman,” Bishop said. “Bishop is my name, given to me by my father. One should not mock a man’s father or the name the father heaped upon his son’s head. He had hoped that I would seek out the Church ranks, but that was not to be. Now I have a ‘Sir’ in front of my name so that no one need be confused.” He paused a moment, looked directly at Merryn, and said, “Unless one happens to be a blockhead.”