The Penwyth Curse (2 page)

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!

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.

Sir Arlan said, “I am now your heir, Lord Vellan. I am not your enemy to take Penwyth from you. Will that please the curse makers? Aye, your goodwill toward me will result in your remaining the lord of Penwyth, at least its figurehead, for perhaps longer than you deserve. Aye, I will let you live, let you continue to drink your fine wine and pretend to power over the souls who work and live at Penwyth, but know that I will be the one to rule, and this girl here will be my wife. And King Edward will be pleased.”

Lady Merryn de Gay said to the man whose face wasn't unpleasant, whose breath wouldn't fell a horse, “If you do this, sir, you will die. My great-grandfather told my grandfather that the Druid curse came from the sacred stone circle that stands in the plains of southern Britain. I know no more about it.”

“Enough! Go and have your ladies make you resemble a female. And have a wedding feast prepared. I want all in readiness by the setting of the sun.”

When Father Jeremiah married young Merryn, finely garbed in an old saffron silk gown that had belonged to her mother, to Sir Arlan de Frome of Keswick, it was exactly five minutes before the sun set on another brilliant spring day near the very edge of Edward's England.

The only cheers were from Sir Arlan's men and those only because they'd heard that the cellars were filled with beer and rich Rhineland and Aquitaine wine. They were also having a fine time making sport with the Penwyth soldiers.

Penwyth's master-at-arms, Crispin, whose beard was longer and whiter than Lord Vellan's, knew a great number of fine curses, but they couldn't kill a man, more's the pity, and so none of Arlan's men bothered to clout him for his insults. All of Arlan's men drank and laughed and toasted each other on the ease by which they'd taken a very fine keep indeed.

Lady Merryn de Frome sat next to her bridegroom of two hours at the high table, her grandfather and grandmother in the middle of the table, one of Sir Arlan's men on either side of them.

They ate from the same trencher. Sir Arlan sopped fine white bread in the thick beef gravy. Because he had been raised with a modicum of manners, he offered her a tasty chunk of beef off the end of his knife.

She took it, chewed and swallowed, all the while looking through him, as if he wasn't even there.

He grabbed her chin in his hand and jerked her about to face him. “I'm your husband. You will show me respect. Look at me.”

“I am sorry that you must die,” she said and looked him right in the eye.

“By Saint Peter's furrowed brow, you will cease this foolishness about a bloody curse!” He turned away from her and ate all the tender beef on his trencher.

The jests continued, most of them forced ribaldry, because what man in his right mind would want to bed this child? Still, his men wanted to have the form correct.

There were more toasts, one even speculating on the year the new Lady de Frome would produce her first child.

Sir Arlan was laughing at that when he shouted to Lord Vellan, “From this night on I am Sir Arlan de Gay, your heir and grandson-in-law. Aye, I fit your name well, do I not?”

Lord Vellan merely smiled.

There was more cheering, all from Arlan's men. All the Penwyth people were furious and muttering, but softly, since they didn't want their heads cleaved in.

Arlan turned to his bride. “Tell me you have begun your monthly flow.”

Merryn looked at the big man who was old enough to be her father, although, truth be told, most men in the Great Hall could have fathered and grandfathered her as well because, she was, after all, barely fourteen years old. “No,” she said, “I have not.”

“A pity. However, with bed play perhaps it will encourage your woman's body to do its duty. I will draw blood this night. Aye, that should do it.”

“Why did you wish to steal another man's holdings?”

Sir Arlan could have struck her, but he chose, instead, to say, laughter rich in his throat, “My father wanted me, his bastard son, to be a priest, bent and celibate, copying texts in musty old chambers, cut off from life. I was to spend my life paying for his sin of fornication that produced me. I could not imagine a more tedious existence. I could have killed him, but I did not. I went to the Holy Land, fought under Lord Edinthorpe, and brought back jewels. But soon they were gone, and there was nothing for me.” He shrugged, looked very pleased with himself, and Merryn wondered how much of his tale was true.

“Penwyth is now my home and you are now my wife. There, I have answered your question. You will never again speak to me with disrespect.” He paused a moment, looking at her fine-boned face that would surely show beauty someday. “You will not fight me in our bed tonight.”

“Oh, no, I won't fight you,” Merryn said. “I won't have to.”

He didn't understand that, but it didn't matter. He was too happy with himself and his new circumstance to question her further.

Aye, Sir Arlan felt very good. He'd lost no men and he was now the lord of Penwyth, not as large a holding as Wolffeton or St. Erth, to the east, but his sons would wed with their rich daughters and just perhaps, in twenty or so years, Lord Arlan de Gay would be a name to reckon with.

He met Lord Vellan's eyes, rheumy old eyes that made him shiver deep inside himself where, thankfully, no one could see, eyes that had seen many more things than he had—but that was absurd, of course. The old man had never left Cornwall. He was nothing, a relic, content to dine on ancient legends. Sir Arlan picked up his goblet newly filled with deep red wine from Bordeaux, and said to the company gathered in Penwyth's great hall, “To the future. As of here, as of now, I am to be addressed as Lord Arlan de Gay.”

“To the future!”

“To Lord Arlan!”

Arlan swallowed, smiled at everyone, then, without warning, he fell forward, his face landing in his trencher.

There was stunned silence, then shouts, howls, men drawing their swords, their knives, racing to where their master slumped with his face hidden in the rich gravy that coated his trencher.

Lord Vellan shouted as he rose, “Sir Arlan is dead. I warned him. All of you heard me tell him of the ancient Druid curse that was carried down and strengthened by the Witches of Byrne. By all the Druids' ancient wisdom and might, the curse has struck him down.”

“No,” Darrik shouted, so afraid, so furious, he was shaking with it, “You poisoned him, you miserable old man. You poisoned him, damn you, and now I will kill you. I will kill everyone.” The man rushed toward Lord
Vellan. Suddenly he simply stopped, as if a mighty hand had grabbed him and held him in place. It seemed he couldn't move. He stared, his eyes bulging in terror, crying now since no words would come from his mouth. Tears ran down his cheeks and yet he remained perfectly still, straining, as if pinned in that one spot. Suddenly, his body began shaking and jerking about. His mouth foamed. He hurled himself against a knot of Sir Arlan's men who were standing close, staring at him, too petrified to move.

They all collapsed onto the stone floor.

Darrik was dead.

It seemed that all thirty-one remaining soldiers standing slack-jawed in the great hall instantly realized that they had no leader and that a virulent curse could kill them all at any moment.

Father Jeremiah's voice rose above the wild fear, the cries, the panicked shouts. “God's will is done. I pray for these lost souls.”

Within the hour, thirty-one men rode hard from Penwyth to spread the tale of how Sir Arlan de Frome had been struck down because he had taken Penwyth and wed Lord Vellan's witch granddaughter. There were whispers about how Sir Arlan's man, Darrik, had shouted “Poison” and tried to kill old Lord Vellan. But, in voices lowered to whispers, he'd somehow been held back by an invisible force. He'd jerked and heaved about until finally he'd fallen to the ground, foam frothing from his mouth. And that force that had held him—be it the devil, or the spirits carrying out the curse—had killed him. Not a mark on him, it was said, just the white foam that dried very slowly on his mouth.

2

Present
London
May 3, 1278

K
ING EDWARD I OF ENGLAND
stretched out his long legs, crossed his ankles, and admired the new pointed slippers that adorned his big feet. Perhaps they were a bit too beautifully embroidered for a warrior king, but his sweet Eleanor had fancied they would look splendid on the royal feet. At least she didn't expect him to wear them into battle.

A slice of sun shone down on the royal head from the beautifully worked glass windows installed by his late father, Henry II, making Edward's thick hair glisten an even richer gold—like a freshly minted coin, his mother was wont to tell him many years before. Edward looked about at the expanse of stone and tapestries and lovely windows. He quite liked Windsor, what with all the improvements his father had made.

He looked up to see a large, hard-faced young man walking beside his Robbie. It was Sir Bishop of Lythe,
the young warrior who had rescued his dear daughter, Philippa, from one of her own foolish escapades three months before. The king's son-in-law, Dienwald de Fortenberry, earl of St. Erth, obviously hadn't managed yet to control his precious somewhat-royal wife. Edward would certainly give him more counsel about that. At least Dienwald had thanked the young man by knighting him. If Edward had but been there, he doubtless would have thought of it first.

He watched the young man straighten from a low bow, and said, “I called you here, Sir Bishop of Lythe, to give you thanks myself for saving my gentle daughter, my sweet Philippa, from those oily scoundrels. Is it true that one of them held a knife to her side?”

Sir Bishop nodded.

“He threatened to shove it into her if you didn't throw down your arms?”

Sir Bishop nodded again.

“How did you manage to get the knife from him?”

Bishop paused, then said slowly, “The man wasn't a good fighter, nor was he quick of wit. I managed to distract him long enough to kill him before he could hurt Philippa. No more than that.”

“Hmmm.” Edward didn't believe it was that simple for an instant. “My daughter was unknown to you, I understand. Yet you still came to her rescue, even though you'd never seen her before.”

“She and her men were in my path, sire. I had no choice.”

The king laughed and buffeted Sir Bishop of Lythe on his broad shoulder, causing him to stagger a bit.

“You know that Philippa is the wonderful result of my own royal prerogative, do you not?”

Sir Bishop perhaps wasn't certain of this.

“By that,” Robert Burnell whispered close to Sir Bishop's ear, “his majesty means that she is his own personal bastard.”

Bishop smiled. “Aye, sire, I know.”

“Good, then you will also know that by saving her, you saved a part of the very essence of your king.”

“Granted by God, I doubt it not.”

The king detected that slap of wit and decided he was amused. “If you are wondering if I plan to give you the hand of one of my own dear daughters who are legitimate and therefore princesses of the realm, unlike Philippa who is only a princess in my heart, disabuse yourself of that notion right now. Nay, Sir Bishop, I intend to reward you far more suitably.”

Since the eldest of the king's legitimate daughters was only seven, Sir Bishop was pleased not to be offered such a reward. He pondered the king's words. More suitably? What did that mean? The king fell silent while a servant garbed in crimson and white served him a goblet of wine, after dutifully tasting it, rolling it around in his mouth, and convulsively swallowing it.

In truth, Bishop had believed that being knighted by Lady Philippa's lord husband, Dienwald, was reward aplenty, but his father hadn't raised a blockhead. He wasn't about to question anything the king chose to do. After all, not only wasn't he a second son, he wasn't even a third son. His father had five living sons, and Bishop was the fourth. He'd been given a name to assist him in embracing the Church, the thought of which had always curdled his belly. Like most second or third or fourth sons, he was landless. Unlike his brothers, he was tired of fighting other men's battles, risking his neck for the chance of winning another man's destrier and armor, although, truth be told, he had won enough over the past couple of years to keep him rich enough and his own eleven men content, but still—what did the king have in mind?

A coffer filled with gold would be nice, mayhap some gems from the Holy Land tossed on top. But Bishop doubted this was what the king intended. No king Bishop had ever heard of willingly parted with gold. When the king turned his attention from his wine back to him, Bishop said, as unctuous as a real bishop or any of the
king's courtiers, “To be Sir Bishop of Lythe is surely reward enough, your highness.” Although, truth be known, his knighthood hadn't brought in a pence more since he'd added the “Sir” to his name, no more respect from other warriors who knew of it either, as far as he could tell. It had, however, bought him some new friends in Philippa and Dienwald de Fortenberry.

That pretty speech was to be expected, the king thought, and didn't mind the bootlicking. Bootlicking kept men's eyes pointed downward, a good thing when power was at stake, which it always was.

Dienwald had told him that Bishop of Lythe was a clever young man, with a bit of ready wit thrown in to please others, and braver than he should be. Aye, a clever lad he appeared to be, Edward thought. Dienwald had also told him that this young man was hungry and honorable, two things that usually didn't sit all that closely together. But in this case, Dienwald had promised him, they did. Dienwald might be feckless and arrogant as a cock, but he usually saw clearly into other men's hearts. As sons-in-law went, he'd set a high standard, if one discounted that he was called the Scourge of Cornwall.

Dienwald had also said that Sir Bishop was a good fighter, wily and devious, proving his worth by protecting Philippa until Dienwald and his men had arrived to wipe up the remaining bandits.

The king shook his head. He'd protected Philippa? He couldn't imagine his sweet, gentle, strapping-strong daughter accepting any protection. He said to his ever-overworked secretary and the Chancellor of England, Robert Burnell, “Robbie, methinks that we finally have found the man to solve the mystery at Penwyth.”

Bishop didn't sigh, but it was close. No gold. A pity.
Penwyth? What the devil is Penwyth? What mystery?

Burnell had been thinking about this, chewing his quill nub until his lips were black, and he finally nodded. “It continues to confound, your majesty. Mayhap, however, more than just a simple man is required to lift the curse.”

“Ah,” the king said. “You think the curse really derives from ancient Druid priests, Robbie? That the curse has been leavened by the Witches of Byrne? You think all these spirits are still somehow huddled in the castle walls?”

Druid priests? Witches of Byrne?

“The thought must intrude, sire,” said Burnell. “There seems to be no other explanation.”

“You are a churchman, Robbie, and yet you allow yourself to believe this curse business?”

Robert Burnell said, “I do not know what to believe, sire. It disturbs me that mischief is plaguing Cornwall and that the source of that mischief might be a demon or a spirit somehow unfettered by an ancient curse.”

Demons and spirits? This didn't sound good
.

The king said, “How many men have been lost to the curse to date?”

“Four, sire. The very first one, Sir Arlan de Frome, died not two hours after he wed Lady Merryn. Evidently he was dead when his face hit the trencher. This occurred four years ago, just a fortnight after the Penwyth heir died in a tourney that you, your majesty, hosted, in April of 1274, I believe it was.”

“Aye,” the king said. “That was Sir Thomas de Gay. A fine man, ill-timed in his death. By all the saints' endless prattle, I remember that I exhorted the men not to lay each other's heads open, but they didn't listen.” The king sighed, and looked toward one of his hounds, a black mastiff who could catch an entire roasted pheasant in his mouth while running at full speed. He said, “In any case, Lord Vellan, a spirited old man with more fire in his gut than strength in his arm, has petitioned me repeatedly for his granddaughter to be made his heir, and the Baroness Merryn de Gay of Penwyth. That is ridiculous, of course.”

The king smiled, all bonhomie and goodwill, “Aye, I've decided it's to be our young knight here.” He looked at Bishop straight on, rubbed his large hands together. “You will wed Lord Vellan's granddaughter, Merryn. As of
today, I proclaim that you are the old man's heir. It's an important holding, of credible strategic importance. I trust that you will protect it with your life. It is also not too far distant from St. Erth, close enough so that Dienwald may call upon you if my dearest Philippa entangles herself in more difficulties. I had believed that children would divert her, but the three babes—twin boys, one named after me, and a little girl named after my glorious Eleanor, and the little boys look like me, which is a good thing, I say—all three sit and clap their hands when she tells them her tales of derring-do. The little girl is the image of her mother, bless her.” The king looked down at his slippers, at least a foot long, and wondered if the twin boys would gain his height. Actually, if they only gained their mother's height, that would be sufficient.

“You have told me quite a lot, your majesty.”

“Aye, but your brain is clever enough to pick what meat you wish from the bones.”

Bishop nodded, but still, he couldn't quite believe what the king had just said. He said, carefully, “You wish to make me heir to Lord Vellan de Gay, your majesty?”

The young man was honestly surprised, overcome, really, and that was nice, as it boded well for his unstinting loyalty to his king. Edward nodded, pleased with his self-serving generosity. “That is exactly what I mean. You will become Lord Bishop de Gay of Penwyth. You have four brothers to carry on your father's name. There is no need of yours. The de Gay line will not die out.”

The king wants me to be the girl's fifth damned husband?
The king was sending him to his death before he'd even enjoyed a single marriage bed. The king wanted to reduce his bones to dust before Bishop would fully realize that Penwyth was his, all his. He would be Lord Bishop de Gay of Penwyth, the fifth husband, for how long before he died?

Struck down by an ancient Druid curse.

This was not good.

Robert Burnell handed Bishop a piece of parchment.
“This is the curse, Sir Bishop. It has to date killed four men who took Penwyth and married Lady Merryn.”

“Read it aloud, Sir Bishop,” the king said.

Bishop cleared his throat. “It appears to be two separate curses, your majesty.”

“Aye, I know it. Read them.”

Bishop read,

He looked up. “What is this key?”

Burnell said, “No one knows. Lord Vellan said it came down to him in exactly that way.”

“Read the rest of it, Sir Bishop.”

And Bishop read,

“Lady Merryn de Gay—she has red hair and green eyes?”

“Evidently so,” the king said. “Keep the curse. You may need to give it an occasional read.”

Bishop carefully folded the parchment and eased it into the knife sheath on his belt. He was wondering if the king secretly hated his daughter and was thus sending her savior into the maw of almost certain death. A spirit felling him in his tracks, as Robert Burnell had said? Or by poison, at the old man's hand? Or maybe it was the girl herself ridding Penwyth of usurpers and herself of unwanted husbands?

Were the two poems really hundreds of years old?