The Penwyth Curse (33 page)

Fioral said, lounging back in the chair, “I allowed you into my keep. You will tell me now what you know of Lady Merryn de Gay or I will slit your withered old throats.”

35

T
HE OLD MAN TOOK A
faltering step forward. He bowed, holding his back as he righted himself again, and said in an ancient, croaking voice that sounded to Fioral as though it was filled with the echoes of time, “My wife is a seer, my lord. On the night of the full moon—tomorrow night—she will be able to tell you exactly where the lady is.”

“This old hag, a seer? If that is true, then why must she wait for a full moon?”

The old man shrugged, and it looked painful, that shrug. “I know not the answer to that, good lord, but it is true. Nothing happens if there isn't a full moon. Then I will press my hands against her head. While I'm squeezing her head, the full moon must be shining down on her head, and she sees clearly.”

“Aye, it is the way,” the old woman said, stepping up, “of the Witches of Byrne. When the old man dies, then my powers will die also because it must be his hands to press against my head. No others will do. It is our bond and it works well. Will you protect us, my lord?”

The sore on Fioral's neck pulsed hot.

Lord Vellan walked into the great hall at that moment
and started when he saw the doddering old man and woman. Fioral called out, “The old hag claims to be a seer, my lord. She claims she can tell me where your precious Merryn is at this moment.”

“She can, can she? Hmmm.” Lord Vellan walked up to the pair and looked them up and down.

“Ah, I see. She has the witch's eye. I can see it now that I look at her closely. Is my granddaughter all right, old witch?”

“Aye, she is, for the moment, my lord. So is Sir Bishop of Lythe, who is with her. I will show the young master here where she is so that he may fetch her and kill the bounder who has her.”

Vellan took a step back, a shaft of fear knifing through him. “How do you know his name, old woman? What is this? Where do you come from?”

Suddenly the old woman stiffened, stared hard at Fioral. “You are ill,” she said. “What is wrong with you?”

Fioral touched his fingers to the bandage on the back of his neck. “You can see this, can you? For one so ancient, your eyes work remarkably well. It is nothing, just a small sore that annoys me.”

“It's not nothing, my lord,” she said, and somehow she knew that it truly was bad. “It's snaking into you, making your innards rot, that's what it's doing.”

“What is this? Come, old woman, can you heal the sore?”

The old woman's eyelids fluttered, closed. She threw her head back and said in a loud, too deep voice that sounded from one end of the great hall to the other and made everyone shudder with fear, “There is evil in that sore, and it is eating its way through you. It seems to me that the sore is retribution. What have you done to deserve this?”

Fioral didn't like this at all. “Damn you, answer me. Are you a healer, old woman?”

“Nay, my husband here is the healer. I see the evil in you; he can remove it.”

Fioral was on his feet in an instant. “Old man, come here.”

The old man shuffled to Fioral and stood right in front of him. He was looking at the strip of white wool tied around Fioral's neck. “My wife must know what evil you have done before I can help you.”

Fioral gnawed on his lower lip, said nothing.

Lord Vellan strode forward, stood right in the old man's face. “This young thief has come into Penwyth like four others before him, demanding to wed my granddaughter, demanding to lay his boot upon our necks. Is that evil enough, old man? Will that sore on his neck kill him? It should, for he is worth nothing at all. I beg you, don't heal him. He isn't worthy.”

Fioral, enraged, jerked his stiletto out of his tunic sleeve, ready to spear the sharp point through Lord Vellan's heart.

The old witch shouted, “You kill him and that sore will spread until your whole head spouts pus!”

Fioral stopped. He was breathing hard. “What is this? The sore isn't from the damned Penwyth curse. I had it before we came. It has merely gotten a bit worse.” He clapped his hand to his neck, and yelled. It was so hot he could not even press his palm against the wool bandage. Oh, God, what was wrong? “Heal me, old man. Heal me now or I will kill both you and your miserable wife.”

“All right,” he said, and stepped directly in front of him. He moved Fioral's hand away from the bandage, then lightly touched his fingertips to it. The old man closed his eyes, said a few words, then bowed his head for two minutes, eyes still shut, his lips moving. There wasn't a single sound in the great hall. All were staring at the old man, staring at his hand on Fioral's neck.

“It is done,” he said as he raised his head. His fingers still touched the white wool. “If the evil you have committed is repented, if you commit no more evil acts, then the sore will disappear. Do you repent your past evil, my lord?”

“Oh, aye, I do.”

“And any future evil? Will you cease what you are doing here at Penwyth and take your leave?”

When he said nothing, the old man moved his fingers away, took a step back. The sore throbbed and burned and itched. What to do? Fioral threw back his head and yelled, “I am doing no evil. I am here at Penwyth to wed the heiress, to become Lord Vellan's heir. What evil is there in that? I am young, I am able, I am a fine warrior and will serve King Edward well. He would have sent me here if he'd only known me.”

The old man said, “But the king doesn't know you, Fioral of Grandere Glen. He sent Sir Bishop of Lythe here. You are an interloper. You are no better than a thief, like the other four who came here to steal what wasn't theirs, and thus to die.”

“No, I'm not a thief! I just wish to make my way as so many second sons must do. Penwyth is a fat plum, and I have plucked it. It is to be expected that a well-trained, brave knight could do that.”

“I see no brave knight here,” the old man said. “I see only a puling young lout who will die of the evil poisoning him from the inside out.”

“But I have done nothing wrong!”

The old man said, “Very well, if that is what you believe to your very soul.”

“Aye, it is.”

The old man said, his voice as gentle as a summer breeze ruffling through water reeds, “You will fight me, my lord. If you can kill me, then the cursed sore will slide off your neck.”

Fioral couldn't believe what he was hearing. He shook his head to clear it. Was the sore making him hear words that hadn't really been said?

“Will you fight me, young thief?”

Fioral said with absolute astonishment, “You want
me
to fight
you
? You're so old that you can barely stand upright. Look at you, all hunched over as if your body is
drawing you inside yourself. You can't even hold a sword, can you? By all the saints' runny innards, I could blow on you and you would fall over. I could then press my foot against your chest and your old heart would burst with the pressure. What is this, you old fool? A lame jest? Just heal me and be done with it.”

The old man said, “What I said is true. If you fight me, if you beat me, the sore on your neck will heal. Cease your insults, young Fioral. Will you fight me?”

Fioral didn't know what to do. He wanted to know where Merryn was, but he imagined that if he killed the old man, then the old witch wouldn't be able to see Merryn since her husband wouldn't be alive to press his palms against her head. What to do?

Lord Vellan stepped forward. “Listen, old man, he is right. He would quickly dispatch you.” He threw back his head and said contemptuously, “This thief will fight me.”

Fioral fell back, laughing. The more he laughed, the more his neck burned and itched and thudded like a pounded drum all the way to his bones. He knew in that moment that he couldn't wait, he had to kill the old man or the sore would kill him, and he wasn't about to let that happen. He said, “Lord Vellan, it is not for you to fight me, it is for him. Old man, Dolan will give you a sword. We will fight to the death. In the inner bailey.”

The old man gave him a slight bow, shook off his wife's hand that clutched at his sleeve.

The old man said, “Prepare yourself to die, deceitful varmint.”

Fioral rolled his eyes, laughed, spit into the rushes. “In which lifetime do you predict that, old man?”

“In the next thirty minutes, Fioral, you will be dead. Your men will leave Penwyth, carting your body away with them. Will you do that, Dolan, so there is no remaining evil to befoul the air here?”

Dolan blinked, unable to take this all in. It was unbelievable, a play written by a madman, but he found himself nodding. “Aye, I will take the master's body away.”

“Will you give Fioral a decent burial?”

Fioral smashed his fist against Lord Vellan's chair arm. “Enough of this! Shut up, old man. You are trying to weave fear in my mind.”

“Will you put a stone marker on his grave, Dolan?”

“Aye, I will have a man inscribe a marker with his name, and it will be set well atop his grave.”

“
STOP IT
!”

The old man turned again to Fioral. “I will accept a sword from Dolan. He is a good man. I will see you outside, Fioral.”

The old man turned on his very ancient heel and shuffled out of the great hall, one foot lagging a bit behind the other, paying no attention at all to the staring people, many of them as old as he was, a handful mayhap even older.

Fioral knew this was ridiculous, but it didn't seem he had any choice but to kill the wheezing old fool. Damnation, this was not going well at all. The sore on his neck seemed to swell. Oh, God, he had to cure that damned sore.

He cursed and ran out of the great hall, jerking his sword out of his scabbard, holding it firmly in his hand.

The old witch looked at Lord Vellan, waved her hands about her, and said, “All this is very strange, is it not, sir?” She cackled loud and long, her ancient old head thrown back on her neck.

Vellan came up close to her, lightly touched her face, and said, “Your nose is falling off.”

She grabbed her nose to keep it from sliding to the right. She said as she patted it back into place, “And your nose, sir, is too ugly to fall off.”

Lord Vellan grabbed his nose, twisted it a bit, then patted the tip. “My nose is not at all ugly. It is a warrior's nose, one of ancient lineage. But your nose, now, I have never seen a nose so ill-fashioned on a face.”

She sighed. “I am relieved that it didn't happen sooner.”

Vellan laughed behind his hand, said low, “I am as well, Merryn. It is a fine performance you and Bishop have provided us. I am pleased to see that you and Bishop are closer than you were when he took you away from here. Where have you been?”

“I have been more places than I wished ever to visit, Grandfather. Hurry, we must go to the inner bailey. Bishop might need me.”

Vellan raised an old brow.

They heard an animal roar, but it came from a man.

Merryn lifted her skirts and ran. “By all the saints' holy dreams, what has Bishop done now?”

36

B
ISHOP YELLED
, “C
OME
along, young puppy, let me see if you have any skill, any strength, any cunning.”

Bishop was very pleased. A straightforward, simple fight, something he was good at, something that made his blood hot and his young heart pump fast and hard.

He looked back to see Merryn coming down the stone stairs to the great hall, just ahead of Lord Vellan.

So Merryn's grandfather had finally figured out who they were. That was all right. Lady Madelyn then appeared behind her husband, and Bishop saw him turn to speak quietly to her. She nodded slowly, smiled, sent a small wave to him.

Bishop took the sword from Dolan. “Thank you. You are a good man. Do you wish to stay here after your master is buried?”

Dolan stared at him, then slowly nodded. “Aye, my men as well.”

He yelled again, “Well, Fioral? Have your bowels turned to water with fright?”

Suddenly Crispin stepped into the circle formed by all the people in the inner bailey.

He laid his hand on Bishop's sleeve. “Listen, sir, I cannot allow this. It is vicious murder. You cannot protect yourself from him. No, I will not allow it. Give me the sword, old man, and go take your rest yon beneath the apple tree.”

He then whirled about and yelled, “
I
will fight you, Fioral—not this old man who's never done you any harm!”

Now this was unexpected. Bishop raised his hand and laid it on Crispin's shoulder. He said low, “There is no need for your valor, Crispin. It is I, Bishop of Lythe, here to claim what is mine.”

Crispin nearly tripped over his boots, he was so surprised. “My lord,” he said at last. “It is difficult to believe. By all the saints' wedded mothers, I have never in my life seen such a fine performance. It is quite remarkable. You look older than I do.”

And that was quite an accomplishment, Bishop knew. “I thank you, Crispin. For myself, I thought that Merryn's performance was even better.”

“By all the saints' colored rosary beads, that old hag who makes my belly lurch just to look at her is my lady Merryn?”

“Aye. Now take your ease, Crispin. Let me deal with our poacher.”

Fioral's men were ranged behind him. Bishop saw him speaking to a smallish man who looked as tough as a chicken that had survived many a fox. What was that about?

Then Fioral, a big smile on his mouth, strode into the center of the circle, slashing his sword to and fro, so quickly, with such force, that the air seemed to vibrate.

“Well, old man, do you wish to lay your head on that rock by Dolan's foot? I will lop it off so quickly you will feel scarce anything at all. What say you?”

“After I have stuck my sword through your guts, Fioral, I will then smash your head with the rock. What say you to that?”

Fioral gave a mighty roar of laughter and came running, sword held in both hands, drawn high over his head. It would be a mighty blow when that sword came down. Bishop smiled, at his ease, and watched him come. Fioral was strong, his eyes were sharp, no doubt about that, but Fioral believed him harmless, and thus his attention wasn't focused on him, and that was a very big mistake. Bishop smiled, waited. It wasn't, after all, Mawdoor coming at him with a golden wizard's sword.

“Well, old man, will you huddle there shaking inside your old bones until one of my men fetches you out? You see your death coming toward you? Come on, you worthless old braggart, fight me, damn you!”

“All right,” Bishop said. Just as Fioral ran the three final feet to reach him, his sword ready to cleave his head in two, Bishop slid quickly to the side and stuck out his booted foot. Fioral went crashing to the ground just beyond where Bishop had been standing. He was up in an instant, breathing hard, so furious, so surprised, that he couldn't think of anything to say. Ah, Bishop saw, that had gained his full attention. He knew, too, that he'd moved too fast for an old man. Would Fioral realize it?

Fioral realized that the old man was spry. More than that, he was lucky, but there would be no more luck for him. Fioral didn't run at him this time, he slashed his sword up and down, then back and forth, all the while walking steadily toward his ancient prey, who was standing there, leaning lightly on his own sword.

“What's the matter, old man? You stand there like a jousting dummy. You're too weak to lift that sword, aren't you? Come, bend your neck over that rock. I'll make it fast.”

“Come and see how weak I am, sweet lad,” Bishop said, his voice as smooth as newly churned butter. “My, aren't you a brave young fool, so sure of yourself now. Yet weren't you just on the ground, bested by a man older than the mortar in the castle walls? Aye, I stuck out my foot and you landed right on your face.”

Fioral quickened his pace, anger pouring off him in waves. “You will die slowly now, old man.”

Bishop knew Merryn was coming closer, not because he saw her but because he knew her that well. And he felt her.

Bishop concentrated on Fioral, raised his sword at the last moment and brought it down. The two heavy blades clashed hard, ringing loud enough for the sheep grazing beyond the ramparts to hear.

Fioral, surprised, released and pushed back. He didn't wait an instant, came again to pound Bishop's sword. Bishop once again met the blow, twisting his wrist at the last moment, nearly knocking the sword from Fioral's hand.

Fioral couldn't believe this, wouldn't believe it. He was panting, by the saints. The miserable old man had made him—a fine, strong warrior—pant. He yelled, “You bastard, what is this? Aye, I see it now, you have magic in you, don't you, old man? You have evil magic, and you're here to ruin my chances. Damn you, I won't let you! Start praying your way into heaven, you foul old relic!” He sliced his sword down, hard, with great precision, missing Bishop's shoulder by a scant inch.

Bishop knew he was preening, showing off, showing all of them how skilled he was. The result of his arrogance was that he'd nearly gotten Fioral's sword through his heart.

Bishop stood straight now, drawing his shoulders back, and it was he who now ran at Fioral, sword high.

“What is this?” Fioral had only time to speak the words before the old man was on him, a man who wasn't old at all, rather a man as young as he, as skilled as he was.

Their swords clashed loud and hard, making their hands shudder and burn. Bishop came close to Fioral's face, and he was smiling, all his straight white teeth now gleaming in the sun. “You will die because you tried to take what was mine.”

Fioral knew in that instant that it was Bishop of Lythe,
knew that he'd been fooled completely, but it hadn't been his fault. Surely there'd been foul magic at play here brought on by the wretched curse. And that wretched sore on his neck—aye, evil had ground that sore into his flesh. He shouted to the heavens and began to fight with all his might. Bishop pulled back, letting Fioral come to him this time, and he did, screaming, swinging his sword wildly.

Bishop waited until the very last moment. When Fioral raised his sword high, Bishop turned quickly to the side. As the huge sword came down, he slipped his own sword deep into Fioral's chest. The sword went deep, deeper, sliding through his chest and out his back.

Fioral didn't make a sound. He looked at Bishop, then slowly, very slowly, he staggered back, finally falling on his back, the force of it sending the tip of the sword back through his body and nearly dislodging it from his chest.

Bishop heard the people shouting in shock, some in anger, others now cheering wildly.

He was turning toward Merryn, relief pouring through him, when that small man Fioral had spoken to came forward and smiled even as he stabbed Bishop in the chest.

Dolan was on the man in an instant, clamping his arm around his neck, stabbing him and slitting his throat. He threw him to the ground.

“Merryn,” Bishop said, looked down at that knife that was now a part of him, weaved a moment, then very slowly fell to his back onto the ground.

“NO!”

Time seemed to stop. Merryn wasn't aware of anyone else as she ran to him. She had to get to him. The men parted for her. She threw herself onto her knees beside him, saw the blood snaking down his chest, the knife stuck obscenely into his flesh. She didn't hesitate. She pulled out the knife, then slammed both palms on the wound. Blood quickly seeped through her fingers.

She had to press down hard, yes, she could do that, and
she did, with all her strength. But she knew deep down that it was no good, no good at all.

Tears streaked down her face, and she was swallowing, sobbing, aware that people were closing in because she saw their shadows, heard their movement, their words. Oh, God, she had to do something.

She yelled in his face, “You won't die, you miserable sot! You hear me? How dare you get yourself stabbed! I will surely kill you for this.”

She still heard voices, but they were faint and made no sense. Someone was trying to pull her off him, and she yelled, a mad yell that sent the man back.

Suddenly, it was very clear to her what she had to do. She didn't question—she stretched out over him, her heart against his heart, her arms stretched against his arms, her fingertips touching his wrists, her legs against his legs. She felt his blood seeping through her gown, felt it wet her breast. She felt his heartbeat, so faint, growing fainter by the moment.

She pressed her cheek against Bishop's, and felt his blood pumping out his heart.

Old Sarno, leaning over the ramparts, looked down to see the old woman lying flat atop the old man, arms and legs stretched wide to cover him, and there was blood everywhere. It was odd, but in that moment, they didn't look old. They looked very young and somehow different. He shook his head. The sunlight was bright, making him see things. He would later swear that he saw more than just Sir Bishop and Lady Merryn atop him. There were shadows there, hovering over them, sinking into them, becoming one with them. But surely that couldn't be possible, could it?

Bishop opened his eyes, saw her above him. “No,” he said, so dizzy his vision blurred. He could feel the pull of death, hated it, but he wasn't about to let her continue what she was doing. “Get off me, you stupid brave witch. You will not die for me. Get off me, damn you!”

But she didn't, of course. She pressed harder against
him. With all his remaining strength, Bishop managed to lurch up and shove her off him. She rolled onto her back on the ground, stared up at the clear sky, the clouds so white above her.

He fell onto his back again. Merryn saw people coming close now, and when a hand touched her arm, she yelled, “Get away from me, you damned fool! Get away!”

She threw herself on top of him again, her heart against his heart, her fingers tightening their grip on his wrists, her belly flat against his, and in the next instant, she felt his pain flow into her; she welcomed it, knew in some shuttered part of her exactly what was happening. She wondered if she would die. His heartbeat—oh, God, it was fainter, slower.

“Bishop,” she said against his throat, and bit him hard, “don't you dare die, damn you.” And she said it over and over. “Do you hear me, you damned brave fool? You will not die.” He was quiet, so very quiet, too quiet.

Suddenly awful pain smashed through her. She didn't think she could bear it, but there was no choice, she had to bear it or he would die. She gritted her teeth and didn't move. Oh, God, he was so still, she couldn't feel his heart, just his blood, so much blood she was drowning in it, and it was her blood too.

Then, suddenly, Bishop opened his eyes, looked up at her. “You will bear my babe alone. I'm sorry, Merryn, so very sorry. We should have wed. I'm sorry.” His eyes closed.

She closed her mouth over his mouth, breathed in his breath. “You will not die,” she said into his mouth. “Do you hear me, you stupid mortal? You will not die. You are part of me, can't you feel it?”

She felt the brunt of the dreadful pain now pulsing into her, coming from the deepest part of his heart where the knife had entered and lodged. It had hurt before, but not like this. She closed her eyes, seamed her lips together so she wouldn't scream with it. She began shaking as the pain grew and grew. Oh, God, she felt his blood, her
blood, and they were one now, and it was too much, simply too much.