The Penwyth Curse (Medieval Song 6)

Maiden’s hair, a wicked red

Any who force her will soon be dead.”

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.”