The Penwyth Curse (Medieval Song 6)

“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 m

outh.

2

Present

London

May 3, 1278

KING 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.