The Penwyth Curse (Medieval Song 6)

Bishop embraced Dienwald, then walked to Philippa, looked at the little boy she’d waved at him, and said, “Now, are you Nicholas?”

“This one is Nicholas,” Philippa, waving the other little boy, who looked perfectly content. “This is Edward.”

Bishop would have liked to embrace Philippa as well. Indeed, he took a step toward her, but Dienwald beetled his brows, and Bishop merely bowed, lightly stroking her hand that was around the belly of the little boy Nicholas. “You go well, I see, my lady,” he said, and when she laughed that lovely deep rich laugh of hers, he smiled.

“What happened? You did see the king, didn’t you?”

“Aye, I did.”

Philippa said, “I heard you ask for Dienwald’s advice. Surely you would prefer mine?”

Bishop, no fool, said, “I can use all the advice offered, for it is possible that your father the king has handed me over a beautiful plate of food that could prove quite rotten.”

“Aye,” Dienwald said, “but you’re smiling. I don’t believe this gift of the king’s gnaws at you overmuch.” He ran his fingers through his hair, nice thick hair that his bountiful wife liked to stroke while she was kissing him and nibbling on his ear. “Did you stop at Wolffeton to meet with Lord Graelam?”

“No, the king told me I must make haste,” Bishop said. “Also, I couldn’t be certain of my welcome.”

“He would have welcomed you well enough,” Dienwald said. “I suppose I must add that Graelam is a decent warrior. If he says he will do something, consider it done. Most important, he can also lie and cheat and steal quite well, but still he is not as good at it as I am.”

“No one can lie and cheat and steal like my husband,” Philippa said, and gave him one of the boys. She grinned up at Bishop. “Come and have some wine, and tell us what has happened.”

Dienwald said, as he tossed his son into the air—Bishop wasn’t certain which son it was—“As for Graelam’s wife, Lady Kassia, she is a princess among women.” Dienwald brought the little boy back under his arm, sighed and laid his hand on his breast, fluttered his eyes heavenward, then sighed again. “Unlike Philippa here, who would offer you but a single goblet of wine, I daresay Kassia would have given you the keys to her lord husband’s cellars.”

Philippa punched her husband’s arm, hard. “Speak not too sweetly about the little princess. I am the princess, not she.”

“You are my big wench,” Dienwald said, gave her a fond smile, and took the other babe. “Where is my little Eleanor? I wish Bishop to look at the most beautiful girl child in all of England.”

“He can admire her in due time, husband. Now, Bishop, my lord is mightily pleased that you saved me, even after three years of living with me and watching me waddle about with Eleanor and then our two boys in my belly. He claims that he very nearly did not survive when I was birthing them. He accused me of trying to kill him with guilt since it took so very long. Now, although he doesn’t usually do this, he is apparently willing to give you some of his precious stash of wine.”

Bishop said, looking around, “Where is your son Edmund, Dienwald?”

“He fosters with Lord Graelam.” Dienwald shook his head and snorted. “I saw the lad a fortnight ago. All he could speak about was the mightiness of Lord Graelam’s arm, his wisdom in settling disagreements. I tell you, it fair to burned out my gut.”

Edmund, Dienwald’s son by his first wife, was now nearly eleven years old. Time passed so very swiftly. Dienwald handed the small boys to Bishop, grabbed a fistful of his wife’s curly hair, pulled her face close and kissed her once, twice, big loud smacking kisses. He raised his head, laughed, and said, “It is time to fill our bellies, wench, see to it.”

Philippa laughed as she called to the servants to fetch food and drink. Bishop carried in the St. Erth twins, who settled nicely on his forearms.

When only bones remained on the trestle tables, Philippa, her riotous head of hair confined beneath a lovely silver snood, said, “The time has come, Bishop. What has happened?”

“I am the new Baron Penwyth. The king has also given me Merryn de Gay to wed.”

Dienwald, who’d been sipping from his goblet, choked and spewed out wine. “By all the saints’ leftover bones, that’s not good, Bishop. Well, it is, but it’s scary, what with the damned curse.”

Philippa leaned forward and slapped her husband on the back, the force of it nearly driving him into his trencher. “She’s been widowed four times, Bishop. My father wants you to be the fifth sacrifice? Something is very wrong here.”

Bishop settled back in his chair, his own goblet of sweet red wine in one hand, and told them about the meeting with the king.

“So my blessed father-in-law has made you Penwyth’s heir. You will wed Merryn. Don’t frown, Bishop. She doesn’t have rabbit’s teeth, rest easy. Hmmm. I like it, but not that you could die to gain it, and then, of course, it would be no gain at all.”

“No gain! No gain!

Sweet Bishop must wed,

But what will he have?

No gain! No gain! Just pain.

Lots and lots of very bad pain.”