The Penwyth Curse (Medieval Song 6)

“Mayhap,” Dienwald said. “Lord Vellan is known for being a crafty old buzzard.”

Bishop said, “I think it’s more likely that there was a vague sort of curse that came down from the Druids. Then it got woven into the beliefs of the Witches of Byrne. Mayhap it is the witches who turned it into a specific deadly curse. Doesn’t that make more sense? At least there are still some witches about, aren’t there?”

“Aye,” Philippa said. “I’ve heard that the Witches of Byrne still cleave to their caves near the Boswednack forest. They don’t like to be seen.”

“I don’t know, Bishop,” Dienwald said. “Your idea is possible. I should like to know how each of the four men died.”

“That’s a splendid idea, Dienwald. Surely their manner of death would prove either a curse or poison,” Philippa said.

Bishop said, rubbing his hands through his hair, “By Saint Egbert’s shinbones, I don’t know how each died. But I must find the answer. I tell you, Dienwald, I would be slapping myself on the back for my good fortune if it were not for the bloody curse.” Another sigh, then he said, “Robert Burnell told me Penwyth is a neat holding, nothing grand like Wolffeton or St. Erth, but it has strategic importance.”

“Aye,” Dienwald said, “that is true. Hmmm. This teases my brain, Bishop. The king has given you the witch and Penwyth. Edward must have great faith in you.”

“So now she’s a witch?” Bishop said, and felt the very nice lamb he just chewed fall in a knot to the bottom of his belly. “A witch? By all the saints’ swollen bellies, before, she had a chin and good teeth and beautiful red hair. And now you can call her a witch?”

“My husband is amusing himself,” Philippa said. “Merryn isn’t a witch. At least I don’t think she is. She’s no longer a child. She was first wed when she was only fourteen; at least that is the legend that has grown up about it. The fact is, I’ve never seen her, and my lord here has seen her but once, two years ago, so you must give all his fine descriptions their proper weight.”

Dienwald said, “Be quiet, wench. I feel things, deduce all sorts of brilliant conclusions from the barest of facts. Now, I can see from your face, Bishop, that you have no intention of riding up to Penwyth’s walls and announcing yourself as the fifth husband. I have always believed you clever—at least I’ve believed it since you saved my Philippa. Come, tell us what you will do.”

And Bishop sat forward and said, “All right, I’ll tell you.”

An hour later, after Bishop had once again admired the small twin boys Philippa had birthed and lightly touched his fingertips to little Eleanor’s chin, he slept well in a narrow bed with a single window that gave onto the beautiful, still spring night and the rolling Cornish hills.

Before he left the following morning to ride the twenty-five miles to Penwyth, he thanked his host and told him, “I am not too young to be wed, but I am far too young to die trying.”

Dienwald said, “Don’t whine, Bishop. I was first wed when I had but eighteen years on this sweet earth. Since Edmund was the result, now I am glad of it. But you’re right. If a man must die, he deserves at least a decent wedding night.”

He yelled to his fool, Crooky, who was lying in the rushes, chewing on a bit of cheese. “Well, dimwit, sing a moving song for Sir Bishop of Lythe, who is now also Baron Penwyth. Aye, sing to the man who will battle ancient priests and curses.”

Crooky quickly swallowed the cheese, pulled himself up to his full height, which brought him to Bishop’s armpit, and bellowed to the rafters,

“The pretty knight goes a-wooing.

He hopes he won’t be fried.

Be she a witch? Be she a blight?

He hopes he’ll know afore he’s died.”

“That was miserable,” Dienwald said and kicked his fool in the ribs, sending him on a well-practiced roll through the sweet-smelling rushes. “A man isn’t fried, you codsbreath—well, if not fried, it’s true that a man can be boiled. I saw that happen once. It fair to curdled my guts. Philippa, what say you? Is frying acceptable?”

Philippa said, “It wasn’t all that good an effort, my lord. Shall I kick him as well?”

“Nay,” Dienwald said. “Nay, I hoved in his ribs and he did his roll, and did it well.”

“I’d rather be kicked by an almost-royal princess,” Crooky said, and gave a deep bow to Philippa. “The master has hard toes.”

“The last time she kicked you,” Dienwald said, “she nearly knocked your ribs out your back.”

“Sir Bishop,” Crooky said, bowing low, “I wish you Godspeed and I will strive to adjust my rhymes more pleasingly when you are next here. If you are next here. I wonder, can a knight be baked?”

Bishop wanted to kick the fool himself.

4

Penwyth Castle, Cornwall

THE CLOSER BISHOP DREW to Penwyth, the drier it became, which was odd, because from all he’d been told, from all he himself had seen, there should be as much rain in Cornwall as anywhere else in England, and there was more rain in the rest of England than most folk could bear.