It was as if a pall were hanging over the land, as if the Penwyth curse had burrowed into the earth itself. The ground wasn’t just dry, it was baked. Every rock, every bush, every tree had a thick layer of dust covering it.
Not good, he thought. A keep had to have farming, gardens, and orchards in order to survive, particularly out here at the very rump of England’s shores.
Something of a wild, harsh place at the best of times, the far west of Cornwall was, at the moment, a miserable hot baked hell. He wondered if King Edward had known this.
They came over a small rise, and there it was—Penwyth. Built during the reign of Richard Coeur de Lion, Penwyth dominated the land, a squat giant’s fist with thick outer walls. It brooded, its shadow nearly touching the small town of Penwyth that lay just to the east of the huge castle. It was built on a slope of land that gave a fine vantage in all directions. The gray stone walls looked dry too.
Bishop slowed Fearless as he looked up at Penwyth’s walls. His eleven men arranged themselves in formation behind him, their lances held upright in their left hands, their shields in their right hands, alert and ready for a fight. He knew they were scared, which was a good thing, since they needed all their wits about them.
He saw only five soldiers atop the Penwyth ramparts. That made no sense. On the other hand, four other knights had taken Penwyth without an arrow being shot.
Well, he wasn’t leading an army. That would be obvious to the meanest brain. Let the five soldiers look down upon them, let them be certain that there were no other possible enemies hiding behind him and his eleven men. Although he didn’t know where additional soldiers would hide. There weren’t many trees around the castle.
The castle was well fortified, the moat was deep, but it was empty now because of the drought, and the drawbridge was winched up tight. There were four round towers, each a good forty feet tall. He couldn’t see any soldiers in those watchtowers. This was passing strange.
He pulled Fearless to a halt at the edge of the moat and yelled, “I am Sir Bishop of Lythe. I have been sent by King Edward. I mean no harm to any of you. Let me and my men enter so you may hear the king’s command.”
A helmeted head disappeared. Time passed. A hot, dry wind blew that carried fine dirt to film the skin and find its way into every crevice of a man’s body.
His master-at-arms, Dumas, said from behind his right elbow, “I swear, Bishop, that I saw some gray hair flowing from beneath one of those helmets. What is this place?”
“I hope we will find out without any of us dying in the process.”
At last an old man appeared on the ramparts and called out, his hands cupping his mouth, “I am Lord Vellan de Gay. You say you are Bishop of Lythe. I have never heard of you. How do I know that you are come from the king?”
“I cannot very well overrun your castle, Lord Vellan,” Bishop called out, head thrown back. He’d removed his helmet, and now felt the hot breeze dry the sweat on his face. “I have only eleven men with me. You can see that there are no rocks or trees for other soldiers to hide behind. Surely you can risk allowing me to enter Penwyth. I swear on God’s holy brow that I mean no harm. I am merely the king’s messenger.”
Lord Vellan stood there, his thick gray hair, grown halfway down his back, lifted off his forehead by the hot wind. Bishop wished he could see his face, but he wasn’t close enough and there was too much hair whipping about the old man’s head, mixing with the long beard.
Lord Vellan said no more. In the next moment, the mighty winches ground harsh and loud, and the heavy wooden drawbridge began its slow descent over the dry moat.
Once down, the portcullis was raised. Bishop nodded to his men and lightly touched his spurs to Fearless’s sides. Suddenly his destrier jerked back on the reins, tossed his head, and whinnied loudly.
To Bishop’s surprise, there was a loud answering whinny. That was all he needed, to have a mare in season anywhere around Fearless, the most able and willing stallion in the kingdom. He should have had Fearless gelded, but he liked him tough as a soldier’s boot and mean as a viper.
He led his men beneath the portcullis, looking up fo
r a moment, to see the thick, sharp iron spear points directly above his head, which, if released, could cleave a man in two. He realized in that moment that this was his holding—or would be when Lord Vellan went to his rewards. Aye, it was his portcullis, his drawbridge, his empty moat.
He passed through the outer bailey, then through the open gates into the inner bailey, letting all the sounds fill his head. The smith’s hammering sounded like booming thunder. But just below it were dogs barking wildly, children screaming, and adults laughing and yelling. When he and his men rode into the inner bailey, silence fell, the smith’s hammering went quiet, even the animals stopped their racket.
Bishop knew what they were seeing. The soon-to-be fifth husband, the soon-to-be dead fifth husband, and they wondered how he would die. No, that wasn’t going to happen. He was smiling when at last he pulled Fearless to a halt not half a dozen paces from the deep stone steps leading up to the great hall.
He looked at the old man standing there, a sword hanging almost to the ground, fastened to a wide leather belt that cut him nearly in half. Tucked into that thick belt was the pointed end of his long gray beard.
Here stood more pride than in Bishop’s own father, a harsh man who’d had more honor than a man should have.
Bishop said, “Lord Vellan. I am Bishop of Lythe, here as a representative from our king.”
From behind the old man came a girl’s voice, not high and fluttery but sharp, filled with suspicion. “A bishop, Grandfather? He expects us to believe that the king sent us a churchman?”
Was this the girl who possibly had no bosom and no rabbit’s teeth and a nice chin? And beautiful red hair?
“You have misreckoned my name,” he said mildly.
She stepped from behind her grandfather, this girl he was to wed, this girl who would be his damned wife until he shucked off his mortal coil. She wasn’t smiling, so he couldn’t tell about her teeth. It was a good chin, raised too high at the moment, and stubborn. There was distrust seamed into what was possibly a nice mouth, but distrust, in this case doubtless laden with fear, hid all sorts of things.
“You say your name is the Bishop of Lythe. You are obviously a churchman. Why has the king sent us a churchman? Does the king wish you to exhort Grandfather, to tell him he will go to hell if he continues to insist that I, his granddaughter, a female, and thus of no value at all in the Church’s eyes, not be made his heir?”