Bishop was still smiling. “In that case I will leave you to wonder, though it will tax your few wits.”
He saw that she couldn’t think of anything worthy to say back to him. He could see every feeling on her face. He imagined she was a bad liar. That face of hers, it was an uncommonly interesting face, not really beautiful but fine-boned, vivid, strong, the mouth full. And her eyes, incredible eyes, were just as the curse had said—as green as desire. He felt a bolt of lust looking at her eyes. Not a bad thing, since he was going to wed her, but it was a surprise. To be suddenly as hard as the stones in the mammoth fireplace, it wasn’t a common occurrence.
But it was true. He’d gotten hard just looking at her eyes. He realized he’d like to see that red hair of hers brushed out of the tight braids to hang loose and free about her face and shoulders. Wicked as sin? He’d surely find out. He smiled even bigger. If he didn’t die, why, then, things were looking up.
“Ha!” said Merryn, and knew it wasn’t worth anything. No way around it, he’d bested her. She said on a sigh, “All right, Sir Bishop, I am listening. What is better than another dead husband?”
Bishop merely shook his head. “Perhaps when you have learned some manners, perhaps when you can bring yourself to entreat me in a sweet, submissive voice, I will tell you.”
“We will all grow old if we wait for a show of submissiveness from my granddaughter,” Lord Vellan said.
“You are already old, Grandfather.”
“I am beyond old, Merryn. Now, I entreat you, Sir Bishop. What is your good news?”
Bishop stared at Merryn.
“Very well, what is this ridiculous news?”
“It is going to rain.”
Lord Vellan was shaking his head, back and forth. “Rain? You make that prediction? No man can predict such a thing.”
“You will see,” Bishop said.
Merryn said something under her breath that he couldn’t make out, then she said aloud, “Sit down, Sir Bishop.” Once he was seated, she rose to pour some wine for him into a lovely heavy pewter goblet. “You actually claim to predict that it will rain? Do you have a closer knowledge of the Witches of Byrne or the Druid priests, Sir Bishop? Are you in truth a wizard? It was not just a lame jest?”
“I have told you that is said of me.” The virtues of lying cleanly and fluently, Bishop thought, remembering the lessons of his two elder brothers, two of the best liars in England. “As for the rain, the fact is that I can smell the rain coming in the air, I have always smelled it, even as a child.” Bishop tapped the side of his nose. “And it has never left me. It will probably rain tomorrow, or the next day at the latest.”
She snorted.
“How do you do it, Sir Bishop?” asked Lord Vellan. “From whence did this gift come?”
Bishop said, “Perhaps from my grandmother. When I was a small boy, I heard my mother speak about my grandmother being able to do inexplicable things.” He shrugged. “I suppose you’re right, that it is a gift of sorts, this foreknowledge of the rain.” He saw the naked hope on Lord Vellan’s face, the stark disbelief on Merryn’s face. Of course they didn’t believe him. Why would they? He’d just walked into their lives, claimed he was a wizard, and now he was predicting rain for this rain-starved land. At least he wasn’t lying about that. Predicting the rain—he’d first done it when he was but three years old.
Bishop listened to the servants and soldiers speaking behind him, and he raised his goblet. He eyed Lord Vellan as the girl poured him wine from the same carafe. Still, he was afraid to taste the wine, hated that he was afraid, but knew it was that simple, and that the damned witch saw the fear on his face.
She laughed, grabbed his goblet, and took a healthy swig. She wiped her mouth with her hand and set the goblet back down in front of him. “Since you have not forced your way in here and forced me to wed you, you are quite safe from the ancient curse.” She paused a moment, then frowned, a studied frown meant to enrage him. “At least for the moment. Who knows with ancient curses? Maybe confusion arises after centuries of moldering.” And the witch actually laughed.
Lord Vellan raised his own goblet. “If it rains, I will be in your debt, Sir Bishop. All of Penwyth will be in your debt.” He gave a quick look toward his granddaughter. Was that a threat toward that red-haired witch in his old eyes?
Bishop was pleased, thinking it only right that all his future people be in debt to him. It was a very good feeling. He called out, “Bless God and all his armies of angels,” and wondered where that salutation had come from as he tipped back the goblet and drank deep. He was expecting something vile, but the wine was excellent. He e
ven licked a drop off the rim of the goblet. If it was poisoned, he certainly couldn’t tell. In any case, it was now too late for both of them, since his future wife had been his taster. He drank the rest of the wine, looking her right in the face as he drank it down. He had no choice, for she was staring back at him—a sneer and a dare in her eyes.
He heard his men speaking quietly behind him, knew they were watching him drink, believing him a fool. He couldn’t blame them. He’d gone into battle with more confidence than he’d drunk a single goblet of wine, served him by a witch who was watching him with a heavy sneer, a witch who should have had tangled black hair and a black tooth or two, but instead had neat braids wound around her head in a sort of plaited crown. That hair—it was as red as a drunkard’s nose, mayhap as red as an Irish sunset, mayhap a wicked red. As for her teeth, they were straight and very white. Very well, he supposed that she could have something pleasant about her, he just wasn’t aware of it yet.
He allowed her to pour more wine into his goblet, knowing that she was enjoying every moment of it. Then he raised the goblet toward his men, toasting them, “Drink up, lads. It is a tasty grape.”
“They don’t have wine, Sir Bishop. They have ale, made here in our own alehouse. Nay, sirs,” she said to his men now, who looked ill at ease, all of them sitting on the edge of the wooden benches, ready to bolt—all except Dumas, who looked ready to strangle her if need be. She said to him, “The ale is the best in all of Cornwall. It is my mother’s recipe.”
Dumas cleared his throat. “My lady, if you would be so kind, we would all prefer sweet water from your castle well.”
She laughed, the witch actually laughed at his stout, brave men, after she had nearly scared them out of their tunics. What gall.
“What is your name, sir?”
“I am Dumas, my lady.”