The Penwyth Curse (Medieval Song 6)

“Have you long known the churchman here?”

“Aye, my lady, since he was an unripe lad of seventeen summers.”

Merryn looked back at Bishop. “I see he has outgrown his unripeness.” Actually, since she wasn’t blind, there was absolutely nothing at all unripe about him. He was well made, looked to be as strong as Prince, her grandfather’s most vicious wolfhound, his muscles stark and hard. His hair was thick, richly black, his eyes dark, dark blue, and that damned face of his was finely hewn, his cheekbones all sharp, and his mouth—no, she wouldn’t look at his mouth because his mouth made her feel some very strange sorts of things. He was magnificent, truth be told, and he probably knew it. He’d probably had maids swooning all over him since he’d reached an age to have that mouth kissing and those muscles flexing. Even his teeth were straight and white. Surely there had to be something ugly about him, but she didn’t see anything. She would have to look more closely.

Merryn forced herself to look away from him. She sipped at her wine, waiting for her grandfather to read the king’s writ.

Lord Vellan didn’t say anything. Evidently, she thought as she turned toward him, he wasn’t through studying this man who claimed it would rain, this man who claimed he was a man of science, a man who understood things that mortals couldn’t begin to comprehend.

A man who was a wizard.

A wizard.

Surely there was no such thing anymore than there were still witches roaming the caves hereabouts. The Witches of Byrne were so few now that no one ever saw them.

Lord Vellan sliced off a hunk of cheese from a huge wheel that one of the servants held in front of him on a big wooden platter, then slipped his knife back into the sheath at his belt. He frowned as he chewed, and Bishop wondered why he ate it if he disliked it. He cleared his throat, and at last he said, “Sir Bishop, give me the writ.”

Bishop pulled the rolled parchment from his tunic and handed it to the old man. His veined, gnarly hands trembled a bit as he unrolled it, but unlike his hands, Lord Vellan’s hair was thick and healthy, albeit gray as a thick morning fog. Bishop couldn’t get over how the tip of that long, long beard of his, tucked beneath his belt. How old was he? Surely he was somewhat older than the dirt in the inner bailey.

Bishop said suddenly, “I was only a boy at the time, but I met your son, Sir Thomas de Gay. He was a fine man. I was very sorry to hear that he had died in the king’s Windsor tourney four years ago.”

Merryn went utterly still. She didn’t say a word, just waited. He’d met her father? She felt a jerk of pain. She could no longer picture her father’s face.

Lord Vellan said, “My son should have remained at home. But men revel in violence, they seek it out to test themselves, only there was no need for him to do so. He was not as lucky as his father. He should have stayed at home, but he didn’t and was done in.” He handed Merryn the fine parchment.

Bishop’s mouth dropped open. “Why do you give it to her? She is a girl. She has no idea what mean those marks on the paper. She hasn’t—”

He shut up when wine splashed against his face. He couldn’t believe it. He was a visitor, a guest—a wizard—and the lady of the keep had thrown her wine at him. And all he’d said—

She was frightened, embarrassed, and scared. He saw all of it clearly on her face. He could read her more easily than he’d ever read a parchment. She said, “I acted without proper thought. I accept it as a fault. If you are really a wizard, then will you strike me down?”

He slowly wiped the wine off his face with his sleeve. He looked at her as if she were naught of anything, and he was pleased when she stiffened up and said, “I read better than you do,” but in truth, she really couldn’t. She still had to sound out many words when she saw them, but she wasn’t about to let him know that. She backed away from him and studied the parchment. Thanks be to all the precious martyrs’ shinbones, she could make out most of it. She raised her head and smiled sweetly at him. It was a nice smile, he thought, albeit as false as a minstrel’s tales. “Forgive me for throwing my wine at you, Sir Bishop. It was rude and I most sincerely and humbly apologize for it. I thank you for not striking me down.”

“Your apology is about as sincere as your desire for another husband, my lady. You make it just because you’re afraid that I will indeed strike you down. I am tempted, so you will mind your tongue and swallow your rudeness.”

“Of course I don’t want you to strike me down. I am not stupid, nor am I rude. For the most part.”

Bishop heard his men, to the man, sigh with relief. He knew they were praying that he wouldn’t take offense, that he wouldn’t rise up and throw the female into the rushes, and then fall over dead from the curse. After all, they might be included.

He smiled at her, not at all a nice smile. “Do tell me what you think of the writ, my lady. Do you agree with the king’s bidding?”

“It is my grandfather’s opinion that is important here,” she said, and he hated it that she’d so easily slipped out of the mild humiliation he’d planned for her. A woman reading, it was ridiculous. Why, he had only learned to read because Lord Lisenthorpe had a brother who was a monk and revered such things. He hadn’t liked learning it, but now he appreciated actually being able to read a bill of sale or a contract, or a keep’s records. It was true that a man who couldn’t read could be easily cheated.

“Aye,” he said, unwilling to give it up just yet, “but it appears that Lord Vellan gives you great latitude. He must think your brain holds less air than most ladies? The king said that your grandfather has petitioned many times for you to be made his heir, Baroness Penwyth. Mayhap if you’d told the king you could read, he might have granted it.” Then he gave her an evil smile. “Although I doubt it. A woman who can read is something akin to a duck who can sing.”

He thought she would burst with rage, and he felt the sweet warmth of it all the way to his belly. He also thought it a good thing that she didn’t have any wine close at hand.

But she didn’t burst. She stood there as still as a warrior’s pennant on a windless day. She showed control, and that was important, particularly since he would be her hu

sband. After a moment, she said, “It is something the king should do. He should trust my grandfather’s judgment.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Bishop said, unable to help himself. “The king would sooner give a sheep into the tender keeping of a wolf than allow a holding of strategic importance deeded into a woman’s hands. It is nonsense.” He realized, of course, that he was gravely insulting Lord Vellan along with his witch of a granddaughter, and he hastened to add, “I doubt not your good intentions, my lord, but Penwyth must be held by a strong man, a warrior with experience.”

“You are not old enough to have much experience.”

“I have more experience than my years could expect. Now, I remarked that many of your men-at-arms—at the least the five who are standing against the wall over there—are nearing advanced years. And that is why, is it not, that you had to give over your castle to the four marauders?”

Surprisingly, Lord Vellan laughed. “You will meet my men soon, Sir Bishop. Right now they are guarding me and Merryn, all their attention focused on you. They aren’t nearing advanced years, they have long since gained their advanced years. They cannot fight like the wily young rats they used to be, but they can still think and give me good counsel. They are still healthy, and fit enough.”