The Penwyth Curse (Medieval Song 6)

She was still as a stone.

Good. It was an excellent threat, although not a particularly believable one. Bishop slowly pulled her back up. Her gown came up and his mouth was not more than two inches from a very white thigh. He smelled her flesh and he was instantly hard. Damnation. He was a man. There were just some things he could not control. But it didn’t matter. He was set on his course now. He would bring peace back to Penwyth. He would learn the truth, and he would kiss that leg of hers as soon as he got her out of the great hall.

It was Dumas who stopped him before he reached the stables. “Bishop,” he said, knowing she could hear him, “you must have supplies and protection from the rains when they come. You need protection as well. The men and I will come with you.”

“I thank you, Dumas,” Bishop said. “But I want you and our men to remain here. Bring supplies to the stable and my tent.”

She reared up again, yelling, “You fool, let me go. This is madness. I don’t want to drown in a rain that will never come because you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He slapped her bottom again. “No, the madness is right here at Penwyth. What I do is the only sane course open to me. I am taking one witch from Penwyth. Or perhaps I will not, if you but tell me the truth.”

“There is no truth! There is only the damned curse. It is what it is. There is no more. My grandfather knows more than anyone. If he doesn’t choose to tell you everything, it is his affair. Now let me down.”

“Then he will have to find us and tell me before I will consider bringing you out of the rain. I hope you like rain, Merryn, for I do plan to tie you down and let you drown in it.”

Not another word out of her mouth. This was better, he thought, and smiled. When he rode out on Fearless a short time later, the sound of her mare’s whinny following them, Merryn on her belly across his legs, and supplies and his tent lashed down behind him, he realized that if he did tie her down in the rain, he could kill her. Lying under an endless torrent of rain would likely send her to her just rewards.

Just what those just rewards were, he didn’t know.

“My belly is cramping.”

“Shut your mouth. We have left Penwyth. If you can, look back. The ramparts are lined with old faces, including your grandfather’s. The servants are likely alone in the great hall, eating all of Beelzebub’s cheese, possibly wondering how you will look with rain choking you.”

“You can’t mean to drown me. Ha, do you hear me? Ha! There will be no rain. It’s a drought, you fool. It hasn’t rained in months. I will not drown, I will die of dry air in my throat.”

“Now wouldn’t that be a sight.”

“So you admit that there’s nothing to your prediction?”

“You will see, as will everyone else.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Be quiet.”

“But I—”

He smacked his palm against her bottom.

She yelled, then didn’t say another word.

He began whistling. It covered the sound of her harsh breathing. He looked up at the beautiful night, the stars filling the sky, the moon a narrow scythe, yet giving off plenty of light. It was warm, the air soft on the flesh. Was there really rain waiting somewhere in all that vastness? He knew there was, knew the rain would be here soon. Before, this gift hadn’t been of any great importance to anyone. But it was now. Mayhap he really was a wizard and this was a bit of proof.

Bishop thought about the Penwyth drought. He doubted that keeping the curse potent had overtaxed the Witches of Byrne or the shadows of the ancient Druid priests. It was simply nature herself that had brought the harsh, dry winds that baked the earth around Penwyth.

She was gagging.

He didn’t hesitate, pulled her quickly up to sit in front of him.

“That was wise,” she said after a good dozen deep breaths. “I would have puked on your boots.”

“I wonder what I would have done?”

“Would you beat me again?”

“I didn’t beat you. Don’t exaggerate your plight.”

“Where are you taking me?”