The Penwyth Curse (Medieval Song 6)

“You sound like you know exactly where you’re going.”

“Oddly enough, I do.”

“I have a friend, Roland de Tourney, who lives that way. If you have need of any assistance, stop at Chitterley. He’ll help you.”

“Thank you.” Bishop plowed his fingers through his hair. “Nothing is as I expected it to be. And now I’m off and I know where I’m going, but none of it makes any sense.” Then the words just leapt out of his mouth. “Dienwald, do you believe me capable of magic?”

Dienwald didn’t laugh. He looked out over his great hall. He saw Margot scrubbing one of the trestle tables. Gorkel was picking small sprigs of rosemary out of the rushes on the floor, whistling through the space between his large front teeth, then popping the sprigs into his mouth.

Dienwald didn’t like such bald talk that smacked of things unknown and powers that could easily plow down a mortal man. He sighed as he laid his hand on Bishop’s shoulder. “Aye,” he said. “I believe that, but I don’t like it.”

Bishop closed his eyes a moment, shadowy images racing through his brain through a haze of red. Why red? He said, “Why do you believe it?”

“When you saved Philippa,” Dienwald said slowly, still looking out over the great hall, “she told me there was simply no way you could have known that the leader of those bandits was holding a dagger against her side. No way at all. Yet, somehow, you did know.”

Bishop had forgotten that. It was true that sometimes he simply knew things, saw them in his mind’s eye, but that wasn’t unusual. That was just a warrior’s training based on what he knew of other men and how they fought.

He said, “Mayhap it wasn’t really like that, mayhap it was something as simple as realizing that I had to go very carefully, that if I didn’t slit the man’s throat quickly he’d have warning, and then he would—” Bishop shrugged.

“You knew something bad would happen, is that it, Bishop?”

“Aye.”

Dienwald turned to face him. “This has happened to you before, hasn’t it? You have this sense, this awareness, when something isn’t right?”

“There’s nothing mysterious about it. You know that in battle you simply know what to do. Don’t assign such mystical knowledge to me. My wizard role for Penwyth—that’s all it was, as you well know, a role, so I could intimidate and frighten off anyone who would try to kill me. I’m nothing more than a man, just a man, just like al

l other men.”

“Aye, sometimes that’s true,” Dienwald said slowly, then gave him a long look. He grabbed Bishop’s forearm, shook him. “Listen to me. This damnable curse. There are forces at work here, forces neither you nor I can begin to understand. I will be honest with you. I had firmly believed a poisoner was at work at Penwyth, probably Lord Vellan, the villainous old sod, and that’s why I thought your wizard role was a good one. As for Lord Vellan, by God, you wouldn’t believe the things he’s done over the years. Well, not that I’ve seen any—I was too young. Ah, but the stories that still float about. Lord Vellan is and was ruthless, without mercy. It is said that the only one who could ever control him was his mother-in-law. I don’t understand that, but there it is. Did the old man poison the four husbands? I don’t know.

“Listen, Bishop, whatever you are planning to do with the girl, you must not trust her.”

“No,” Bishop said slowly, “you are right. It isn’t poison. It is quite something else, and that something else is somehow pushing me to go. And do what? I don’t know, but I must go and I must have her with me. No, I don’t trust Merryn. I’m not that great a fool. There are not more than three females I would ever trust.”

“I am afraid to ask you their names.”

“Good, just know that Philippa is one of them. She is full-hearted, Dienwald. A joy.”

“Aye, full-hearted.” He grinned, a laugh rumbled deep in his chest. “Aye, that’s my wench.”

An hour later, fed, clean, and garbed in their hosts’ clothes, Bishop and Merryn rode out on Fearless.

The sun was lowering in the afternoon sky, the air was cooler now, but just as sweet.

Merryn said, “I’ve decided that Fearless is an excellent horse. I will let him mate with Lockley.”

“He will doubtless be pleased.”

“Where are we going, Bishop?”

He said nothing, merely looked between Fearless’s ears. He started whistling.

“It is already late. Why did you not wish to remain at St. Erth for the night?”

He whistled louder.

She slumped back against him. The silence stretched long between them. She heard birds in the yew bushes as they rode past, some taking flight, fanning black across the blue sky. She saw a single huge stone sitting in the middle of a field. “How long will it take us to get where we’re going?”