The Penwyth Curse (Medieval Song 6)

Ten minutes later, Lord Vellan climbed the ladder behind Crispin, ready to catch him, for Crispin’s balance wasn’t all that good anymore. Both men were panting by the time they reached the top of the ramparts. Lord Vellan looked down at the bald-headed man who’d just pulled off his war helmet. The man looked up. Lord Vellan knew when a man was determined, and this one was. He was young, and like all young men Vellan had known, he believed himself invincible. Vellan said to Crispin, “This isn’t good.” He yelled down, “Who are you and what do you want?”

The man smiled, showing very white teeth, a full mouth of them, someth

ing Vellan hadn’t seen in his own mouth or any of his men’s mouths for many a long year. “Old man, I have come to claim Penwyth. I have come to wed the heiress.”

“If you take my castle, you will die.”

The man threw back his head and laughed loudly. The men behind him looked uncertain, then slowly each man began to laugh. It was a pathetic effort. Lord Vellan could see that they weren’t nearly as convinced of their master’s invincibility as he was himself. The man waved his hand, covered with black gauntlets that went up nearly to his elbows. His tunic was black, as was the rest of his garb. What affectation was this?

The man shouted, “Just look, it is as I was told. All those ancient old sods wearing chain mail, helmets covering their gray heads, none of them strong enough to fight off a frail woman. Aye, Lord Vellan, I have heard of the four husbands, how all of them died right after wedding your precious granddaughter.”

“Aye, all of them did. Are you mad that you want to be the fifth one?”

“I won’t die. You have a strange poison, all realize that now, despite the wild tales carried around by these husbands’ former soldiers. Aye, I’ve heard some of their tales. They speak of witches flying over their heads, flinging black smoke into their eyes, and strange white-garbed priests grabbing throats and choking the husbands to death. I’ve even heard that the devil himself strode in to stomp the husbands beneath his cloven hooves. Aye, there are all sorts of stories, but they would frighten only boys, not men.

“Aye, I know it is poison, for it could be nothing else. This curse of yours, it offends a warrior’s brain. I won’t touch the food you give me for my wedding feast. Bring your granddaughter. I would see her.”

“The fourth husband didn’t eat,” Lord Vellan said. “And he died as well. Just fell over dead.”

“That is a lie I refuse to believe.”

“She is to wed Sir Bishop of Lythe, sent by King Edward himself.”

He was silent, but just for a moment. “I have not heard of this, and thus it is a lie as well. Let me and my men in, old man, before we scale the walls and smite all the old warriors down. Think you they could do anything more than heave great curses at us?”

Likely not, Lord Vellan thought. He said, “Who are you? Where do you come from?”

“I am Fioral of Grandere Glen, here to claim my inheritance.”

“I have never heard of you. What is Grandere Glen?”

“It lies near the mouth of the great Loch Ness, in Scotland. I am a second son and thus must make my own way. Let us in, old man, or I will kill everyone in this keep.”

Lord Vellan knew there was no hope for it. He shouted down to Fioral of Grandere Glen, “Listen, Sir Bishop of Lythe took my granddaughter to”—oh, God, where did Bishop take Merryn?—“Aye, Sir Bishop took her to the earl of St. Erth. Since she is not here, you cannot wed her.”

Fioral cursed. The old man was lying, he had to be lying. Who the devil was this Bishop of Lythe? Here by the king’s command? Was he in league with Dienwald de Fortenberry, the king’s precious son-in-law? Aye, a rogue he was said to be, but the king merely waved away his misdeeds. If Sir Bishop of Lythe had taken her to St. Erth, then he would not be able to get to her.

Ah, but when Sir Bishop came back to Penwyth with her, and of course he would return, then Fioral would simply kill him and wed her himself.

He would be the sixth husband. The number six had always been lucky for him. He smiled. No doubt the priest in residence here at Penwyth had memorized the marriage ceremony by now. He smiled at his own wit. Aye, this felt right to him. He spoke to the men behind him. One by one, slowly, they nodded.

Dolan, his master-at-arms, came close and said, out of the hearing of the rest of the men, “Fioral, we could lie in wait between here and St. Erth, kill this Bishop of Lythe, and bring the granddaughter back here.”

Fioral thought about that, then shook his head. “Nay, we must be in the position of power. I will be here, sitting in Lord Vellan’s chair, alive and laughing when this Sir Bishop returns with her. Then he is a dead man. And I? Why, then I’ll soon be the fifth husband.”

“Or the sixth, more likely,” said Dolan. “If this vaunted curse hasn’t laid Sir Bishop in his grave.”

“Or the sixth,” Fioral said, “if he wedded her elsewhere and has not been struck down.” He eased his helmet off his head again because it chafed the back of his head. “I think the old man is telling the truth. Were I this Bishop of Lythe, I would take her to St. Erth.”

“If he did,” Dolan said, “it means that he believed the curse and took her away from here so he wouldn’t be butchered when he wed her.”

“The fool. It is poison, plain and simple poison. No ancient Druid spirits are lurking hereabouts, no Witches of Byrne are crouched down in the scrubby trees.”

Dolan sincerely prayed his master was right.

Fioral called up to Lord Vellan, “We are coming into Penwyth. Lower the drawbridge or I will kill every man, woman, and child within. I will spare none. If you allow us to enter, then all of you are safe.”

“But not the animals,” Dolan said. “We need to eat while we wait for this Bishop of Lythe.”