The Penwyth Curse (Medieval Song 6)

Branneck smiled, all complacent and confident, nodded to the men, and raised his stick. He ran at the prince and brought the stick down to crack open his head. The other men were on the prince in the next moment. Brecia eyed the women, who were smiling, watching the four men against one.

Brecia called out, “Attacking a single man amuses you?”

“Shut yer mouth,” one of the women said. “Else we’ll let the men plow you until it is certain you do conceive.”

Brecia turned to watch the prince. He’d blocked Branneck’s stick with his arm and shoved the man back onto the ground. The other three men had closed in on him, and were ready to kill and rob him. His life meant nothing to them, save a few coins in their pockets.

“Brecia,” the prince said, “would you like to deal with these kind fellows or shall I?”

“It will be my pleasure to watch you,” she said. She expected the prince to blink them into oblivion or dash them into a pile of small black stones, each one’s arms and legs inseparable from the other’s, but he didn’t do either. He watched them as would a mortal man, bent forward, hands extended, and he said, “Come here, my brave fellows. Let me how you how a real man treats scum like you.”

She realized then that he had made himself a vulnerable mortal man. He’d blanked out his wizard skills. Did he believe himself so beyond mortals? He had run mad. She felt a sharp hit of fear. Why was he doing this? She nearly yelled at him, then stopped herself. No, he was strong, well made. He could protect himself, just as a mortal man would.

One of the men yelled in rage as he rushed forward, motioning the other two to come at the prince from the side. The man Branneck, whom he’d knocked on the ground, was on his feet again, moving around behind the prince.

One of the men ran forward swinging his stick at the prince’s head. The prince laughed, grabbed the man’s stick and swung it in a full circle, striking the other three men in their bellies. There were cries and curses, and a moan from a fellow who now had a broken rib.

The women were getting worried. One of them yelled, “Branneck, bring him down, stab him in the back! I want the woman’s golden belt. Do it!”

Brecia walked to the woman, grabbed her arm, and pulled her off the mule’s back. The woman shrieked as she fell to the ground at Brecia’s feet. The woman cursed even as she flew at her, her fingers curved like talons, her fingernails aimed at Brecia’s eyes and face.

Before Brecia could react, the prince picked up one of the moaning men and threw him at the woman. They went down together.

The men looked at Branneck, nodded. Each of them drew a knife, long and sharp, and it was obvious they knew how to use them, had used them often. The prince merely laughed again and said, “What will you do with those, lads? Do you want to feel them dig into your ribs? Then come here, and let me assist you to your mortal sinners’ hell.”

Branneck hung back, not rushing forward in rage with the other three men. The prince clouted each of them, a fist to the side of the head, a fist to the belly, a knee to the groin of the unluckiest. He had turned to smile at Brecia, preening, very pleased with himself, when Branneck, silent as a cat streaking through the oak forest beneath a full moon, crept up behind him. Brecia didn’t think, she just shouted, “Behind you!”

The prince turned, but he was too late. Branneck’s knife stabbed him in the chest. Branneck jerked the blade out and stood back, panting. “Now you can die, you devil.”

Brecia couldn’t believe it, she just couldn’t. Because the prince was enjoying himself playing at mortal games, she’d let him have his way. But it had gone wrong, terribly wrong. Now it was too late, too late. The women were coming at her, the men rising, coming with them.

“. . . teach the bitch a lesson.”

“. . . plow her belly.”

“. . . aye, give her the blade too.”

Branneck said, “I want that gold chain she’s wearing.”

The prince was lying on his back, his eyes closed.

“You miserable fools!” Brecia slipped her wand out of her sleeve, screamed words she’d scarce ever spoken in her life, and pointed at each of them. They were all suddenly on the ground, hands and feet tied. As for Branneck, she sent him straight up into the air. “You will stay there for all to see,” she said. “Forever.”

She heard him screaming even as she knelt over the prince, covered both of them with her cloak, closed her eyes over the awful fear, and whisked them back into the oak forest.

“Don’t you dare die, damn you,” she said over and over. He was quiet, too quiet, and now he lay on her bed inside her fortress, his blood flowing over his tunic, staining it deep red, the blood of a man mortally wounded.

Callas was at her side in an instant. “Move, mistress. He might try to kill you.”

“Go away, Callas. He isn’t my enemy. By the gods, what do I do?”

The prince opened his eyes and looked up at her. “Brecia,” he said. “I didn’t make a very good mortal, did I?”

“You were a splendid mortal,” she said, “but there were four of them and they were bent on killing you. Hush now.”

But he wasn’t a mortal, and that was the point. She nodded herself back into her long white woolen gown.

“Tell me what to do.”