The Penwyth Curse (Medieval Song 6)

“Brecia’s mother wanted her to wed with you, but the ghosts fought it, sang relentlessly that you were untrustworthy, that you would destroy the forest if you could, that you would lock their mistress into your black tower and hold her there forever.”

“I had not thought quite that far ahead,” Mawdoor said, and looked interested.

Brecia said, “Aye, the ghosts want the prince of Balanth as Brecia’s mate. They trust him, you see, know of the honor of his parents, believe him pure of heart. He has won them with his false smiles. It fair to curdles my innards to see him prance about the oak forest, as if he truly belongs there.”

“The prince is very likely dead,” Mawdoor said, and muttered prayers that it was true to any god who might be listening and who might believe him worthy.

“He is not dead. Just last night he was eating roasted hedgehog and dancing to a merry song sung by the ghosts. I do not like him. He believes himself blessed by the sarsen stones, believes himself a wizard above all other wizards. I believe he should suffer for his lust for Brecia. He isn’t worthy of her. Brecia’s mother is right. You should have her, my lord, only you.”

“All you say about the prince is true,” Mawdoor said. “I have heard that he is so conceited, he spends hours each day staring at himself in silent stands of water.

“As for me, old hag, you are right. I am not what the ghosts think. I am trustworthy, not the prince. It is true that my grandmother ate goat meat before it was even warm over the fire, but withal, she was a witch to admire, just as Brecia is. Aye, with Brecia at my side, we will rule more than the prince could ever dream of ruling, attend great happenings, bend the realms of the world to our will. Now, what do you wish in return, ancient crone, if you bring me Brecia?”

“In return for Brecia, you will send both my husband and me to the plains of Britain to the sacred circle. I wish to commune amongst the great sarsen stones.”

Mawdoor said, “You know that stone circle opens itself only to witches and wizards, not to plain folk, even if they might have a bit of magic in their narrow heads.”

“Aye, I have heard that, but it doesn’t matter. I must see the sarsen stones. I must learn how they came about, those old stones. Something strange happened, but none know what, not even the most powerful wizards. I want to know the secret. If I am there, standing beneath those mighty lintels, in the midst of the trilithon, my husband’s fine hands squeezing my head, I know that the answers will flow into me. I know it.”

“You’re wrong,” Mawdoor said. “None will ever know the genesis of the great stone circle. It goes back from before time itself considered forming endless fragments of sod and stone that became the earth. But if that is what you want, then I will send you there, it is nothing to me. But you must accept that you could die, the spirits of the past crushing all your questions in that skinny head of yours.”

“Have you been there, my lord?”

Mawdoor looked down at the ugly old woman, at her skinny head, at that nose of hers that was too long indeed. If the ugliness was any indication of what she had accomplished with her husband’s head squeezing, then just perhaps she could get Brecia to him.

“I have been there. It is where I first beheld Brecia, and my breath boiled in my body.”

“That is where the prince of Balanth first saw her as well. The ghosts say that he was so impressed with her that he stretched out on his side atop one of the lintels, rested his face against his palm, and claimed himself content simply to gaze upon her, to hear the beauty of her bell-like voice.”

The old head squeezer wheezed behind his hands. The ancient hag grunted as she smacked him hard between his shoulder blades, nearly knocking him to the ground.

Mawdoor said, “I know nothing about him lying atop a lintel. The prince is dead. He must be dead—the knife went right into his chest, and there was a touch of magic and a bit of special poison on that knife to pierce the wizard’s shield.”

The ground shuddered beneath the old man’s feet.

The old woman lightly squeezed his shoulder.

Mawdoor didn’t notice.

The old woman said, “No, he is not dead. My mistress saved him, nearly killing herself in the doing, but she had no choice. He was dying and wretched, all told, and so she saved him. Unless she takes him into grave dislike, she will marry him, if you cannot take her first.”

Mawdoor was silent a moment, thinking hard. There was no risk here. It would be nothing to him to send these two ghastly old relics to the sacred stone circle on the plains. They would die, of that he was certain, but it truly didn’t matter to him. Finally, he nodded down to the old couple. “Supney will allow you to enter now.”

The old woman bowed deeply, grabbed the old sot’s hand, and whispered upward, knowing Mawdoor could hear her clearly, “You are a worthy wizard, my lord, the only worthy wizard good enough for Brecia. You will gain all that you deserve.”

“I will,” Mawdoor said. “Aye, I will.”

The big gates swung open. The prince whispered against Brecia’s temple as they walked into the courtyard, “I preferred being invisible. Then I could place my hand on your breast and none would see me do it. Even better, I wouldn

’t have to see that ugly face of yours whilst I fondle you.”

Her breathing hitched, and he smiled and looked straight ahead at Mawdoor, who was now standing on the top step of his great hall, hands on hips.

The prince said, all laughter gone from his voice, “You will be careful, Brecia.”

“We will both be very careful. Mawdoor will surely sense the magic in us, but he will expect that since I told him about it, and we’ve cloaked the rest as best we can. Think you, prince, that he will want to squeeze my head and kiss my long, skinny nose?”

The prince turned his laugh into a rheumy old cough and pounded himself on the back, bending his right arm over his shoulder.