The Penwyth Curse (Medieval Song 6)

He knew when he stepped out of the hole onto the cave floor that he wouldn’t hear the laughter anymore. Whatever it was, or whoever it had been, the prince or perhaps even Brecia, had again disappeared—only the thing was, they hadn’t ever appeared. He looked back down into the hole, not at all surprised to see that the rope ladder was gone.

Whatever had happened, whatever he’d imagined or dreamed, or whipped up in his maddened brain, Bishop knew it was over. The curse was gone. The cask and Mawdoor—where had they gone? Into past time? Future time? He had no idea. Perhaps the cask was floating about in the ether, just overhead. Who could possibly know? Or was it waiting for another to come who could be used to replay an ancient story?

He said to Merryn, who was straightening her filthy gown, “The curse is lifted.” He said it with firmness, with absolute conviction. He knew both of them had to believe it.

“Aye,” she said, smiling up at him, “I think you’re right. It was tied to that golden cask. I do wonder where that cask came from. How ever did it keep getting deeper and deeper? That was scary, Bishop. And who put it at the bottom of that hole in this particular cave?” She paused. She saw something on his face, something that made every question die in her throat. It was just as well, she thought. Leave all of it alone, leave all the questions here in this cave. It was over and they were alive and the curse was no more. It was enough. She said, “Shall we go home to Penwyth?”

“Home?”

“Aye, it is home to both of us now. I shan’t have to worry that you will topple over dead in your roasted pheasant at our wedding feast.”

“No, it wasn’t one of my favorite thoughts, either. Merryn, we should wed as quickly as possible. You’re carrying my babe.”

He saw her hands cover her stomach, an instinctive gesture. “Mayhap you’re right,” she said. “Finally, I will bear my fifth husband a child.”

He threw back his head and laughed.

When they stepped out of the cave, Fearless raised his head and whinnied at them. Merryn breathed in the sea air, content.

And Bishop thought, Not only is the curse gone, all of them are gone—the prince, Brecia, Mawdoor. Ah, what happened to Maida? Merryn, with her red hair and green eyes—was she descended from Maida? Or Brecia? There was no understanding of it, and it really didn’t matter what he unders

tood or didn’t understand, now, did it?

He smiled, reached out his hand. “Let’s go home, Merryn.”

St. Erth

Two days later

Dienwald said as he tossed Bishop an apple from the St. Erth orchard, “We know only that a young man named Fioral of Grandere Glen has taken Penwyth. This was some four or five days ago. It is said he has about twenty men with him. It’s said he plans to wait for Merryn to return. Then he will wed her.”

Philippa said, “We were hopeful, but evidently the curse hasn’t killed him.”

“That’s because I wasn’t there to marry,” Merryn said, and bit into her apple.

“Also, the curse is no more,” Bishop said.

“We thought you would lift it.” Dienwald took a bite of his own apple. “My damned father-in-law—aye, the wretched king must continually rub my nose in it—sent us a message, telling me to help you as much as I could, but he said, regardless, you would lift the damned curse. He wrote there was just something about you that made things happen.” Dienwald tossed his apple core to one of the wolfhounds. “I suppose when Philippa and I next visit Windsor, he will go on and on about your shrewdness, your damnable cunning, your ability to see to the depths of things.” Dienwald sighed, laced his fingers over his flat belly. “Then he will lament loudly to everyone at Windsor that he wishes you were my sweet Philippa’s husband, not I, the poor fool who will have so many babes that my farmers will surely wither away because they will have to work so hard to feed all of us.”

Philippa gave her husband a kiss and patted his shoulder. She smiled at Merryn and Bishop. “He frets.”

“Oh, no, Philippa, he is jesting,” Merryn said. “No one at St. Erth is in danger of starving.”

Philippa said, even as she stroked her long fingers through her husband’s hair, “No, it’s not that. He frets because there’s a small band of thieves not far from St. Erth and he wanted to go after them, but our sons held his legs, pleaded with him, begged him not to go, told him the king—their grandfather—wouldn’t be pleased if he did.”

Bishop laughed. “Edward and Nicholas are only eight months old. Even they couldn’t be strong enough to beg with their father and hold him here.”

Philippa said, “Actually, Crooky spoke for them, didn’t you?”

The fool straightened to his full height, which didn’t quite bring him to Merryn’s armpit, and sang, head thrown back, to the high hall ceiling,

“The king has spoken, his will is done.

No more will my lord catch thieves for fun.

He’s here to sleep, and then

before he sleeps, he will—”