The Penwyth Curse (Medieval Song 6)

When he said nothing, the old man moved his fingers away, took a step back. The sore throbbed and burned and itched. What to do? Fioral threw back his head and yelled, “I am doing no evil. I am here at Penwyth to wed the heiress, to become Lord Vellan’s heir. What evil is there in that? I am young, I am able, I am a fine warrior and will serve King Edward well. He would have sent me here if he’d only known me.”

The old man said, “But the king doesn’t know you, Fioral of Grandere Glen. He sent Sir Bishop of Lythe here. You are an interloper. You are no better than a thief, like the other four who came here to steal what wasn’t theirs, and thus to die.”

“No, I’m not a thief! I just wish to make my way as so many second sons must do. Penwyth is a fat plum, and I have plucked it. It is to be expected that a well-trained, brave knight could do that.”

“I see no brave knight here,” the old man said. “I see only a puling young lout who will die of the evil poisoning him from the inside out.”

“But I have done nothing wrong!”

The old man said, “Very well, if that is what you believe to your very soul.”

“Aye, it is.”

The old man said, his voice as gentle as a summer breeze ruffling through water reeds, “You will fight me, my lord. If you can kill me, then the cursed sore will slide off your neck.”

Fioral couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He shook his head to clear it. Was the sore making him hear words that hadn’t really been said?

“Will you fight me, young thief?”

Fioral said with absolute astonishment, “You want me to fight you? You’re so old that you can barely stand upright. Look at you, all hunched over as if your body is drawing you inside yourself. You can’t even hold a sword, can you? By all the saints’ runny innards, I could blow on you and you would fall over. I could then press my foot against your chest and your old heart would burst with the pressure. What is this, you old fool? A lame jest? Just heal me and be done with it.”

The old man said, “What I said is true. If you fight me, if you beat me, the sore on your neck will heal. Cease your insults, young Fioral. Will you fight me?”

Fioral didn’t know what to do. He wanted to know where Merryn was, but he imagined that if he killed the old man, then the old witch wouldn’t be able to see Merryn since her husband wouldn’t be alive to press his palms against her head. What to do?

Lord Vellan stepped forward. “Listen, old man, he is right. He would quickly dispatch you.” He threw back his head and said contemptuously, “This thief will fight me.”

Fioral fell back, laughing. The more he laughed, the more his neck burned and itched and thudded like a pounded drum all the way to his bones. He knew in that moment that he couldn’t wait, he had to kill the old man or the sore would kill him, and he wasn’t about to let that happen. He said, “Lord Vellan, it is not for you to fight me, it is for him. Old man, Dolan will give you a sword. We will fight to the death. In the inner bailey.”

The old man gave him a slight bow, shook off his wife’s hand that clutched at his sleeve.

The old man said, “Prepare yourself to die, deceitful varmint.”

Fioral rolled his eyes, laughed, spit into the rushes. “In which lifetime do you predict that, old man?”

“In the next thirty minutes, Fioral, you will be dead. Your men will leave Penwyth, carting your body away with them. Will you do that, Dolan, so there is no remaining evil to befoul the air here?”

Dolan blinked, unable to take this all in. It was unbelievable, a play written by a madman, but he found himself nodding. “Aye, I will take the master’s body away.”

“Will you give Fioral a decent burial?”

Fioral smashed his fist against Lord Vellan’s chair arm. “Enough of this! Shut up, old man. You are trying to weave fear in my mind.”

“Will you put a stone marker on his grave, Dolan?”

“Aye, I will have a man inscribe a marker with his name, and it will be set well atop his grave.”

“STOP IT!”

The old man turned again to Fioral. “I will accept a sword from Dolan. He is a good man. I will see you outside, Fioral.”

The old man turned on his very ancient heel and shuffled out of the great hall, one foot lagging a bit behind the other, paying no attention at all to the staring people, many of them as old as he was, a handful mayhap even older.

Fioral knew this was ridiculous, but it didn’t seem he had any choice but to kill the wheezing old fool. Damnation, this was not going well at all. The sore on his neck seemed to swell. Oh, God, he had to cure that damned sore.

He cursed and ran out of the great hall, jerking his sword out of his scabbard, holding it firmly in his hand.

The old witch looked at Lord Vellan, waved her hands about her, and said, “All this is very strange, is it not, sir?” She cackled loud and long, her ancient old head thrown back on her neck.