The Penwyth Curse (Medieval Song 6)

Fioral gave a mighty roar of laughter and came running, sword held in both hands, drawn high over his head. It would be a mighty blow when that sword came down. Bishop smiled, at his ease, and watched him come. Fioral was strong, his eyes were sharp, no doubt about that, but Fioral believed him harmless, and thus his attention wasn’t focused on him, and that was a very big mistake. Bishop smiled, waited. It wasn’t, after all, Mawdoor coming at him with a golden wizard’s sword.

“Well, old man, will you huddle there shaking inside your old bones until one of my men fetches you out? You see your death coming toward you? Come on, you worthless old braggart, fight me, damn you!”

“All right,” Bishop said. Just as Fioral ran the three final feet to reach him, his sword ready to cleave his head in two, Bishop slid quickly to the side and stuck out his booted foot. Fioral went crashing to the ground just beyond where Bishop had been standing. He was up in an instant, breathing hard, so furious, so surprised, that he couldn’t think of anything to say. Ah, Bishop saw, that had gained his full attention. He knew, too, that he’d moved too fast for an old man. Would Fioral realize it?

Fioral realized that the old man was spry. More than that, he was lucky, but there would be no more luck for him. Fioral didn’t run at him this time, he slashed his sword up and down, then back and forth, all the while walking steadily toward his ancient prey, who was standing there, leaning lightly on his own sword.

“What’s the matter, old man? You stand there like a jousting dummy. You’re too weak to lift that sword, aren’t you? Come, bend your neck over that rock. I’ll make it fast.”

“Come and see how weak I am, sweet lad,” Bishop said, his voice as smooth as newly churned butter. “My, aren’t you a brave young fool, so sure of yourself now. Yet weren’t you just on the ground, bested by a man older than the mortar in the castle walls? Aye, I stuck out my foot and you landed right on your face.”

Fioral quickened his pace, anger pouring off him in waves. “You will die slowly now, old man.”

Bishop knew Merryn was coming closer, not because he saw her but because he knew her that well. And he felt her.

Bishop concentrated on Fioral, raised his sword at the last moment and brought it down. The two heavy blades clashed hard, ringing loud enough for the sheep grazing beyond the ramparts to hear.

Fioral, surprised, released and pushed back. He didn’t wait an instant, came again to pound Bishop’s sword. Bishop once again met the blow, twisting his wrist at the last moment, nearly knocking the sword from Fioral’s hand.

Fioral couldn’t believe this, wouldn’t believe it. He was panting, by the saints. The miserable old man had made him—a fine, strong warrior—pant. He yelled, “You bastard, what is this? Aye, I see it now, you have magic in you, don’t you, old man? You have evil magic, and you’re here to ruin my chances. Damn you, I won’t let you! Start praying your way into heaven, you foul old relic!” He sliced his sword down, hard, with great precision, missing Bishop’s shoulder by a scant inch.

Bishop knew he was preening, showing off, showing all of them how skilled he was. The result of his arrogance was that he’d nearly gotten Fioral’s sword through his heart.

Bishop stood straight now, drawing his shoulders back, and it was he who now ran at Fioral, sword high.

“What is this?” Fioral had only time to speak the words before the old man was on him, a man who wasn’t old at all, rather a man as young as he, as skilled as he was.

Their swords clashed loud and hard, making their hands shudder and burn. Bishop came close to Fioral’s face, and he was smiling, all his straight white teeth now gleaming in the sun. “You will die because you tried to take what was mine.”

Fioral knew in that instant that it was Bishop of Lythe, knew that he’d been fooled completely, but it hadn’t been his fault. Surely there’d been foul magic at play here brought on by the wretched curse. And that wretched sore on his neck—aye, evil had ground that sore into his flesh. He shouted to the heavens and began to fight with all his might. Bishop pulled back, letting Fioral come to him this time, and he did, screaming, swinging his sword wildly.

Bishop waited until the very last moment. When Fioral raised his sword high, Bishop turned quickly to the side. As the huge sword came down, he slipped his own sword deep into Fioral’s chest. The sword went deep, deeper, sliding through his chest and out his back.

Fioral didn’t make a sound. He looked at Bishop, then slowly, very slowly, he staggered back, finally falling on his back, the force of it sending the tip of the sword back through his body and nearly dislodging it from his chest.

Bishop heard the people shouting in shock, some in anger, others now cheering wildly.

He was turning toward Merryn, relief pouring through him, when that small man Fioral had spoken to came forward and smiled even as he stabbed Bishop in the chest.

Dolan was on the man in an instant, clamping his arm around his neck, stabbing him and slitting his throat. He threw him to the ground.

“Merryn,” Bishop said, looked down at that knife that was now a part of him, weaved a moment, then very slowly fell to his back onto the ground.

“NO!”

Time seemed to stop. Merryn wasn’t aware of anyone else as she ran to him. She had to get to him. The men parted for her. She threw herself onto her knees beside him, saw the blood snaking down his chest, the knife stuck obscenely into his flesh. She didn’t hesitate. She pulled out the knife, then slammed both palms on the wound. Blood quickly seeped through her fingers.

She had to press down hard, yes, she could do that, and she did, with all her strength. But she knew deep down that it was no good, no good at all.

Tears streaked down her face, and she was swallowing, sobbing, aware that people were closing in because she saw their shadows, heard their movement, their words. Oh, God, she had to do something.

She yelled in his face, “You won’t die, you miserable sot! You hear me? How dare you get yourself stabbed! I will surely kill you for this.”

She still heard voices, but they were faint and made no sense. Someone was trying to pull her off him, and she yelled, a mad yell that sent the man back.

Suddenly, it was very clear to her what she had to do. She didn’t question—she stretched out over him, her heart against his heart, her arms stretched against his arms, her fingertips touching his wrists, her legs against his legs. She felt his blood

seeping through her gown, felt it wet her breast. She felt his heartbeat, so faint, growing fainter by the moment.