The Penwyth Curse (Medieval Song 6)

There came a knock on the chamber door.

Merryn called out, “Who is it? Who wishes to behold the bridegroom in his bath?”

“It is I, Crispin, my lady.”

“Come, Crispin,” Bishop called out.

Crispin came into the chamber, not looking at the two young people who’d so recently been older than his father, mayhap even older than his grandfather, but down at the strange stick he held in his hands. He thrust it out toward Bishop.

“My lord, one of the children found this, said that when you stood up, the stick dropped from the sleeve of your tunic. It’s just a stick, only it’s not, if you know what I mean.”

Bishop took the wand. “Thank you, Crispin. I thought it was gone.” And he wondered how it had gotten into his sleeve. No, he didn’t want to know.

After Crispin closed the door after him, Merryn took a very deep breath. “It fell out of your sleeve? I thought it disappeared back at the cave near Tintagel.”

“It did. But it’s here now.” They looked at each other. Merryn whispered, “We’re both alive. Something happened, Bishop. Did the wand help it happen?”

He said nothing, merely held the wand, feeling its soft warmth against his palm. There was so much flooding through his brain, making his breathing hitch when he thought too deeply about what had happened.

“It’s the same wand, isn’t it?”

“Aye, it’s the same.” He sat forward and she soaped his back with the sponge. He looked closely at the wand, and then he stiffened straight as an arrow. He jerked about, splashing water onto the floor, onto Merryn as well.

“What is it? Are you still hurt? Bishop, speak to me.”

“Look, Merryn. Look.”

He held the wand up, his thumb pressing against an indentation in the wood. She knelt next to the big wooden tub, laid her finger atop his thumb.

“Feel.” He moved his thumb and her finger traced the indentations. “Let me hold it to the light,” she said, took the wand from him, and stood. He watched her walk over to the window with it, hold it to the afternoon sunlight.

She read slowly, “ ‘Ambrosius.’ ” She looked back over at him. “ ‘Ambrosius?’ What does that mean?”

Bishop stilled. “Is that all you see? Is there another name, another word?”

Merryn turned the wand slowly in her hands, examining each inch of it. “Here, wait. It says ‘Merlin. Merlin Ambrosius.’ Do you know what that means? Is it a name, Bishop?”

Bishop said slowly, “When I was wounded once several years ago, Benedictine monks took me in and healed me. One old monk loved to read the tales written by Geoffrey of Monmouth, who lived more than a hundred years ago. He wrote about an advisor to Uther Pendragon—the father of King Arthur.”

“Merlin,” Merryn said. “Aye, I remember now. He was a magician, wasn’t he?”

“Aye, and he was more than that. He was a wizard, so it was written,” Bishop said. “A wizard,” he said again, more slowly.

“I don’t understand this, Bishop.”

He didn’t either. He didn’t think he wanted to. The wand had belonged to Merlin? It was more than a mortal could bear.

A mortal. Aye, he was a mortal, but the prince and Brecia, they hadn’t been mortals. And the prince had made Brecia pregnant in their first wild mating, just as he knew he’d made Merryn pregnant.

In that moment, Bishop sensed something. He knew he felt the prince close to him, heard the prince’s voice, and he was laughing, softly, and then, suddenly, he was gone, and there was only the sweet warm air and Merryn at his side.

“Come here and kiss me, Merryn.”

“We’ve been married for a full five days now and I am still very much alive.”

“Aye, you are, husband. Have you written to King Edward?”

“Aye, and a messenger should be with him soon. Dienwald and Philippa and their children will be arriving tomorrow. Vellan and Madelyn wish to meet them.”