1
Four Years Earlier . . .
Penwyth Castle
Cornwall, England
May 14, 1274
SIR ARLAN DE FROME pulled up his destrier and raised his mailed hand to halt the thirty-two men behind him, experienced and hard, mercenaries all. Horses whinnied, dust swirled, and Sir Arlan smelled fear. Maybe it was churned up in all that dust, or maybe it was in the very air itself. Sir Arlan was familiar with this smell and he liked it, particularly when it poured off a man who had something Sir Arlan wanted.
Sir Arlan saw it in the faces of the men who lined the ramparts of Penwyth Castle, the tidy hold that would soon be his. The town of Penwyth, nestled in the shadow of the stone walls of the keep, quickly became deserted when the people saw him coming. He hadn’t let his men stop to loot. After all, it would become his village soon. The keep itself stood solid as the granite of Cornwall’s cliffs, atop a rise that looked toward the sea off Land’s End, a barren hunk of land that stood between Penwyth and enemies from the sea come to attack England. It was a keep of great strategic value, and Sir Arlan knew in his bones that King Edward would be delighted to make him the heir, once, naturally, he already had Penwyth in his grasp.
Penwyth Castle—would be his by conqueror’s right. Once the girl was his wife—what was her name? Something strange. Lady Merryn, that was it, a silly name, romantic, a name the bards would doubtless sing ringing verses about. Once he married the girl, it would be another encouragement for the king to make him the Penwyth heir. There would be none to gainsay his ownership. He would take the title of Lord de Gay of Penwyth. And why not? His own name, given to him by a bastard father who’d hated him, held no prestige, no power. But Arlan de Gay—it was a good solid name, with at least four generations of steadfast reputation backing it up. It sat well. Sir Arlan smiled. The old lord wouldn’t be alive that much longer, now would he? He wouldn’t really want to stay around, would he, now that the next generation had arrived?
He had no intention of razing Penwyth, since it would soon belong to him. He didn’t want to kill the soldiers or the servants or the serfs who worked within the keep walls, only as many as it took to make the others believe that he was indeed now their master and they owed him their lives.
He looked around the fertile green land, at the flourishing crops, and smiled.
Sir Arlan hoped the old buzzard who was sitting in the lord’s chair had a lot of gold hidden away. Those men whom he couldn’t entice to remain with him, he would have to reward or kill. He wanted no looting, no excessive violence.
Aye, there was naught but an old man, an old woman, and a young girl. Fourteen was the age he’d heard, an excellent age for marriage, ripe enough for the marriage bed, young enough that after a couple of clouts to the head she wouldn’t ever think to flout him or his wishes. It was good.
He looked up to see a score of faces lined up along the ramparts, staring down at him. He’d heard rumors about all the soldiers here at Penwyth, but he’d discounted them. He would soon see.
He motioned for his lieutenant, Darrik, to ride forward to present his terms. Darrik had a magnificent voice, hard and deep, and it would carry all the way to the sea beyond Land’s End.
Arlan nodded to him.
Darrik called out: “Lord of Penwyth, soldiers of Penwyth, tenants one and all. There is no heir to Penwyth. Sir Arlan de Frome agrees to wed with Lady Merryn de Gay and to entrust unto himself, as heir, the welfare and safety of all Penwyth lands until such time as Lord Vellan de Gay dies. Then Sir Arlan will become Lord of Penwyth.
“No one will be harmed if the drawbridge is lowered and we are allowed to enter in peace.”
“Well done, Darrik,” Arlan said, even as he smiled at all the outraged shouts, the loud murmurings, men leaving the ramparts, doubtless to run down to tell Lord Vellan that there was a lion at the gate.
A bit of time passed—not much, but Sir Arlan was an impatient man. His destrier fidgeted as his master grew more agitated.
He spoke to Darrik in a low voice.
Darrik shouted, “Open the drawbridge or your blood will be forfeit!”
Another bit of time passed, and then came the loud winching of the wrist-thick chains as the drawbridge slowly lowered over the brackish water, deep and stagnant, and a good dozen feet wide. It was happening, just as he’d wanted it to. It was a sign from God.
Nev
er was a keep taken so easily. Sir Arlan led his men over the wide wooden bridge, looking upward at the portcullis that, in times of war, could drop down, its pointed iron bars embedding deeply into the earth, or spearing into an enemy. They rode through the outer court, narrow and thick-walled, through a double set of open gates into the inner bailey. Scores of people had gathered there, all of them still, staring at him and his men, children clutched to parents’ sides, animals quiet and wary, heads raised, as if scenting the danger. Everything was normal, it seemed to Arlan, except for the silence. Well, silence wasn’t a bad thing—it showed respect to the new lord.
There wasn’t much dust for the horses to kick up in the inner bailey. Arlan smiled when he saw Lord Vellan de Gay standing on the bottom stone stair of the keep. His granddaughter stood behind him, nearly out of sight, but he glimpsed her peeking around her grandfather to see the man who had so easily taken their keep. Her soon-to-be husband. Aye, it was good.
Lord Vellan didn’t look away from the big man, covered in chain mail, who was riding straight at him. At the last moment, Sir Arlan pulled his powerful destrier to a halt not six feet from Lord Vellan.
“My lord, I am Sir Arlan de Frome of Keswick. I am here to save you from marauders who would raze your keep and kill all your people.”
There was a frozen moment of silence, then, “Doubtless I am blessed that you came to save me,” said Lord Vellan.
An impertinence, but Sir Arlan let it pass. He was an old man and old men had their pride, even when they had nothing else. Sir Arlan said, “You have need of an heir, my lord, and your granddaughter has need of a husband. You now have both standing before you.”
“My son died but a fortnight ago,” said Lord Vellan. “You made good speed to get here.”
“Aye, I did. I wanted what was mine. Where is my future wife?”
Lord Vellan said, “Before you see my granddaughter, Sir Arlan, before you announce that you are here to become my heir, I feel it only fair that I warn you.”
Sir Arlan laughed. “Warn me? Warn me about what?”
Lord Vellan said, his voice lowered just a bit, “For hundreds of years, this land, all the different fortresses that have stood here, all have been protected by a curse fashioned by the ancient Celtic Druids. These Druid priests held the honor and safety of this land dear. Never in the hundred years that this Penwyth fortress has stood have these lands been invaded and taken. Indeed, none of the fortresses that existed on this site in the past fell to an enemy. They weathered and fell on their own over the centuries. But no man brought them down, because this place was protected by the ancient Druid curse.”
“The Celtic Druids? Those blood-covered monsters died out hundreds of years ago, old man. I have no fear of any Druid priests or their prophecies. You only claim that none of the fortresses built on this site were conquered. You have no proof that this is the case. Aye, I think you are lying, old man, and it angers me.”
“I am not lying, nor am I speaking of an ancient prophecy. I am speaking of a curse. There is no curse more potent than a Druid curse.”
Sir Arlan heard some movement behind him, nervous movement by some of his men, the superstitious fools. He said, his voice loud and laced with scorn, “I have heard of no such curse. A curse from the Celtic Druids? That is nonsense, and you know it. I will not be frightened away by this stupid tale.”
“Few have heard of the curse, that is true,” said Lord Vellan. “But that doesn’t make it any less real. Would you like to hear the curse? It has come down whole and pure through countless centuries of strife and chaos.”
Sir Arlan dismounted and handed the reins to one of his men. “No, I don’t wish to hear any blasphemy. I care not about a curse that doesn’t exist save in your ancient brain. We will come inside, I would inspect my new great hall. I would meet your priest, for I wish to be married before the sun sets. Where is the girl?”