“We have not the magic to prevent death, Sir Bishop,” she said, the sneer still well in place. “Think you that we are witches here?”

A witch, he thought. Aye, she could easily pass for a witch, what with that mouth of hers. He said, “I will speak even more plainly. There will be no more strange deaths at Penwyth, be they a husband of two hours or a tradesman who has cheated you.”

“Must we include a man who calls himself a bishop and expects us to treat him with unwarranted respect?”

He drew a deep breath and said, “If you kill me, you will have the king on your necks, doubt me not.” He paused a moment. He was content that Lord Vellan and the little witch understood him. At least Dienwald was right about her hair. Red as a sunset. Actually, red as sin, a wicked red, just as the curse said. He couldn’t tell the color of her eyes just yet.

He said, “I am thirsty, as are my men. We have ridden from St. Erth.”

“That is but twenty-five miles away,” she said. “If you barely had the endurance to cross that paltry distance, then as a wizard why did you not simply wave your hand above your head and present yourself to us in a puff of smoke?”

He ignored her. It was that or leap off his horse and strangle her on the spot. It was a pleasing idea. Bishop sighed. “Will you allow us to enter the great hall, Lord Vellan? I have the king’s writ for you so you can see that I am only stating his wishes and his commands.”

“Oh, aye, come in, come in,” Lord Vellan said. “Merryn, speak to the servants, have food and drink brought for the false churchman here and his men.”

“I am not a false churchman,” Bishop said. “Bishop is my name, given to me by my father. One should not mock a man’s father or the name the father heaped upon his son’s head. He had hoped that I would seek out the Church ranks, but that was not to be. Now I have a ‘Sir’ in front of my name so that no one need be confused.” He paused a moment, looked directly at Merryn, and said, “Unless one happens to be a blockhead.”

“Sir Bishop,” Merryn said, seemingly savoring each sound as she looked him up and down. “That sounds ridiculous.”

“No wonder you are a widow four times over, madam. Your viper’s tongue would make any man eager to totter to his grave.”

“Not you, apparently, sir,” she said.

He gave her a fat smile. “Ah, but I am not here to wed with you, my lady.” He crossed himself, and heard her hiss.

He was still grinning when she turned on her heel and walked up the remaining stairs, through the wide-open wooden door and into the great hall. Ah, now that he was paying attention, he realized that he admired the worn depth of those stone steps, each of them just wide enough for a single man, each too narrow to fight well, so the man above always had the advantage. Aye, it was a splendid dozen stone steps. He wondered how many men had trod them over the past hundred years?

He prayed he would be setting his own feet on those stairs many times before he became dust and bone. From the low, nervous voices behind him, he didn’t think his men believed he would grow as old as Lord Vellan.

5

PENWYTH’S GREAT HALL was a huge rectangle with a high, beamed ceiling, going up a good forty feet, smoke-blackened from years of roaring fires in the immense fireplace that stood in the center of the east wall. It was a strange thing, but Bishop immediately felt as if he’d come home.

Home?

It was true. It felt comforting. He felt as though it was his great hall already. He breathed in the lingering smell of old smoke, the smell of the wolfhounds, six of them, all at attention in a straight line behind Lord Vellan. He also smelled the air, stale and dry. It made his mouth dry, parched his throat. Lord Vellan was right. The drought was devastating Penwyth.

“We are fortunate,” Lord Vellan was saying to him as he eased himself down onto his magnificent chair, its arms beautifully carved with two lions’ heads, their mouths open on silent roars, “that we have a very deep well. There is no shortage of water for all our people and animals. The land, however—if it doesn’t soon rain, our crops will die and I shall fear for all our lives.”

“How long has there been a drought?”

“Off and on since the first man came to wed Merryn and fell over dead, his face in his trencher. Maybe it began before. I’m not certain.”

“Mayhap if you rid us of the curse it will rain again,” Merryn said, and brightened. “It would at least be one good thing to come out of it.”

Not the only good thing, he thought, and decided he would fit quite nicely in Lord Vellan’s grand chair.

Lord Vellan said, “Come, you and your men may sit at the trestle table. Bring it close so I do not have to yell at you.”

The men’s boots crunched through crackling rushes. Bishop helped his men pull the table closer to Lord Vellan. He remained standing, waving his men to sit on the long wooden benches.

Suddenly, it came clear and sure in his mind, just as it had always come to him since he was a small boy. He breathed in deeply, through his nose and his mouth, just to make sure. Bishop smiled. “I have good news for you, my lord.”

Merryn said, “What is your good news? You will depart after you have survived drinking our wine?”

“No, it is far better news than my leaving.”

She said, “I can’t imagine what could be better than that.”

Tags: Catherine Coulter Medieval Song Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net