The Penwyth Curse (Medieval Song 6)

“You don’t have to tie me down,” she said, then turned her face away. “I will drown anyway because I can’t move and the ground is flat here.”

He huddled over her, trying to keep the worst of it off her, but it wasn’t possible. Fearless whinnied. He was miserable.

Bishop crouched lower over her, his nose not an inch from hers. He didn’t know what to do. The skies had darkened a bit, he’d realized that in some part of his brain, but with his future wife lying nearly unconscious at his feet, he hadn’t really paid attention.

He cursed again and touched his nose to hers. “Listen to me, Merryn. I cannot take the risk of moving you, so I’m going to set up the tent. It will keep us a little dry.”

“Why didn’t you think of that sooner?”

“Mayhap I was thinking that you might have the gall to die on me.”

“If I am to die, please let me die dry.”

He set the tent up right beside her. Thank God the ground was more level than not, since she’d rolled all the way down that hillock before she’d struck her head.

Slowly, knowing she was awake, knowing that the pain was ripping through her head, he eased into the tent and slowly, his hands beneath her arms, he pulled her inside. The blankets were wet, but he couldn’t help that. She couldn’t very well lie on the bare ground. Once he had her inside, once he knew for sure that the tent would keep the worst of the rain off them, he lay on his side next to her, close, to give her his body heat. Her red hair was wet, plastered to her head. He saw a bruise rising on her cheek.

“Breathe very slowly and lightly,” he said. “Come on, Merryn, you can do it.” He knew this was the right thing because once, when he’d been lying on the ground, trying not to moan with the immense pain in his shoulder from a bandit’s axe, Dumas had said over and over, right in his ear, “Breathe, Bishop, but keep it calm and easy. Don’t suck it in, no, just light and easy. That’s right. I’ll take care of this.”

And so it was that Bishop repeated the same things to Merryn. He touched his fingertips to her forehead and began to massage her; then her scalp, drawing closer and closer to the lump over her temple. Slowly she began to ease.

The rain was battering the tent, and he knew the canvas was sodden by now. Would it withstand the force of the storm? He didn’t know. He’d never before been in a rainstorm this heavy.

He felt her take his hand, squeeze his fingers when the pain was bad. To distract her, he began to talk. “I fought in Normandy with the Duke de Crecy, a villain of a man, more cruel and ruthless than the legendary Richard Coeur de Lion. He had not a care for his own hide. He was happiest, I think, when he was slicing his mighty sword, cleaving men in two, kicking the two halves apart. That last battle earned me a goodly amount of wealth, and so I came home to Cornwall. That was when I chanced upon Philippa de Beauchamp surrounded by a group of bandits.”

She was quiet, too quiet, no longer squeezing his fingers.

Bishop laid his palm on her forehead. Cool, no fever—at least not yet.

“Who is

Philippa?”

“Good, you’re awake. Just keep breathing and listen to me. Philippa is the king’s illegitimate daughter, married to Dienwald de Fortenberry, earl of St. Erth. You will not believe this, but she was riding with half a dozen men and found herself in the middle of a trap. The leader had grabbed her and was holding a knife against her ribs. I managed to free her and kill the leader. Then Dienwald arrived. It all ended well, and then I was—”

The day suddenly became night, black as the sand on the Land’s End beach. A flash of lightning cut through the blackness. She cried out.

He gathered her against him, knowing that if the rain came down any harder, the tent would collapse.

Another huge slash of lightning burned his eyes with its fierce brightness.

Thunder rolled overhead, making the earth tremble.

Then suddenly thunder crashed right over the tent, so close, so very close, and Bishop heard a rock explode just feet away. He pulled Merryn more tightly against him, protecting her head as best he could.

“It will be all right,” he said, and said it again, as much for himself as for her. The minutes passed, the rain pounded down, and he knew that the tent would soon collapse on top of him.

A slash of lightning lit up the inside of the tent, bright as the noonday sun. The thunder struck, and the earth shook, but the light didn’t fade.

It made no sense.

Still the light didn’t fade. It grew even brighter.

And brighter yet.

He stared up at the dome of the tent, at the sturdy pole that kept it up, and it seemed to him that the light was now hovering right above his head. In the deepest part of him, he could feel the darkness trying to come closer, to consume the light, but the light held it at bay.

There was another earsplitting clap of thunder, then yet another.