The Penwyth Curse Part 31

Vellan said, "Nothing would be over, you idiot. Sir Bishop will return soon, and he will draw your fingernails off your hands, one by one, and I will laugh when each one drops to the ground and your howls resonate from the keep walls."

Fioral couldn't help it. He looked down at his hands, his fingernails, blunt, short, dirty, and strong. He looked up. "This Bishop of Lythe is probably dead, my lord, and you know it as well as I do. He just up and left and took Lady Merryn with him. What do you think happened to them? They went perhaps to London to see the king? I don't think so, and neither do you. They're dead, killed by bandits. I would have killed them had I seen them before arriving here at Penwyth."

No one said anything because no one wanted to die. Lord Vellan just continued looking at him as if he were a bug to be trod upon. Fioral paused a moment, then said, "No, let us say that there is a curse here at Penwyth. This Bishop took Lady Merryn away from Penwyth and forced her to wed him, believing the curse wouldn't touch him. But it did. What do you think of that, my lord? Bishop of Lythe is dead because this curse of yours can act anywhere, anytime."

"All right," Vellan said. "If the curse killed Bishop, then where is my granddaughter?"

"She is on her way back to Penwyth. She will come back to me, to wed me, her rightful husband."

"You have no right here, Fioral," Lord Vellan said. "You will die for your impudence. All your bragging, it is nothing."

Fioral walked to Lord Vellan, drew back his fist, and would have slammed it into the old man's jaw, but in that instant the sore on Fioral's neck seemed to explode. He felt his skin tearing, pus spewing out, disease pouring through him, eating him alive. By all the saints' blessed sins, he felt fear tear through his belly. He clapped his hand over the sore and ran out of the great hall.

Slowly, Crispin stood up. He brushed the rushes from his trousers, raised his head, and said to Dolan, "Something is very wrong with your master. Other than his madness."

"Aye, it's a sore on his neck that doesn't heal. I will go see to him."

Lord Vellan was laughing, then yelled after the young warrior, "The Penwyth curse is many-faceted, is it not, Fioral? Just look at you, rotting from the inside. How does it feel knowing that you will soon die and nothing you can do will stop it?"

Vellan laughed and laughed as he watched Fioral disappear up the winding stone staircase, Dolan at his heels. Then he began hiccuping, and even that felt very good. He said to Crispin after he'd swallowed some warm ale, "So where do you think Bishop is?"

"I pray he is close, my lord."

"Aye, me, too, Crispin. Me, too."

Not more than an hour later, when the afternoon was sinking over the hillocks into the western horizon, Dolan came into the great hall. He stopped in front of Fioral, who now had a bandage on his neck and was sitting again in Lord Vellan's chair, holding himself quiet as a stone. "We have visitors, my lord. An old man and an old woman, asking to be allowed to see you. They say they barely escaped bandits. They beg for protection."

"Tell them to go elsewhere or we'll slit their scrawny throats. Penwyth needs no more ancient varmints."

"They said that they can tell you about the whereabouts of Lady Merryn de Gay."

Fioral rubbed his jaw. The sooner he got his hands on the girl, the sooner he'd be the lord of Penwyth. And then the dreadful sore on his neck would heal. He was sure of it. He nodded. "All right, then, bring them here. Dear G.o.d, are there nothing but crumbling old bones littering this miserable place?"

When the old man and woman shuffled into the great hall, Fioral knew he'd never seen two uglier specimens. The old woman looked hideous, all scrawny, hairs sticking out from three warts on her face, a face that could sour a man's belly with but a look.

The old man was just as bad, bent and hunchbacked, dirty gray hair hanging over his face and down his back, his teeth black.

Fioral said, lounging back in the chair, "I allowed you into my keep. You will tell me now what you know of Lady Merryn de Gay or I will slit your withered old throats."

35.

THE OLD MAN TOOK A faltering step forward. He bowed, holding his back as he righted himself again, and said in an ancient, croaking voice that sounded to Fioral as though it was filled with the echoes of time, "My wife is a seer, my lord. On the night of the full moona"tomorrow nighta"she will be able to tell you exactly where the lady is."

"This old hag, a seer? If that is true, then why must she wait for a full moon?"

The old man shrugged, and it looked painful, that shrug. "I know not the answer to that, good lord, but it is true. Nothing happens if there isn't a full moon. Then I will press my hands against her head. While I'm squeezing her head, the full moon must be s.h.i.+ning down on her head, and she sees clearly."

"Aye, it is the way," the old woman said, stepping up, "of the Witches of Byrne. When the old man dies, then my powers will die also because it must be his hands to press against my head. No others will do. It is our bond and it works well. Will you protect us, my lord?"

The sore on Fioral's neck pulsed hot.

Lord Vellan walked into the great hall at that moment and started when he saw the doddering old man and woman. Fioral called out, "The old hag claims to be a seer, my lord. She claims she can tell me where your precious Merryn is at this moment."

"She can, can she? Hmmm." Lord Vellan walked up to the pair and looked them up and down.

"Ah, I see. She has the witch's eye. I can see it now that I look at her closely. Is my granddaughter all right, old witch?"

"Aye, she is, for the moment, my lord. So is Sir Bishop of Lythe, who is with her. I will show the young master here where she is so that he may fetch her and kill the bounder who has her."

Vellan took a step back, a shaft of fear knifing through him. "How do you know his name, old woman? What is this? Where do you come from?"

Suddenly the old woman stiffened, stared hard at Fioral. "You are ill," she said. "What is wrong with you?"

Fioral touched his fingers to the bandage on the back of his neck. "You can see this, can you? For one so ancient, your eyes work remarkably well. It is nothing, just a small sore that annoys me."

"It's not nothing, my lord," she said, and somehow she knew that it truly was bad. "It's snaking into you, making your innards rot, that's what it's doing."

"What is this? Come, old woman, can you heal the sore?"

The old woman's eyelids fluttered, closed. She threw her head back and said in a loud, too deep voice that sounded from one end of the great hall to the other and made everyone shudder with fear, "There is evil in that sore, and it is eating its way through you. It seems to me that the sore is retribution. What have you done to deserve this?"

Fioral didn't like this at all. "d.a.m.n you, answer me. Are you a healer, old woman?"

"Nay, my husband here is the healer. I see the evil in you; he can remove it."

Fioral was on his feet in an instant. "Old man, come here."

The old man shuffled to Fioral and stood right in front of him. He was looking at the strip of white wool tied around Fioral's neck. "My wife must know what evil you have done before I can help you."

Fioral gnawed on his lower lip, said nothing.

Lord Vellan strode forward, stood right in the old man's face. "This young thief has come into Penwyth like four others before him, demanding to wed my granddaughter, demanding to lay his boot upon our necks. Is that evil enough, old man? Will that sore on his neck kill him? It should, for he is worth nothing at all. I beg you, don't heal him. He isn't worthy."

Fioral, enraged, jerked his stiletto out of his tunic sleeve, ready to spear the sharp point through Lord Vellan's heart.

The old witch shouted, "You kill him and that sore will spread until your whole head spouts pus!"

Fioral stopped. He was breathing hard. "What is this? The sore isn't from the d.a.m.ned Penwyth curse. I had it before we came. It has merely gotten a bit worse." He clapped his hand to his neck, and yelled. It was so hot he could not even press his palm against the wool bandage. Oh, G.o.d, what was wrong? "Heal me, old man. Heal me now or I will kill both you and your miserable wife."

"All right," he said, and stepped directly in front of him. He moved Fioral's hand away from the bandage, then lightly touched his fingertips to it. The old man closed his eyes, said a few words, then bowed his head for two minutes, eyes still shut, his lips moving. There wasn't a single sound in the great hall. All were staring at the old man, staring at his hand on Fioral's neck.

"It is done," he said as he raised his head. His fingers still touched the white wool. "If the evil you have committed is repented, if you commit no more evil acts, then the sore will disappear. Do you repent your past evil, my lord?"

"Oh, aye, I do."

"And any future evil? Will you cease what you are doing here at Penwyth and take your leave?"

When he said nothing, the old man moved his fingers away, took a step back. The sore throbbed and burned and itched. What to do? Fioral threw back his head and yelled, "I am doing no evil. I am here at Penwyth to wed the heiress, to become Lord Vellan's heir. What evil is there in that? I am young, I am able, I am a fine warrior and will serve King Edward well. He would have sent me here if he'd only known me."

The old man said, "But the king doesn't know you, Fioral of Grandere Glen. He sent Sir Bishop of Lythe here. You are an interloper. You are no better than a thief, like the other four who came here to steal what wasn't theirs, and thus to die."

"No, I'm not a thief! I just wish to make my way as so many second sons must do. Penwyth is a fat plum, and I have plucked it. It is to be expected that a well-trained, brave knight could do that."

"I see no brave knight here," the old man said. "I see only a puling young lout who will die of the evil poisoning him from the inside out."

"But I have done nothing wrong!"

The old man said, "Very well, if that is what you believe to your very soul."

"Aye, it is."

The old man said, his voice as gentle as a summer breeze ruffling through water reeds, "You will fight me, my lord. If you can kill me, then the cursed sore will slide off your neck."

Fioral couldn't believe what he was hearing. He shook his head to clear it. Was the sore making him hear words that hadn't really been said?

"Will you fight me, young thief?"

Fioral said with absolute astonishment, "You want me to fight you? You're so old that you can barely stand upright. Look at you, all hunched over as if your body is drawing you inside yourself. You can't even hold a sword, can you? By all the saints' runny innards, I could blow on you and you would fall over. I could then press my foot against your chest and your old heart would burst with the pressure. What is this, you old fool? A lame jest? Just heal me and be done with it."

The old man said, "What I said is true. If you fight me, if you beat me, the sore on your neck will heal. Cease your insults, young Fioral. Will you fight me?"

Fioral didn't know what to do. He wanted to know where Merryn was, but he imagined that if he killed the old man, then the old witch wouldn't be able to see Merryn since her husband wouldn't be alive to press his palms against her head. What to do?

Lord Vellan stepped forward. "Listen, old man, he is right. He would quickly dispatch you." He threw back his head and said contemptuously, "This thief will fight me."

Fioral fell back, laughing. The more he laughed, the more his neck burned and itched and thudded like a pounded drum all the way to his bones. He knew in that moment that he couldn't wait, he had to kill the old man or the sore would kill him, and he wasn't about to let that happen. He said, "Lord Vellan, it is not for you to fight me, it is for him. Old man, Dolan will give you a sword. We will fight to the death. In the inner bailey."

The old man gave him a slight bow, shook off his wife's hand that clutched at his sleeve.

The old man said, "Prepare yourself to die, deceitful varmint."

Fioral rolled his eyes, laughed, spit into the rushes. "In which lifetime do you predict that, old man?"

"In the next thirty minutes, Fioral, you will be dead. Your men will leave Penwyth, carting your body away with them. Will you do that, Dolan, so there is no remaining evil to befoul the air here?"

Dolan blinked, unable to take this all in. It was unbelievable, a play written by a madman, but he found himself nodding. "Aye, I will take the master's body away."

"Will you give Fioral a decent burial?"

Fioral smashed his fist against Lord Vellan's chair arm. "Enough of this! Shut up, old man. You are trying to weave fear in my mind."

"Will you put a stone marker on his grave, Dolan?"

"Aye, I will have a man inscribe a marker with his name, and it will be set well atop his grave."

"STOP IT!"

The old man turned again to Fioral. "I will accept a sword from Dolan. He is a good man. I will see you outside, Fioral."

The old man turned on his very ancient heel and shuffled out of the great hall, one foot lagging a bit behind the other, paying no attention at all to the staring people, many of them as old as he was, a handful mayhap even older.

Fioral knew this was ridiculous, but it didn't seem he had any choice but to kill the wheezing old fool. d.a.m.nation, this was not going well at all. The sore on his neck seemed to swell. Oh, G.o.d, he had to cure that d.a.m.ned sore.

He cursed and ran out of the great hall, jerking his sword out of his scabbard, holding it firmly in his hand.

The old witch looked at Lord Vellan, waved her hands about her, and said, "All this is very strange, is it not, sir?" She cackled loud and long, her ancient old head thrown back on her neck.

Vellan came up close to her, lightly touched her face, and said, "Your nose is falling off."

She grabbed her nose to keep it from sliding to the right. She said as she patted it back into place, "And your nose, sir, is too ugly to fall off."

Lord Vellan grabbed his nose, twisted it a bit, then patted the tip. "My nose is not at all ugly. It is a warrior's nose, one of ancient lineage. But your nose, now, I have never seen a nose so ill-fas.h.i.+oned on a face."

She sighed. "I am relieved that it didn't happen sooner."

Vellan laughed behind his hand, said low, "I am as well, Merryn. It is a fine performance you and Bishop have provided us. I am pleased to see that you and Bishop are closer than you were when he took you away from here. Where have you been?"

"I have been more places than I wished ever to visit, Grandfather. Hurry, we must go to the inner bailey. Bishop might need me."

Vellan raised an old brow.

They heard an animal roar, but it came from a man.

Merryn lifted her skirts and ran. "By all the saints' holy dreams, what has Bishop done now?"

36.

BISHOP YELLED, "COME along, young puppy, let me see if you have any skill, any strength, any cunning."

Bishop was very pleased. A straightforward, simple fight, something he was good at, something that made his blood hot and his young heart pump fast and hard.

He looked back to see Merryn coming down the stone stairs to the great hall, just ahead of Lord Vellan.

So Merryn's grandfather had finally figured out who they were. That was all right. Lady Madelyn then appeared behind her husband, and Bishop saw him turn to speak quietly to her. She nodded slowly, smiled, sent a small wave to him.

Bishop took the sword from Dolan. "Thank you. You are a good man. Do you wish to stay here after your master is buried?"