Crooky fell over onto his back, pounded his head with his fists, and howled. “I ruined it. I wanted to sing about how the master makes the mistress yell her head off when he pleasures her, but I ruined it because I didn’t follow my vision. Ah, but now that you know what I should have sung, it wasn’t so very bad, now, was it?”
“No, Crooky,” Philippa said, “it wasn’t so very bad. I do not yell my head off, you fool.”
“Ha,” said Dienwald, “you yell so loudly poor Prinn the porter believes St. Erth is being attacked. What you sang, Crooky, it was a worthless truth, all those ridiculous notions tied together. You must scratch your lousy head and come up with something better. We have guests, after all, worthy guests.” And Dienwald rose, kicked the fool and sent him rolling into the rushes.
34
DIENWALD SAID TO BISHOP, “My men are excited, flexing their muscles, bragging about their prowess. They haven’t had any villains for a good fortnight. They’re ready to gullet the soldiers holding Penwyth. I hope you have a good plan.”
“Aye,” Bishop said, looking into the distance at Penwyth, “I have a plan.” And he smiled. Dienwald didn’t push him. Bishop would tell him when it was time.
Bishop was thinking how very odd it was that everything was green—the fields, the bushes, the trees. The earth was rich and dark with life and moisture, wildflowers dotted the landscape. There was no more drought at Penwyth. But why had it happened in the first place? The prince hadn’t told him. Bishop blinked. Somehow, it had been tied to the curse, mayhap even tied to his coming. He remembered the cloud of despair that had hung over the dying earth and felt relief fill his soul.
Bishop and Dienwald rode at the fore of their group. Behind them, beside Merryn, rode Gorkel, a man who could crush three men’s heads at the same time.
Dienwald looked briefly over his shoulder, then said, “Merryn shouldn’t be with us, Bishop. This could be highly dangerous.”
“Actually, I couldn’t carry out the plan if she weren’t with me. She’s very necessary. There’s really no choice in the matter. I will see that no harm comes to her. But you know, Dienwald, I should like to know how you managed to keep Philippa at home.”
Dienwald grimaced. “The truth is I had to bribe the wench.”
Bishop raised a dark brow.
“I told her I would I would speak to Graelam about a marriage contract between little Harry and my Eleanor.”
“An excellent match,” Bishop said, “but I still cannot believe Philippa agreed to remain at Sr. Erth for that paltry bribe, since I imagine you would have made a match with de Moreton in any case.”
“I would have. Since you are soon to wed Merryn, Bishop, let me give you a hint about dealing with a stubborn wife—never hesitate to lie to gain your ends. I spent hours yelling and swearing that I would never be allied to de Moreton’s family.” Dienwald grinned. “I was really quite good. Then I let her beat me about the head, yell at me, claim I was an idiot. Aye, my dearest wench sees this as a remarkable victory.” He began whistling, very pleased with himself.
They heard Gorkel the Hideous laugh behind them. It was a terrifying sound.
Dienwald swiveled in his saddle. “Merryn made Gorkel laugh. It is amazing how much the girl pleases him. You are a lucky man, Bishop. Now, enough about future weddings. Tell me your plan and what you wish me to do.”
Inside Penwyth, Fioral of Grandere Glen, twenty-two years old, convinced that he was invincible and more clever than most men who inhabited the earth, rose from Lord Vellan’s chair, where he’d sat himself in comfort and authority for nearly the past sennight, and said to his master-at-arms, Dolan, “This waiting grows monotonous. We need some entertainment. Bring in one of the old relics.”
Dolan brought in the old man Crispin, simply because Crispin told him to. Crispin didn’t want his men to be tortured by this mad whelp. He’d been their leader for so many years he couldn’t begin to remember when it had all started. As for Dolan, he was weary to his bones because he was so worried, nay, he was downright afraid. He knew something bad was going to happen. He realized well enough that since his young master hadn’t died of the curse, and still looked healthy as a stoat, he thought he’d won. In fact, Fioral seemed happier, more content, than Dolan had ever seen him. But now this. Dolan cursed under his breath. What did he want to do to Crispin, a harmless old man who was close to becoming his friend, but who would, naturally, stick a knife through Fioral’s heart if given the chance.
It was obvious that the curse wouldn’t work unless and until a man married the granddaughter, Merryn de Gay. As far as Dolan was concerned, if he and the men managed to leave this place with most of their hides intact, he would feel blessed. He rather hoped that Fioral would wed Merryn de Gay. Then he just might topple over, and good riddance to him. It had become very clear over the past days that Fioral wasn’t nearly as astute as he believed himself to be.
As for Crispin, he knew well enough that the young man was bored, knew Fioral was probably going to torment him. Would he kill him? Crispin didn’t know. Like Lord Vellan and Lady Madelyn, he was very worried about Merryn and Sir Bishop. Where were they? What was happening to them? Oh, God, there was simply nothing to know save that this young dolt was sitting in his master’s chair, lording it all over everybody, and now the fool was bored, looking for sport, and Crispin knew he was the sport. At least Fioral had kept his promise. He hadn’t killed anyone. Yet.
Dolan gently pushed the old man, Crispin, in front of Fioral. He was worried what Fioral would do. A bored warrior could be more potent than a real curse. Ah, the damned curse. Fioral was convinced that the curse was all a lie, despite all Lord Vellan’s endless tales, told in great, horrific detail, all about the deaths of the first four husbands, each recounting gorier than the last.
Fioral was thinking about the third husband’s death as he rubbed the back of his head. The sore hadn’t gotten any better. It felt larger, as a matter of fact. Fioral forced his hand away from his neck and looked at the old man who stood beside Dolan.
“Your name is Crispin and you are Lord Vellan’s master-at-arms.”
“Aye, for many years more than you’ve been walking this earth, young thief.”
Fioral got up from Lord Vellan’s chair, went to the old man, raised his fist, and slammed it into Crispin’s jaw. The old man would have collapsed to the rushes had Dolan not held him up. Dolan, because he realized another blow was likely, gently eased the old man down onto the rushes and lightly pressed his hand against Crispin’s shoulder to keep him down.
Fioral stood over Crispin, tapping his foot, his arms crossed over his chest. “How many years would that be, old man?”
Crispin felt his old bones shudder and heave from the force of the blow. The rushes felt good. He wasn’t about to move. “I was the master-at-arms at Penwyth before your father was born.”
“Do you believe in the curse?”
“Aye, certainly. Only a stupid man would disbelieve the deaths of four husbands.”