Alone and sad.”
The fool’s song actually rhymed, and rhymed well, Merryn thought, but those rhyming words weren’t true. They weren’t. Something would happen, something would change, something had to change. She wouldn’t die alone. She thought of all the old men at Penwyth she’d known all her life, as had her father before her. Had they ever been as young as she was now? They would die, they had to sometime, since they couldn’t last forever, and then there would be no one to grow old with her. Oh, God, would she die alone? Alone and sad? Those weren’t comforting words Crooky had sung.
“No,” Bishop said, loud enough so that all heard him, “she won’t die a virgin.”
“I was worried about dying alone,” she said. “I hadn’t yet considered the virgin part.”
His anger, boiling but two minutes before, was now at a simmer. He didn’t want to smile, but it was difficult to keep his mouth straight.
Crooky pointed at Gorkel the Hideous, who was chewing on a sprig of rosemary, and yelled, “Old Agnes told Gorkel that the rosemary would make his breath so fine all the young maids would follow him about, demanding kisses. Tell us, monster, what think you of all this Penwyth witchery? Come, let your words flow from your sweet mouth.”
Gorkel made a face as he swallowed the last of the rosemary, but most couldn’t tell because he was so very ugly. “I say the maid shouldn’t prick t’young soon-to-be lord of Penwyth, thass what I say.”
“But what does that have to do with witchery, monster?”
“There is no witchery,” Gorkel said, standing not a foot from Crooky, his head thrown back so even the wolfhounds came to attention. “A maid should dedicate herself to making her husband’s rod hard and strong, jess like our own sweet mistress does for t’master.”
Philippa waved her fist at Gorkel, and he laughed, a deep belly laugh that was a terrifying sound.
Crooky held his nose and fell backward off the trestle table to roll in the rushes. He lay there on his back and said, “My dearest mistress, give the monster a sweet kiss, for his breath is so pleasing it knocked me flat on my arse.”
Merryn couldn’t help it. She laughed, as did every person in the great hall.
Bishop, however, was suddenly aware that there was something wrong. But what? Someone or something was close, he felt it, saw the shadow of it, felt the air change, felt the prickle on the back of his neck. He whirled about. There was nothing save one of Dienwald’s wolfhounds scraping his nails on the stone floor.
By all the saints’ flapping tongues, what was wrong with him?
He waited until Philippa, a small boy under each arm, stretched on her tiptoes, let the little boys pat Gorkel’s face and tug on his hair. Gorkel leaned down and Philippa kissed his forehead. “It’s a sweet breath you have, Gorkel,” she said, and his face split into a huge ugly grin.
“Hear ye, Crooky, the rosemary wrought wondrous magic. T’mistress said so.”
Crooky yelled out, “All you fair maids, come and kiss the monster.”
Not one of the fair maids moved. Old Agnes cackled through her two remaining teeth. “I’ll come kiss you, Gorkel.”
Gorkel gave a whistle of fear and took a quick step back, covering his mouth with his hands.
Bishop said, “Philippa, if you would please give Merryn some more clothing. We are leaving within the hour.”
“Oh, aye,” Dienwald said. “I’ll give you some as well, Bishop. And some supplies. Eldwin! See to it.”
Merryn raised her eyes to his face. “You’re taking me home?”
Bishop shook his head.
“Where are we going?”
He just shook his head. “I will tell you just one thing, Merryn,” he said, loud enough for all to hear, “you will not die a virgin.”
“I suppose that is good to know,” Merryn said as the great hall filled with laughter, cheers, shouted advice on how to relieve the maid of her maidenhead.
“I trust,” Dienwald said to Bishop, “that you know what you’re doing.”
Bishop was staring after Merryn, who was carrying the two little boys while Philippa carried Eleanor. “I hope so, Dienwald, I surely do.”
“Where do you plan to go?”
“Two days’ travel—to the northeast.”