“How did you manage to get the knife from him?”
Bishop paused, then said slowly, “The man wasn’t a good fighter, nor was he quick of wit. I managed to distract him long enough to kill him before he could hurt Philippa. No more than that.”
“Hmmm.” Edward didn’t believe it was that simple for an instant. “My daughter was unknown to you, I understand. Yet you still came to her rescue, even though you’d never seen her before.”
“She and her men were in my path, sire. I had no choice.”
The king laughed and buffeted Sir Bishop of Lythe on his broad shoulder, causing him to stagger a bit.
“You know that Philippa is the wonderful result of my own royal prerogative, do you not?”
Sir Bishop perhaps wasn’t certain of this.
“By that,” Robert Burnell whispered close to Sir Bishop’s ear, “his majesty means that she is his own personal bastard.”
Bishop smiled. “Aye, sire, I know.”
“Good, then you will also know that by saving her, you saved a part of the very essence of your king.”
“Granted by God, I doubt it not.”
The king detected that slap of wit and decided he was amused. “If you are wondering if I plan to give you the hand of one of my own dear daughters who are legitimate and therefore princesses of the realm, unlike Philippa who is only a princess in my heart, disabuse yourself of that notion right now. Nay, Sir Bishop, I intend to reward you far more suitably.”
Since the eldest of the king’s legitimate daughters was only seven, Sir Bishop was pleased not to be offered such a reward. He pondered the king’s words. More suitably? What did that mean? The king fell silent while a servant garbed in crimson and white served him a goblet of wine, after dutifully tasting it, rolling it around in his mouth, and convulsively swallowing it.
In truth, Bishop had believed that being knighted by Lady Philippa’s lord husband, Dienwald, was reward aplenty, but his father hadn’t raised a blockhead. He wasn’t about to question anything the king chose to do. After all, not only wasn’t he a second son, he wasn’t even a third son. His father had five living sons, and Bishop was the fourth. He’d been given a name to assist him in embracing the Church, the thought of which had always curdled his belly. Like most second or third or fourth sons, he was landless. Unlike his brothers, he was tired of fighting other men’s battles, risking his neck for the chance of winning another man’s destrier and armor, although, truth be told, he had won enough over the past couple of years to keep him rich enough and his own eleven men content, but still—what did the king have in mind?
A coffer filled with gold would be nice, mayhap some gems from the Holy Land tossed on top. But Bishop doubted this was what the king intended. No king Bishop had ever heard of willingly parted with gold. When the king turned his attention from his wine back to him, Bishop said, as unctuous as a real bishop or any of the king’s courtiers, “To be Sir Bishop of Lythe is surely reward enough, your highness.” Although, truth be known, his knighthood hadn’t brought in a pence more since he’d added the “Sir” to his name, no more respect from other warriors who knew of it either, as far as he could tell. It had, however, bought him some new friends in Philippa and Dienwald de Fortenberry.
That pretty speech was to be expected, the king thought, and didn’t mind the bootlicking. Bootlicking kept men’s eyes pointed downward, a good thing when power was at stake, which it always was.
Dienwald had told him that Bishop of Lythe was a clever young man, with a bit of ready wit thrown in to please others, and braver than he should be. Aye, a clever lad he appeared to be, Edward thought. Dienwald had also told him that this young man was hungry and honorable, two things that usually didn’t sit all that closely together. But in this case, Dienwald had promised him, they did. Dienwald might be feckless and arrogant as a cock, but he usually saw clearly into other men’s hearts. As sons-in-law went, he’d set a high standard, if one discounted that he was called the Scourge of Cornwall.
Dienwald had also said that Sir Bishop was a good fighter, wily and devious, proving his worth by protecting Philippa until Dienwald and his men had arrived to wipe up the remaining bandits.
The king shook his head. He’d protected Philippa? He couldn’t imagine his sweet, gentle, strapping-strong daughter accepting any protection. He said to his ever-overworked secretary and the Chancellor of England, Robert Burnell, “Robbie, methinks that we finally have found the man to solve the mystery at Penwyth.”
Bishop didn’t sigh, but it was close. No gold. A pity. Penwyth? What the devil is Penwyth? What mystery?
Burnell had been thinking about this, chewing his quill nub until his lips were black, and he finally nodded. “It continues to confound, your majesty. Mayhap, however, more than just a simple man is required to lift the curse.”
“Ah,” the king said. “You think the curse really derives from ancient Druid priests, Robbie? That the curse has been leavened by the Witches of Byrne? You think all these spirits are still somehow huddled in the castle walls?”
Druid priests? Witches of Byrne?
“The thought must intrude, sire,” said Burnell. “There seems to be no other explanation.”
“You are a churchman, Robbie, and yet you allow yourself to believe this curse business?”
Robert Burnell said, “I do not know what to believe, sire. It disturbs me that mischief is plaguing Cornwall and that the source of that mischief might be a demon or a spirit somehow unfettered by an ancient curse.”
Demons and spirits? This didn’t sound good.
The king said, “How many men have been lost to the curse to date?”
“Four, sire. The very first one, Sir Arlan de Frome, died not two hours after he wed Lady Merryn. Evidently he was dead when his face hit the trencher. This occurred four years ago, just a fortnight after the Penwyth heir died in a tourney that you, your majesty, hosted, in April of 1274, I believe it was.”
“Aye,” the king said. “That was Sir Thomas de Gay. A fine man, ill-timed in his death. By all the saints’ endless prattle, I remember that I exhorted the men not to lay each other’s heads open, but they didn’t listen.” The king sighed, and looked toward one of his hounds, a black mastiff who could catch an en