Were the two poems really hundreds of years old?
Bishop didn’t know what to say, but this certainly gnawed at his guts. He didn’t want the king to believe him a coward, but, on the other hand, he really didn’t want to die. He had just barely reached his twenty-fourth year.
Because there was simply no choice, Bishop nodded, bowed. “I thank you, sire, for your generosity and trust. I am honored. I will hold Penwyth until my breath dies in my throat.” And hopefully it will be closer to fifty years than to a week.
“Nicely said.” And, Edward thought, about time, too. He nodded to Burnell, who now handed Bishop the official deed papers, beautifully scripted by Burnell’s own hand early in the morning hours before the dawning of this beautiful May day.
Bishop eyed those papers, saw them as a death warrant. Suddenly he smiled. “Perhaps, your majesty, we can have another writ to accompany that one? One that mayhap could save my life?”
The king smiled. “What is this, Bishop? Ah, I see, you are concerned that the curse might strike you down.”
“Not an inconceivable notion, sire, given that four men are already dead because of it.”
“But there is no need for the curse now,” Edward said, sitting forward on his throne. “I have directed Lord Vellan that it is my command that you become his heir. Therefore it is done, the curse is no more. The king commands it.”
Robert Burnell said, “It is common knowledge in the west of Cornwall, sire, that the fourth knight to take Penwyth claimed he was there by your command. It made no difference to his fate. He died whilst he was dragging his new bride to the nuptial bed.”
“I had not heard that,” the king said. He stroked his long fingers over his jaw. “But he lied, and surely the spirits realized that and thus dispatched his soul to hell.”
“That is possible,” Burnell said and nodded. “Of course, the fourth husband didn’t have any papers from you to back up his claim.”
Bishop said, “Mayhap I should insist that the spirits read my writ.”
There was a snicker from one of the servants.
Robert Burnell frowned.
“Still,” the king said, his eyes on Bishop, “I really don’t wish you to die, even though that jest you just made didn’t amuse me. Robbie, what think you?”
“I think, sir,” said Robert Burnell, “that Sir Bishop was striving to calm his own fears through making an unworthy jest. He is not a stupid man. Indeed, I believe he must have a plan.”
“Is that true? Have you a plan, Sir Bishop?”
“Aye,” Bishop said. “I hope it is a good one, sire, since it is the only one I have.” Three days later, Sir Bishop of Lythe, now officially heir to Lord Vellan de Gay, Baron Penwyth, left London, which didn’t smell so very bad in spring, the wind off the Thames sweet in his nostrils. Still, it was a relief to leave the mobs of people, the stench of unwashed bodies and foul waste, the never-ending noise. The countryside stretched ahead of them.
He was off to Cornwall with his eleven men, both of the king’s two writs, rolled safely inside a sealskin against his chest. Tucked inside the writs was the Penwyth curse.
So she had red hair and green eyes, did she? Hmmm. This should prove to be interesting, if he survived it. He’d never bedded a woman with red hair. He wondered if her woman’s hair was as red as the hair on her head. Well, he would see once she was his wife.
But before he could bed her, he had to rid himself of this damnable curse. There were ways to do things. And there were other ways as well. He was pleased that he’d come up with one of the other ways. It just might keep his heart beating.
3
St. Erth, Cornwall
DIENWALD DE FORTENBERRY, the very first earl of St. Erth, and the king’s damned son-in-law, didn’t like the look on young Bishop’s face when he rode into the inner bailey, his men following close behind him. He was carrying his helmet under his arm, and his hair, as long and black as an old hound’s teeth, was loose down his neck. He didn’t look happy. Those bright blue eyes of his were narrowed to slits, darker than Dienwald remembered. What he looked was, oddly, profoundly determined. What was going on here?
Dienwald called out, “Bring yourself and your men into the great hall, Bishop. You have news, and it doesn’t particularly please you. Don’t tell me—the king, my blessed father-in-law—wishes me to build ships, set sail with every able-bodied man in Cornwall, and attack the damned French?”
Bishop shook his head, smiled, his blue eyes brightening. “No, it isn’t that, Dienwald. It isn’t all bad, particularly if I manage to survive it, but I would wish your advice.”
“Hmmm,” Dienwald said, stroking his hairless chin. “A mystery. My fool, Crooky, will weave a tale of it that will survive until our grandchildren.” He called out, “Philippa, come here, wench, and welcome the brave knight who saved your hide—and a beautiful hide it is. I added that in a loud voice so you will not be tempted to tell your father that I abuse you.” He said to Bishop, “The king would flay me alive if I so much as harmed a curly hair on her head. He has told me that at least a dozen times over the past three and a half years. And I wonder. If I did hurt a hair on her head, how would the king know? She has so much hair, even I wouldn’t guess if one or two strands were missing.”
Philippa de Fortenberry, a small boy tucked under each arm, walked down the steps to the great hall, waving one of the little ones at him. “Hello, Bishop. Welcome to St. Erth. What is this? You don’t look like a man the king has rewarded. Come down, that’s right. Give Gorkel the reins, he will see to your destrier and your men. Our neighbor, Graelam de Moreton, has sent us some excellent wine from his father-in-law.”
Bishop dismounted his destrier and handed the reins to Gorkel the Hideous, who gave him a very big welcoming smile, a smile so frightful it made gooseflesh rise on his arms. It was said that the sun was loathe to rise in the morning because it would shine on Gorkel’s terrifying face. Truth be told, though, this time Gorkel’s face did
n’t seem quite so gruesome as it had when Bishop had first laid eyes on him three months before.