Four Years Earlier. . .
Penwyth Castle
Cornwall, England
May 14, 1274

SIR ARLAN DE FROME pulled up his destrier and raised his mailed hand to halt the thirty-two men behind him, experienced and hard, mercenaries all. Horses whinnied, dust swirled, and Sir Arlan smelled fear. Maybe it was churned up in all that dust, or maybe it was in the very air itself. Sir Arlan was familiar with this smell and he liked it, particularly when it poured off a man who had something Sir Arlan wanted.

Sir Arlan saw it in the faces of the men who lined the ramparts of Penwyth Castle, the tidy hold that would soon be his. The town of Penwyth, nestled in the shadow of the stone walls of the keep, quickly became deserted when the people saw him coming. He hadn't let his men stop to loot. After all, it would become his village soon. The keep itself stood solid as the granite of Cornwall's cliffs, atop a rise that looked toward the sea off Land's End, a barren hunk of land that stood between Penwyth and enemies from the sea come to attack England. It was a keep of great strategic value, and Sir Arlan knew in his bones that King Edward would be delighted to make him the heir, once, naturally, he already had Penwyth in his grasp.

Penwyth Castle -- would be his by conqueror's right. Once the girl was his wife -- what was her name? Something strange. Lady Merryn, that was it, a silly name, romantic, a name the bards would doubtless sing ringing verses about. Once he married the girl, it would be another encouragement for the king to make him the Penwyth heir. There would be none to gainsay his ownership. He would take the title of Lord de Gay of Penwyth. And why not? His own name, given to him by a bastard father who'd hated him, held no prestige, no power. But Arlan de Gay -- it was a good solid name, with at least four generations of steadfast reputation backing it up. It sat well. Sir Arlan smiled. The old lord wouldn't be alive that much longer, now would he? He wouldn't really want to stay around, would he, now that the next generation had arrived?

He had no intention of razing Penwyth, since it would soon belong to him. He didn't want to kill the soldiers or the servants or the serfs who worked within the keep walls, only as many as it took to make the others believe that he was indeed now their master and they owed him their lives.

He looked around the fertile green land, at the flourishing crops, and smiled.

Sir Arlan hoped the old buzzard who was sitting in the lord's chair had a lot of gold hidden away. Those men whom he couldn't entice to remain with him, he would have to reward or kill. He wanted no looting, no excessive violence.

Aye, there was naught but an old man, an old woman, and a young girl. Fourteen was the age he'd heard, an excellent age for marriage, ripe enough for the marriage bed, young enough that after a couple of clouts to the head she wouldn't ever think to flout him or his wishes. It was good.

He looked up to see a score of faces lined up along the ramparts, staring down at him. He'd heard rumors about all the soldiers here at Penwyth, but he'd discounted them. He would soon see.

He motioned for his lieutenant, Darrik, to ride forward to present his terms. Darrik had a magnificent voice, hard and deep, and it would carry all the way to the sea beyond Land's End.

Arlan nodded to him.

Darrik called out: "Lord of Penwyth, soldiers of Penwyth, tenants one and all. There is no heir to Penwyth. Sir Arlan de Frome agrees to wed with Lady Merryn de Gay and to entrust unto himself, as heir, the welfare and safety of all Penwyth lands until such time as Lord Vellan de Gay dies. Then Sir Arlan will become Lord of Penwyth.

"No one will be harmed if the drawbridge is lowered and we are allowed to enter in peace."

"Well done, Darrik," Arlan said, even as he smiled at all the outraged shouts, the loud murmurings, men leaving the ramparts, doubtless to run down to tell Lord Vellan that there was a lion at the gate.

A bit of time passed -- not much, but Sir Arlan was an impatient man. His destrier fidgeted as his master grew more agitated.

He spoke to Darrik in a low voice.

Darrik shouted, "Open the drawbridge or your blood will be forfeit!"

Another bit of time passed, and then came the loud winching of the wrist-thick chains as the drawbridge slowly lowered over the brackish water, deep and stagnant, and a good dozen feet wide. It was happening, just as he'd wanted it to. It was a sign from God.

Never was a keep taken so easily. Sir Arlan led his men over the wide wooden bridge, looking upward at the portcullis that, in times of war, could drop down, its pointed iron bars embedding deeply into the earth, or spearing into an enemy. They rode through the outer court, narrow and thick-walled, through a double set of open gates into the inner bailey. Scores of people had gathered there, all of them still, staring at him and his men, children clutched to parents' sides, animals quiet and wary, heads raised, as if scenting the danger. Everything was normal, it seemed to Arlan, except for the silence. Well, silence wasn't a bad thing -- it showed respect to the new lord.

There wasn't much dust for the horses to kick up in the inner bailey. Arlan smiled when he saw Lord Vellan de Gay standing on the bottom stone stair of the keep. His granddaughter stood behind him, nearly out of sight, but he glimpsed her peeking around her grandfather to see the man who had so easily taken their keep. Her soon-to-be husband. Aye, it was good.

Lord Vellan didn't look away from the big man, covered in chain mail, who was riding straight at him. At the last moment, Sir Arlan pulled his powerful destrier to a halt not six feet from Lord Vellan.

"My lord, I am Sir Arlan de Frome of Keswick. I am here to save you from marauders who would raze your keep and kill all your people."

There was a frozen moment of silence, then, "Doubtless I am blessed that you came to save me," said Lord Vellan.

An impertinence, but Sir Arlan let it pass. He was an old man and old men had their pride, even when they had nothing else. Sir Arlan said, "You have need of an heir, my lord, and your granddaughter has need of a husband. You now have both standing before you."

"My son died but a fortnight ago," said Lord Vellan. "You made good speed to get here."

"Aye, I did. I wanted what was mine. Where is my future wife?"

Lord Vellan said, "Before you see my granddaughter, Sir Arlan, before you announce that you are here to become my heir, I feel it only fair that I warn you."

Sir Arlan laughed. "Warn me? Warn me about what?"

Lord Vellan said, his voice lowered just a bit, "For hundreds of years, this land, all the different fortresses that have stood here, all have been protected by a curse fashioned by the ancient Celtic Druids. These Druid priests held the honor and safety of this land dear. Never in the hundred years that this Penwyth fortress has stood have these lands been invaded and taken. Indeed, none of the fortresses that existed on this site in the past fell to an enemy. They weathered and fell on their own over the centuries. But no man brought them down, because this place was protected by the ancient Druid curse."

"The Celtic Druids? Those blood-covered monsters died out hundreds of years ago, old man. I have no fear of any Druid priests or their prophecies. You only claim that none of the fortresses built on this site were conquered. You have no proof that this is the case. Aye, I think you are lying, old man, and it angers me."

"I am not lying, nor am I speaking of an ancient prophecy. I am speaking of a curse. There is no curse more potent than a Druid curse."

Sir Arlan heard some movement behind him, nervous movement by some of his men, the superstitious fools. He said, his voice loud and laced with scorn, "I have heard of no such curse. A curse from the Celtic Druids? That is nonsense, and you know it. I will not be frightened away by this stupid tale."

"Few have heard of the curse, that is true," said Lord Vellan. "But that doesn't make it any less real. Would you like to hear the curse? It has come down whole and pure through countless centuries of strife and chaos."

Sir Arlan dismounted and handed the reins to one of his men. "No, I don't wish to hear any blasphemy. I care not about a curse that doesn't exist save in your ancient brain. We will come inside, I would inspect my new great hall. I would meet your priest, for I wish to be married before the sun sets. Where is the girl?"

A skinny child, dressed in boy's trousers, a loose woolen shirt, hair scraped back in tight, thick braids, stepped around Lord de Gay. The old man grabbed her arm, as if to hold her back, but she shook him off and stood straight and tall in front of Sir Arlan.

"I am Merryn de Gay."

"And I will be your husband come nightfall," he said, reminding himself that she was still a child, and surely she would improve with age. He walked up the steps and looked at her more closely.

She wasn't at all appetizing. But as long as he could fit himself between her skinny legs and breach her maidenhead, nothing else mattered. Sir Arlan didn't have any problem at all with this scrap of humanity becoming his bride. He doubted a gown would make her any more toothsome, since she had no breasts or hips to draw attention, not a single curve on her small child's body. On the bright side, he didn't think she could get any worse.

"Aye," he said, after looking at her, "I will be your husband by eventide. You may address me as 'Sir Arlan' or 'my lord.' "

"I will not address you as anything. You are an intruder. If we hadn't let you in, you would have been perfectly satisfied to kill everyone. You are here to claim what was my father's and is now mine. Go away or the curse will kill you. The Druid priests who placed the curse owed a great deal to my ancestors."

Sir Arlan heard his men speaking quietly behind him. He said, "I care not about such nonsense. There is no curse, or if there is, it is as meaningless as a goblet of wine that disappears quickly down a man's gullet."

She said very softly, leaning toward him so that she wasn't more than an inch or two from his face, "It is really a very simple curse, Sir Arlan. If you don't leave, you will die."

"Ah, so, long ago Druid priests knew of you, Lady Merryn? Mayhap they saw you in the dead eyes of one of their sacrifices?"

"Mayhap," Merryn said.

Lord Vellan grabbed her hand and nearly threw her behind him. He had rich white hair and an even more luxuriant white beard that cascaded down his chest to come to a point just above his wide leather belt. He yelled, "Listen, all of you. Sir Arlan may dismiss the ancient curse, but it is quite real. The Witches of Byrne, who are descendants of the Druids, have blessed it. They have claimed this land to be held apart from violence and strife. Aye, for hundreds upon hundreds of years Penwyth has been protected by forces mightier than a few paltry men astride horses."

Lord Vellan heard a man ask, "What is the curse?"

Lord Vellan shouted, "You see my granddaughter, her red hair, her green eyes? She is the image of an ancient priestess who once lived on this site hundreds upon hundreds of years ago. The story goes that an enemy came to that ancient Penwyth and claimed both her and the fortress. The Druid priests collected here, outside the wooden fortress walls, and pronounced the curse. The enemy died a dreadful death, Sir Arlan."

More murmuring voices. "What death? What happened?"

"The enemy fell into a cesspit and strangled to death on waste and rot, all his men looking on."

"You weave a ridiculous tale, Lord Vellan! A cesspit with his men not aiding him? There is no damned curse!"

Lord Vellan smiled. "Listen, all of you!

"The enemy will die who comes by sea.
The enemy by land will cease to be.
The enemy will fail who uses the key.
Doubt this not,
This land is blessed for eternity."

"What key? What key is there to use? What is this, old man?"

Lord Vellan shrugged. "I simply recite the ancient curse to you. If there is a key, its meaning is long forgotten. But you come by land, Sir Arlan, and that means you will die if you do not leave peacefully."

Before Sir Arlan could spit, Lord Vellan called to the men grouped behind him, "I do not know how he will die because no one has ever before taken Penwyth, but Sir Arlan will die unless he leads all of you away from here at once. Will the rest of you die as well? I don't know."

Sir Arlan didn't spit. He knew his men were frightened; perhaps he felt a niggling bit of fear himself, but it didn't matter, and so he threw back his head and laughed, loud and deep. "That's it, old man? That's the stupid curse? I heard nothing about your precious granddaughter in the curse."

Lord Vellan shouted, "This is the rest of the curse. Look at my granddaughter, and know it is true!

"Maiden's heart pure as fire
Maiden's eyes, green as desire
Maiden's hair, a wicked red
Any who force her will soon be dead."

There was utter silence. Lord Vellan saw that Sir Arlan's men were afraid. Good. He said, "It is simple and straightforward, Sir Arlan. Two parts to it. What more need you?"

Merryn said, "A curse should be simple because men are required to understand it."

Sir Arlan raised his mailed hand, his fingers closed into a fist to strike that insolent child's face. No, he would hold to his control. He smoothed out his hand. He was the one with the power. Aye, he had the strength, the might of his men, all loyal to him -- or they'd better be. "I see," he said. "And you pretend that you are a witch, Lady Merryn? You believe that this curse was prepared especially for you? Or all green-eyed witches with red hair throughout the years?"

The girl shrugged and looked at him as if he were dirt beneath her boy's boots.

Merryn said, "There is a girl in every generation who has red hair and green eyes, going back to the beginning of time."

He said, "Nonsense. You have no way of knowing that."

Lord Vellan said, "It is true that none of it is written down. The curse has passed down over the years until at last my grandfather wrote it down so it would never be lost. Had it been lost, why, then you would have done what you have done, and died, without due warning."

Sir Arlan laughed again. He stood very close to Lord Vellan de Gay, on the same step. They were the same height and that surprised him. Lord Vellan was an old man, shoulders rounded, thin as a snake, aye, even scraggly he was, despite all that thick white hair, and he should be bowed over, no taller than Sir Arlan's armpit. But no, the old man was staring him in the eye.

Sir Arlan said, "I am now your heir, Lord Vellan. I am not your enemy to take Penwyth from you. Will that please the curse makers? Aye, your goodwill toward me will result in your remaining the lord of Penwyth, at least its figurehead, for perhaps longer than you deserve. Aye, I will let you live, let you continue to drink your fine wine and pretend to power over the souls who work and live at Penwyth, but know that I will be the one to rule, and this girl here will be my wife. And King Edward will be pleased."

Lady Merryn de Gay said to the man whose face wasn't unpleasant, whose breath wouldn't fell a horse, "If you do this, sir, you will die. My great-grandfather told my grandfather that the Druid curse came from the sacred stone circle that stands in the plains of southern Britain. I know no more about it."

"Enough! Go and have your ladies make you resemble a female. And have a wedding feast prepared. I want all in readiness by the setting of the sun."

When Father Jeremiah married young Merryn, finely garbed in an old saffron silk gown that had belonged to her mother, to Sir Arlan de Frome of Keswick, it was exactly five minutes before the sun set on another brilliant spring day near the very edge of Edward's England.

The only cheers were from Sir Arlan's men and those only because they'd heard that the cellars were filled with beer and rich Rhineland and Aquitaine wine. They were also having a fine time making sport with the Penwyth soldiers.

Penwyth's master-at-arms, Crispin, whose beard was longer and whiter than Lord Vellan's, knew a great number of fine curses, but they couldn't kill a man, more's the pity, and so none of Arlan's men bothered to clout him for his insults. All of Arlan's men drank and laughed and toasted each other on the ease by which they'd taken a very fine keep indeed.

Lady Merryn de Frome sat next to her bridegroom of two hours at the high table, her grandfather and grandmother in the middle of the table, one of Sir Arlan's men on either side of them.

They ate from the same trencher. Sir Arlan sopped fine white bread in the thick beef gravy. Because he had been raised with a modicum of manners, he offered her a tasty chunk of beef off the end of his knife.

She took it, chewed and swallowed, all the while looking through him, as if he wasn't even there.

He grabbed her chin in his hand and jerked her about to face him. "I'm your husband. You will show me respect. Look at me."

"I am sorry that you must die," she said and looked him right in the eye.

"By Saint Peter's furrowed brow, you will cease this foolishness about a bloody curse!" He turned away from her and ate all the tender beef on his trencher.

The jests continued, most of them forced ribaldry, because what man in his right mind would want to bed this child? Still, his men wanted to have the form correct.

There were more toasts, one even speculating on the year the new Lady de Frome would produce her first child.

Sir Arlan was laughing at that when he shouted to Lord Vellan, "From this night on I am Sir Arlan de Gay, your heir and grandson-in-law. Aye, I fit your name well, do I not?"

Lord Vellan merely smiled.

There was more cheering, all from Arlan's men. All the Penwyth people were furious and muttering, but softly, since they didn't want their heads cleaved in.

Arlan turned to his bride. "Tell me you have begun your monthly flow."

Merryn looked at the big man who was old enough to be her father, although, truth be told, most men in the Great Hall could have fathered and grandfathered her as well because, she was, after all, barely fourteen years old. "No," she said, "I have not."

"A pity. However, with bed play perhaps it will encourage your woman's body to do its duty. I will draw blood this night. Aye, that should do it."

"Why did you wish to steal another man's holdings?"

Sir Arlan could have struck her, but he chose, instead, to say, laughter rich in his throat, "My father wanted me, his bastard son, to be a priest, bent and celibate, copying texts in musty old chambers, cut off from life. I was to spend my life paying for his sin of fornication that produced me. I could not imagine a more tedious existence. I could have killed him, but I did not. I went to the Holy Land, fought under Lord Edinthorpe, and brought back jewels. But soon they were gone, and there was nothing for me." He shrugged, looked very pleased with himself, and Merryn wondered how much of his tale was true.

"Penwyth is now my home and you are now my wife. There, I have answered your question. You will never again speak to me with disrespect." He paused a moment, looking at her fine-boned face that would surely show beauty someday. "You will not fight me in our bed tonight."

"Oh, no, I won't fight you," Merryn said. "I won't have to."

He didn't understand that, but it didn't matter. He was too happy with himself and his new circumstance to question her further.

Aye, Sir Arlan felt very good. He'd lost no men and he was now the lord of Penwyth, not as large a holding as Wolffeton or St. Erth, to the east, but his sons would wed with their rich daughters and just perhaps, in twenty or so years, Lord Arlan de Gay would be a name to reckon with.

He met Lord Vellan's eyes, rheumy old eyes that made him shiver deep inside himself where, thankfully, no one could see, eyes that had seen many more things than he had -- but that was absurd, of course. The old man had never left Cornwall. He was nothing, a relic, content to dine on ancient legends. Sir Arlan picked up his goblet newly filled with deep red wine from Bordeaux, and said to the company gathered in Penwyth's great hall, "To the future. As of here, as of now, I am to be addressed as Lord Arlan de Gay."

"To the future!"

"To Lord Arlan!"

Arlan swallowed, smiled at everyone, then, without warning, he fell forward, his face landing in his trencher.

There was stunned silence, then shouts, howls, men drawing their swords, their knives, racing to where their master slumped with his face hidden in the rich gravy that coated his trencher.

Lord Vellan shouted as he rose, "Sir Arlan is dead. I warned him. All of you heard me tell him of the ancient Druid curse that was carried down and strengthened by the Witches of Byrne. By all the Druids' ancient wisdom and might, the curse has struck him down."

"No," Darrik shouted, so afraid, so furious, he was shaking with it, "You poisoned him, you miserable old man. You poisoned him, damn you, and now I will kill you. I will kill everyone." The man rushed toward Lord Vellan. Suddenly he simply stopped, as if a mighty hand had grabbed him and held him in place. It seemed he couldn't move. He stared, his eyes bulging in terror, crying now since no words would come from his mouth. Tears ran down his cheeks and yet he remained perfectly still, straining, as if pinned in that one spot. Suddenly, his body began shaking and jerking about. His mouth foamed. He hurled himself against a knot of Sir Arlan's men who were standing close, staring at him, too petrified to move.

They all collapsed onto the stone floor.

Darrik was dead.

It seemed that all thirty-one remaining soldiers standing slack-jawed in the great hall instantly realized that they had no leader and that a virulent curse could kill them all at any moment.

Father Jeremiah's voice rose above the wild fear, the cries, the panicked shouts. "God's will is done. I pray for these lost souls."

Within the hour, thirty-one men rode hard from Penwyth to spread the tale of how Sir Arlan de Frome had been struck down because he had taken Penwyth and wed Lord Vellan's witch granddaughter. There were whispers about how Sir Arlan's man, Darrik, had shouted "Poison" and tried to kill old Lord Vellan. But, in voices lowered to whispers, he'd somehow been held back by an invisible force. He'd jerked and heaved about until finally he'd fallen to the ground, foam frothing from his mouth. And that force that had held him -- be it the devil, or the spirits carrying out the curse -- had killed him. Not a mark on him, it was said, just the white foam that dried very slowly on his mouth.

Copyright © 2003 by Catherine Coulter