There was a deep rumbling sound, then, "Yes, I swear it."

"You will return the demons to their realm?"

"Yes, it will be done."

"When?"

"Immediately. Release me!"

Bishop sat back on his haunches, staring into the cask. He nodded slowly. "It is done." He picked up the wand and pointed it into the cask. "The curse is done."

There was utter silence. Then there was singinga"many voices raised in a beautiful harmony, singing, chantinga"and then silence again.

The cask began to shake. Bishop and Merryn backed away from it.

It exploded into brilliant colorsa"reds, blues, oranges, greensa"and those colors flew upward and outward, cracking and popping, like myriad small explosions of noise and color, and the noise became louder and louder until they both clapped their hands over their ears.

Then the incredible noise, all the colors, the cracking and popping, the cask, all were gone. Simply gone.

They were alone in the hole.

"Do you know something, Merryn?"

She c.o.c.ked her head to one side.

"It just occurred to me that I should very much like to see you on your knees in front of me."

Her head remained c.o.c.ked. "Whyever for, Bishop? You wish me to worship you?"

His eyes nearly crossed. He could see her, dammit, see her on her knees, see her touching him, see her taking him in her mouth. He shuddered. They were in the bottom of a hole, by all the saints' wayward children, with no way out, and he suddenly wanted her to take him in her mouth?

He was mad.

And what had happened was madness. They were trying to ignore it, to focus only on the present, on what was real, on what they could see and touch. A good thing, he thought, the present. He knew neither of them wanted to think about the strange cask and the wizard Mawdoor and the demons, all gone now, thank G.o.d. It was all just too much.

Suddenly Bishop heard laughter. It was the same laugh he'd heard when he'd first leaned over the mouth of the hole. The same laugh as when a hand had slapped his face. The laughter was becoming louder and louder.

He looked at Merryn. She was waiting for him to speak, but he couldn't, just couldn't.

He realized that she didn't hear the laughter.

Suddenly he smiled. "No, being on your knees in front of me, it's not at all about worship. I'll tell you all about it later. Let's get out of this hole now, Merryn. Give me your hand."

She didn't question him, just gave him her hand.

He clasped her fingers, pulled her close and wrapped his arms tightly around her. The laughter was soft now, right in his ears, filling him, and he knew there wouldn't be a hand to slap him this time. And he wondered, Is that you, prince? You want me out of this wretched hole, don't you? You want me out of your cave.

Bishop smiled as he closed his eyes. When he opened them, he saw a rope ladder going up the side of the hole.

"Where did that come from?" Merryn said, and there was no fear in her voice, just wonder. "It wasn't there before, was it, Bishop?"

"No, it wasn't."

He said no more. After all, what could he say? That the prince had put the rope ladder there? He supposed they were both beyond fear now, beyond what they couldn't begin to explain, to understand. Bishop said, "Mayhap the ladder was there all the time, and we just didn't see it." Aye, it had been invisible. Was that true? He had no idea. But he'd known, known all the way to the soles of his dirty feet, that it would be there when he opened his eyes.

He knew when he stepped out of the hole onto the cave floor that he wouldn't hear the laughter anymore. Whatever it was, or whoever it had been, the prince or perhaps even Brecia, had again disappeareda"only the thing was, they hadn't ever appeared. He looked back down into the hole, not at all surprised to see that the rope ladder was gone.

Whatever had happened, whatever he'd imagined or dreamed, or whipped up in his maddened brain, Bishop knew it was over. The curse was gone. The cask and Mawdoora"where had they gone? Into past time? Future time? He had no idea. Perhaps the cask was floating about in the ether, just overhead. Who could possibly know? Or was it waiting for another to come who could be used to replay an ancient story?

He said to Merryn, who was straightening her filthy gown, "The curse is lifted." He said it with firmness, with absolute conviction. He knew both of them had to believe it.

"Aye," she said, smiling up at him, "I think you're right. It was tied to that golden cask. I do wonder where that cask came from. How ever did it keep getting deeper and deeper? That was scary, Bishop. And who put it at the bottom of that hole in this particular cave?" She paused. She saw something on his face, something that made every question die in her throat. It was just as well, she thought. Leave all of it alone, leave all the questions here in this cave. It was over and they were alive and the curse was no more. It was enough. She said, "Shall we go home to Penwyth?"

"Home?"

"Aye, it is home to both of us now. I shan't have to worry that you will topple over dead in your roasted pheasant at our wedding feast."

"No, it wasn't one of my favorite thoughts, either. Merryn, we should wed as quickly as possible. You're carrying my babe."

He saw her hands cover her stomach, an instinctive gesture. "Mayhap you're right," she said. "Finally, I will bear my fifth husband a child."

He threw back his head and laughed.

When they stepped out of the cave, Fearless raised his head and whinnied at them. Merryn breathed in the sea air, content.

And Bishop thought, Not only is the curse gone, all of them are gonea"the prince, Brecia, Mawdoor. Ah, what happened to Maida? Merryn, with her red hair and green eyesa"was she descended from Maida? Or Brecia? There was no understanding of it, and it really didn't matter what he understood or didn't understand, now, did it?

He smiled, reached out his hand. "Let's go home, Merryn."

St. Erth.

Two days later.

Dienwald said as he tossed Bishop an apple from the St. Erth orchard, "We know only that a young man named Fioral of Grandere Glen has taken Penwyth. This was some four or five days ago. It is said he has about twenty men with him. It's said he plans to wait for Merryn to return. Then he will wed her."

Philippa said, "We were hopeful, but evidently the curse hasn't killed him."

"That's because I wasn't there to marry," Merryn said, and bit into her apple.

"Also, the curse is no more," Bishop said.

"We thought you would lift it." Dienwald took a bite of his own apple. "My d.a.m.ned father-in-lawa"aye, the wretched king must continually rub my nose in ita"sent us a message, telling me to help you as much as I could, but he said, regardless, you would lift the d.a.m.ned curse. He wrote there was just something about you that made things happen." Dienwald tossed his apple core to one of the wolfhounds. "I suppose when Philippa and I next visit Windsor, he will go on and on about your shrewdness, your d.a.m.nable cunning, your ability to see to the depths of things." Dienwald sighed, laced his fingers over his flat belly. "Then he will lament loudly to everyone at Windsor that he wishes you were my sweet Philippa's husband, not I, the poor fool who will have so many babes that my farmers will surely wither away because they will have to work so hard to feed all of us."

Philippa gave her husband a kiss and patted his shoulder. She smiled at Merryn and Bishop. "He frets."

"Oh, no, Philippa, he is jesting," Merryn said. "No one at St. Erth is in danger of starving."

Philippa said, even as she stroked her long fingers through her husband's hair, "No, it's not that. He frets because there's a small band of thieves not far from St. Erth and he wanted to go after them, but our sons held his legs, pleaded with him, begged him not to go, told him the kinga"their grandfathera"wouldn't be pleased if he did."

Bishop laughed. "Edward and Nicholas are only eight months old. Even they couldn't be strong enough to beg with their father and hold him here."

Philippa said, "Actually, Crooky spoke for them, didn't you?"

The fool straightened to his full height, which didn't quite bring him to Merryn's armpit, and sang, head thrown back, to the high hall ceiling, "The king has spoken, his will is done.

No more will my lord catch thieves for fun.

He's here to sleep, and then before he sleeps, he willa""

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 greena"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 wifea"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, G.o.d, 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 d.a.m.ned 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."

Fioral leaned down to strike Crispin again, but Dolan grabbed his arm. "Nay, my lord, leave the old man be. Remain above his insults. Realize that all who live here at Penwyth are a superst.i.tious lot, and since it looks like all the people have lived here since the dawn of time, it's obvious that they would become only more superst.i.tious as time went on."

"Ah, so it is all that clear to you, then, Dolan?"

Dolan nodded. He heard the softness in the master's voice and it curdled his belly.

Fioral grew still. The sore on the back of his neck throbbed and dug deeper. He wanted to rub it. "You dare to lay your hand on me, Dolan?"

He'd been a fool, Dolan thought as he felt the hand of fear drawing close. In that hand would likely be a knife, his master's favored weapon, and that knife could slide so easily into his chest. He held himself very still. "I meant no insult. It is just that all the old folk are just that, old and thus no threat to us. There is no reason to kill them."

"He's right, you young fool. Leave Crispin alone. He's a good soldier, a solid man, and he's done naught to you."

Fioral jerked around to see Lord Vellan stride into the great hall, with perhaps not as much vigor as he once had, but he was still impressive, that old man, particularly wearing his beautiful ermine-trimmed tunic, just finished for him, he'd heard one of servants mention, by Lady Madelyn. Fioral couldn't believe the mad old crone could still make such fine st.i.tches, her fingers were so knotted and gnarled. He wanted that tunic. It was fit for a king, not this doddering old fool who should have been sent to h.e.l.l years before.

Fioral said, "You will answer for your man's rudeness, my lord?"

"Oh, aye, that I will. Tell me, Fioral, what did Crispin do to so enrage you? Did he attack you? Threaten to run his sword through you?"

Fioral spit, not more than an inch from Crispin's head. "I would prefer to kill you, old man, and then it would all be over."