Dolan stared at him, then slowly nodded. "Aye, my men as well."

He yelled again, "Well, Fioral? Have your bowels turned to water with fright?"

Suddenly Crispin stepped into the circle formed by all the people in the inner bailey.

He laid his hand on Bishop's sleeve. "Listen, sir, I cannot allow this. It is vicious murder. You cannot protect yourself from him. No, I will not allow it. Give me the sword, old man, and go take your rest yon beneath the apple tree."

He then whirled about and yelled, "I will fight you, Fiorala"not this old man who's never done you any harm!"

Now this was unexpected. Bishop raised his hand and laid it on Crispin's shoulder. He said low, "There is no need for your valor, Crispin. It is I, Bishop of Lythe, here to claim what is mine."

Crispin nearly tripped over his boots, he was so surprised. "My lord," he said at last. "It is difficult to believe. By all the saints' wedded mothers, I have never in my life seen such a fine performance. It is quite remarkable. You look older than I do."

And that was quite an accomplishment, Bishop knew. "I thank you, Crispin. For myself, I thought that Merryn's performance was even better."

"By all the saints' colored rosary beads, that old hag who makes my belly lurch just to look at her is my lady Merryn?"

"Aye. Now take your ease, Crispin. Let me deal with our poacher."

Fioral's men were ranged behind him. Bishop saw him speaking to a smallish man who looked as tough as a chicken that had survived many a fox. What was that about?

Then Fioral, a big smile on his mouth, strode into the center of the circle, slashing his sword to and fro, so quickly, with such force, that the air seemed to vibrate.

"Well, old man, do you wish to lay your head on that rock by Dolan's foot? I will lop it off so quickly you will feel scarce anything at all. What say you?"

"After I have stuck my sword through your guts, Fioral, I will then smash your head with the rock. What say you to that?"

Fioral gave a mighty roar of laughter and came running, sword held in both hands, drawn high over his head. It would be a mighty blow when that sword came down. Bishop smiled, at his ease, and watched him come. Fioral was strong, his eyes were sharp, no doubt about that, but Fioral believed him harmless, and thus his attention wasn't focused on him, and that was a very big mistake. Bishop smiled, waited. It wasn't, after all, Mawdoor coming at him with a golden wizard's sword.

"Well, old man, will you huddle there shaking inside your old bones until one of my men fetches you out? You see your death coming toward you? Come on, you worthless old braggart, fight me, d.a.m.n you!"

"All right," Bishop said. Just as Fioral ran the three final feet to reach him, his sword ready to cleave his head in two, Bishop slid quickly to the side and stuck out his booted foot. Fioral went crashing to the ground just beyond where Bishop had been standing. He was up in an instant, breathing hard, so furious, so surprised, that he couldn't think of anything to say. Ah, Bishop saw, that had gained his full attention. He knew, too, that he'd moved too fast for an old man. Would Fioral realize it?

Fioral realized that the old man was spry. More than that, he was lucky, but there would be no more luck for him. Fioral didn't run at him this time, he slashed his sword up and down, then back and forth, all the while walking steadily toward his ancient prey, who was standing there, leaning lightly on his own sword.

"What's the matter, old man? You stand there like a jousting dummy. You're too weak to lift that sword, aren't you? Come, bend your neck over that rock. I'll make it fast."

"Come and see how weak I am, sweet lad," Bishop said, his voice as smooth as newly churned b.u.t.ter. "My, aren't you a brave young fool, so sure of yourself now. Yet weren't you just on the ground, bested by a man older than the mortar in the castle walls? Aye, I stuck out my foot and you landed right on your face."

Fioral quickened his pace, anger pouring off him in waves. "You will die slowly now, old man."

Bishop knew Merryn was coming closer, not because he saw her but because he knew her that well. And he felt her.

Bishop concentrated on Fioral, raised his sword at the last moment and brought it down. The two heavy blades clashed hard, ringing loud enough for the sheep grazing beyond the ramparts to hear.

Fioral, surprised, released and pushed back. He didn't wait an instant, came again to pound Bishop's sword. Bishop once again met the blow, twisting his wrist at the last moment, nearly knocking the sword from Fioral's hand.

Fioral couldn't believe this, wouldn't believe it. He was panting, by the saints. The miserable old man had made hima"a fine, strong warriora"pant. He yelled, "You b.a.s.t.a.r.d, what is this? Aye, I see it now, you have magic in you, don't you, old man? You have evil magic, and you're here to ruin my chances. d.a.m.n you, I won't let you! Start praying your way into heaven, you foul old relic!" He sliced his sword down, hard, with great precision, missing Bishop's shoulder by a scant inch.

Bishop knew he was preening, showing off, showing all of them how skilled he was. The result of his arrogance was that he'd nearly gotten Fioral's sword through his heart.

Bishop stood straight now, drawing his shoulders back, and it was he who now ran at Fioral, sword high.

"What is this?" Fioral had only time to speak the words before the old man was on him, a man who wasn't old at all, rather a man as young as he, as skilled as he was.

Their swords clashed loud and hard, making their hands shudder and burn. Bishop came close to Fioral's face, and he was smiling, all his straight white teeth now gleaming in the sun. "You will die because you tried to take what was mine."

Fioral knew in that instant that it was Bishop of Lythe, knew that he'd been fooled completely, but it hadn't been his fault. Surely there'd been foul magic at play here brought on by the wretched curse. And that wretched sore on his necka"aye, evil had ground that sore into his flesh. He shouted to the heavens and began to fight with all his might. Bishop pulled back, letting Fioral come to him this time, and he did, screaming, swinging his sword wildly.

Bishop waited until the very last moment. When Fioral raised his sword high, Bishop turned quickly to the side. As the huge sword came down, he slipped his own sword deep into Fioral's chest. The sword went deep, deeper, sliding through his chest and out his back.

Fioral didn't make a sound. He looked at Bishop, then slowly, very slowly, he staggered back, finally falling on his back, the force of it sending the tip of the sword back through his body and nearly dislodging it from his chest.

Bishop heard the people shouting in shock, some in anger, others now cheering wildly.

He was turning toward Merryn, relief pouring through him, when that small man Fioral had spoken to came forward and smiled even as he stabbed Bishop in the chest.

Dolan was on the man in an instant, clamping his arm around his neck, stabbing him and slitting his throat. He threw him to the ground.

"Merryn," Bishop said, looked down at that knife that was now a part of him, weaved a moment, then very slowly fell to his back onto the ground.

"NO!"

Time seemed to stop. Merryn wasn't aware of anyone else as she ran to him. She had to get to him. The men parted for her. She threw herself onto her knees beside him, saw the blood snaking down his chest, the knife stuck obscenely into his flesh. She didn't hesitate. She pulled out the knife, then slammed both palms on the wound. Blood quickly seeped through her fingers.

She had to press down hard, yes, she could do that, and she did, with all her strength. But she knew deep down that it was no good, no good at all.

Tears streaked down her face, and she was swallowing, sobbing, aware that people were closing in because she saw their shadows, heard their movement, their words. Oh, G.o.d, she had to do something.

She yelled in his face, "You won't die, you miserable sot! You hear me? How dare you get yourself stabbed! I will surely kill you for this."

She still heard voices, but they were faint and made no sense. Someone was trying to pull her off him, and she yelled, a mad yell that sent the man back.

Suddenly, it was very clear to her what she had to do. She didn't questiona"she stretched out over him, her heart against his heart, her arms stretched against his arms, her fingertips touching his wrists, her legs against his legs. She felt his blood seeping through her gown, felt it wet her breast. She felt his heartbeat, so faint, growing fainter by the moment.

She pressed her cheek against Bishop's, and felt his blood pumping out his heart.

Old Sarno, leaning over the ramparts, looked down to see the old woman lying flat atop the old man, arms and legs stretched wide to cover him, and there was blood everywhere. It was odd, but in that moment, they didn't look old. They looked very young and somehow different. He shook his head. The sunlight was bright, making him see things. He would later swear that he saw more than just Sir Bishop and Lady Merryn atop him. There were shadows there, hovering over them, sinking into them, becoming one with them. But surely that couldn't be possible, could it?

Bishop opened his eyes, saw her above him. "No," he said, so dizzy his vision blurred. He could feel the pull of death, hated it, but he wasn't about to let her continue what she was doing. "Get off me, you stupid brave witch. You will not die for me. Get off me, d.a.m.n you!"

But she didn't, of course. She pressed harder against him. With all his remaining strength, Bishop managed to lurch up and shove her off him. She rolled onto her back on the ground, stared up at the clear sky, the clouds so white above her.

He fell onto his back again. Merryn saw people coming close now, and when a hand touched her arm, she yelled, "Get away from me, you d.a.m.ned fool! Get away!"

She threw herself on top of him again, her heart against his heart, her fingers tightening their grip on his wrists, her belly flat against his, and in the next instant, she felt his pain flow into her; she welcomed it, knew in some shuttered part of her exactly what was happening. She wondered if she would die. His heartbeata"oh, G.o.d, it was fainter, slower.

"Bishop," she said against his throat, and bit him hard, "don't you dare die, d.a.m.n you." And she said it over and over. "Do you hear me, you d.a.m.ned brave fool? You will not die." He was quiet, so very quiet, too quiet.

Suddenly awful pain smashed through her. She didn't think she could bear it, but there was no choice, she had to bear it or he would die. She gritted her teeth and didn't move. Oh, G.o.d, he was so still, she couldn't feel his heart, just his blood, so much blood she was drowning in it, and it was her blood too.

Then, suddenly, Bishop opened his eyes, looked up at her. "You will bear my babe alone. I'm sorry, Merryn, so very sorry. We should have wed. I'm sorry." His eyes closed.

She closed her mouth over his mouth, breathed in his breath. "You will not die," she said into his mouth. "Do you hear me, you stupid mortal? You will not die. You are part of me, can't you feel it?"

She felt the brunt of the dreadful pain now pulsing into her, coming from the deepest part of his heart where the knife had entered and lodged. It had hurt before, but not like this. She closed her eyes, seamed her lips together so she wouldn't scream with it. She began shaking as the pain grew and grew. Oh, G.o.d, she felt his blood, her blood, and they were one now, and it was too much, simply too much.

He was trying to push her off him again, but he was too weak to manage it. She knew, despite the grinding pain, that she wouldn't let him push her off this time.

Then, amazingly, the pain began to lessen. No, she was dreaming that it was so. It didn't matter, the pain was receding, slowly, it was leaving her. She sighed softly, kissed his mouth, laid her cheek against his.

They lay together as if dead.

"Make room," Lord Vellan said. "Get away from them. Move back, all of you."

Lady Madelyn stood over them, wringing her old hands. "What is she doing? What is happening?"

"I don't know," Vellan said. "But I do know that we must keep away from them."

Crispin and Dolan were on the other side, staring down at the two young people who looked older than the ancient oak forest that the Witches of Byrne claimed to have stood thick and deep so very close to Penwyth.

No one moved.

It was the strangest feeling, Bishop thought. He felt so tired he wanted to sink into the earth and just lie quietly, the sun shining down on his face. No, he felt beyond tired, felt as if his body could float, there was just so little of him now. But the really strange thing was that there wasn't any more pain. Merryn had taken his pain; she'd taken his wound.

No, that wasn't possible. But it had happened before.

"Merryn?"

Slowly, so slowly he thought he would die of the fear of it, he felt her eyelashes flutter against his flesh.

"Merryn?"

She raised herself above him at that whisper of her name, shook her head, blinked. "What happened?"

He said slowly, eyes still closed, his lips barely moving, "I was stabbed. You came over me. Why did you do that?"

She managed a smile. She was exhausted, felt as though a hundred fists had struck her. "I don't know," she said, and kissed his chin. "I just knew it was the thing to do." She stared down at him a moment, not seeing the ancient old man, but Bishop, the man she loved, the man who wasn't going to die, ever. "I just knew that my heart had to be against your heart, my body against your body. The pain, it was awful, Bishop. But we survived, somehow we survived."

Lord Vellan's hands were on her, raising her, but she grabbed Bishop's shoulders and wouldn't let go.

She looked up over her shoulder at her grandfather. "We are all right. Give us some more time, just another moment. I swear to you that we are all right."

"But that isn't possible, my sweet girl, it just isn't. I'm very sorry, but Bishop was stabbed in the chest. He's dead now. He has to be."

"No, he isn't dead, Grandfather. Indeed, he just spoke to me. I promise you it's the truth."

"If he isn't dead now, he will be in but another instant of time. Come, Merryn, you must leave him. You must let us attend to him."

She looked at her grandfather's old hand, held out to her. Slowly, she shook her head. She leaned down and kissed Bishop's mouth. Then she threw back her head and said, "Bishop, it is time for you to rise up and tell everyone that you will wed me this day."

No one moved. Everyone heard the old woman, who wasn't old at all, speak to Bishop of Lythe, who was dead, perforce had to be dead, or soon would be.

Bishop opened his eyes. He even smiled at her. "Aye, I will do that."

Merryn took her grandfather's hand and let him lift her up. There was a huge circle of blood on the front of her gown. She stared numbly down at it. She heard people all around her, speaking now, saying, "It is the Lady Merryn!"

". . . Why isn't he dead? He should be dead."

". . . Why did she throw herself on top of him?"

On and on it went. He rose to his feet, shook himself like a dog after a storm.

Like her, his chest was covered with blood. But it was drying now, that blood, looking blacker than a thief's heart, stiffening the tunic.

There was utter silence. One chicken squawked. A breeze lifted Bishop's hair off his forehead. He felt only a bit weak now. He touched his hand to his chest. He was whole.

"He isn't dead, he isn't dead, he isn't dead." The shock made the voices all blend together, until they sounded nearly one voice in his head.

It was impossible, all knew it was impossible. Then someone said, "I understand now. It was just a p.r.i.c.k of the knife, the sort that causes a lot of bleeding, but withal the knife struck nothing vital, nothing to kill Sir Bishop."

"Aye, that's it."

Bishop could feel the people's relief that they could now understand that nothing had happened that would make them hear dark wings flapping over their heads in the deep of the night. He said nothing, just took Merryn's hand, looked down into her ugly old face. "Will you wed me in an hour's time?"

"Aye, just as soon as we clean the blood off ourselves and I can let this nose fall off."

She vaguely heard cheering. She felt her grandfather hug her, her grandmother's busy hands patting her here and there.

37.

THERE WAS NO WOUND IN his chest, no sign that a knife had ever sunk through his flesh into his heart. There was nothing save mayhap a bit of soreness, but perhaps that was because Merryn had pounded her fist so hard against him and laid herself so heavily on top of him.

That made him smile. He leaned back in the tub and closed his eyes. She would come to him soon, a sponge in her hand, and she would bathe him. Then, he thought, he would bathe her, although he knew she'd already been bathed by all her hovering women.

He wondered if there was any mark on her breast, any bruise or mark to prove that something had happened.

He felt energy pulse through him, perhaps more energy than he'd had before the fight with Fioral. Now, that was odd.

Merryn came into the chamber, the sponge in her hand. She was smiling, her blood-soaked gown gone. She was wearing a simple robe, one he knew she would change when they were wed this evening. She stood over him, laid her hand on his shoulder. "How do you feel?"

He only nodded. "Show me your breast."