the flag.
Not that the flag was hiding much, he reflected. The flag showed a red dragon, six foot tall, standing on a white background above a green base. The dragon on the flag was as red as the brightest sun rubies. It was as red as the most heartfelt desire. It was as red as the dragon hidden beneath the flag concealed inside the cage.
On the journey up to Blackheath, Owain had told Laird Gethin ap Cadwallon that using the flag to cover this cage was like hiding the whole of the West Riding’s coffers beneath a flag decorated with golden coins, sapphire purses and diamond-encrusted ingots.
But, not for the first time, Gethin had ignored Owain’s observations.
‘Are you sure you want to see this?’ Owain asked the redhead.
She was a pretty young maid who had taken the time to help him guide the wheeled cage into a covered storeroom beside Blackheath’s stables. The earthy smell of horses filled the air around them. There were no torches or sconces inside the stables but there was sufficient moonlight for Owain to appreciate the young woman’s milk-skinned beauty and the shine of daring that danced in her emerald eyes. He had seen that her hair was the russet colour of an autumn sunset. He had also seen the leather band on her heart finger but he was doing his best to brush that latter consideration from his thoughts.
All men, he knew, were able to brush that sort of consideration from their thoughts.
The redhead giggled and pressed close to him.
His nostrils flared as he caught the sweet scent of her nearness. She wore a perfume that reminded him of the exotic aroma of the flowers from the kingdom’s most forbidden gardens. The bouquet was rich and heady and intoxicating.
His need for her hardened.
‘I’ve seen dragons before,’ she admitted.
There was a musical lilt to her voice. He didn’t know if it was a typical accent for someone from the North Ridings, or a dialect peculiar to Blackheath, but from her it sounded different and enchanting. His yearning for her grew stronger.
‘I can see Gatekeeper Island through my spyglass when I stand in the highest offices of the watchtowers,’ she told him.
She nodded back over her shoulder, as though gesturing toward the main buildings of Blackheath Priory. He glanced at the silhouettes of towers standing black against the midnight-blue sky, blocking the stars from shining down. This was his first visit to Blackheath and it looked as though the entire fiefdom was made up of too many dark towers.
‘I can see the dragons circling the temple through my spyglass,’ she explained. ‘But I’ve never seen a dragon up close. I’ve never touched one.’
She stressed the penultimate word: touched.
He stiffened. She had a warm body and was pressed lithely against him. The well-rounded swell of her thinly covered breasts brushed against the brawny muscles of his bicep. Her small hands, delicate and cool, touched him with deliberate urgency. Her nearness inspired a healthy hardness to spring between his thighs and strain against his hosen. He cautioned himself against being tempted by her before knowing more about who she was.
He cautioned himself to remember Carys.
Owain had suffered for being imprudent in the past. He did not believe himself to be a man who often made the same mistake twice. Whilst he was trying to tell himself to proceed with caution he continued wilfully not thinking about the leather band on the third finger of her left hand.
‘You need to be careful around dragons,’ he whispered.
He found himself murmuring the words into her ear. There was something about her height and shape that made him yearn to share the sentiment in an intimate fashion. He didn’t know if it was the vibrant colour of her hair, the whey-like milkiness of her complexion or if it was simply an effect of working so closely with dragons.
‘Dragons breathe fire. Those dragons that are out there with foul tempers can cause harm and devastation to anyone who earns their ire. It’s something you need to remember whenever you’re handling these beasts.’
She nodded attentively.
‘But the very nearness of dragons has an effect on us humans.’ His voice dropped a notch lower, so that he was sure she was straining to hear him. ‘It’s an effect that we can’t control,’ he murmured.
‘And what effect might that be?’
She returned his whisper with lips so close he could have kissed her without moving his head. Her breath was sweet with the memory of summer fruits and evening wine. Her emerald eyes shone for him with a reflection of the sparkling moonlight.
‘Is it an effect similar to dragon horn?’ she asked.
He pulled away from her with a stiff abruptness. Whatever passion had been blossoming between them was instantly rent apart.
‘Dragon horn is a stupid myth,’ he grunted. His hand fell to the sword on his hip. With a deliberate effort he moved his fingers away from the pommel. ‘Dragon horn is a lie put about by charlatans and bastards and those who know less than a headless cockerel. Dragon horn is nothing but –’
‘I didn’t mean –’ she faltered.
Needing to do something with his hands, he gripped the flag and tore it away from the cage. ‘Dragon horn is a story put about by those who’ve never seen a dragon and don’t realise that dragons don’t even have horns.’
The flag fell to the floor in a noiseless rumple.
He realised that the redhead had stopped listening to him as he prattled on about the inefficacy of dragon horn and its part of the lore of unsubstantiated myths. She was staring into the cage. Her eyes had been wide before. Now they were as large as a berserker’s battle shield. Her mouth had fallen into a broad O of silent amazement. She stood motionless as she stared into the cage.
Owain wasn’t really surprised.
Y Ddraig Goch was an impressive sight. Standing on all fours the dragon would have been an imposing six foot tall. From the tip of her snout to the spike at the end of her tail, she was closer to double that length. The dragon was as scarlet as blood-red dreams. She regarded Owain and the redhead with unblinking onyx eyes. A forked tongue slipped from between her crimson lips.
‘He’s beautiful,’ the redhead muttered. ‘He’s truly beautiful.’
‘She,’ Owain corrected. He reached through the bars of the cage and patted the dragon on the top of its spiny head.
Despite the moment’s irritation that had woken in him at the mention of dragon horn, he found himself warming to the redhead.
She smiled for the dragon. Her expression bore the sort of affection that suggested she was a genuine animal lover who possessed a sincere kindness of spirit.
‘Drusilla is a female dragon,’ he explained with patience. ‘She’s one of the last of her kind from the West Ridings.’
‘Drusilla the dragon?’ The redhead smiled sourly.
Owain shrugged. ‘She was named by a former princess of the West Ridings,’
