hear his father’s admonition not to turn his back on a woman in trouble.
‘You don’t know this stranger,’ Urban protested. ‘And you have only their word that he is a lord or a knight.’
Reynold gave Urban a long, assessing look, trying to determine what part he played in the scheme. The fellow appeared both frightened and belligerent, but one thing was clear: Peregrine wasn’t the only one taken with Mistress Sexton. Was Urban simply covetous of the damsel, or was he the bully Peregrine thought? Reynold had an obligation to aid those in need, as Mistress Sexton liked to point out. But was there a need, and, if so, just what was it?
If he could get her alone, Reynold thought he might be able to discover the truth, but that idea led his mind in another, more tantalising direction until he put a stop to it. He needed to keep a clear head, lest he become just another addled admirer of Mistress Sexton. Even if she wasn’t a liar, experience had taught him to be wary of women, especially beautiful ones, for they had no interest in a man like him.
‘Very well,’ Reynold said. ‘I shall hear you out.’
The look of relief on her face made Reynold uncomfortable, and he stayed well back when she led the way out of the church. From that position, he could keep a wary eye on the pitchfork, lest it find its way into his back.
Gathering the reins of their horses, Reynold and Peregrine retraced their route round the curve in the road, then followed a short track to the small manor. It looked like any to be found in a little village, solidly built of stone and slate, except for the forlorn aspect and the grass that was growing too tall around, proclaiming its neglect.
Inside, the hairs on the back of Reynold’s neck stood up again, for he had never seen a hall such as this: empty, lifeless and silent except for their own footsteps. Mistress Sexton’s voice, when it rang out, nearly made him flinch.
‘Adele,’ she called. ‘Come out, for it is safe now. And we have guests.’ A woman hurried in from the kitchens, fright etched upon her worn features, but at the sight of the boy she cried out and ran forwards.
‘Alec!’
Throwing her arms around the lad, she wept with apparent relief, and for the first time this day, Reynold began to wonder whether he was in the wrong, for who would pretend such fear and joy? The words of the l’Estrange sisters might be coincidence or otherwise, but these people did not seem capable of perpetrating so enormous a hoax. Indeed, Reynold felt a bit ashamed of his assumption that even here, so far from Campion, the de Burghs would hold sway.
With a glance, he took in the small band that appeared to be the only inhabitants of the village: one sullen fellow who looked unable to defend himself, let alone others; a boy younger than Peregrine; the boy’s mother, obviously a servant; and the two other women.
As if divining his thoughts, Mistress Sexton turned towards him. ‘This is all that is left of Grim’s End,’ she said, her bearing proud none the less. ‘Will you hear our story?’
Over a simple meal of cheese, dried apples, and some kind of egg dish, Mistress Sexton spoke. ‘It began even before spring, so that few proper crops were put in, and the winter seed was destroyed. Animals were killed and their owners were run off.’
‘People were afraid. They would rather start anew than face the beast,’ Urban said, and Reynold couldn’t tell whether he was disgusted with those who fled or wished he had joined them.
‘We learned to hide when we heard it coming,’ the boy Alec said.
‘We have little growing except small, scattered gardens, and no cows or pigs or oxen. And what food we have stored cannot last indefinitely,’ Mistress Sexton said.
Obviously, they were frightened of something, but any beast might kill animals or attack humans, and fires were usually the result of dry thatch and sparks, not burning breath. ‘Why a dragon?’ Reynold asked.
‘Someone woke it!’ Alec said, wide-eyed.
It had been sleeping? Before Reynold could comment, Mistress Sexton spoke. ‘Our village, Grim’s End, was founded by a dragon-slayer. You must have seen the mound across from the church.’
The odd hill. Reynold nodded.
‘‘Tis said that the dragon is buried there, and when the attacks began, the villagers thought it had reawakened, though there were no disturbances in the earth.’
Reynold studied the small group carefully. No mummers these, but people who were definitely afraid of something. Of what, Reynold was less sure. Although he did not have personal knowledge of every animal, a dragon seemed more otherworldly than natural, no matter what the local lore might say.
Dragons or worms were giant serpents with wings, a tail and clawed feet with which they could grasp their prey. They could swallow animals and people whole, spit fire or poison, and lash a victim with their heavy tails. And they were difficult to kill because of the nearly impervious scales that covered them.
Although Reynold kept his expression impassive, he knew what Stephen would say in a mocking tone. Have you ever seen a dragon? Do you know anyone who has ever seen a dragon? There were always tales from travellers and sailors of wild beasts and those who claimed to have seen them, and St Perpetua, St Martha and many others besides St George were revered as dragon-slayers. Geoff’s books had pictures of the creatures, some drawn in intricate detail.
But Reynold had never come face to face with one. ‘Who has seen it?’ he asked.
For a moment they were all silent, then Alec began chattering about this person and that person, young Jem and Henry the miller’s son. He was joined by Urban, who seemed to take umbrage at the question, launching into a long, involved display of indignation.
Reynold held up his hand for silence. ‘But who among the five of you has seen it, personally, with your own eyes?’
The question set off another outburst from Urban, culminating in, ‘Are you calling us liars?’
It was Mistress Sexton who quietly and gracefully took control of the conversation before things became too heated. ‘I admit I was sceptical at first,’ she said, ‘but there is no denying its roar and the damage it leaves in its wake. What else could be responsible?’
Reynold could not comment on the sound since he had heard very little of it, but he knew that the poor animals used in bear-baiting roared loudly. Perhaps one had escaped its owners. More likely a wolf or wild boar was responsible for any attacks, while the fires were nothing more than a coincidence, attributed to an awakened creature by ignorant people weaned on village traditions.
When Urban would have protested again, Mistress Sexton stopped him with a glance. ‘It matters not,’ she said, leaning forwards, to eye Reynold sombrely. ‘What matters is that you, Lord de Burgh, are bound to help us.’
The hall was hushed as everyone awaited his reply, but Reynold knew he could not deny such an entreaty. Knightly honour, as well as his de Burgh blood, demanded that he aid those in need. And Grim’s End was plagued by something, even if it was only an especially vicious wolf that carried off livestock.
Although there were many things here that did not make sense, including why the liege lord had not sent men to dispatch such an animal long ago, Reynold’s duty was clear. And he need only kill the beast to be on his way again. It was hardly a challenge, though a raging boar might be a
