[The deBurghs 07] - Reynold De Burgh: The Dark Knight (6 page)

‘Some did. Some didn’t,’ Urban said with a shrug. ‘It doesn’t matter. They are cowards all.’

‘But some actually saw it?’

‘Of course,’ Urban said, with an angry scowl.

Alec went even further and began naming those villagers who had survived an attack, while Sabina eyed Lord de Burgh with a measure of curiosity and dread. Although she could tell little from his expression, she realised that he was more than impatient.
He doesn’t believe us
, she realised.

A protest rose to her lips, only to be swallowed up in
the sound of the others’ conversation. She had thought him convinced; now he would doubt them again. And how could she persuade him? If she hadn’t lived through this, would she accept the truth? If she hadn’t heard the sounds, seen the dead animals, felt the blast of heat, and seen the scorched remains, her own father struck down…

‘I would speak with those who saw the creature,’ Lord de Burgh said, effectively silencing the others. ‘Do you know where they are?’

Urban shook his head. ‘They could be anywhere.’

‘Well, I’ll begin with Sandborn.’

The way he rose to his feet, his expression and his stance all told Sabina there would be no argument, but still Ursula begged him not to go. ‘Please, my lord, we are not safe here without you,’ she said, her voice rising to a wail.

Sabina kept silent, refusing to waste her breath lest she become short of it. But, in truth, she, too, had only felt secure since his arrival. Such was the strength of Lord de Burgh’s presence, inspiring confidence and hope and other, unwelcome thoughts…

Sabina watched in dismay as Lord de Burgh ignored Ursula’s entreaties to stride towards the doors, Peregrine at his side. ‘We should be able to ride to the next village and be back before nightfall,’ he said. But his words were not reassuring. What would they do until then? What would they do if he did not return?

Belatedly rising to her feet, Sabina following, stopping him with one final injunction. ‘Remember, you are all that stands between Grim’s End and destruction,’ she said, reaching out to touch his arm.

It was an automatic gesture meant to give force to her
admonition, and yet, as soon as her fingers made contact with his sleeve, Sabina felt a jolt. Heat rushed through her, inviting her to linger, to close her hand upon his muscles, to move into the warmth of his body. Her heart began to pound, and her breath came fast and low, a most alarming sensation that made her jerk away. She glanced upwards only to see Lord de Burgh flinch, as well, before his face became a hard mask.

With a nod of dismissal, he turned to go, and Sabina stood, trembling, upon the doorstep. Still shaken by the encounter, she watched the two visitors leave Grim’s End, just as she had watched so many others, her father’s servants, the freemen, those who made the ale and ground the grain and did all the work that was necessary for the village to survive. They were all gone, and now she wondered whether her last hope was vanishing, as well.

It was Urban who voiced her fears aloud as he moved to stand beside her.

‘Mark my words,’ he said. ‘They won’t return.’

Reynold shut down his thoughts, concentrating only upon Sirius. Once mounted, he wanted to kick the destrier to a gallop, leaving the dust of Grim’s End and all it entailed behind. Refusing to give in to such impulses, he made his way slowly to the road, keeping an eye out for anything unusual, just in case an animal should show itself. But he saw nothing, even though he again had the sensation that he was being watched. It was eerie, for he knew the place was deserted, having looked through every building himself for signs of life.

When they reached the church, Reynold half-expected the bells to begin ringing as they had the last time he had ridden this way. But all was silent. Still, he was uneasy as they reached the outer boundaries of the village. He had once heard a tale of a phantom community that came and went in the blink of an eye, trapping travellers inside, and he wondered whether they would encounter some kind of barrier upon their departure.

Although there was none, he turned to look back at the familiar buildings clustered around the track that wove between them, just to make sure he had not imagined them. Reynold shook his head at such fancies, but now that he was leaving, it seemed as though he had dreamed the whole business. A deserted village. A dragon. A beautiful damsel.

The only ring of truth was the beautiful damsel’s reaction to him, a jarring bit of reality in the fantasy. For who would want to dream of that kind of response? Reynold did not know if she laid her hand upon his arm out of some attempt to lure him into staying or if it was an innocent gesture. But he was certain of what happened next. He had caught his breath at the lightness of her touch, at the warmth of her fingers and the simple sensation of gentle feminine contact, and then she had pulled away, repulsed.

‘Twas a reminder not to let down his guard or let anyone get close to him, and as such it was welcome. Yet Reynold could not dismiss the incident as easily as he had others in his past. It was too fresh in his mind, too insulting, too much of a disappointment. For deep down inside, he had hoped that Mistress Sexton might be different.

The more beautiful the woman, the more spoiled, selfish and deceitful
, Reynold told himself, and Mistress Sexton was the most beautiful, by far. Although she had seemed like a saint, valiantly holding her people together, what did he actually know of her? What did he know of any of them except their bizarre tale of attacks, for which there was little evidence beyond a few scorched spots? Reynold’s tightly coiled emotions threatened to spill forth, and as his anger grew, so did the temptation never to go back, to continue on to Bury St Edmunds and further, perhaps across the ocean…

Reynold slanted a glance at his companion, who would not approve of any such oath breaking. Indeed, Peregrine looked unhappy just to be leaving the village. Was he languishing after Mistress Sexton already? Reynold felt an unreasoning annoyance at the boy’s devotion to the woman. And he had to fight an urge to enlighten the lad on the subject of females and their perfidies.

‘Do you intend to sulk throughout our journey?’ Reynold asked. He spoke more sharply than he intended and could almost hear his father’s admonition in his head:
Don’t take it out on the boy. ’Tis not his fault you are what you are
.

‘Forgive me, my lord, but I don’t see why we are leaving at all,’ Peregrine said.

‘I seek information,’ Reynold said. ‘We need to know more about our enemy.’ He spoke the truth. For although Mistress Sexton and her small band obviously feared attack, Reynold was no closer to discovering the cause than he was on the day he had arrived in Grim’s End. He might be the runt of the de Burghs, but he had the
family’s sure sense, and it told him that something wasn’t right.

Peregrine said nothing, and Reynold frowned. ‘What would you have me do?’ he asked. ‘Remain there until supplies run out?’

The look Peregrine shot him told Reynold that the boy could see no reason not to linger. They had nothing awaiting them in Bury St Edmunds, no one to visit, no business that required tending. And yet Reynold could not see kicking his heels in Grim’s End for ever, no matter how lovely and appealing the Mistress Sexton.
Especially
considering how lovely and appealing the Mistress Sexton.

‘Why don’t you trust her?’

The words, so close to his own thoughts, startled Reynold. ‘What?’

‘You don’t trust Mistress Sexton, do you?’

‘I don’t give my faith as easily as you do,’ Reynold said, with a sidelong glance at his companion. Peregrine flushed, no doubt remembering his easy acceptance of the fellow pilgrims who had tried to rob them.

‘It has been my experience that most ladies are spoiled, selfish and deceitful, and the more beautiful they are, the worse they are,’ Reynold said. ‘Perhaps that is the way high-born women are raised, but my father does not approve of intrigues. He prefers honest dealings and simple pleasures, and his sons a strong sword arm and a good horse.’

‘But Lady Joy and Lady Marion aren’t like that,’ Peregrine protested.

‘No,’ Reynold acknowledged. The women who
married de Burghs were not the pampered ladies of court. And he supposed they were pretty, though he had never felt an ache at the sight of them. Mistress Sexton, on the other hand, was so beautiful that sometimes he had to blink. It was like looking at the sun, for his eyes stung from the effort. And over the past week, he had looked far too often. He caught himself noticing little things about her, such as the curve of her wrist, the slender column of her neck, the golden ribbons of her hair, like a work of art…

‘And, anyway, Mistress Sexton isn’t high born,’ Peregrine said. ‘She might be to the manor born, but she’s not nobility.’

No, but she is more beautiful than any of them
, Reynold thought.

‘And she’s not spoiled or selfish. She’s always thinking of the others, always helping out. Why, she even works in the garden,’ Peregrine said.

Reynold gave a stiff nod. Mistress Sexton was certainly accustomed to doing for herself. And when he searched his mind for her flaws, he could find little enough to present to Peregrine, for she appeared kind and generous, courteous and courageous, never complaining, always encouraging.

‘I think she would make a good wife,’ Peregrine said, startling Reynold from his thoughts.

‘She’s too old for you, lad,’ Reynold snapped.

Peregrine blanched and opened his mouth as though to argue, but Reynold stopped him with a glance. He’d had a bellyful of this discussion.

Lovely, strong and capable, Mistress Sexton was cer
tainly well suited to be a de Burgh bride. And perhaps if he were one of his brothers, Reynold might even let his thoughts drift in that direction. But her reaction this morning had been a bitter reminder that he was not one of his brothers and would never be.

He was what he was: a man who would never marry.

A
lthough Reynold had looked forward to a respite from the eeriness of Grim’s End, the sensation lingered even as they travelled, for the road they took was just as deserted as the village had been. They saw no one, not a man, not a cart, not a sheep, and though Reynold said nothing to his squire, his uneasiness grew. He began to suspect that nothing existed except for the few people of Grim’s End, and the track would lead them back to its empty buildings.

When they finally caught a glimpse of movement ahead and heard the noises of life, Reynold grunted in relief. As if released from a dream, he welcomed the sights and sounds of Sandborn, a bustling village that appeared to be crowded, perhaps with new residents. Although not much larger than Grim’s End, Sandborn was situated right on the coast, and he and Peregrine enjoyed a hearty meal of fresh fish in a small ale house.

The proprietors were friendly and talkative until Reynold mentioned Grim’s End. He had hoped to find
someone to deliver supplies there, but the man and woman shook their heads and grew silent, obviously eager for their guests to exit.

‘See, everyone knows about the dragon,’ Peregrine whispered as they left the tiny building.

‘Everyone knows something,’ Reynold said, squinting at the sky above them, clear and blue as a certain pair of eyes. ‘But what?’

Luckily, they had asked about one of Grim’s End’s former inhabitants before mentioning the village itself, and now they made their way to a small hut that had been pointed out to them as the couple’s home. They found the woman tending the small croft in the back of the house.

‘Githa? Githa Smalle?’ Reynold asked. The old woman straightened and eyed them warily.

‘I would ask you some questions about Grim’s End,’ he said.

But at the mention of the village, the woman turned pale and glanced about, as if to find some way to escape.

‘We mean you no harm,’ Reynold said. ‘I only wish to know why you left the village.’

‘I do not speak of it!’ she said, hurrying into her house and shutting the door behind her.

Peregrine wanted to follow the woman, but Reynold shook his head. ‘Just as you would, these people protect their own, and I would not care to have a mob wishing us ill.’

Eyes wide, Peregrine nodded, and they went in search of the woman’s husband. They found him in the fields, so he could hardly flee, but he was not much more informative.

‘You must know why we left, else you would not be here,’ he said, his face brown from the sun and lined with age. ‘We are entitled to our lives and a safe place to live them.’ He lifted his head, as if expecting an argument, but Reynold nodded.

‘Of course. But what drove you away?’

The man leaned upon a long staff. ‘It was the beast, as well you know.’

‘What kind of beast?’ Reynold asked. ‘Did you see it yourself?’

‘No. But a man doesn’t have to see the devil to know he’s there.’ He turned and went back to his work, shaking his head at any further questions.

‘If you will say no more, then who else can I talk to?’

The man hesitated, as though unwilling to name his fellows, but finally he pointed a bony finger toward another hut, recently built, its wattle and daub obviously fresh. A cow and a pig were penned in front of the structure, and Reynold walked past them in order to rap on the door.

The man who opened it was short and stout, with the look of someone who fears little, giving Reynold hope that he might at last learn something.

‘Yes?’

‘I come seeking information about Grim’s End.’

But even this hardened fellow blanched. ‘If you are thinking of making your home there, taking our old land, filling our old homes, beware the ancient evil,’ he said, then he moved as if to close the door.

‘Why did you leave?’

‘We do not speak of it,’ the man said in a low voice. ‘Do you want to draw it here?’

‘Draw
what
here?’ Reynold asked. This time he held up a small coin, and the man took it with a wary glance.

‘You would do better to spend your money elsewhere, settle here in Sandborn or further east, where the land is good.’

But Reynold had not paid for advice. ‘What do you fear?’ he asked.

The man leaned closer to whisper his reply. ‘It flies through the air. It destroys all in its path. That is all I can tell you.’

‘Did you see it yourself?’

‘No.’

‘Then how can you say what it is?’

The fellow shook his head angrily. ‘A man does not have to stare death in the face to recognise it. I heard its awful roar! I saw its fiery breath! It set my house alight! I did not stay around to get a closer look at the inside of its belly.’

He slammed the thin wood of his door in their faces, and Reynold felt the sting of conscience. Perhaps he deserved such treatment. Just because no one had seen the attacker did not mean that they had not suffered…something. And he would do well to remember that.

Reynold looked up at the sky, but it was empty, as always, and the sun had passed its zenith. ‘We should go back,’ he mused aloud. Although he hated to admit it, this trip had been a waste of time. He had learned nothing except that those who had left Grim’s End were just as frightened as those who remained.

‘Perhaps we should try another village,’ Peregrine suggested, as though unwilling to admit defeat.

But Reynold shook his head. ‘It will be the same there, the same everywhere.’ Whatever attacked Grim’s End was like a lone wolf, a rogue that slinked in and stole the chickens and more, but went unseen and uncaught. Yet how could a dragon remain hidden? Just how big was the beast?

‘Hello! Sire!’

Reynold turned at the sound of the hail to see an old man hobbling toward them, waving an arm. He limped, and Reynold felt himself flinch, as he always did, at the sight.

‘Yes?’

‘You seek the beast?’ the man asked. He had a wild look in his eyes and stank of ale, but he grinned, revealing a couple of missing teeth.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I heard you talking. You’re interested in Grim’s End?’

Reynold nodded.

‘I’m Gamel. I lived there for many a year and can tell you anything you wish to know, for a decent meal.’

‘Who holds the village?’ Reynold asked. Unwilling to throw good coins after bad, he was not about to pay some wanderer to conjure tales of some fanciful place.

The fellow cackled, as though pleased by the test. ‘Mistress Sexton, as last I knew.’

Reynold nodded stiffly and paid him. ‘Now, tell us why you left your home. And I would hear enough to have my money’s worth.’

The old man nodded vigorously. ‘Of course, sire, of course. ’Twas the dragon that sent us all running. Someone woke it from its sleep,’ he said, leaning close.
‘’Twas Cyneric the Grim who killed it, you know, the first worm, the great one.’

Reynold squinted at the fellow. ‘I thought “grim” was a name for the beast.’

Gamel shrugged. ‘’Tis said that it was such a sight that people came from all around for the burial. And then they stayed, settling there by the burial mound. ’Twas Cyneric’s descendants who had the first manor house, too, though ’tis long gone now.’

Reynold frowned, confused, but the old man kept talking.

‘Sexton Hall stands there now, like a guardian of the mound. The church on one side, the hall on the other,’ he said, pointing a gnarled hand. ‘But nothing on the other sides except grass and trees. So maybe that’s where someone poked him and woke him.’

‘How?’ Reynold asked.

Gamel shrugged and cackled. ‘Who knows? But ’tis awake now. We heard its roar and smelled its breath that soon lay waste to all around.’

‘But did you see it?’ Reynold asked, reaching out to grasp the man’s arm. ‘Did you see the worm yourself?’

Gamel grinned. ‘Didn’t I promise to tell you all you wished to know?’ he asked. ‘A rare creature it is, something between a lizard and a bird, with that demon fire in its belly. It can swallow you whole or whip you to death with its tail.’

Reynold felt a chill dance up his spine. Was the old man telling the truth or embellishing upon a sighting from a distance? Or was the ale talking?

‘How big is it?’ Peregrine asked, wide-eyed.

‘As big as that there,’ Gamel said. He gestured to a building the size of the church in Grim’s End, certainly far larger than any animal Reynold had ever seen.

Reynold studied the grinning fellow, unsure of what else to ask. He had sought only to find someone who had seen the dragon, and, apparently, he had finally met his man. Gamel had certainly given him a description, but could he trust it?

‘Have you heard enough? Can I get my supper?’

Reynold hesitated, then released him with a nod. The old man whooped and hurried off, limping as he went. Still, Reynold watched him go, trying to make sense of what he had said.

Was Gamel mad? Or was there really such a beast? Reynold felt a sort of stunned shock at the thought. For, if so, how on earth would he kill it?

The sun was dipping low as they neared the village. ‘Will we reach Grim’s End before nightfall?’ Peregrine asked, with an anxious look at the horizon.

‘Yes, we aren’t too far away now,’ Reynold said, sending the boy a sidelong glance. ‘Are you eager to get back to Mistress Sexton?’

Peregrine appeared flustered, and Reynold grunted, urging his mount forwards. They had been travelling at a good pace, even though they were loaded down with supplies, and he was glad now that he had not brought back a cow, which would have made for a much slower, though perhaps livelier trip.

Even the bawling of cattle would be welcome along this stretch of road, for it was as empty as before. Ob
viously, the people of Sandborn, and perhaps everyone in the area, avoided Grim’s End, going so far as to abandon the road that led to and from it. In fact, the silence was such that when Reynold heard a sound in the brush nearby, it startled him. He glanced up, seeing nothing in the dark copse of trees.

‘Is it the worm?’ Peregrine asked, his voice little more than a squeak.

Before Reynold could answer, something burst from the shadowed cover of leaves, hurtling directly towards him. It was no dragon, but an attack none the less, by a hooded horseman, and Reynold cursed himself for his lack of alertness. The deserted track had lulled him into inattention when he should have known better. Although superstitious villagers might avoid this area, travelling ruffians and robbers could not be counted upon to do the same.

It was too late now to do anything except draw his sword. Although Sirius could outrace nearly any other horse, Peregrine on his smaller mount would be left in the dust, easy pickings if the villain did not follow Reynold.

‘Hold,’ Reynold shouted, but a sword came slashing towards him. He knocked it aside with his own, steadying himself as the horse and its rider swung around for another charge. Sirius was well trained and moved with just a nudge of Reynold’s knee, dancing out of the way, and again Reynold blocked the assailant’s weapon. He tried to get a good look at his foe, but the light was fading, and the hood shadowed the man’s face.

His horse was smaller, as was his sword, but he was quick, competent, and perhaps desperate, which gave
strength to even the weakest opponent. Reynold needed all of his skill and wits about him. Sending Sirius dancing away, he tried to get behind the fellow, but suddenly Peregrine was there, tugging at the man’s cloak.

What the devil?

Reynold heard a groan and a shout, and then Peregrine was knocked to the ground, where he could easily be trampled under the hooves of any of the three horses that were clustered together. Instead of running the attacker through, Reynold grabbed at the man’s reins, pulling the other horse away with his own, while trying to avoid the weapon that sliced through the air.

When it came perilously close, Reynold loosed the horse’s reins and sent Sirius around to the opposite flank. Peregrine’s mount, the smallest of the three, fled in the face of the stamping and whinnying of the larger beasts. Reynold could only hope he had moved the battle far enough away to save the boy, for he could waste no more attention upon his fallen squire.

He swung his sword in a high arc towards his assailant, but even before it made contact, the man howled in pain. Instead of fighting off Reynold, the fellow swung backwards, as though attacked from behind. Reynold heard a thud, and then the rider turned and fled, his mount eating up the ground to disappear into the darkness of the woods.

For an instant, Reynold thought of giving chase, despite the gathering twilight and his unfamiliarity with the area. The dark horse was no match for Sirius, and few men could best a de Burgh. Although his pride called for satisfaction, Reynold resisted the urge, for he had more important concerns. His squire had fallen in the fray.

Dismounting quickly, Reynold kept his reins in hand. Peregine’s horse was gone, but who knows what might have happened to the boy while he was down? Reynold found him lying in the road, unmoving. Stepping close, he knelt to the ground, looking for injuries, but there were no visibly broken bones and no blood.

Foolhardy boy. Courageous, but foolhardy.

‘Peregrine,’ Reynold said, cursing his solitary state. He knew little of healing and had no way to summon help. All he could do was throw the boy over the back of a horse and hope that their attacker was not summoning companions from a camp in the forest.

‘Peregrine,’ Reynold said, his tone more urgent. He put a hand to his squire’s head, feeling for lumps, and the boy stirred.

‘M-my lord,’ he said, opening his eyes. He blinked and started to rise, but Reynold stopped him.

‘Hold, squire. Are you hurt?’

Peregrine frowned. ‘No,’ he said, as though testing himself. Then he surged upwards. ‘He knocked me down!’

‘I thought you fell,’ Reynold said. Relieved to see the boy’s outrage, Reynold held out a hand to help him to his feet.

‘Well, I guess I did fall, at first,’ the boy said. He reached down to dust himself off, then bent to retrieve the long knife they had taken from the thieves. ‘I pricked him, right in his leg,’ he said, with a grin.