Reynold de Burgh: The Dark Knight

Chapter Four

Reynold lay on his back, put his arms behind his head, and tried to appreciate his comfortable berth. He was at Sexton Manor, in a soft bed with clean linens, a sliver of moonlight shining through the window to cast a pale glow on the small, tidy room. But he could not relax. Certainly, the eerie emptiness of the village and its peculiarities was enough to give even a hardened warrior pause. Would he wake up to discover it was all a dream or find himself roasted like meat on a spit?

When showing him to his room, the servant Adele admitted that the remaining villagers often slept in the cellar, fearful of night-time attacks. But this evening they would seek their beds, as if Reynold’s very presence would protect them. That sort of faith sat poorly upon him. In truth, he had never shouldered such responsibility by himself. He had been involved in rescues, battles and skirmishes of various sorts, but always with one or more of his brothers. Never alone.

Reynold shifted uncomfortably under the weight of their expectations. Here in the darkness, distanced from those involved, he realised that he should have tried to convince Mistress Sexton and her companions to leave Grim’s End. But if there was some beast preying on the people here, it might simply move on to the next place.

Reynold frowned as he mulled over his options, the safety of the villagers his upmost concern. Perhaps tomorrow he should insist that the others go, while he stayed to concentrate fully upon his task. Not only would he prefer that they be removed from any danger, but he had a feeling that Mistress Sexton would present a distraction even to the most hardhearted of men.

Shying away from that subject, Reynold looked to where Peregrine had made his pallet by the door. The youth had been sunk in silence for some time. Was he languishing over Mistress Sexton, or was he having second thoughts about urging Reynold to listen to her?

‘Are you regretting our stay already, squire?’

‘No, my lord,’ Peregrine said. ‘I’m just wondering how you’re going to fight it.’

Fight it? Did his squire know how attracted he was to the beautiful damsel? Then, with a start of surprise, Reynold realised that Peregrine was talking about the worm. Reynold loosed a low breath. ‘I don’t think there is one to fight.’

‘Still and all, we might be prepared.’

Reynold could not argue with that, a good idea in any situation. ‘All right,’ he said, sensing that his squire wanted to discuss their course of action, should a dragon swoop down upon them. ‘What would you suggest?’

‘Well, the saints just cast them out, usually to the desert.’

‘I think we’ve agreed that I’m not a saint,’ Reynold said, drily. Nor did he understand how a mere mortal would communicate with the beast. He paused to think. ‘But didn’t St George shove a spear down its throat?’

‘Yes …’ Peregrine’s words trailed off as though he were reluctant to speak further.

‘What?’ Reynold asked. Although he didn’t do any tourneying, he could handle a lance and a sword.

‘That would require really good aim and an awful lot of strength. And who’s to say the thing wouldn’t burn the spear with its fiery breath?’

Reynold squinted into the gloom. He had never really concerned himself with the techniques needed to kill a worm, but he supposed that any mistakes would be costly, if not fatal. In the hushed silence of the room, he found himself wishing for his brothers’ counsel. This was just the sort of question they would argue over for hours, whether they really believed a dragon posed a danger or not.

Geoffrey would propose a variety of clever and unusual solutions, while Simon would advocate brute force, and Stephen would proclaim uninterest. Suddenly, Reynold missed them all. For the first time since leaving Campion, he wondered whether he ought to return home, but then what? Nothing would have changed.

‘Do you know any more of the stories?’ Peregrine asked, and Reynold searched his memory. His family thought Geoff was the romantic, always ready for a chivalrous story, but that was because Reynold kept his opinions to himself. He had not cared to be mocked as the moonstruck one, pining for adventures he would never have, living out the lives of heroes bold and whole while knowing he was not.

Once in a while, his shrewd father would give him a book or suggest a tale, but he had avoided his brothers’ taunts. And yet now that small victory seemed petty. Perhaps if he had let his interest be known, he would not be struggling so hard to remember dragon lore. ‘Didn’t someone just beat it with a club?’ he finally asked.

A long silence followed while Peregrine presumably mulled over that idea before ultimately rejecting it. ‘I don’t see how the creature would sit still for that. What’s to stop it from flying away, and what about its tail and breath?’

Reynold agreed with a grunt. And who knew if any of the accounts were based upon fact? How many dragon-slayers lived to tell the tale? And how many such valiant acts were witnessed?

‘I know I’ve heard stories where the hero digs a trench and hides in it in order to smite the beast’s belly,’ Peregrine said. ‘But that would take a lot of time and labour, especially with no one else to help. Do you think a hole would work just as well?’

Reynold could not picture crouching in a freshly dug hollow waiting for an opportunity to poke the underside of anything, let alone a ferocious beast. But it was just the sort of tactic Geoff might suggest and Simon would dismiss as faint-hearted.

‘That’s if the belly really is vulnerable. Some say it is, and others say it isn’t,’ Peregrine said. ‘And, you’ll need some protective garments, of course.’

Protective garments? Reynold had his short mail coat and some gauntlets, but no shield or helmet. If he had planned on going into battle, he would have brought Will and all his gear.

‘But it shouldn’t be too hard to make some fur breeches and soak them in tar,’ Peregrine said.

Fur breeches? The day he donned such things would be the day his brothers all laughed themselves to death, worm or no worm. ‘I don’t think we need to go that far,’ Reynold said in a tone that brooked no argument.

‘There are several stories like that of the founding of Grim’s End, where a local hero slayed the dragon and was rewarded with rich lands,’ Peregrine said. ‘One such fellow pushed a big stone into its mouth.’

‘And how did he get it to hold still for that?’ Reynold asked.

Peregrine had no ready answer. ‘Others used poison,’ he suggested.

Although that sounded more feasible, it would require a significant amount of a deadly substance, of which Reynold knew nothing. However, his squire certainly seemed well versed in a variety of subjects. ‘Where did you hear all these tales? Can you read?’ Reynold asked.

‘Of course, my lord. The mistresses l’Estrange have been training me up for knighthood.’

Ah. That might explain why they had sent him off with Reynold, hoping that the opportunity might come for a sudden elevation in status.

‘And, of course, there might be magic involved.’

‘Of course,’ Reynold said in a voice heavily laden with sarcasm. At least the sisters weren’t here, exhorting him with various strategies. He could just imagine facing the great beast while they shrilly called out instructions.

‘I’m afraid we’ll have to do without the magic,’ Reynold said. So far, their conversation had only made him more aware of the main problem with the task: there were simply no hard-and-fast rules, as there were for tourneying or hunting. All he and his squire had were conflicting reports and half-remembered legends, some more famous than others. ‘What did Beowulf do?’ Reynold asked.

‘Well, he didn’t come out of that too well, did he?’ Peregrine asked, subtly reminding Reynold that the hero was mortally wounded in his battle. ‘But I know that he couldn’t have killed the dragon without the help of his faithful squire.’

So that was it, Reynold thought, as the reason for the discussion became clear at last. Poor Peregrine probably thought he’d be called upon for heroic feats during an epic battle with the beast. Reynold slanted a glance at his squire and tried for a reassuring tone. ‘I really don’t think it will come to that.’

At least, he hoped not.

Closing his eyes, Reynold effectively put an end to a conversation that would have seemed ludicrous only a day ago. Next he would be expected to ride into battle on a unicorn, he thought, swallowing a snort. In order to accomplish that, according to the bestiaries, he would have to find out where one lived and bait the place with a virgin. He nearly laughed aloud at the likelihood of that … although Mistress Sexton might volunteer.

Reynold sucked in a harsh breath as he pictured her lying on a green bower, long strands of her golden hair flowing about her, smooth and bright as ribbons. For a moment, his chest ached with the beauty of the vision, but he pushed it aside firmly. There was no point in taunting himself, a lesson that he had learned the hard way.

Lest he forget himself and fall prey to Mistress Sexton’s charms, Reynold forced himself to remember the visit to Longacre years ago when he had realised the depth of his difference.

The de Burghs had been visiting a noble family with several daughters and fostered girls, probably in a misguided attempt by Campion to expose his sons to a female household. But the earl was not pleased with the outcome, as the young women fluttered around the boys and Stephen was caught in a compromising situation that enraged their host and curtailed future stays at noble homes.

In his mind’s eye Reynold could see each one of the girls. Pale and soft, with high voices and flashing smiles, they had been more exotic and enticing than the finest sweets. But it was Amice who had enthralled Reynold. He had thought her beautiful, perhaps as beautiful as he now thought Mistress Sexton.

Indeed, probably more so, because his young heart had not yet been hardened. He had trailed after her like a lovesick puppy, and she had tolerated him, no doubt in order to gain access to his brothers. For good or ill, the older de Burghs did not notice or else did not care to share the obvious: that Amice did not return his admiration.

Reynold had had to find that out for himself. He had come upon a gaggle of the girls giggling and whispering, only to stop short when he heard his name mentioned in her company.

‘He is quite taken with you, as everyone can tell. What say you?’

‘Reynold? Why should I be stuck with the lame one?’ Amice asked in a petulant voice. ‘Let one of the fostered girls have him. I’ve my eye on another de Burgh.’

And that was the way of it, then and always, as the boys grew into men. If they chanced to meet a well-born woman, she preferred one of his brothers—or even his father.

In the back of Reynold’s mind, he might have thought that by leaving them behind, he would no longer suffer in comparison. But he could not leave behind his leg, which soon gave evidence to all that he was the de Burgh who was different, the lame one.

The next morning, Sabina sat at the head of the manor’s table for the first time in a long while. For years she had taken her place beside her father, looking out over a hall bustling with residents and servants. But those few who remained in Grim’s End these days usually gathered elsewhere, in the kitchens or cellars or a villager’s empty home, to eat. They varied their movements and their sanctuaries, so as to avoid attack. And that lack of routine and comfort had become their lives—until now.

Sabina hoped that sort of existence was over, yet she sorely felt the lack of her household, knowing that she could not present her guest with all that she would have in the past. Although Lord de Burgh did not look like the type who would be impressed by much, he was probably accustomed to far more than she could provide.

She told herself that he was just a man, like any other, and not the first knight she had known. But when he entered the hall, Sabina realised just how wrong she was. Reynold de Burgh was not like anyone else she had ever seen. Tall, dark, lean and handsome, he might have been excused for some conceit, but he did not even appear to be aware of his own good looks.

As he slowly made his way across the tiled hall, Sabina decided it was the way he held himself that struck her. Although he had none of the arrogance of the vain, he possessed a quiet confidence that inspired trust. She knew that this man would not quake in the face of danger or dither over any decision. Steady strength and a cool, casual assurance had been bred into him and were evident in his every move.

Sabina loosed the breath she had been holding as her body relaxed, perhaps for the first time in months. Maybe now she would not jump at each sound, fighting against the panic that seemed to assail her at every turn. For surely, if anyone could vanquish their foe and return their lives to normal, it was this man.

As he drew nearer, Sabina saw he wore that rather grim expression Ursula had described as harsh. It wasn’t, of course, though neither was it open and friendly. Yet even his grimness was heartening, a sign that he was no light-hearted jester, but a serious warrior. Sabina wondered what had shaped him, for he was young, certainly younger than Urban, and maybe even younger than herself. And yet he must have a wealth of experiences beyond the small realm of Grim’s End.

Yesterday, he had seemed nothing more than a figure of legend, a hero who appeared just when she needed him. But now Sabina found herself curious about the man himself. Had he fought in battles, knowing death and destruction such that a dragon was trifling in comparison? Sabina wanted to know, but he was no common visitor and she sensed that he would not welcome her intrusion.

Indeed, his greeting was clipped, and when Sabina gestured toward her father’s chair, empty beside her own, he shook his head. Instead, he sat on the bench at the side of the table, as far away from her as possible.

Ignoring the slight, Sabina called for Adele to bring some ale and food. Ursula had gone into the kitchens to help, but Urban appeared, as if he had been waiting behind the wooden screen at the end of the hall for Lord de Burgh’s arrival. Sabina gave him a nod, grateful, as always, for his sharp eyes and constant protection.

‘Mistress Sexton,’ Lord de Burgh said, recalling her attention.

His sombre expression did not bode well, and Sabina felt a sudden fear that he would not hold to his word. Had he partaken of their hospitality only to go on his way, leaving them to their fate? ‘Yes?’ she asked, tension filling her once more.

‘I would like to take you away from here. I’ll be happy to escort you to the nearest village, to relatives you may have elsewhere, to your liege lord’s manor, or even to my own home,’ he said, looking as surprised by that last offer as Sabina felt. She might have questioned him about his residence, if she were not so distressed by his advice to leave her own.

‘She is not going anywhere with you.’ Urban spoke up from his position nearby, but Lord de Burgh did not bother to acknowledge him.

The knight kept his gaze on Sabina as he made clear his intent. ‘I would like to take you all away from here.’

Urban quieted at that, and why wouldn’t he? He had been trying to talk her into leaving for months. Apparently, he had found some common ground with the stranger, but Sabina could not join them. Instead, she felt an overwhelming sense of betrayal. Lord de Burgh had agreed to help them. Would he now abandon them, as had so many before him?

‘You have a duty to do, sir knight, and that is to slay the dragon. Have you thought better of the task over the night?’ Sabina spoke sharply, hoping to wound or shame him, but he gave no sign of feeling either.

‘I would only that you and the others be safely away while I dispatch the … beast.’

Sabina felt a small measure of hope return, yet long months of frustration and broken promises made her weary and suspicious. She wanted to believe this man, just as she wanted to believe that a knight’s word was good. But she knew that was not always the case. How could she be sure of his success, if she were not here to witness the deed? And, even if she did trust him to complete his task, how could she flee as so many others had done and leave her village in the hands of a stranger?

‘No,’ Sabina said, quietly. ‘You are welcome to escort the others where they will, but I am staying.’

‘I’m not leaving you here with him!’ Urban sputtered.

‘That is your choice,’ Sabina said.

Adele appeared, bringing some apples and cheese and ale, and Sabina ate silently, trying not to stare at the knight in their midst. She regretted the sharpness of her words, brought on by her own fear and panic, and she realised that she would do better to tread softly around the stranger. ‘Twould be wise to remember that she needed him and not the other way around.

When she had finished her meagre meal, Sabina rose to her feet and addressed her visitor. ‘Come, my lord, let me show you my home, and perhaps you will see why I care so much for Grim’s End.’

For a moment, Sabina thought he might argue, but a flicker of something, perhaps resignation, passed over his features. Then he downed his cider, picked up an apple and stood. ‘Very well,’ he said, with a nod.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Urban asked.

Sabina glanced towards him, surprised by his sharp tone. For a moment, she could find no cause for it, and then she realised just how far removed she was from the niceties that once had ruled her life.

Those who stayed in Grim’s End had clung together, their numbers dwindling, until the remaining few had become like a wandering family, making camp where they would. No one paid heed to who was with whom, where or when. Indeed, Sabina often had been alone with Urban, who had made no objection at the time. But she could understand the need to keep up appearances for their guest.

‘Perhaps Ursula can walk with us,’ Sabina said, heading toward the kitchens to call for her attendant.

Urban made some sort of sputtering noise again, as if protesting, and Sabina eyed him curiously. As her father’s man, he was well accustomed to protecting her, but she saw no need for it now. Everything about Lord de Burgh spoke of honesty and courage. And if he were up to mischief, he could have robbed and murdered them in their beds.

And since he could easily overpower the older man, there was no sense in Urban following her every movement. The thought had barely crossed her mind when Sabina realised how much she longed to escape his company, and she immediately felt a pang of guilt. They were all grateful to Urban, for how could they have remained here without him? Yet his gloom and fear were a palatable presence. Sabina could not remember the last time she had been outside without the threat of attack dogging her steps. Nor could she remember the last time she had a conversation that did not revolve around the survival of their small band.

Selfishly, Sabina longed for both, away from Urban’s sullen presence. Yet she might have invited him to join them had not Ursula appeared at that moment to say that Adele had need of him. Sending them all a chary look, Urban disappeared into the kitchens, while Ursula hurried to accompany them.

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