LITMIR.BIZ

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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,

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