by Lisa Cach
When he came to shore he climbed a few steps up the slope and dropped onto the rough grass, to rest and to wonder at the murky world of the unconscious. The night around him had been eerily beautiful, dark and silent but for the light of the moon and the sloshing of the water, and he had pulled his arms inside his thin silk surcoat for warmth and sat to soak it in.
He had tried to find the symbolic meaning of the night journey across the seabed. Was it to do with the dark night of the soul? The muck at the bottom of everything? Was it something about the errors made and the price paid when living a rushed life?
Or maybe it meant nothing and was a long forgotten scene from a movie he had viewed as a child. One he’d chosen to replay in this cinema of the mind for no other reason than that it fit his idea of the proper perils in approaching a dragon’s lair.
As he had sat there, the breeze picked up and he caught a low, bellowing sound, like some great creature howling from the bowels of the earth. He had felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, his skin going cold.
He had decided right then that there was no need to overthink the question of symbolism; he could figure it all out when he woke up. Getting into the castle was his first concern—that and avoiding being eaten like an hors d’oeuvre off a buffet table.
The third window of his prison looked out over a terrace, with tufts of grass and weeds growing in the cracks between the stones. A parapet was to the left, and the yellow stone walls of a castle to the right. He could see the arched doors that must lead into the hall, and felt a quickening of excitement. Escaping from this locked room and finding his way through the castle was all part of the puzzle.
He had met Milo and, sadly, been vanquished. What that meant, he didn’t know. He still had a second opponent to confront, however, one perhaps against whom he could prove himself a more worthy adversary.
It was time for the crone to appear.
A soft knocking came at the door.
Chapter Six
“We want to see him!” Pippa insisted. Her hair stood out like a black sunburst around her head. She was thirteen years old and had no patience for long tresses, regularly hacking hers into shapes of her pleasing. “Please, mistress, just a peep.”
“We’ll watch him through the keyhole, and he’ll never know we were there.” Flur was the baby at twelve—fair and fine-boned, and so innocent it almost hurt to look at her.
The girls were standing around Alizon in the immense kitchen as she prepared a tray of porridge and beer for the foreign giant. It had occurred to her that feeding the man might encourage him to answer her questions. She would even apologize for leaving him to sleep on the bare floor, if she must, although any man who attacked in the middle of the night should be thankful for even that small hospitality.
“I will not risk his waking while you two are gaping at him.”
“He’s already awake,” Ysmay said, from where she was stirring a cauldron of steaming dye. She was seventeen, dark, thin, and prone to black moods and imaginary passions.
Joye, standing nearby with a skein of wool in her hand, elbowed her friend, widening her eyes in a warning that came much too late. Joye was eighteen, with wavy light brown hair, a lush body, and a quick wit.
“And how would you know that?” Alizon asked, turning to the girl who’d spoken.
Ysmay’s lips parted, and her cheeks colored as she realized what she had given away. “We only—” she started to say, and got elbowed again.
“I won’t ask how many of you went to spy on him, despite my instructions to the contrary,” Alizon said coldly, letting them feel the chill of her disapproval. She gave both Ysmay and Joye her most quelling look, holding it long enough that they began to fidget. “Have you any notion of what could happen were he to return to Markesew with tales of us all? Must Reyne tell her story yet again?”
Ysmay’s lips pulled down, her eyes sheening with tears. Joye frowned, chastised and yet clearly not entirely sorry for her misdeed.
There was plenty that Alizon did let slip by, recognizing the relief that bouts of mischief could provide from the sameness of their days and the constant, rarely acknowledged undercurrent of fear that was companion to them all. Actions that endangered those who lived on the mount, however, were not to be tolerated.
Whatever squabbles and differences there might be between the twelve women and girls who lived upon Devil’s Mount, they were united with bonds stronger than sisterhood by the events that had brought them here. Each had gone through the terror of anticipating her own death, and each had felt the deep hurt of being given to the dragon by the people who had known her since birth.
Year after year, Alizon had stood on the shore of the mount in a hooded robe, playing the role of crone. “Do not fear,” had been her first words to each girl as she arrived. “You shall not go to the dragon.”
When understood and believed, those words formed a bond of loyalty that could not be broken. Even those near to her in age looked upon her as their Mother Superior. It was she who had saved them, and she who had built the world that protected them now.
The responsibility set her apart from them. She had to be strong when she wanted to weep, had to be cold and impartial in her decisions when she would have rather gone by her own likes and dislikes. She knew the virgins trusted her with their lives, though perhaps they would not always trust her with the secrets of their hearts.
Only Reyne, desperately missing her mother, had once tried to return to Markesew. The villagers had stoned her half to death, forcing her back along the causeway and disfiguring her for life. What had happened to Reyne was proof to them all that they had only each other on whom to rely.
Not even naughty Pippa would knowingly do anything that would risk harm to the others; the price was too dear, the sense of responsibility toward each other too great.
“You could take the stranger out onto the south terrace,” Reyne said. She was the peacemaker of them all, with her small voice and timid mien. She was washing the spoons from breakfast, strands of her light-brown hair brushing her pale, scarred cheeks. “We could all see him from the windows then, and he would be none the wiser. Even Braya is curious about him, though she will not admit it.”
Pippa and Flur giggled at the mention of the absent Braya. Twenty years old, Braya was built like a brewer and had the mannish gestures to match. She tried to order the younger girls around but succeeded only in annoying them. They knew that the one true voice of authority was Alizon’s.
Alizon sighed. The stranger’s presence was too great a curiosity to be resisted, and she should have anticipated as much. It might be best to give them a look under circumstances that she controlled, rather than risk their going behind her back and perhaps giving themselves away.
“Let me first discover his purpose in coming. If I then think it safe, I will consider taking him out to the south terrace.” She raised a brow. “I make no promises, though. Do not set your hearts upon seeing him.”
“May we tell the others? They will be so pleased,” Pippa said.
“I said no promises. Do not think you can pressure me by making the others as eager as you.”
“But they will be happy to think upon it,” Pippa said with an angelic smile.
“Well I know it,” Alizon muttered. The only new faces came once a year at midsummer, and never were they male. Even if the foreign giant were to leave within the hour, he would be the subject of talk and speculation among them for the next decade at least.
She had only seen him unconscious, and already she was certain that he would remain painted in her memory for the rest of her days. He must leave, the sooner the better for them all, but she could wish that she had a day in which to sit and gaze upon him. She might never see his like again.
His tray of food arranged, she went to one of the small hearths that was not in use and rubbed ashes on her hands, turning the skin an aged, unhealthy gray. She donned her robe, pulled its deep hood over her head, and arranged the long strands o
f white wool that were sewn inside its edge to screen her face and mimic the wispy hair of a crone.
“I do not like you in that,” little Flur said and shuddered.
“I don’t like it, either,” Alizon agreed. She knew that Flur was remembering the same vision that she herself had had twelve years ago, coming across the causeway to the waiting hooded figure. That faceless woman had been more frightening than even the thought of the dragon.
She picked up the tray. “No one goes out. Keep the doors barred and your voices down. He might get past Milo and try to find his way inside.”
“Could he hurt you?” Flur asked, her voice quavering.
Alizon paused and looked around the kitchen at the others. They were suddenly staring at her with the same wide-eyed, worried look on their faces. Spying on an unconscious man was one thing, but clearly none of them liked the idea of seeing him face-to-face with no heavy door between them. It was like the dancing bear that a man had once brought to a fair in Markesew: All had laughed and poked sticks at the beast—until he had gotten loose of his chains. Then all to be heard were screams of fright.
“Milo says his arm is not half as strong as yours, Flur. No, he cannot hurt me. I only worry that he may be fast and run past us.” Which was a little bit of a lie. She could not believe that the man was truly as weak as Milo had said. Milo was not one to exaggerate, but perhaps in this instance pride had tempted him to paint himself immensely stronger than his fallen foe.
“He would run all the way to London if we set Braya after him,” Joye said, breaking the tension.
“Hush, Joye. That is not kind.” Braya enjoyed a certain amount of teasing, Alizon knew, but even she could have her feelings hurt, and it was too easy in the castle for words meant for one set of ears to be overheard by another.
She carried out the tray into the great hall, where the others were already at work at the tapestries she had trained them to weave, and repeated the warning to keep the doors barred. Milo was waiting for her, as was Greta, whose luck had finally run out in the lottery two years after Alizon herself had been chosen. Together they exited through a door into a foyer, off of which were the rooms where the soldiers of times past had lodged. A staircase led upward to the family living quarters of the de Burroughs, now inhabited by twelve aging virgins.
She and Milo passed through another door, leaving Greta on the other side to bar it. They were now in the small, open, stone-flagged entrance hall. This passageway ended in the guardroom, with the gateway out of the castle on the left and on the right an archway to the north terrace.
Alizon took a deep breath and tried to still the shaking of her hands. The beer in its cup showed concentric ripples on its surface, and the bowl of porridge was jittering sideways, testament to her nervousness.
Jesu, this was nearly as bad as facing the dragon! Thank the saints she had been able to hide her uncertainty from the others.
Except for Milo, who had become like an uncle, it had been twelve years since she had spoken to a man. It had been twelve years since she had met anyone other than a frightened young girl, whose fears and thoughts and moods were easily predicted. She might as well be preparing to speak to a lion, the giant was such an unknown and potentially dangerous creature.
A shiver ran through her as she pictured him as she had last seen him, bare skin under the thin surcoat and with those otherworldly breeches clinging to every contour.
Faint, unwelcome excitement tingled over her skin, an echo of the fantasies that had filled many a long and lonely night. Whatever her mind said to the contrary, her body suspected that the answer to years of secret desires lay behind that door.
God’s breath. She had better watch herself, and watch the others, who might be feeling much the same. They had none of them freely chosen to live chaste lives, and all wondered—sometimes freely and at length, especially if the wine had flowed heavily that night—what it would be like to lie in the arms of a man.
A man such as women dreamt of, that was, not a creature like Osbert, all clumsy hands and ignorance and filth. A few of the others had stories like hers, of unbearable fumblings in the dark, and in contrast they liked to entertain each other by making up stories of knights and ladies and a love that was true.
This man was real, though, and thus a danger. However beautiful his body, the passions of her flesh were the least of her concerns, and she had best remember that.
She approached the door. Balancing the tray on one hip, she knocked lightly, then slid the heavy iron key into the lock. Milo stood behind her, ready to catch the man should he bolt out like a hare.
“Come in,” the stranger said pleasantly enough, his voice accented but comprehensible. So he did speak English. That would make this easier.
She pushed open the door, keeping her head down and her shoulders hunched as if they were those of an old lady. She held the shaking tray in two hands again, her fingers hurting from their tight grip. The beer was sloshing out of its cup, the bowl of porridge in danger of bouncing off the edge of the tray.
The stranger was standing halfway across the room, in a wary pose.
Good. Let him be uncertain.
She needed no lantern now to see his bare chest and that bulge in his silver breeches, which drew her eyes as if it possessed a magical power of its own. She had to force herself to raise her gaze from it to his elegantly featured face, now stubbled with dark whiskers. The screen of wool in front of her eyes was suddenly a torturous annoyance, keeping her from seeing him as clearly as she wished.
“Good morrow,” she said, pitching her voice high and trying to speak in the quavering tones of an old woman. “I have brought you food to break your fast.” More beer sloshed onto the tray. Maybe he would think it was her age that made her shake so.
“Thank you,” he said, and slowly came toward her.
She could feel a mist of sweat dampening her brow, but she stood her ground as the giant approached.
God’s breath, but he was huge! Her head reached only to his shoulders, and she was a tall woman!
When he was directly in front of her, he reached out and gently took the tray from her hands. He stepped back, holding it, and she tilted her head back far enough that she could see his face.
There was nothing threatening in the stranger’s expression, just wary curiosity and, of all things, a trace of humor—as if he was savoring a private joke at her expense. That thought, and his lack of fear, gave irritation a chance to wear away her nervousness. He looked as if he thought he was more in control of the situation than she, although the opposite was clearly the case.
“Eat,” she ordered.
“May I sit?”
She waved her hand, gesturing to the floor. He grinned with astonishingly perfect white teeth and lowered himself cross-legged, then grimaced when his buttocks took his weight.
Last night she had held his legs, and Milo his shoulders, as they hauled him up the path. Her strength had not been equal to the task, and several times she had accidentally let the stranger’s buttocks drag on the ground or dropped him completely as she struggled to catch her breath. His behind was likely three shades of blue. The thought gave her pleasure.
Even sitting, he was uncomfortably large. At least the tray in his lap hid his crotch, so she was saved the temptation to stare at it. His white surcoat was soiled now, ripped in places, but she noticed now the red cross of St. George upon it.
Was he a knight, then? A crusader?
He picked up the spoon and shook drops of spilled beer off it, then stirred the porridge. They had honey and butter in the kitchen, but she had decided against giving him any for fear he would wonder how the crone of the castle could live so well. She told herself that he really should count himself fortunate to be getting even bland porridge.
He took a spoonful, sniffed it, glanced at her, then put it in his mouth. The expression that followed was not one of delight, the corners of his mouth pulling down, although she could see him trying not to let his dist
aste show. He reached for the beer.
“Who are you?” she asked. Let him talk while he ate the food she had given him, so he would know he owed her answers.
He took a swallow of the beer, and this time he could not hide the grimace of revulsion.
She tucked in her chin, taken aback. It was very fine beer! They had brewed it themselves.
He regained control of his face. “I am Saint George.”
“Your pardon?”
“I am Saint George, and I have come to slay the dragon!” he said more loudly, and punched a fist into the air.
She jumped back, startled. “You are not!”
He frowned at her, not looking particularly upset. “Yes, I am.”
“You cannot be Saint George.”
“Why not?”
Because Saint George would not walk around half naked, with the bulge of his privates for all to see! “You could not best Milo. If you were Saint George, you would have gotten past him.” And if he truly were St. George, she had much to fear.
“I am a saint. I do not hurt people. I wanted to get to the castle, and to the castle I have gotten.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Where is your horse, and your spear, if you have come to kill the dragon?”
“I thought it was a sword I needed.”
“Where is it? And your horse and armor?”
He blinked at her and gazed off up to the right, as if watching a fly on the ceiling. “Stolen?” he asked, looking back at her. “My hope was to borrow a sword from you. I had a pitchfork, but I lost it.”
She laughed, shaking her head. The man, for all his size, was nothing more than a child. She had nothing to be afraid of. “I should let you try to kill the dragon, and let it thus free the world from a fool!”
“All I ask is that you let me try.”
She narrowed her eyes, her amusement dying away. Was he more clever than he appeared? Perhaps he hid strength and intelligence beneath a harmless demeanor.
