George & the Virgin

by Lisa Cach

  The great maw opened and bellowed a call of rage and hunger, the stink of his breath blowing through Alizon’s clothes and under her hood, coating her skin in foul dragon air.

  Belch’s weight dragged him down, and even as the great dragon snapped his jaws inches from George’s feet, he was sliding back and then falling, his body slamming once again into the water below.

  Alizon lunged to the stall with the wildly bleating sheep, the creature rising up on its hind legs to look over the gate and try to scramble free. There was a lever to the side of the gate, and with no more than a quick mental apology to the animal, Alizon pulled it.

  The trapdoor beneath the stall fell open, and with a wild squawk the sheep dropped through, its cries lasting only a moment before there was the unmistakable sound of snapping jaws and impacted flesh.

  Alizon peered over the edge of the open trap door, staying as far back as she could, and could make out only the swirls of fog where Belch swam beneath. She knew from past experience that he might not eat the sheep all at once, but store it in some rocky crevice underwater, the flesh softening to his preferred consistency.

  She turned back to George, who was half-sprawled in the entrance to the tunnel, propped up by his arms. The man’s mouth was hanging open, almost as wide as his eyes. His pupils were drawn to pinpricks in the field of his meadow-green irises, the color startling in his now-pale face.

  She shook her head. “If you were truly St. George, you would have known: One must never tease a dragon.”

  Chapter Nine

  His hand shook as he raised the spoonful of reheated mutton stew to his lips. He was beyond tasting, wanting only the warmth of the food as it made its way into his belly, washed down with a mouthful of the beer he had decided was not quite so horrible if it could lessen the quivering of his limbs.

  What the hell was that thing?

  “Belch,” the mistress had called it. “Demon from the Black Lagoon,” he would name it. In the few terror-stricken glimpses he had gotten, it had looked like a cross between an alligator and a dinosaur, with a bit of horror-film creature thrown in. It was blackish-green, its monstrous paws webbed between the claws, its head that of an alligator but on a longer neck.

  It wasn’t the pretty dragon he had imagined, with batlike wings and iridescent scales. There had been no magical wisdom in those yellow reptilian eyes, nothing but the soulless animal imperative to kill and devour.

  And he had stood there like a meal on the hoof, his body hanging out over the mist like an invitation. “Come and get me! Here I am! Big doofus for dinner!”

  He tried to remind himself that this was all happening in his mind, that he had been in no real danger.

  It didn’t work.

  Just as in a nightmare you could believe yourself pursued to a grisly end, so the shaking of his body told him that he had almost lost his life to that prehistoric lizard. His mind claimed this to be reality. This was real for him, and would be to the end. Until he woke.

  He’d even lost his pitchfork, dropping it like a startled child. He saw now it had been a mere toothpick for Belch to use when the beast had finished dining on his flesh.

  Aw, Christ. How the hell was he going to kill that thing?

  The mistress sat down across from him, settling her hands neatly together on the table. He could detect no shaking in those suspiciously young and smooth fingers. The gray she had smeared upon them had rubbed off in places, revealing healthy skin.

  He turned his scrambled emotions upon her.

  “Why don’t you remove your hood?”

  The hands tightened their grip on one another. “I will not. What need have you to see the workings of time upon a woman’s face?”

  “So, it’s vanity that keeps you concealed? That is a deadly sin, Sister, lest you have forgotten.”

  “And lest you have forgotten, my purpose here is not to play lady of the manor to foolish young men out to prove themselves against dragons. Do not impose upon my hospitality.”

  He reached across the planks and took one of her hands, gripping it before she could pull back. She tugged, but he pulled it slowly toward him, rubbing his thumb over its back.

  “Smooth skin. Your knuckles aren’t large with age; there are no brown spots beneath this gray.” He dipped a fingertip of his free hand into his beer and rubbed it against her skin. “You look in the very pink of health.” Except …

  He held up her hand, tilting it in the light that came down from the open windows high overhead. She was exerting a constant pull, but it was nothing to him to keep her hand within his grasp. “Except for these bits of green, and blue … and red. What have you been doing? Painting pictures?”

  She tugged again, and this time he released her. He stared into the darkness beneath her hood, and past the screen of white wool he thought he could make out the dimmest shadows of her nose and mouth, and the curve of her chin as it was caught by light reflected from the table. She was no older than he, of that he was fairly certain.

  His eyes slipped down to her chest, covered by the brown robe, but a deep maroon gown showed in a sliver at the opening. Her contours bespoke high and rounded breasts. The line of her shoulders was clean and square, and despite her occasional attempts to move as an old woman, more often she forgot and strode with confidence and her head held high, her limbs limber and strong. He remembered her grip on his waist, trying to pull him from the rail, and the way she had lunged for the lever that had plunged the sheep to its doom. They weren’t the movements of the old and frail.

  He wanted to see her face. There was no one who could stop him if he were to leap across the table and pull her hood back.

  Something inside rebelled against such a thought, though. He had never been one to use his size to force his way. Except for in the ring, he was careful to ease the intimidation others felt standing near him. It was a lesson he had learned in fifth grade, when he had been taller than his teacher, Mrs. Stubbs. He had seen the flash of fear in her eyes when he had become upset about her markings on his homework assignment and argued with her, his voice louder than he realized. His words had stopped the moment he had seen that fear, and the small step backward she had taken. He had silently retreated to his desk and put his head down on his arms, feeling like a creature from Where the Wild Things Are.

  He would wait, and persuade the mistress to reveal herself. It might even prove entertaining, something to keep his mind off that dragon.

  Hell’s bells! The dragon. A shudder went through him. How would he ever bring himself to descend into that foggy lair and attack the thing? He needed a rocket launcher, that’s what he needed. Anti-tank ordnance. Or a mine to drop into the water, to let Belch swim into it and blow himself up.

  He had seen Jurassic Park. One didn’t kill a dinosaur; one ran like mad and found a plane to escape the damn thing.

  Unless you were the woman across the table from him.

  “How have you stayed here all these years with that monster living below?” he asked in genuine awe. She had kept her head while Belch was leaping and bellowing and clawing at the platform. If not for her, he would be bathing in stomach acids right now.

  “Monsters come in all shapes and sizes,” she said. “A dragon’s evil is easy to see and understand, and so there is less to fear.”

  “Less to fear than what?”

  She shrugged and did not answer. He guessed he was supposed to figure it out for himself.

  “Less to fear than from people?” he asked.

  “Perhaps.”

  “It’s no wonder you feel that way, since you have yourself as an example, tossing innocent girls to that … thing.” He had his doubts that she had ever done such an act, and not just because he had trouble believing ill of anyone without proof. No child-killing hag would have tried to save him from having his head chomped off.

  She said nothing, but he thought she was sitting more rigidly. If he put his hand in front of that hood she would probably bite off a finger.

 
Good. When she lost control she was more likely to speak in her normal voice, her words less closely watched. He would figure out exactly who or what she was, and what role she played in this queer adventure.

  “If you are finished, I can take you to the armory. That is, if you still have the courage to battle Belch.”

  “I have courage enough,” he lied. “It’s a plan I’m lacking.”

  “A plan? What plan do you need? You take a weapon, go down, and try to kill him.”

  “It’s clear enough that I’m no match for Belch in strength.” He tapped his forehead. “But Belch is no match for me in wits.”

  A sound suspiciously like laughter came from beneath the hood, and the woman’s shoulders shook. “Ah, I see.”

  “I never enter a fight without a plan. Well, except with Milo, and you saw how poorly that turned out.”

  “Marry! You are a wise and cautious man!”

  “And you are a kind and honest woman.”

  She stood, shoving back the end of the bench upon which she sat. “What mean you by that, sir?”

  “What should I mean but what I said? It can be no insult to call you kind and honest.”

  “It was the tone to which I object. Do not judge that which you do not understand.”

  He wondered which bothered her more, being thought cruel or being thought a liar, and whether there might be danger for him in the answer. He couldn’t make out whether she wished to be friend or foe to him.

  Damn that hood!

  He stood and picked up his dishes. “Thank you for the meal; it was delicious. Where should I put these?”

  She said nothing, and he looked about until he saw the stone scullery sink near the basin with the hot spring water. He took them over there, rinsed them, and set them in the sink. “This all right, then?”

  “Verily, this land you come from is far away,” she said in stunned tones.

  “Hmmm?”

  She gestured toward the scullery sink. “Will you scrub them, too?”

  “Oh, sorry! Yes, of course!” He turned back and picked up his bowl, looking for whatever passed for a scrubber or soap.

  “No, please, leave it!” She was at his side now, taking the bowl from his hands. “This is no task for a guest, and certainly none for a man who claims to be a saint.”

  “The women I know would argue otherwise. My mother would clout me on the ear if I didn’t at least offer.”

  She tilted her head back and stared up at him, and for a moment he could see shadowed lips and nose, and a glimpse of dark eyes. “Would she? Your homeland is different from England, then. Tell me, for what else would your mother clout you on the ear?”

  “Clouting isn’t her usual punishment,” he said. He followed as she led him back into the dark hall that would take them onto the terrace. “She has a way of looking at you that makes you sorry you ever disobeyed.”

  “A look of anger?”

  “Disappointment.”

  “And with this look she has her son cleaning his own dishes. I shall have to learn it.”

  The sun stung George’s eyes, bright after the softer light inside the castle. He used his hand as a visor and squinted up at the windows of the other wing, looking for another pale face but finding nothing but darkness. The only sounds were of the wind gusting and the squawks of a seagull hovering on the air. “More powerful than her look of disappointment was her promise to me that women would love a man who cleaned up after himself and could cook at least five good meals.”

  She stopped and again stared up at him. He gave her his best smarmy, charming grin. What he could see of her skin was pale, her pursed lips a healthy dark pink. “The men in your land follow such beliefs?” she asked.

  “Some do. Some even stay home and tend to the children, while their wives are merchants who travel the world.”

  She made a rude noise. “You jest with me!”

  “I speak truly.”

  “Then are these men who have been injured in a war and cannot work?”

  “A few may be. But there are others who do so by choice, especially if their wives are better at business than they.”

  She shook her head. “No, you tell a good tale, but this I cannot believe. It would be easier to believe that you are truly St. George.”

  He shrugged, amused. “Believe what you will. All the same, I shall kill your dragon and wash my dishes, and then you shall pull back your hood and kiss me in thanks.”

  A choking sound came from beneath the hood, and he grinned, knowing an exaggerated protest when he heard one. So, she wasn’t completely uninterested! Maybe there was more to keep him busy here than killing lizards.

  “The longer you wear that hood, the more curious I become. I’m spending much more time thinking about your face than I would if you simply showed it to me.”

  “Better that you think about your plan for Belch.”

  “There are only so many hours of the day one can think about fighting. What of the sport of loving?”

  Her pace picked up, as if trying to escape him. “How dare you speak of such things to me?” she asked, her voice rising to a nervous squeak.

  “Better to you than to Milo, I should think.”

  She came to a sudden stop at a door at the end of the haunted wing and mumbled something. From beneath her robe she took out an oversized keyring.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She turned the key in the lock and tossed her head back, nearly unseating her hood. “I was reflecting that you might have better luck discussing such thoughts with a sheep.” She pushed open the door and took a step inside, looking back over her shoulder at him. “I hear that they are the only fit companions for some men.”

  He roared with laughter and pursued her into the castle. “You are no nun, of that I am certain! For shame, Sister, that such thoughts should ever enter your pure head!”

  “I have had some experience of the world, sir! I was not born a nun.” She scampered ahead of him through a large room scattered with beds and piles of what looked to be narrow, thin mattresses. The sunbeams coming through the windows were filled with motes of dust, stirred by her passage.

  “Not born one, nor ever been one, I warrant.”

  “As if you, a foreigner from a backward land, would have the wit to know one way or the other!”

  “There are some things that are the same in every land,” he said. He closed the distance between them and raised his hand almost to her chin, as if he would touch it.

  “Enough of this nonsense! I insist you stop this line of discourse at once!” She fumbled at the latch to another door.

  “You were the one who mentioned the sheep.”

  She pulled back, turning her head away. “I have no interest in sheep!”

  “Neither do I.”

  He lowered his hand to the latch and, gently brushing her motionless fingers aside, opened it himself.

  Chapter Ten

  She was not a sheep.

  Horrible man! If he only knew what she had been through, and what she had accomplished! She was the mistress of Devil’s Mount, and she was not to be trifled with.

  Or touched. Or goaded. Or teased, by St. Nicholas! She would not stand for it.

  Alizon fumed beneath her hood as George poked through the piles of weapons and armor in what was left of the armory. The de Burroughs had left a fair quantity of it behind when Belch had come and eaten them, but she had with Milo’s help secretly sold off the better portion of it. Providing for the care and luxurious comfort of twelve virgins was not inexpensive.

  Swords and shields were not the only trade that went on secretly in the harbor of Devil’s Mount, of course. What a surprise St. Bumbles the Over-confident here would have if he knew about the tapestries and the profits they brought!

  She scolded herself for the thought. He was tempting her to boast, and then where would she be? All secrets revealed, everything she had built destroyed. And for what? For a moment’s surprise on his face, and to hear him say he was
wrong?

  It was almost worth it.

  “Excellent! Look at this!” he said, holding up a dull sword with half its helm broken off.

  She was standing with arms crossed, watching him as a mother watches a child playing in the mud. “Yes, splendid. Belch will stand no chance against you.”

  “And look, a spear! And what is this thing?” He held up a stick with a chain and iron-spiked ball at the end, and gave it a swing. It swung back and hit him in the thigh. “Ow!”

  She snickered.

  He frowned at her, then with a look of disgust threw the weapon back into the pile. “You could hurt someone with that.”

  “Is that not the point?”

  “Not when that someone is likely to be me.”

  She shook her head, smirking. “A new and strange sort of warrior you are! How brave! How fearless! How skilled!”

  “Hey babe,” he snapped. “I know you’re just being bratty because you want my body.”

  She sucked in an offended breath, having understood only half the words but all the meaning. “I beg your pardon!”

  He grinned and went back to digging through weapons.

  And, horrid as he was, she found her gaze going to his buttocks. The split panels of his surcoat had slid off to either side, and his muscled backside was clear for her to see, his silver hose doing more to reveal than to conceal.

  He deserved a good spanking. Alizon’s palms tingled with the desire to slap him across those flexing mounds.

  She grimaced and clenched her hands into fists, quelling the impulse. Honesty made her admit that any spanking would be but an excuse to touch him.

  Just looking at him made her feel that everything was going out of her control. Even as he dug through the dregs of weapons, making his choices more on appearance than on function, she felt that he was a threat.

  She should be satisfied he was not, after his expression of utter horror when Belch had all but snipped his head from his neck. Watching his hands shake as he ate—and he, making no move to conceal the weakness!—should have been enough for her. But it wasn’t.