A Tavern Wench to Bed

by Brenda Williamson

  Without another word to Sorcha, he signaled the animal to go. He had to believe she’d not let him take Charger if she thought it was likely the dragon could get hurt.

  The take off was smooth, not jarring like Nimbly’s. He directed Charger as he would in a joust, taking him high and then low. He had forgotten what it felt like to ride a dragon with smooth, succinct moves. He did several daring dives right over Sorcha’s head. Her mouth opened, but if she spoke, he didn’t hear.

  On the third and final circling, a glint of something shiny caught his eye. When he looked back, he spotted a dragon on the ground, maybe the one he’d seen fly over earlier. He appeared to be trying to conceal himself near the forest.

  Henry swung Charger back and flew down for a landing. Dragons did not hide. Nor did they like to be tethered to a tree limb.

  He’d thought something seemed off about a lone dragon rider this far from the tournament. Though Sorcha thought it might be another couple, he’d had doubts. Few women went near dragons, let alone got on them. Sorcha was special in that way. She showed a unique courage. Aside from her other fine qualities, that added to his strong attraction to her.

  He watched his descent. It was the only time his gaze left the other dragon. When he glanced back up, the dragon was charging out of the shadows toward him. Apparently, the rider had been close by and had remounted. Henry ducked, pulling on the reins to stop Charger’s trot. The other dragon took off over him. Instinctively, he ducked away from the whoosh of a flapping wing. One hit of a dragon’s wing could kill.

  Stunned and angry, Henry tapped Charger’s flanks to take off. By the time they were in flight, the clouds had rolled in and given cover to the mysterious dragon rider. Concerned that Sorcha was alone, he flew back to where he had left her and found her missing.

  “Sorcha!” he shouted, flying low toward the tree and along the stream.

  He saw his tunic near the flattened grass where they had lain.

  The whoosh behind him alerted him to another dragon. He spun Charger around to confront the sneaky culprit he had been after. Sorcha riding bareback on another dragon surprised him. Was there nothing she didn’t fear doing? Straddling a one of these beasts bareback was a tricky feat for even the most skilled rider. Sorcha truly had the gift of balance on a dragon.

  She circled. A crack of thunder sent the dragon rearing back. He immediately feared she’d fall. No reins. No saddle. No hold except the spiny withers and shoulder scales. Sorcha hung on and got the mare back under control. She flew up hill. He followed and watched her land the animal back in the pasture with the others. Not taking a chance of getting too close, he landed at the top of the hill and waited for her.

  She ran up to him.

  “I told you there was a storm coming,” he said, choosing not to mention how worried he was when he found her gone.

  “I know. When you didn’t come back, I thought maybe Charger was giving you trouble.” She took his hand and let him help her up onto Charger.

  “I spotted that dragon we saw. I thought he was tethered to a tree near the edge of the forest. The rider must have been hiding under his belly or behind him, because when I landed, he took off. I lost him in the clouds.”

  “Did you get a better look at him?”

  “He was in the shadows. Strangely, he reminded me of Nimbly.”

  “Do you know of another dragon that looks like Nimbly?”

  “There are a number of them. His sire produced dozens over the years, many with the same coloring.”

  “The storm is headed north and should pass by without affecting the tournament. Maybe when we get back there, you’ll notice if someone doesn’t show up.”

  “Only if he’s a competitor.”

  “Maybe you’ll see the dragon.”

  Henry thought about the coloring on the animal. He tried to recall any prominent details. Nothing came to mind. The dragon was an average, run of the mill dragon. Nothing stood out for him to notice from the distance in which he saw him, yet something did seem more familiar than usual.

  Chapter Eight

  Sir Henry skillfully maneuvered Sorcha’s dragon around trees and across verdant pastures. He kept low making her feel at one with the terrain. The breeze created by their flight cooled her cheeks. Dampness of an impending rain hung in the air. She didn’t care. Flying smoothly on her favorite dragon, in the warm embrace of a man she liked very much was like living a dream.

  “You handle him well,” she told Henry when they landed outside the village of Tregarth.

  “Did you doubt me?” He hopped off and caught her as she slipped into his outstretched arms.

  “I had my reservations about how Charger would respond to you alone on him,” she said as they walked a safe distance from the dragon. “Apparently, he’s taken in by your charm, too.” She brushed loose locks from his forehead. Then putting a hand to his chest, she noticed his missing clothing. “Your tunic. We’ve left it behind.”

  “My steward will have another with my armor.” He caught up both her hands in his. “Speaking of which, I should go get ready.”

  He tugged her along so hurriedly she stumbled twice on the hem of her dress. Reaching the pavilion marked with the Pembroke coat of arms and their banners of blue and white, Henry pulled her inside.

  She looked at the array of armor and weapons. Tables held bits and pieces of steel and leather, and other items for mending just about anything. She spotted the rack of clothing. “You’re right, you have several tunics.” She then fingered the vest of chain mail.

  Henry moved behind her, putting his hands on her hips. “Am I being too rapacious if I tell you how much I want you again?”

  “It’s late, Sir Henry.” She placed her hands over his to shove them away, but she couldn’t. “They’ll be calling you for your match soon. If you’re not there—”

  “It will be a forfeit.” His hands slid around to her belly. He pulled her back against his hard body.

  She closed her eyes, mentally following his touch.

  He pressed up against her breasts, folded his fingers around them, and molded them in his hands. “Soft, yet firm,” he murmured in her ear.

  The cloth of her dress prevented her from feeling the roughness of his calloused palms.

  “Sweet.” He ran his tongue along her neck and kissed behind her ear.

  The vivid memory of him lying on her, their bodies meshed as one made her smile. She had never known such joy could come from complete abandon of outside distractions.

  Faintly, the trumpets sounded for the next match. She ignored them.

  Henry didn’t. “I need to get ready.” He rested his chin on her shoulder and hugged her.

  She folded her arms over his not wanting to let go.

  “If I forfeit, it will be months before another tournament where I can show off Charger’s skills.” He kissed her neck where it met with her shoulder.

  “Go” She pushed his arms from around her.

  He walked her to the tent flat and held it open for her. She stood outside of the pavilion while the steward retrieved his fresh tunic and his armor.

  “This shouldn’t take long. Rev always gets too full of himself after we’ve had a fight.” He lifted his arms and donned the chain mail vest.

  She didn’t say anything, but watched him fitted with the shin guards and arm shields. He stretched several times, loosening his bunched clothes beneath.

  The trumpets sounded again, signaling the herald’s preparation to call on the contestants.

  “Good luck, Sir Henry.” She reached in her pocket and pulled out a lace-edged piece of cloth that once belonged to her mother.

  “Luck has nothing to do with it, milady.” He took her hand, lifted it up and placed a firm kiss upon her fingers. Then he let go, taking the handkerchief from her.

  His long strides moved him quickly to Charger. He made a calm approach to the dragon, showing the animal his respect. She was happy to see how well her dragon accepted Henry’s approach. She la
ughed when she saw him wave her handkerchief near Charger’s nose. With her scent, the dragon would naturally feel Henry had enough authority to mount him without all the snorting and ruffling of his scales.

  Henry held the handkerchief to his own nose, then tied it his lance. He gave her a nod. Then he took off on Charger.

  “Be careful,” she whispered the prayer.

  Charger was still a fresh mount, untested in a match with a new rider. But Henry circled overhead and gave her a thumbs up.

  He disappeared into the mist of clouds rolling in from the outlying storm.

  She turned and headed toward the melee of people. They waited to watch the spectacular show of dragon rider knights fight their challengers and she needed to find a good spot to see.

  The herald called out the combatants, Sir Reven Tulane against Sir Henry Pembroke.

  She glanced around at the hundreds of pennants hanging from the pavilions and the grandstand of nobles. Many were Pembroke colors. Few were Tulane’s red dragon on a black background.

  Her moving gaze fell on Lady Kathryn.

  What luck, she groaned, seeing the woman make her way toward her. Lord Uther followed. Both wore their finest clothing and flaunted their wealth with jeweled necklaces and rings on their fingers. Why were they not in the grandstand with the other nobles? Why did they come toward her as if they were friends? The crowd made familiar sounds of excitement, and she glanced up at the sky.

  “It won’t take long for Lord Reven to beat him,” Lady Kathryn stated.

  “Or lose to him,” Sorcha replied.

  She wanted to watch the match in solitude, without commentary, without any conversation, especially from people she did not like. It was Charger first time to compete in a real event. She needed to see how he performed.

  “Whose dragon is he riding?” Lord Uther asked. “Not his and certainly not one of his brother’s. Ware would never have such an inferior animal.”

  Sorcha tensed. Irritation churned her insides. She wanted to vent her anger, but when she saw Sir Reven’s lance hit Henry in the head, dread spread through her. Henry’s safety was her only concern. He swayed in his seat, appearing dazed by the blow. Without guidance, Charger moved in the wrong direction.

  “Appears this shall be a quick match.” Lord Uther chuckled.

  “Poor, Sir Henry. He’ll surely die from a fall that high.” Lady Kathryn’s tsk-tsk sounds grated on Sorcha’s nerves.

  Fearing she was right, Sorcha moved toward the field, away from the doomsayers. She watched Henry pull up on the reins and regain control of Charger. They circled around, Charger gliding on his spread wings instead of flapping them. He worked the air currents to his advantage and it made for an impressive sight. She took pride in her training of him, but her greatest respect went toward Henry for not demanding complete dominance over the dragon. He let Charger show him the best angle of attack.

  As if they knew each other’s minds, they acted as one. They maneuvered behind Sir Reven, dived below him, swung around and came up in front. The elegant move put him just right for knocking the lance from Sir Reven’s grip.

  The pleased crowd roared in triumph as the wooden spear came spiraling down and landed in front of the grandstand.

  “What were you saying about an inferior dragon, Lord Uther?” Sorcha smirked, well pleased with Henry’s use of Charger’s best skills, and equally delighted of Charger’s trust in Sir Henry.

  Lord Uther grunted a disgusted sound and walked away.

  “How interesting,” Lady Kathryn commented. “Sir Henry won, and riding your dragon too. That will surely upset Sir Reven. He won’t like it very much at all that he was defeated by a dragon trained by a woman.”

  “Only half the work is done by the dragon, milady. Sir Henry had much to do with the victory.” Sorcha reminded her. “And how did you know it was my dragon?”

  “If it’s not Sir Henry’s, then who else’s could it be?” she said smugly and turned away.

  Left alone again, Sorcha watched the dragons land on the field. Pleased to the core that Henry won and that he did it with Charger, she forgot about Lady Kathryn’s strange behavior and Lord Uther’s sour disposition.

  She felt a joyous accomplishment warm her soul. Then a man approached with a grim expression that sucked the happiness from her.

  * * * * *

  Henry dismounted a victor in the match. Even if he didn’t win the tournament, he beat Reven. They had been going head to head for several years with their rivalry. Today it meant more than ever for him to win against Reven.

  He walked Sorcha’s to the seated Grand Master of Dragon Riders.

  “Excellent riding and workmanship, Sir Henry. You’re brother Ware has taught you well. And this magnificent creature is one of his stock no doubt.”

  “Actually, this fine animal is Bronson the Dragon Breeder’s.”

  “Didn’t he die?”

  Henry saw no way around the facts. “His daughter has taken over. She’s every bit, if not a better trainer.”

  “A female dragon breeder, you say. How interesting.”

  “A woman of integrity, determination, and one that possesses the utmost skill as a trainer. She wanted to ride him herself, but no dragon fighter would go up against her, even I refused her. The sport is rough and dangerous. Yet, I think I may have been wrong. Who am I, or any of us to say she cannot handle the rigors of competition as much or more deftly that those that lose.”

  “The woman has turned your head, Sir Henry.”

  Henry smiled. “That she has Lord Yalsworth.”

  Saying it made him realize how much Sorcha had taken over his thoughts.

  “Then maybe you should be the one that gives her a chance at competing. I hear your brother Kilburn has an exhibition planned next month at Lindhurst.”

  Henry smiled thinking how pleased Sorcha would be if he promised her a position. “I will be giving it thought, milord.” He bowed and walked away.

  “Sir Henry.” A page ran up to him. “Sir Henry, Sir Duncan Stanwyck has sent word that there’s been a tragedy with the Bronson Dragons!”

  “What tragedy?”

  “They’re all dead,” he whispered. “Slaughtered.”

  Henry led Charger from the tournament grounds into open pasture. He mounted the dragon steed and took flight immediately. A little over a quarter hour later, they reached the area beyond the village where Sorcha lived. Scattered in a bloody field, lay massacred dragons. Charger snorted and balked at the scent of death. Henry understood his upset. The sight sickened him as well. But they had to stay to find Sorcha.

  He flew several passes over the area, searching among the peasants lingering about, until he spotted her. His heartbeat slowed with the relief to find her all right, and then he noticed the dragon she knelt beside. “Nimbly?” he questioned his vision. It couldn’t be, When he’d left, Nimbly was in a valley pasture near the tournament field. Yet, even blinking several times didn’t change what he saw.

  He tried landing, but Charger reared, refusing to descend. Did he think he’d become part of the carnage if he got too close? Henry steered him toward the top of the hill, distancing the animal helped, even though Charger still showed signs of distress. With no time to tend to the dragon’s agitation, Henry left Charger pawing and stomping the ground and ran down the hill to where Sorcha stood alongside the fallen dragon. His fear was confirmed. It was Nimbly.

  “What happened?” His stomach roiled at the sight he had refused to believe until now. “How did he get here?”

  “I don’t know. Gerald, a man that works for me, came to the tournament and said two men were killing my dragons. When I looked to fly Nimbly here, he was gone from the valley, so I rode on the wagon with Gerald. We just got here a short while ago and this is what I found. Nimbly is still breathing, but he won’t make it. Have I been cruel not rushing to put him out of pain?”

  Henry looked at Nimbly lying near death, blood oozing from the slashes in his chest. He pulled the long blade
d dagger from the sheath on his leg.

  “I hope this is enough, ol’ boy.” He knelt on one knee and patted Nimbly on the neck. “No one will ever take your place in my heart.”

  He drew back and thrust his steel blade into Nimbly’s chest, hitting as hard as possible precisely between the scales lapping the area of his heart.

  “Move back,” he told Sorcha, jumping up to push her out of the way of Nimbly’s thrashing legs.

  “Who would do this?” Sorcha cried.

  Henry tried to stay focused on the task, though tears blurred his vision. Dryness in his throat prevented him from answering. He detached himself from his surroundings, from Sorcha’s light sobs and dealt the killing strike to the suffering animal. Thrusting his knife beneath scales in Nimbly’s chest, he struck his heart. Nimbly flailed a wing, kicked a leg, and went still.

  Anger galvanized Henry’s thoughts. Sorcha asked who, and his suspicions landed on Reven. Had their rivalry pushed Tulane too far? He tried to recall the image of the dragon he’d spotted earlier. It must have been Nimbly he’d seen near the woods. He remembered the familiarity he had felt. It would also be just like Reven to get someone else to do his dirty work. Tulanes were known for their sneakiness.

  Henry wiped the dripping blood from his knife and re-sheathed it. What else did Reven have planned? His concern fell on Sorcha.

  “You have to go.” He took hold of her arm.

  “No.” She twisted out of his grip. “I have to tend to the disposal of my animals.”

  “I’ll handle that.” He put his hands on her shoulders and looked over the field. Dead dragon’s lay in great heaps as if a rampaging army passed through.

  “They are my responsibility, my life,” she said, as if determined she had to prove she was strong enough to handle the situation.

  “I want you to get on Charger and fly to Pembroke.” He told her.

  “Why? I’m no sniveling little girl.” She shrugged off his touch and stepped back from him. “These are my dragons that someone has destroyed. They are—” She put her fist against her mouth to choke back a sob. “These were—”