Night of the Dragon

by Webb, Peggy

  The sorceress in his bedchamber was weakened by her wounds, by the three days of fever and pain. He'd sat beside her, swabbing her hot face and body and listening to her fever-induced ramblings. She'd talked of strange places, places he'd never heard of, Mississippi and California.

  Where were these places? And why was she there?

  He had to find out while he was still stronger than she. He knew the power of magic, and that no mere mortal, even one of Arthur's knights, could stand against such a force. Merlin had proved that.

  There was no limit to the mischief the witch in the bed was capable of. Already she'd stirred his heart to softness. As he approached the bed he wished for his sword.

  "Where do you come from?" He kept his distance but stood close enough to see her face.

  She scrubbed at her tears with the back of her hand. "Do you have any tissues?" A look of pure distress crossed her face. "No, I suppose not." With that, she blew her nose on the edge of the sheet. "A shame to do this to silk, but what's a lady in distress to do?"

  He was learning a lot about witches. He didn't know they had a sense of humor.

  "I'm from California. Where are you from, really and truly, and don't you dare say Camelot."

  "Camelot," he said, suppressing his smile.

  "If I had my knife, I'd cut out your lying tongue." She glanced frantically around the room. "Where are my things?"

  "Your things are here." Dragon had tied all her possessions into a bundle. He lifted it up to show her, but he wasn't so foolish as to return the tools of her trade. Who knew what potent spells she could cast with the little black box and the clothes that changed color when you touched them and the shoes that glowed with unholy lights. "I'm no thief, Victoria."

  "Stop calling me that," she shouted, then sank back against the bed, exhausted. "Why do you call me Victoria?"

  "Because of this."

  Dragon rummaged in the bundle until he found the tiny garment she'd used to cover her womanhood. Bright red. The color of his face when he'd removed it. Even now, merely touching it made him feel flushed.

  He held them up for her inspection. "I never knew a person who wore her name on her clothing."

  Only a woman could go from tears to laughter so quickly. Was she laughing at him or at her own name?

  "My name is Lydia, and would you please quit fondling my panties?"

  "I'm not fondling your panties."

  But he was. Hastily he stuffed them back into the bundle. What strange word was this she used? Panties. He mustn't let her know he was unfamiliar with such a word. He'd already revealed his weakness by his admission about the phone. And he still didn't know who this Mona Lisa was. Nor a place called California.

  He would extract the information from her, one way or the other. After she was well, of course. He had no stomach for tossing a wounded woman into the dungeon. Witch or no witch.

  "Your soup is getting cold." He picked up the bowl and carried it to the bed.

  "I don't want soup." Her face took on a wily look. "I'd rather have a hamburger with mustard and ketchup."

  He kept his face impassive, not about to reveal his ignorance of the things she'd requested. "Soup builds strength. Here."

  She shoved away the bowl he thrust at her. Without a word he sat on the bed, hauled her close, and tipped the soup into her mouth.

  "This is what happens to stubborn wenches who refuse to eat."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Lydia drank the soup. Not because she was hungry. Not even because he was forcing her. She could have spit it out. All of it. But she drank because she intended to escape, and in order to do that she needed her strength.

  What was more, she drank every drop of it. Slowly. And she didn't try to fool herself about her motives. They were plain and simple: She hadn't been held in a terribly long time, and in her weakened state she needed that comfort, even if she did get it in the arms of the enemy.

  And so she sipped and sighed and lingered, all the while testing out the shape and feel of him in much the way of a woman testing a new mattress she plans to sleep on for the next ten years, checking for comfort and firmness and that indefinable quality that could only be called perfect fit. He was all that and more, ever so much more. What she hadn't expected was the shocking currents. She felt as if she were standing on a hilltop in the midst of a lightning storm.

  She was sorry when the soup was gone. He lowered her to the bed, then tucked the sheet under her chin, all the while searching her eyes as deeply as if he were questing for the Holy Grail.

  Good grief. Now look what he had her doing: believing she was actually in Camelot.

  "You drank it all. That's good." He retreated to the other side of the room and picked up the bundle containing her things. "Tomorrow I'll bring you venison."

  "You're going to feed me Bambi? No thanks."

  If he didn't know one of Walt Disney's most endearing characters, he kept the secret well. Maybe his costume came from Disney studios, after all.

  "You will eat venison."

  "Just who do you think you are? The king?"

  He had a great smile. It flashed across his face as brilliant as a comet, then he assumed that careful mask.

  "No. Arthur is king."

  "Great. Next you're going to tell me that Guinevere is queen."

  Across the room in three strides, he pinioned her against the mattress, his eyes terrible, his face full of deadly intent. She thrust out her chin, determined not to cringe before this barbarian.

  "How did you know?" he said.

  She decided to play for time. "Know what?"

  "About Guinevere and Arthur."

  "It's . . ." In all the books, she started to say, then thought better of it. What if she really was in Camelot, impossible as it seemed? What if she really had traveled through time to the land where mythical creatures flew through the skies and legends sprang up as easily as daffodils peeking through the earth in spring.

  For once Lydia was cautious. "It's common knowledge. Everybody who is anybody knows that Guinevere is queen."

  The man who called himself Dragon was aptly named, so gorgeous, he could only be myth, so fierce, he made her tremble. Literally. She hid her hands under the covers to keep him from seeing.

  What was he going to do to her? Burn her at the stake? Take her out and feed her to that dragon?

  Or did he have something far more dangerous in mind?

  He held her captive under the silk sheets, his body hard and hot. Her face flamed. In that tall, cold stone room, in the place that was part dream, part myth, part magic, Dragon was a river, and she drowned in him. She felt the flow of her skin, the lightness of her body, the floating of her soul as she became absorbed by him.

  Fever raged through her, and she knew it wasn't merely the heat of sickness. It was the heat of a man called Dragon.

  "Who are you?"

  "Lydia Star."

  "I know your name. Who are you?"

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "Who sent you? Why are you here?"

  "That's the same thing the dragon asked me, right before he sank his nasty claws in me."

  "You have nothing to fear. I don't plan to sink my nasty claws in you . . . yet."

  With that parting shot he left the room, taking the bundle that contained everything she had, including her clothes.

  "Don't think that's going to stop me," she yelled as she tied the sheet in a knot over her breasts, then swung her feet over the bed. The minute they touched the cold stone floor, the wolf was in her face, fangs bared, growling.

  Dragon reappeared. "Don't try to escape. He has his instructions."

  "I feel like Little Red Riding Hood." She spoke with far more bravado than she felt. "The next thing I know, you're going to tell me that wolves eat bad little girls."

  His smile was decidedly wolfish. "They do."

  o0o

  She pondered his parting smile a long time after he'd gone. Then, glancing at the wolf who now appeared t
o be snoozing in the corner of the room, she headed toward the window. Immediately the wolf was alert, ears erect, teeth bared.

  "Look, I'm just going to the window. Okay?"

  He growled again. Lydia not only loved animals but considered herself quite good at communicating with them. In Pontotoc she'd had two squirrels who lived in her backyard and were so tame, they would come right up and eat out of her hand. Dogs in the neighborhood, even the breeds known for their fierceness, the ones who would snatch fanny packs right off joggers and bite holes in the pants of the postman, wagged their tails when she ran by. She held her hand out to him, palm up.

  "Good doggie. Good doggie." The wolf sank into a crouch, the grumbling in his throat like the sound of thunder. Anybody else would have cringed, but Lydia had fought a dragon. She kept telling herself that.

  "I won't hurt you. See. We're friends. Good buddies."

  She took another step toward the window, testing her power. Quivering, the wolf bared his teeth.

  Lydia knew when an animal was set to attack. Sighing, she climbed back into bed. But she had no intention of being a docile, patient captive. Not by any means.

  "Where's the television?" she yelled. "If you're going to keep me cooped up in here, the least you could do is provide a decent color TV."

  o0o

  Standing just outside her door, Dragon smiled. The fiery-haired witch had a strange and mesmerizing effect on him. He was not a man given to mirth. And yet in the last few hours he'd smiled often and spontaneously.

  Not only did she stir his mirth and his passion, she stirred his curiosity. Always using words he didn't know, talking about things and people and places he'd never heard of. He strode through the cavernous halls, detouring by the servants' quarters long enough to instruct Laird to light the torches outside the captive's bedchamber. Ever softhearted, he didn't want her to awaken in the darkness and be frightened.

  In the privacy of his own bedchamber he spread the witch's possessions across his covers for a thorough examination. When he'd first brought her to his castle, he'd stripped her rapidly. First because of the wounds which would surely have killed her if he hadn't given her immediate attention, and secondly because of the need for secrecy. Until he could figure out who she was and what her mission was in Camelot, he wanted no one to know about her strange clothes and possessions. Give away knowledge, you give away power. He'd learned that at Arthur's Round Table.

  One by one he picked up the items. What manner of country did she come from where so many clothes covered so little skin? The strange apparatus he'd removed from her breasts. The tiny bit of cloth she'd used to gird her loins.

  He'd trembled when he removed them, trembled even now as he touched them. The sorceress had great powers. Had she already cast some sort of spell over him?

  He was intrigued by the small pouch she'd worn. It opened and closed in a most magical way, by pulling a metal tab along a set of metal teeth. And inside were all sorts of wondrous things—a small flacon of scented oil, a metal tube with a colored substance inside that was neither wax nor oil but a combination of both, the small knife that was more than a knife, a strange square object that reflected his image. But the most miraculous of all was the small, hard rectangle, smaller than the palm of his hand. It carried a likeness of the witch and was covered with letters and numbers. The number that fascinated him most was listed as the date of issue: 1997.

  Could it be possible? Was his captive from the future?

  Hearing footsteps, he hid Lydia's things under a loose stone in the floor.

  "Sire, your horse is ready."

  "Thank you, Laird." That was another thing that set him apart from the other knights: He made it a point to be polite and kind to the peasants who worked in his castle and on his grounds.

  "Will you be needing anything else?"

  "Shadow is watching the girl, but I want you to pass through the hall and see that she's there until I return."

  "What am I to do if she escapes?"

  That question was never asked at the castle of Percival and Lancelot. Escaped captives were struck down. But Laird knew Dragon well.

  "If she escapes, report to me at the king's castle."

  o0o

  Dragon rode through the sea-damp darkness, cloaked against the chill of May in ermine and fog. His stallion's hooves sliced through the silence, and winds carried the distant sound of the waves and the occasional call of a night bird on the prey. Smell was the only evidence of spring flowers, a heady fragrance that perfumed the air.

  Soon there would be songs and dancing, maidens clad in silks the colors of the rainbow, wearing crowns of daisies as they frolicked around the Maypole, ripe young virgins celebrating life around that rigid, upright symbol of male virility and fertility. The Maypole as phallic symbol. Dragon grinned. Once when he'd mentioned the obvious, the other knights had guffawed. Only Arthur understood, King Arthur whose wise and compassionate rule had almost obliterated war and ushered in an era of peace and prosperity to Camelot.

  The moon moved from behind the clouds that sailed the night sky, and in that sudden illumination Dragon saw the spire of the abbey, and, just beyond, the spires of Arthur's castle. Filled with purpose, Dragon hurried toward his destination.

  In the flame-lit hall, the Round Table took on a mystical quality, light and shadow, the known and the unknown, the future versus the past. Tilting lances hung on the walls under the raftered ceilings, and Bordeaux swords, their blades polished to a silver gleam, as if they'd never seen the heat of battle, never known the acrid taste of blood.

  "Come in, dear boy, come in." King Arthur, always the perfect host, was in an expansive mood, and only the men gathered in the hall knew why. "Where's Lancelot?"

  "I greeted him as I came over the drawbridge." Dragon took his place on Arthur's left, the seat on his right being reserved for the favored Lancelot. "He's somewhere on the grounds."

  "Pinching a wench's round tail, no doubt." Everybody laughed at Percival's observations. "Do you want me to go and fetch him?"

  "Leave him to his sport while there's still a comely wench to be found," Arthur said. "I daresay the first decree of my new queen will be that only old and ugly wenches can come within the castle gates."

  Amidst uproarious laughter, Lancelot strolled in. Arthur clasped both his shoulders, then took his place at the Round Table.

  "As all of you know, I created the Round Table as a means of bringing civilization to Camelot." His eyes twinkled. "Unless I miss my guess, I've succeeded."

  "You've succeeded all too well," Percival grumbled. "I'm getting old and fat waiting for another war."

  "Turn your thoughts from war, my friend." Arthur's dark eyes shone with mischief and merriment. "Turn them toward matrimony."

  "Same thing," Percival grumbled. More laughter. More cheers.

  Arthur held up his hand for silence. "Tomorrow, Lancelot leaves to escort the future queen to Camelot. His mission remains a secret for two reasons: The first and most important is security. King Leodegrance and I agree that the utmost secrecy is the only way to keep his daughter safe on her journey to Camelot. The second is my own desire for privacy as well as my well-known love for surprise."

  The king's last comment brought loud cheers from the knights. In his quest for peace and freedom from tyranny, Arthur as a young king had broken all the rules of battle, those gentlemanly combat techniques where armies met on battlefields after daybreak and took turns killing each other. Arthur had swept through enemy camps under cover of darkness, routing them with minimum casualties and maximum results. Except for an occasional marauding party of rogues, Camelot was free from the threat of siege.

  The only knight who couldn't share the festive mood was Dragon. His laughter was a lie, his cheers a deceit. Dangerous qualities for a knight. Never had he sat in Arthur's court and felt any feelings except love and loyalty for the king. And yet when Arthur spoke of the secrecy surrounding Guinevere's coming, Dragon harbored his own guilty secrets.
<
br />   Less than an hour's ride away, in his own bedchamber lay a woman who knew Arthur's most closely guarded secret. What else did she know? And to what purpose?

  There was the rub. Sitting at the Round Table, lifting his drink in toast to the king, Dragon was torn asunder. If he revealed Lydia to the king, she would surely be put to death. But if he kept silent, he could be betraying the king and the kingdom he'd sworn to protect.

  But what if she were innocent? He pictured her standing in the meadow with the tiny blade in her hand defying the dragon, saw her thrashing in his bed naked and feverish, remembered her clinging to him in her pain, her body soft as rose petals. He knew every curve, every hollow, had touched them all as he'd spread the healing salve over her. He had watched her, whispered to her, sung to her, even prayed for her.

  How could he possibly turn her over to the king without knowing the truth? Wasn't that also part of a knight's code, to seek the truth?

  "Dragon . . ." Arthur turned to him. "You're awfully quiet tonight. What have you to say?"

  "You caught me woolgathering. What do I have to say about what?"

  There was good-natured teasing all around the table. "You've been holding out on us, Dragon." "I thought you cared more for falconing than women." "Play with them but don't marry them, that's what I say."

  "Your toast, Dragon," Arthur said. "All my knights have wished me well except you."

  Dragon lifted his glass. "To King Arthur and his future queen: May your kingdom be peaceful and prosperous, and may you enjoy long life and much happiness. . . . But more than that, may your love be a river, endlessly flowing and as necessary to life as breathing."

  There was stunned silence, then Percival, who could always be counted on to rescue a moment, stood up and lifted his cup. "God's whiskers, the boy's a poet. To Dragon."

  "Hear, hear." Arthur lifted his cup.

  Dragon accepted the accolade with a smile and a slight inclination of his head, all the while wondering if he had toasted his king or merely expressed his own secret desire.