Night of the Dragon

by Webb, Peggy

Under the guise of wiping her face, she popped the other contact out and slipped it into Dragon's hand. He stood up, bemused and nonchalant, an imposing figure who to all appearances hadn't a care in the world except getting the attention of a rowdy crowd. As heads turned in his direction the uproar became a murmuring undercurrent, then total silence.

  "Come now, Sir Charles," he chided, still slightly amused. "Surely a man of your discernment knows the difference between a stone and a lady's eye." He plucked Lydia's contact out of the plate, then held the two of them up. "Strange stones, perfectly symmetrical, uncommonly blue. I found them down by the river, near the forest where the last unicorn was sighted."

  "The magic unicorn," someone said, and the small ripple of excitement grew to a river. It was exactly what Dragon had planned.

  He slung an arm casually around Lydia's shoulders. "Would I choose a wench without eyes? See. Lydia has two perfectly good ones, the better to admire me with."

  The crowd began to laugh, King Arthur the loudest of all. He hadn't missed a single word of the exchange between Dragon and Charles. A peace lover by nature, he was only too glad to lead his guests in merriment.

  o0o

  "After the wedding our lives can return to normal." Naked and perspiring, his passion tended, his love for Lydia a healing balm in his soul, Dragon held her close.

  Sighing, she buried her face in his neck and her hands in the thick, dark hair that covered his chest

  "Normal for us would make most people cringe."

  Trust his Lydia to make him laugh, and that, too, was balm for his soul. A pale finger of light touched the windowsill and illuminated the monk's habit that lay on the floor. Almost dawn. Almost time to whisk Lydia back to her room on the other side of the castle.

  After all this was over he was going to do some serious thinking about their future. He was going to plan his future with Lydia and then make it come true, even if he had to conquer time.

  "Lydia." He rolled her onto her back, and she lay there, sleepy and content.

  "Hmmm?"

  He slid into her. Home. He was home.

  "This will all be over soon," he whispered.

  "Oh." Her grin was wicked. "I hope not."

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It was over sooner than Lydia could imagine—the parties, the banquets, the tournaments, the royal wedding. Over, too, was her first test, her first attempt to meld into the society of Camelot.

  "I wasn't bad, if I do say so myself."

  Glory left off cropping the tender grass and neighed softly, as if she understood what Lydia said, and a small gray squirrel who had come to investigate Lydia's picnic scampered up a nearby tree and chattered at her. Lydia laughed with pure joy.

  She and Dragon had returned to his castle two weeks earlier, and the time since had been the most wonderful time in Lydia's life. Each day was filled with a new discovery, a new delight. By day she and Dragon explored the countryside, and by night they explored each other. Then afterward they lay in his big bed, arms and legs entwined, talking about the future, their future.

  Lydia hadn't wanted their idyllic time to end, but life had its own timetable. Duty called Dragon to the side of King Arthur, who wanted him to lead a hunting party into the New Forest, and Lydia was left alone to fill the days until his return.

  "I don't want to leave you, Lydia." His horse stamping and eager to go, Dragon had held her close.

  She hadn't wanted to see him go, either, but she knew she could never truly be a part of his world until she learned to depend on herself.

  "Go. Have fun. I'll be perfectly fine without you."

  He kissed her, started to mount his stallion, then turned to kiss her once more, fiercely.

  "Remember everything I told you."

  "I will."

  "Don't take any chances."

  "I won't."

  "Be careful."

  "I will." Laughing, Lydia pushed him playfully toward his horse. "Off you go. Be careful yourself. That dragon might be lurking in the New Forest."

  Remembering, Lydia glanced toward the sky. What if the dragon wasn't in the New Forest at all? What if it was waiting until Dragon left so it could come back and finish what it had started with Lydia?

  She glanced apprehensively upward once more. Was that a large, dark shadow?

  Glory continued cropping grass, and the large, dark shadow became a hawk wheeling through the evening sky. Lydia threw off her apprehension, packed her leftovers, and then put on her running shoes. She had time for a quick run before it got completely dark

  Dragon had cautioned her about not staying out after dark, but she was only a short two miles from the castle. Glory would have her home in no time. And besides, it didn't make sense not to take advantage of a lovely cool evening.

  Her running shoes on, she tied her skirt between her legs. She longed for the freedom of her jogging shorts, but she didn't dare risk them. Even from a distance they were highly visible.

  One lap around the meadow was equivalent to half a mile. Hampered only slightly by her skirts, Lydia ran, mentally ticking off the miles. On a natural high, she didn't hear the approach of horses, didn't see her visitors until they had dismounted and were standing beside her own mount.

  Horror-stricken, she untied her skirt, but there was nothing she could do about her shoes, nothing but move forward with confidence and hope the telltale evidence didn't show beneath her skirts.

  "Sir Charles, Lady Catherine." Lydia's smooth greeting belied the wild thumping of her heart "What brings you here?"

  "Bad news, I'm afraid," Sir Charles said.

  Lydia's hand covered her heart. "Dragon. Something's happened to Dragon."

  Lady Catherine's short bark of laughter was without mirth. "Sir Charles has a way of making even the best of news sound dire." She tapped him playfully on the arm. "I told you to let me do the talking."

  "By all means, Lady Catherine." His bow was mocking. "Far be it from me to deprive you of being the harbinger of news."

  Lydia wanted to shake both of them. She wanted to scream, "Tell me, just tell me."

  Lady Catherine smoothed down her skirt and patted her hair, then pursed her lips as if she were trying to find the words to convey her important message. Lydia held her breath.

  Only after she had suitably rearranged herself did she set Lydia's heart at ease. "I'm afraid the hunting party has been delayed. King Arthur sent word from the New Forest that the hunt was exceptionally good, and he would keep the party there for three more days."

  Three more days. A mere twinkling. Time to foster a prized independence. An eternity. Time to miss Dragon, to long, to anticipate.

  "Thank you." She racked her brain for the next proper response. If she were in Mississippi or California, she would invite them for dinner. Was it the same in Camelot? Or was a last-minute invitation presumptuous? Insulting?

  There were so many things she didn't know, so many things she had to learn.

  Lydia decided to rely on instinct. "You've come a long way to bring me this news. Won't you stay and refresh yourself at the castle?"

  "Delighted." Lady Catherine's response was so quick that Lydia wondered at her motive. Desire to be friendly? Mere curiosity? Or something darker?

  "I'm sure you know the way," Lydia said, not at all sure about anything. Who led the way back to the castle? Sir Charles? Lydia? Certainly not Lady Catherine.

  Her guests mounted their horses as if nothing were amiss, and too late Lydia realized her mistake. It was not one of protocol but one in recklessness. When she mounted her horse only a miracle would keep her guests from seeing her running shoes.

  She walked slowly toward Glory, hoping Sir Charles and Lady Catherine would turn toward the castle, hoping the sun would suddenly vanish and she would be in complete darkness. But they sat staunchly on their horses, waiting and watching.

  Saying a silent prayer, Lydia put Glory between her and her guests and swung herself onto the horse. Her skirts swirled, her shoes flashed.r />
  Lady Catherine gasped. "Her shoes! Charles, look at her shoes."

  Too late. It was too late.

  His face grim, Sir Charles dismounted and stalked toward her.

  Lydia had nowhere to turn, no one to turn to. Back stiff, chin high she waited.

  "Here comes trouble," she murmured to herself.

  o0o

  The last few miles of a journey always seemed the longest. Dragon leaned low over his stallion, urging him forward. Spring was fully upon the land, but the rich colors and sounds and smells of the forest went unnoticed.

  He had one goal in mind, one thought: Get home as fast as possible. He topped a ridge, and his castle came into view. Lydia. His blood sang with her name, and he galloped the last few miles home.

  The stallion's hooves clattered on the drawbridge, and Dragon veered from the stable straight toward his courtyard. Would she be waiting for him among the roses? Would she race toward him, arms wide, face shining?

  He searched the rose garden, the court beyond. There was no sign of her.

  Perhaps she would be waiting for him in his bedchamber, naked upon his sheets, hair aflame, body like golden lilies. Or perhaps she would be watching out his window.

  His eyes flew upward. The only sign of life was a dove that fluttered toward his windowsill.

  She was playing games, determined to surprise him. Or maybe Sir Charles hadn't delivered the message. Maybe she didn't know he was coming.

  "Lydia!" Dragon dismounted and raced inside, calling her name. "Lydia!" His voice echoed through the cavernous halls.

  "She's not here," Laird said, appearing in the doorway from the direction of the weapon room.

  "Where is she?"

  Laird put his hand over his throat as if he were having difficulty talking.

  Lydia loved the meadows. That's where she would be, waiting for him among the spring flowers.

  "Is she in the meadow?" Dragon said, but Laird merely shook his head. "The stables?" Another head shake.

  Suddenly Dragon noticed Laird's pallor, his sunken eyes. Fear rode him hard as he closed the distance and gripped Laird's shoulders.

  "Where is she? Where's Lydia?"

  "They took her."

  Dragon's fingers bit into flesh. "Who took her?"

  "Sir Charles and some of the other knights, Sir Gawain, I believe, and Sir Galahad . I couldn't stop them. I tried, but I couldn't." Laird was visibly shaken and scared.

  Dragon released his grip and patted the man's shoulder. "I know you did your best, Laird."

  A thousand fears clutched at Dragon's heart A dozen questions begged to be answered. But for the moment there was only one, one crucial question.

  "Where did they take her?"

  "Camelot, sir. The dungeon."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Dragon stopped only long enough to get a fresh horse. Burning with rage, cold with fear, he made the journey in little more than half his usual time. What he wanted to do was storm King Arthur's castle, rescue Lydia, then ride off and never look back. But that was impossible. He would be one knight against many, one sword against hundreds.

  His first tactic would be to request an audience with the king. Arthur was known for his wisdom and his sense of fairness. If Dragon kept his head, perhaps he could free Lydia and salvage their place in Camelot's society at the same time.

  But he had to be cautious, he had to be discreet, and, above all, he had to be wise.

  The moon was already high in the sky by the time he was admitted to the king's presence. Arthur received Dragon in his private quarters. Clad in a blue silk dressing robe, his hair disheveled, his crown missing, his feet bare, Arthur was still every inch the king.

  "Ah, Dragon. I thought I might be seeing you."

  "Thank you for granting me an audience so quickly. I'm sorry for any inconvenience I've caused you."

  Arthur's eyes twinkled. "Interrupting a bridegroom this time of evening might pose a serious problem for a young man, but for a man of my years, it's hardly more than a trifle."

  "You know why I've come."

  "Of course. When a man loves a woman it's only natural he would seek to know why she's in the dungeon. . . . That was not my choice, by the way. I wanted to put her under guard in, shall we say, a more gracious surrounding, but the king must abide by the law of the land."

  "What is the accusation against her?" Dragon knew the answer before the king spoke.

  "She's accused of being a witch."

  "By whom and for what reason?"

  "By Sir Charles and Lady Catherine." Arthur held up his hand. "Before you jump to conclusions, don't think this charge has anything to do with the strange blue stone that fell into Lady Catherine's plate."

  Remembering, Arthur laughed. Dragon took that as a good sign. He forced himself to be still and wait. Lydia was somewhere deep in the bowels of the castle, probably chained as if she were a criminal. Being named a witch was an extremely serious charge in Camelot and indeed, in all of England. Witches had been known to create all manner of havoc, including plagues and famine.

  Suddenly serious, Arthur leaned forward. "Dragon, this woman you harbored . . . How much do you know about her?"

  Here was the test. Dragon forced himself to wait before answering. Harboring a witch was high treason. If he revealed everything, he risked being thrown into the dungeon with Lydia. He would be useless to her in chains. The best course was to play it safe, reveal as little as possible while appealing to the king for mercy.

  "Not only did I harbor her, but I fell in love with her. She's a good woman, a woman with a kind and generous heart. These things I know, in my heart where the truth dwells. Lydia is not capable of bringing harm to a baby bird, let alone a king and his kingdom."

  "Eloquently put. But then words spoken from the heart always are."

  Dragon knelt before King Arthur. "I beg you to release her. I beg you to grant her a private audience and give her a chance to refute the charges."

  "But if the charges are true? What then?" Arthur shook his head. "I see your distress. I understand. But I can't make exceptions, even for you."

  Dragon made one last plea. "Allow me to see her, then. Allow me to discover the truth."

  Arthur stood up slowly, as if the burdens of being king were almost too heavy to bear. With compassion in every line of his body, he touched Dragon's shoulder and bade him rise.

  "If I show favoritism to my knights, then I undermine the very laws I've worked so hard to establish in Camelot. My heart is heavy over this matter, but I cannot grant your request."

  "Then I have one last request to make. Can you grant her a speedy trial?"

  "Tomorrow." Arthur clasped Dragon's shoulder. "If she is no witch, she has nothing to fear. You have my promise."

  o0o

  Arthur would keep his promise. Dragon knew this. He also knew that he had to see Lydia.

  If he could call up Merlin, the necromancer could spirit him into the dungeon in the form of a bat or a bird or a mouse. But try though he might, Dragon couldn't make the magician materialize. Perhaps that was because even Merlin wouldn't defy the king, and if this series of events was ordained by the Fates, the magician would do nothing to change them. He'd already warned about tampering with the future.

  Dragon couldn't believe that. He wouldn't let himself think that Lydia's life was going to end so tragically in a land she'd traveled through rime to find. If he gave in to that kind of thought, he was defeated even before he began.

  Outside Arthur's castle the night was pitch black and a chill rain fell, perfect for the sort of stealthy maneuvering Dragon would have to do. He covered himself with the hooded cloak from the pack he'd flung on his horse's back, then stole through the night.

  There were two guards at the dungeon's entrance.

  Dragon attacked from behind, easily overpowering the guards. He could kill them just as easily, but he had no desire for murder. These men were merely doing their jobs. Dragon knew their names, the names of their w
ives, their children.

  Instead he blindfolded them, tied them up, then dragged their unconscious bodies to the nearby stables and ransacked their pockets to make the attack look like theft. He let himself in the first set of gates with the keys.

  He walked softly, head down, face hidden by the cloak, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other clutching his secret weapon. He didn't know how many guards there would be in the depths of the dungeon. Usually there was only one for women, but Lydia might have more. Witches were powerful creatures, not to be taken lightly.

  The dungeon underneath Arthur's castle was a maze of dank, damp hallways and tiny cells. Dragon had no idea where Lydia would be nor how long his search would take. With no windows and no moon, he would have to rely on instinct to warn him of the approach of daylight.

  Many of the hallways were completely dark, but torches flickered in some, and Dragon wished for the gift of invisibility. His title would be no protection to him if he were caught.

  Suddenly Dragon pressed himself against the wall. There were sounds around the corner, stealthy sounds, soft scurrying sounds, as if feet were sliding along the cold stone floor.

  Dragon ducked into an empty cell and pressed himself against the wall. The sounds came closer, and then a figure appeared, small, gray, and furry, one of the many rats that infested dungeons. Even the king was not exempt from that scourge.

  Dragon eased out of his hiding place and continued his search for Lydia. One by one he inspected the cells, and each time he came up empty. He was beginning to despair. Time was getting short.

  He hurried as fast as he dared. It wouldn't do to give himself away with noisy footsteps.

  Suddenly the fight grew brighter, and as he rounded a dark corridor, he saw the torches lit along the walls of the largest room in the dungeon, the torture room. And there in the center was Lydia, sitting against the wall, her arms and legs in chains.

  A primitive rage almost blinded Dragon. He wanted to roar like a wounded beast, then race to her, sword swinging, slaying everything in his path. He took deep, calming breaths. Then with the stealth of a practiced warrior, he planned his surprise attack.