‘Still, they were all in need of aid.’
‘Some, perhaps,’ Reynold said. ‘But none were menaced by a dragon. Did the l’Estranges mention to you that they enjoined me to slay one?’
That silenced the lad. When Reynold glanced his way, Peregrine was looking straight ahead, his face red. Perhaps the boy still believed in such things, and though some might have taken the opportunity to mock the youth, Reynold did not. There had been too many times when he wanted to believe himself—in the romantic tales, in the healing wells, in the possibility of making himself whole…
But he drew the line at dragons.
‘I think we’ve missed it somehow,’ Peregrine said.
The boy’s disappointed expression reminded Reynold of Nicholas, the youngest of the de Burghs, and he felt a twinge of wistful longing. Had he ever been that young and eager? He felt far older than Peregrine—and his own years.
They had been travelling for more than a week, swallowing dust, fording streams and avoiding forested areas and the brigands that frequented them. They had given away the thieves’ mount to those in need. And at Reynold’s insistence, they had kept off the old wide roads to the smaller tracks and byways, which meant they had taken a meandering route that might have led them astray.
Yet Reynold could muster no concern. While an interesting destination, Bury St Edmunds inspired no urgency, perhaps because he couldn’t help wondering what would follow their visit there. For now they were pilgrims. What would they become afterwards? Eventually, his coin would run out. And he had no wish to join the rabble of the road—outlaws, former outlaws who were sentenced to wander abroad, bondsmen who had fled their service and vagabonds who kept to unpopulated areas in order to avoid arrest.
The thought gave him pause. As a knight and a de Burgh, he was a man of discipline, ill suited to an existence without goal or purpose. He had set out to escape the happiness and expectations of his relatives, but leaving behind his family had not given him the satisfaction he had sought. Had he had hoped that once away…? But, no. He had trained himself not to hope.
‘Perhaps we should turn around,’ Peregrine suggested, rousing him from his thoughts.
Reynold shook his head. He did not like the idea of retracing their steps, making no progress, going back…‘There’s a village ahead. We can right ourselves there.’
But when they reached the outlying buildings of the settlement, they saw no one about to question concerning their whereabouts or the direction of Bury St Edmunds. Indeed, the village was eerily devoid of life. Reynold slowed his massive mount, as did Peregrine his smaller horse, and the sound of the hooves were loud in the silence. Too loud. Around them, Reynold heard none of the typical noises—of animals, screaming babies, shouting children, bustling villagers, creaking wheels and banging tools.
The hair on the back of Reynold’s neck rose, and he tried to dismiss the notion that someone was watching them.
‘What is this place?’ Peregrine asked, his voice hushed with apprehension.
‘It looks deserted,’ Reynold said. In his travels with his brothers, he had come across the remains of abandoned buildings and even villages. ‘Sometimes the land just isn’t good enough to sustain the residents, so they move to richer soil. Sometimes repeated floods cause them to move.’ Reynold paused to clear his throat. ‘And sometimes death is responsible.’
Reynold heard Peregrine’s swift intake of breath. ‘Do you mean someone killed them?’
‘Not someone, something,’ Reynold said. ‘Sickness can strike and spread, wiping out all but a few who flee for their lives.’ His words hung in the air, and he tried not to shudder. Unlike his brothers, who carelessly considered themselves invincible, Reynold was aware of his own imperfections and mortality, and he felt a trickle of unease.
‘Then maybe we should turn around.’
‘No.’ Reynold spoke softly, but plainly. This place did not hold the stink of death, and yet it seemed that something was not right. What was it?
‘So there’s nothing to be afraid of?’ Peregrine asked. His question, hardly more than a whisper, was followed by the sudden sharp sound of something flapping in the breeze, and Reynold saw the boy flinch.
‘No,’ Reynold said, even as he wondered how long the village had stood empty. The roof thatching had not deteriorated, and the buildings were well kept. Instead of ruins and weeds, he saw homes that appeared inhabited, except there was no one. No people. No animals. No life.
‘It looks like they just left, doesn’t it?’ Peregrine asked in a shaky voice.
The situation was peculiar enough to make a grown man wary, but Reynold found no signs that the place had been attacked—by man or disease. There were no corpses to be seen—or smelled—and no evidence of recent graves. The residents were just…gone.
‘Maybe they are off to a fair or festival elsewhere or were called up to their lord’s manor,’ Peregrine said.
Reynold shook his head. He could think of no instance in which every person, able or not, man, woman or child, would be commanded to leave their homes. And the huts were neatly closed, animals and possessions gone, as far as he could tell.
‘My lord, we are headed in the wrong direction. Let us go back,’ Peregrine said, and there was no mistaking his anxiety.
Again Reynold shook his head, and this time he held up a hand to silence the lad. Had he heard faint footsteps, or was that simply the same piece of leather flapping in the breeze? Although he could perceive no threat, Reynold still felt as though eyes were upon him, taking in their every move. If so, constant chatter was a distraction, as well as providing information to the enemy.
Reynold was aware that the seemingly deserted structures could hide brigands nearly as well as a wooded area, but he had no intention of turning tail and fleeing. He had never walked away from a fight and was not about to start now, even if he and the boy were outnumbered.
But as they moved forwards, nothing stirred except the tall grasses that surrounded a pond, where the mill was quiet, its wheel still. A small manor house stood apart, further from the road, its doors and shutters closed. Ahead lay the ruins of a stone building, and then the road veered round an odd hill. Opposite a small church was situated, unremarkable except for some kind of decoration on its side. Reynold slowed his mount further in order to take a better look, only to draw in a sharp breath of recognition.
‘Is that a dragon?’ Peregrine whispered. Again, the words had barely left his mouth when a sound echoed in the silence. But this time it was no errant noise produced by the wind, but the loud and unmistakable ringing of bells. Church bells.
Sabina Sexton stood in the shadows of the chapel as the echoes died away and watched the two strangers in the roadway.
‘This will surely be the death of us!’ Ursula said, dropping the bell ropes as though they burned her.
‘Even brigands would not kill us in a church, surely,’ Sabina said, hoping it were true. She had run out of options, and these two were the first people they had seen in weeks. When young Alec had alerted her to their arrival, she had hurried to the church, hoping that a meeting here would offer more protection than the roadway.
‘And these two do not resemble robbers. Perhaps they are pilgrims,’ Sabina said.
‘Then how are they to help us? They will likely run away and spread the tale of Grim’s End even further afield.’
Sabina hoped not, for already they were cut off, their small corner of the world avoided by any who knew of its troubles. Outside, the man dismounted, and Sabina stepped to the window for a better view. ‘He does not have the look of a pilgrim, nor does his horse. That is a mighty steed, the kind a knight would ride.’
Ursula hurried over to join her, but Sabina kept her attention on the stranger. There was something about the way he held himself that made him different from any man she had ever seen. Straight and tall, wide-shouldered, with dark hair falling to his shoulders, he wasn’t dressed as a knight, and yet he had not fled the village. Nor d
id he seem fearful, just wary. And confident.
‘He wears no mail or helmet or gauntlets,’ Ursula said.
‘Yes, but look at his sword,’ Sabina whispered. The scabbard was too large to hold the sort of weapon a pilgrim would carry or handle with ease, unless that pilgrim were a knight…
‘He has a harsh visage,’ Ursula said, and Sabina finally turned to face her attendant.
‘He does not,’ Sabina whispered. She was about to vow that she thought him handsome, but Ursula’s worried expression stopped her. As did the realisation that she should not be focusing on such unimportant details when so much was at stake.
‘Very well. Then let me speak to them, mistress, while you hide in the cupboard,’ Ursula said.
‘Nay. You hide, and I will treat with him.’
‘Mistress, you do not understand! You are a young, beautiful woman. We know nothing of this man, except that he looks dangerous. At least wait until Urban arrives.’
‘I cannot wait,’ Sabina said heatedly, though she kept her voice to a whisper. ‘If we dally, these two will be gone, and our last chances for aid gone with them.’
Ursula started wringing her hands. ‘Mistress, please, we can leave ourselves. We have but to—’
Sabina cut her off with a sharp shake of her head. The argument was a familiar one, which she did not intend to resume here and now. Quickly, she glanced out the window to see that the boy had dismounted as well, but it was the man who held her interest. Large, muscular and formidable, he seemed the answer to her prayers. Drawing a moaning Ursula to her side, Sabina stepped back into the shadows, her hand on a small dagger that was hardly more than an eating utensil.
It would be little use against the strength of the stranger, but Sabina did not fear for her safety. Instead, despite Ursula’s warnings and the man’s grim expression, for the first time in months she felt a glimmer of hope.
Motioning the pale-faced Peregrine towards the door of the building, Reynold drew his sword. He had never stepped so armed into a place of worship, but this was no ordinary church. Those bells had not rung themselves, and he did not wish to be cut down by robbers intent upon luring their victims inside. At his nod, Peregrine pulled open the door, and Reynold peered into the darkness. But he saw no movement within.
‘Maybe the wind struck the bells,’ Peregrine whispered.
Holding up a hand for silence, Reynold slipped into the building, but the shadowed interior appeared empty, and he heard nothing except what sounded suspiciously like a whimper from Peregrine.
‘Who is there? Show yourself.’
‘Don’t kill us! Have mercy!’ a female voice rang out, and an older woman fell before him, quaking with fear.
Reynold stepped back, startled, for she was no beggar, dressed in rags. Nor did she appear to be ill or hurt, a victim abandoned by her fellows. But she could be in league with robbers, who, as he had already discovered, went to great lengths for any spoils.
‘Who else is here?’ Reynold called, refusing to let down his guard.
‘Only I.’ It was a woman’s voice, but unlike the shrill screech of the other’s, this one was low and smooth and made Reynold think of honey. The figure that emerged from the shadows was different, too. Definitely not a cutpurse or any sort of mean female, she was dressed in the finer clothes of a lady and held herself thusly, with grace and composure.
And she was beautiful, like an image from a book or a tapestry. Golden hair fell about her shoulders, and her skin was flawless and pale. Although she was slender, her dark green gown revealed a woman’s form, and Reynold had never seen any who so approached the romantic ideal. For a long moment he simply stared, wondering whether she was some sort of vision. But Peregrine’s gasp told Reynold that he had seen her, too.
‘I am Sabina Sexton of Sexton Hall here in Grim’s End, and this is Ursula,’ she said, helping the older woman, who was still shaking, to her feet.
‘Grim’s End?’ Peregrine’s voice was little more than a squeak.
‘Yes. May I not know your name?’
‘Peregrine,’ he answered. Then he stepped into the light, so as to make a better target of himself. But before Reynold could reprimand him, he spoke again. ‘And this is Lord Reynold de Burgh.’
Reynold frowned. Had the boy not learned to keep his confidences? If they were outnumbered, they might well be held for ransom and Reynold would wring the cost out of his squire’s hide. But a few strides around the inside of the church revealed no one else. Yet why would these two be here, alone in a deserted village? Had they survived some illness that had killed the other inhabitants?
‘We are pilgrims, on our way to Bury St Edmunds,’ Peregrine said, and Reynold shot him a quelling look. But the boy appeared to be totally enthralled by the woman, and who could blame him? Fleetingly, Reynold wondered whether she was some kind of siren, luring travellers to their death in this empty place called, fittingly, Grim’s End.
‘My Lord de Burgh.’ If she was intent upon mischief or murder, it was not apparent, for Mistress Sexton called his name with a mixture of urgency and entreaty. She even moved towards him, only to step back, away from his outstretched sword. With a frown, he sheathed it, though he remained alert.
‘Obviously, you are no simple pilgrim, but a lord, and a knight as well?’
‘All the de Burghs are knights,’ Peregrine piped up, with a giddy smile that Reynold longed to wipe from his face.
‘Quiet, you,’ Reynold admonished. Although the women appeared to present no threat, the situation was hardly normal.
‘I am not familiar with these de Burghs of whom you speak, yet I am in most dire need of a knight,’ Mistress Sexton said.
Reynold slanted her a glance of surprise. Although he did not expect everyone in the country to know of Campion and his seven sons, still her reaction made him uneasy, as if she were not of this world. Dismissing such a fancy, Reynold turned towards the other woman, who looked ordinary enough, if frightened. ‘What happened here? Where are the rest of the villagers? Did some sickness kill them all?’
‘Nay, my lord,’ the one called Ursula said. She drew in a shaky breath and began ringing her hands in agitation. ‘’Tis worse than that, more horrifying and deadly than any illness.’
Again, Reynold felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
‘But no challenge to a man such as this! Knights fear nothing,’ Mistress Sexton said, with a certainty that Reynold could not share.
He feared plenty, but he was not about to go into the details with these two. Were they being menaced by outlaws or brigands? Had there been a kidnapping? Murder?
‘Perhaps you should explain the situation more fully,’ Reynold said, returning his attention to Mistress Sexton. She appeared the more lucid of the two, though neither made much sense. ‘Are you and this woman all who live in the village?’
‘Nearly,’ Mistress Sexton said. ‘There are a few stalwarts who remain with us.’
Reynold frowned. Had he and Peregrine stumbled into some kind of local conflict, a battle between neigh-bouring landowners? He walked towards the window and glanced out, but all was still and quiet. ‘Where are the others now?’
‘Hiding! We are always hiding!’ Ursula wailed. ‘I beg you, my lord, take us away from this place.’
Reynold glanced sharply at Mistress Sexton, but she shook her head in disagreement. Still, if only a few people were here, they could hardly survive for long. Maybe the older woman was the more lucid of the two.
‘What are you hiding from?’ Peregrine asked, wide-eyed.
‘Yes, if sickness didn’t kill the others, what did?’ Reynold asked.
‘Nothing! They fled like cowards, rather than face our foe,’ Mistress Sexton said, with obvious contempt.
‘What of your family? Your father? Your liege lord? Surely he would send soldiers to aid you,’ Reynold said.
‘My parents are dead,’ Mistress Sexton said. ‘And our lord’s only concern is greed. It matters little to him where he
gets his labour, whether here or Sandborn or elsewhere.’
‘Yea, let us all be eaten, for he cares not!’ Ursula wailed.
‘Eaten?’ Peregrine’s question was little more than a whisper, but it echoed Reynold’s thoughts. Was some kind of wild beast attacking the villagers?
‘Yes, eaten!’ Ursula said. ‘Swallowed whole, roasted on a spit of fiery breath!’
‘You cannot be certain of that.’ Mistress Sexton turned to reprove her companion, as though their discussion was not one bit peculiar. ‘And ’tis no matter because a knight does not fear such things. Nor can he refuse a plea for help.’
‘Swallowed whole?’ Peregrine’s voice rose, and Reynold wondered if either of the women was lucid. Perhaps they had been left here to wander witless, abandoned by those who feared the insane.
For the first time since leaving Campion, Reynold wished that one of his brothers were with him. Surely Geoffrey, who had handled his lunatic of a wife, would know what to do with these two. Simon would probably have taken them to the nearest convent, but Reynold was reluctant to remove them against their will, though the older one seemed eager for an escape. Perhaps she was held in the thrall of Mistress Sexton.
Reynold could certainly understand that, for when she turned toward him, it was hard for him to focus on anything except her beauty, which was enough to seize one’s breath.
‘I am a damsel much distressed, my lord,’ she said in an earnest tone. ‘And I charge you to honour your vow to aid any such as me, to rescue me and my people by slaying the great beast that is menacing this village.’
Reynold heard Peregrine’s gasp, but he ignored it to study Mistress Sexton with a more jaundiced eye. Although her entreaty seemed serious enough, her words sounded far too familiar for his comfort. ‘And just what great beast am I supposed to slay?’ he asked.
Mistress Sexton lifted her delicate blonde brows as though surprised by the question. But her lovely face wore a serious expression when she gave him the answer he both dreaded and expected.
Reynold de Burgh: The Dark Knight Page 3
