Praise for
Deborah Simmons:

‘Simmons guarantees the reader a page-turner …’

—RT Book Reviews

‘Deborah Simmons is a wonderful storyteller and brings historical romance to life.’

—A Romance Review

‘Deborah Simmons is an author I read automatically.

Why? Because she gets it right. I can always count on her for a good tale, a wonderful hero, a feisty heroine, and a love story where it truly is love that makes the difference.’

—All About Romance

A deserted village. A dragon. A damsel in distress.

The only ring of truth was the beautiful damsel’s reaction to him, a jarring bit of reality in the fantasy. For who would want to dream of that kind of response?

Reynold did not know if Mistress Sexton had laid her hand upon his arm out of some attempt to lure him into staying or if it had been an innocent gesture. But he was certain of what had happened next. He had caught his breath at the lightness of her touch, at the warmth of her fingers and the simple sensation of gentle feminine contact, and then she had pulled away, repulsed.

It was a reminder not to let his guard down or let anyone get close to him, and as such it was welcome. Yet Reynold could not dismiss the incident as easily as he had others in the past. It was too fresh in his mind, too insulting, too much of a disappointment. For deep down inside he had hoped that Mistress Sexton might be different …

About the Author

A former journalist, DEBORAH SIMMONS turned to fiction after a love of historical romances spurred her to write her own, HEART’S MASQUERADE, which was published in 1989. She has since written more than twenty-five novels and novellas, among them a USA TODAY bestselling anthology and two finalists in the Romance Writers of America’s annual RITA® competition. Her books have been published in 26 countries, including illustrated editions in Japan, and she’s grateful for the support of her readers throughout the world.

Previous novels from this author:

THE DARK VISCOUNT

GLORY AND THE RAKE

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

AUTHOR NOTE

It has been a long time since the last de Burgh book, and I want to thank all the readers who have written to me over the years for their continued interest and enthusiasm. I really enjoyed stepping back into the medieval world of Campion and his sons.

Although firmly grounded in the past, these characters have a timeless quality. Certainly they are strapping heroes, tall and handsome and great knights all. But I think much of their appeal lies in the sense of family that is at the heart of the series and transcends its setting. Campion’s sons are proud of their heritage, honourable and loyal. Despite an awareness of the flaws and foibles of their siblings, they share an easy affection, even when roasting each other with good humour. To me, there’s nothing more fun than getting all seven brothers together for a rousing, roistering visit.

I hope you will feel the same.

Reynold De Burgh:
The Dark Knight

Deborah Simmons

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedication:

For Bridget, Daisy, Irene, Ivy, Janet, Jo, Linda, Lori,

Mary Kay, Sandi, Siglinde, and all members,

past and future, of the Tuesday Night Tennis League.

Chapter One

Reynold de Burgh stood on the castle battlements and looked out over his family’s lands as the first faint light of dawn rose on the horizon. He had been planning to leave his home for some time, but now that the moment had arrived, the parting was more painful than he’d imagined. He loved Campion and its people, and he felt a traitorous urge to remain even though he had made his decision.

He could linger, but he knew that today would be no different. He had only to wait until his father, the Earl of Campion, led his new wife down to the hall to be reminded of the changes taking place at the castle. Although Reynold loved and revered his sire and had come to like Joy, their happiness was a bitter reminder of his own lack.

In the past few years five of his six brothers had wed, too, and Reynold was painfully aware that he was next in line. Although he felt no anger or regrets over the marriages that had led his siblings to wives and families of their own, he knew that the future did not hold the same for him.

Yet soon everyone at Campion would look to Reynold or his younger brother Nicholas, wondering and murmuring over who would be the last de Burgh to fall. Reynold had decided it was easier to go, to escape the questions and the pitying glances that would follow, as well as the happiness of others. By the time Campion began welcoming new sons, he hoped to be long gone.

The thought made him rue the precious moments he had wasted in this last goodbye, and he hurried back through the castle to the bailey where his destrier was waiting. He had spoken to no one of his plans, but he had left a message, telling his father that he was going on a pilgrimage.

Although he had no real destination in mind, that explanation would prevent his family from coming after him. A pilgrimage, whether to a local shrine or one further away, was a personal decision that should keep his father and brothers at bay. Reynold did not want them leaving their wives and children to comb the countryside for him—especially when he did not want to be found.

Mindful of the servants and freemen who were stirring with the dawn, Reynold was about to mount his destrier when he heard the jingle of bells coming from the shadows near the castle doors. The sound might have been anything, and yet, he had a sinking feeling that perhaps he had waited too long to make his escape. His suspicion was soon confirmed by the sight of a small plump woman hurrying towards him.

‘Ah, there, you are!’ she trilled, waving an arm that sent the tiny bells on her sleeve to tinkling.

Reynold stifled a groan. Ever since his brother Stephen had married Bridgid l’Estrange, her aunts had felt welcome to come and go at Campion at their will. They were gentlewomen and provided good company for Joy in a household composed mostly of males, but there was something about the two that made their sudden appearance here at this hour unsurprising.

Reynold’s eyes narrowed. ‘I beg your pardon, Mistress Cafell, but I have no time to tarry.’

‘Oh, we know you are leaving,’ she said, waving a plump hand airily as her sister Armes emerged from the shadows to join her.

Reynold vowed they would not sway him with their wiles. In fact, he would tell them he was off to check the dam or the fields or any one of a number of tasks that he helped his father and the bailiff oversee, so that he would be rid of them. However, when he opened his mouth, he blurted out that which was uppermost in his mind instead.

‘Don’t try to stop me.’

‘We wouldn’t dream of it, my dear,’ Cafell said, reaching out a hand to pat his sleeve.

‘Of course, you must go,’ Armes said. Taller than her sister, she lifted her chin to fix him with a serious gaze. ‘It is your destiny to complete your quest.’

Her words were not only unexpected, but made no sense to Reynold. ‘What quest?’

‘Why, the usual one, I suppose,’ Cafell said, with a smile. ‘You must slay a dragon, rescue a damsel in distress, and recover her heritage.’

For a long moment, Reynold simply stared, dumbfounded by her speech. Then he snorted, a loud sound of disdain in the stillness of the early morning. ‘You’re confusing me with St George.’

‘Oh, I think not,’ Armes said, haughtily.

‘Really, Lord Reynold, some might believe the de Burghs are saints, but after coming to know them personally, I must agree with Armes,’ Cafell said. ‘Though you all have many fine qualities.’

Reynold shook his head. He had no time for these women and their curious babbling, to which only a fool would give credence. He knew full well his brothers would have scoffed at the very notion of a quest right out of romantic legend. Indeed, the thought made him wonder if one of his siblings, probably Robin, had enlisted the old women to hoax him.

But Robin was gone, living at Bad dersly, where he was holding the demesne for his eldest brother Dunstan’s wife. None but Reynold’s younger brother Nicholas could be blamed, and yet would he play such a jest? And how had Nick—or anyone—discovered that Reynold was leaving? He had kept his own council, and the only sign of his plans had been the packing he did this very morning.

‘There is no time to waste in idle chatter, sister,’ Armes said. Then she turned her attention back to Reynold. ‘You must go, but do not go alone.’ And with a lift of her hand, she summoned a young boy, leading a mount laden with its own pack. ‘This is Peregrine, who will serve as your squire on the journey.’

Reynold frowned at the youth, who appeared unfazed by his grimace. Indeed, the lad flashed him a grin before nimbly swinging up into the saddle as though eager for a day’s outing.

Reynold shook his head. If he wanted a companion, he would be better served by his own squire, who had done well for him these past two years. But he would not take Will away from his home, Campion, into danger, perhaps never to return. So why would this boy?

‘We had better hurry, my lord,’ Peregrine said, with a calm certainty. Those words, more than anything, made Reynold turn to mount his destrier. Now was not the time to argue; he would send the boy back later. As if as eager to be gone as he, Reynold’s horse stamped restlessly, but Cafell moved toward him once more.

‘Take this, too, my lord, for your protection,’ she said, handing him a small cloth pouch.

At first Reynold refused. ‘I am going on a pilgrimage, not a quest,’ he said through gritted teeth. But a sound from somewhere in the bailey made him hesitate to linger, so he looped the gift around his belt. Then he looked down at the two eccentric females who were the only family to mark his departure and felt a sudden thickness in his throat. He eyed them for a long moment, knowing he had a final opportunity to leave a message for his sire, but in the end, he said only what was uppermost in his mind.

‘Don’t let them come after me.’

Tugging on the reins, he headed toward the gates of Campion without a backward glance.

‘Reynold is gone?’ Lady Joy de Burgh spoke without her usual composure as she stood at the head of the high table, holding the parchment that her husband had wordlessly passed to her. She read the words, but was unable to believe what was written there. Without waiting for a reply, she sank down into the intricately carved chair nearby.

‘This is my doing,’ she whispered, hardly daring to voice aloud the concerns that had plagued her after she impetuously married the Earl of Campion. ‘He’s left because of me,’ she said, lifting her gaze to her husband, but afraid to see a confirmation in his own.

‘No,’ Campion said as he took his seat. ‘This has been long in coming.’

Joy might have questioned her husband further, but for the appearance of his son Nicholas, who missed nothing of what was happening around him.

‘Reynold’s gone?’ he asked. ‘Where did he go?’

Campion picked up the parchment that had fallen from Joy’s fingers and handed it to the youngest of the strapping de Burghs.

Nicholas read the missive quickly, then gave his father a questioning glance. ‘But why didn’t he tell me? Why wouldn’t he take me along? I’m eager for an adventure.’ That was obvious to anyone who took one look at the tall, dark-haired young man who was growing up—and growing restless.

‘I don’t think you’re the pilgrimage type,’ Campion said drily.

‘But why would he go alone?’ Nicholas said.

That worried Joy as well. Pilgrims, even knightly ones, travelling singly were prey to all manner of villains, from common thieves to murderous innkeepers. The de Burghs all thought themselves invincible, but one man could not best a host of attackers or foil kidnapping, piracy, injury, illness …

‘He didn’t go alone. Peregrine went with him.’

Joy looked up in surprise to see one of the l’Estrange sisters standing before them and glanced toward her husband. Peregrine? Was that the youngster the sisters had brought with them on this visit to Campion Castle? He seemed little more than a boy.

‘He did, did he?’ Campion asked, his expression thoughtful.

‘I don’t see what help a child will be,’ Nicholas said, scoffing.

‘You never know,’ Cafell said with one of her mysterious smiles. She looked as though she would say more, but her sister Armes tugged at her arm, pulling her away from the high table, the tinkling of bells signalling their passage from the hall.

‘Do we even know this Peregrine?’ Nicholas demanded.

‘Better a squire than no one,’ Campion said, obviously unwilling to debate the merits of the youth. And what was the point? No matter who Reynold had taken with him, they were only two people travelling alone on often treacherous roads.

‘What pilgrimage will he make?’ Joy asked. Durham, Glastonbury, Walsingham and Canterbury were far away, Santiago de Compostela and Rome even further. ‘Surely he isn’t going to the Holy Land?’ The thought of that longest and most dangerous of journeys stole her breath, for she remembered when King Edward, then a prince, had marched in a crusade on those foreign lands.

Silence reigned between the three de Burghs as Campion shook his head, unable to provide an answer. Joy studied her husband, but he gave no outward signs of distress, only wore that thoughtful expression she knew so well.

‘You can send someone after him,’ she suggested.

‘I’ll go,’ Nicholas said, eagerly.

But Campion shook his head.

‘He must do what he must do.’

Joy knew that her husband wasn’t infallible, but the certainty in his voice comforted her and she reached for his hand. Although Reynold was not as grim and bitter as she had once thought him, he was the unhappiest of Campion’s seven sons, an anomaly in a household so prosperous and loving. Perhaps his father hoped that this journey, though perilous, might bring Reynold what had eluded him so far in life.

Joy silently wished it so.

Seeing the fork in the road ahead, Reynold slowed his mount, uncertain which route to follow. Where was he going?

‘Where are we going?’

The sound of someone voicing his own silent question startled Reynold, and he turned his head to see the dark-haired youth the l’Estranges had pressed on him. Lost in his own thoughts, he had passed the hours since his departure in silence and had nearly forgotten about the boy. Peregrine, was it? Accustomed to the chatter of a train when travelling, Reynold wondered if his companion was mute, but then he remembered the words that had spurred him to leave.

With a frown, Reynold assessed the boy, who, though dressed simply, was clean and neat. Reynold had no idea why the l’Estranges had decided this Peregrine was fit to be his squire, but he was accustomed to choosing his own.

A proper squire would be of a good family well known to him, courageous and honourable. Many squires began as pages, serving at table before being allowed to clean a knight’s equipment. He must know about weapons, hunting and tournaments in addition to all that would be taken for granted, such as proper manners, music and dancing. And any squire to a de Burgh would have to be able to read, with wide-ranging interests and a thirst for knowledge.

Had Peregrine learned these things in the household of a pair of eccentric old women? Reynold doubted it. And even if the youth were well prepared, Reynold had no business leading him into the unknown, travelling to where he knew not.

‘My destination does not concern you, for I am travelling on alone. You may ride back to Campion,’ Reynold said.

‘I can’t, my lord.’

Was the fellow incapable of finding his way already? ‘Just turn around and follow the road behind us,’ Reynold said. ‘‘Twill lead you back home.’

The boy shook his head. ‘No, my lord, for the Mistresses l’Estrange told me not to return without you.’

Reynold grunted. Did the silly women think that young Peregrine was equipped to watch over a hardened knight? More likely, it would be the other way around, the lad becoming a nuisance the further they travelled.

‘Then I release you from service. Find the nearest village and present yourself to the manor’s lord,’ Reynold said.

Again, the boy shook his head. He appeared neither alarmed nor angry, just calmly insistent. ‘I am bound to the l’Estranges.’

‘Then make your way back to their manor and other duties there,’ Reynold suggested. Although he had never been to the l’Estrange holding, he knew Bridgid’s aunts lived on the edge of Campion lands, a journey that should not be too long or dangerous for the youth.

‘I could not. I am bound by my vow, my lord.’

Annoyed as he was by the boy’s refusals, Reynold had to respect such loyalty, especially coming from an untutored lad. He could insist, of course, but there was always the possibility that Peregrine would try to follow him, falling into some sort of mischief on his own. At least the youth wasn’t the sort of companion who would chatter constantly along the road, Reynold mused, which brought him back to the original question.

Where were they going?

Although unwilling to admit as much to the boy, Reynold had no idea. When he had decided to leave Campion, he’d had a vague notion of joining Edward’s army. But somehow fighting against the Welsh didn’t seem right when his brother’s wife had inherited a manor house there. And it was whispered that Bridgid possessed the kind of powers that you didn’t want turned against you. The l’Estranges were all … strange, and Reynold frowned as he remembered their actions this morning.

‘How did your mistresses know that I was leaving?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know, my lord. However, it is rumoured that they hold the secrets of divination, so perhaps they became aware of your departure through such means. A quest, they called it,’ Peregrine said.

Reynold snorted at such nonsense. ‘I have no quest or mission of any kind to fulfil.’ He slanted a glance at the boy. ‘This journey bears no resemblance to the romances, if that is what you are thinking. We travel without the usual train and even pilgrims face dangers of which you know nothing. I will not be responsible for you undertaking such a trip, vow or no vow.’

But Peregrine did not appear daunted. In fact, the boy flashed a grin that made his eagerness obvious. ‘Who would not seek adventure, if given the chance?’ he asked, as though questioning Reynold’s sanity.

Reynold’s lips curved at the challenge, for he and his brothers would once have asked the same. And for the first time this day, his heart felt a little lighter. He had seen himself as a lone wanderer, an outcast even, though of his own choosing, but this youth might prove to be a welcome companion.

‘Then let us be off,’ Reynold said. He urged Sirius towards the right fork, away from the road that led to his brother Dunstan’s holding. This route, as Peregrine had pointed out so cheerfully, led to something new, though unlike the boy, Reynold was not looking for adventure. Indeed, he hoped not to meet with any. Or anyone.

And yet, they had not gone far along the new track before they were hailed. Squinting into the distance, Reynold saw a horse standing ahead, alone with its rider. As they neared, Reynold realised it carried both a man and a young boy. They were neatly, if not richly dressed, and looked harmless, except for a sturdy wooden staff that protruded from their pack.

‘Good morning, sire,’ the man said, inclining his head. ‘Where are you bound?’

‘We are pilgrims,’ Peregrine said, and Reynold realised he would have to have a word with the boy about the merits of discretion.

‘We, too!’ the man exclaimed, a pleased smile crossing his worn features. ‘Where are you bound?’

Peregrine did not have an answer and so looked to Reynold, who said nothing.

‘Ah. You are reticent. That is understandable. But may we ride with you? Fortune favours those who travel together.’

‘I don’t know if your horse can keep up,’ Reynold said, reluctant to add more to what had begun as his own private excursion.

‘Surely you are not in such a hurry?’ the man asked, undeterred. ‘Part of the journey is enjoying the sights and the good company of fellow pilgrims.’

It was the latter that put Reynold off, for he was not like one of his more gregarious brothers. He had always kept to himself and had no desire to lead a motley band across the country.

But the man was persistent. ‘I beseech thee, as a fellow pilgrim, to allow us to travel with you for the increased safety in numbers. I ask not for myself, but for the boy, who would seek the healing well at Brentwyn. He is lame, you see.’

At the man’s words, Reynold stiffened. His first thought was that this fellow, too, was jesting, part of some vast scheme initiated by one of his brothers to turn his departure from Campion into a prank. But why, and how? Ultimately, Reynold rejected such notions as nonsense, and as much as he would have liked to reject the man’s pleas, as well, he was a knight and bound to protect those weaker.

‘Very well,’ he said curtly.

Thanking Reynold many times over, the fellow introduced himself as Thebald and the boy, who nodded gravely, as Rowland.

‘I am Reynold, and this is Peregrine,’ Reynold said, hoping that his squire would adopt some discretion from his example. The name de Burgh was well known, at least in some areas, and he did not care to deal with whatever reactions it might bring. He had consented to ride alongside these people for a few miles, not share with them his background or his business.

To his credit, Peregrine appeared more circumspect when he next entered into conversation with the strangers. Still, he and Thebald chatted amiably, relating stories of the road and various shrines and sites. Reynold listened briefly, but having no patience for such chatter, he soon returned to his own thoughts, chiefly among them how his plans for a solitary sojourn had come to this.

Something woke him. Unlike his brother Dunstan, Reynold did not sleep upright against a tree when travelling, yet he would not be a de Burgh if he did not remain alert to the slightest sounds—and cautious. And so he came awake, but kept his eyes closed as he listened carefully.

What he heard was a rustling sound, but of man, not beast, as though someone were rifling through his pack. He lay still as stone and lifted his lids just enough to see what he might. They had made camp in the ruins of an old building off the road that provided some security, but the small fire had either died out or been doused.

The only light was that from a sliver of moon that shone through the roofless remains, but it was enough to illuminate the heavy walking stick that hovered above Reynold’s head. Thebald loomed over him with the stout weapon at the ready, while the boy who had used it to hop about earlier was now standing upright without aid, going through Peregrine’s supplies. Had they already knocked the youth senseless?

The thought of Peregrine’s fate fuelled his strength, and Reynold leapt upwards with a roar. Although wiry and tenacious, Thebald was no match for a well-trained knight, and Reynold quickly wrested the cudgel from his hand even as the thief yelled for his companion. The boy, obviously no cripple, pulled a dagger and threw it with no little skill, a deadly missile carefully aimed at Reynold’s chest.

Apparently asleep, Peregrine had awoken at the noise and shouted a warning as he rose to his feet. Reynold spared him a glance only to see him felled by the young brigand, who fought with the ferocity of a demon. The two rolled around the remains of the fire, stirring it back to life.

Snatching up the knife that now stuck from his chest, Reynold put it to Thebald’s throat. ‘Call off your dog, if you value your life.’

Eyes bulging, the would-be thief struggled for breath. ‘Stop, Rowland. Stop!’ he croaked.

The young miscreant showed no signs of hearing or heeding, so Reynold struck Thebald with the walking stick, hard enough to prevent any further mischief, and turned his attention to the brawl that was now perilously close to the fire. It was obvious that the devil was trying to roll Peregrine into the embers in hopes of burning him or even setting him alight.

With a grunt, Reynold grabbed Rowland by the back of the neck and threw him on to the ground. Before he could rise, Reynold had put his own dagger to his throat.

‘Listen carefully, faux cripple, lest you lose your life. I am lame, and yet I can gullet you like a fish.’

Even when presented with the sight of his injured master, Rowland remained difficult. He would admit nothing, and struggled so that Reynold was forced to tie him up with a length of rope in his pack. And after Peregrine and Reynold had gathered up their belongings and mounted, taking the thieves’ horse with them, the youth railed at them, screaming curses into the night.

‘I cannot believe it,’ Peregrine murmured, obviously shaken by the encounter. ‘He seemed so gentle and kind this afternoon.’

‘Let that be a lesson to you, boy. Appearances can be deceiving.’

‘They could have killed us while we slept!’

‘You perhaps, but not I.’ When Peregrine ducked his head in embarrassment, Reynold softened his tone. ‘I think they are nothing more than common robbers who make a living by preying on pilgrims. Murder is probably only a last resort for them, else they would have killed us first and then picked our pockets.’

Peregrine did not look comforted. ‘But what about that knife? I saw it strike you in the chest! Are you not wounded, my lord?’

Reynold shook his head. ‘I would not go upon the roads without mail, though I’ve covered the short coat with my tunic so I don’t draw attention.’

‘But you will always draw attention.’

Dare the boy refer to his leg? Reynold slanted him a glance, and Peregrine stammered. ‘I—I mean … It’s only that you’ve got that big sword and, well, you’re a de Burgh. Who could mistake you?’

Reynold snorted. ‘I was unremarkable enough for Thebald and Rowland to think they could master, if those were their names.’

‘Was it true, what you told him?’ Peregrine asked. At Reynold’s sharp look, he stammered again. ‘I—I just wondered because you can’t tell, by looking at you, I mean.’

‘Yes, I have a bad leg,’ Reynold said.

‘Were you injured in battle?’

Reynold shook his head. ‘I’ve had it since birth,’ he said with a carelessness he didn’t feel. But the pose came easily to him, for he was accustomed to hiding his feelings, whether it be his resentment when his brothers urged him on, making light of his affliction, his jealousy at the abilities they took for granted, or his bitterness at his place as the runt of the litter that was the grand de Burgh family.

‘Was it the midwife’s doing?’

Lost in his own thoughts, Reynold was surprised to hear the question, for no one ever asked him about his leg. He never discussed the subject. Although he could hardly reprimand the boy for simple curiosity, Reynold could not bring himself to comment, especially when the question was one none could answer. He gave a tense shrug.

‘I—I only asked because my sister helped the midwife at home, and she says sometimes the baby isn’t in the right position to come out properly. The women try to move it as best they can, but who knows what injury they might do? And some come out not at all or feet first. Is that what happened to you?’

Again Reynold shrugged. There was no use speculating since everyone involved was dead.

‘Or it could have been the swaddling,’ Peregrine said, as though thinking aloud. ‘They’re supposed to stretch and straighten the baby’s limbs, but carefully. The midwife told my sister that bad swaddling has caused men to grow up to be—’

The boy must have realised what he was saying, for he stopped abruptly, leaving his final word unspoken.

It hung in the air between them, an appellation that Reynold rarely heard, but was painful none the less. He drew in a deep breath and spoke in a tone intended to put an end to the conversation.

‘I am not a cripple.’

Chapter Two

They kept along the same road. Wide enough for a cart, it was probably designed for market traffic. After their experience the night before, Peregrine suggested a smaller track, which led to a manor house where they could rest in safety and comfort. But Reynold was not eager to proclaim his whereabouts, and he reminded the youth that danger was part of travel.

Frowning, Peregrine didn’t appear quite as eager for adventure as he had a day earlier, but ‘twas a good lesson for him, Reynold knew. Better that he learn now rather than later when they were even further into the wilds.

‘Are we going to Walsingham or Bury St Edmunds?’ Peregrine asked.

Reynold slanted the boy a glance, for he had given a pilgrimage no thought beyond using it as an excuse to leave his home. But now he considered the idea more carefully. They could hardly continue wandering aimlessly through the land, and a pilgrimage would give them a destination and a worthy one. Indeed, had he been alone, Reynold might have headed to the healing well that the thieves had mentioned—just for curiosity’s sake.

But Peregrine’s presence stopped him.

Reynold had learned to keep his private yearnings to himself long ago—when his father had caught his brother trying to sell him the tooth of Gilbert of Sempringham, the patron saint of cripples. There was nothing personal in the deceit; Stephen had quite a busy trade in dubious relics going among his brothers and other gullible parties. But, Campion, horrified by Reynold’s duping, had put an end to it.

And, Reynold, young as he had been, understood it was better to hide his feelings, along with any trace of vulnerability. His family preferred to ignore his bad leg, and so he did his best to oblige them. By now, he was so well practised in the art that he would not let anyone see himself, not even a strange lad who already knew far too much about him. So where else would they head?

‘What made you think we are going to Walsingham or Bury St Edmunds?’ Reynold asked.

‘We are heading east, my lord.’

Reynold was impressed. ‘And how can you tell that, by the sun?’

‘I’ve got a chilinder, my lord.’

Reynold looked at the lad in surprise. Not many travellers possessed the small sundial. Just how well had the l’Estranges supplied the would-be squire?

‘I looked at all the maps, too. Glastonbury is south, and Durham is north.’

Reynold began to wonder how long the l’Estranges had suspected he was leaving. He was tempted to ask Peregrine, but thought better of it. Did he really want to know the answer?

‘You obviously have your heart set on a longer journey than our thief Thebald had in mind,’ Reynold said. ‘But maps are usually of little use.’

Geoffrey, the most learned of the de Burghs, had complained that most were vague and ill made. In fact, on the map of the world, the Holy Land was at the centre, with various places of the ancient world boldly marked, while other countries were depicted only by fantastic beasts. England was at the edge of the world, as though marking the end of it, when sailors knew that was not true.

What Peregrine referred to was probably one of the routes written down that showed little or no drawings, but placed the larger towns on a line of travel and estimated the distances between them. ‘Twas a little better, but still … ‘I’d put my faith in a good reckoning by the sky, the tolling of the church bells to guide me or your chilinder,’ Reynold said.

Peregrine grinned at that, and Reynold felt his own lips curve in response. ‘Where would you like to go?’ he asked, surprising both himself and the boy. He expected that the youth would say London, for who would not want to see that great city?

Instead, Peregrine shrugged. ‘It doesn’t really matter, does it, my lord?’

Reynold slanted him a sharp glance. Had last night’s misadventure stolen all of the boy’s enthusiasm?

But Peregrine did not appear to be unhappy. ‘I just mean that where we head is not quite as important as what happens, is it?’ he said. ‘Since we are on a quest, I mean.’

Reynold snorted. Surely the boy was not hanging on to that bit of nonsense? What had the l’Estranges said? That he was to slay a dragon and rescue a damsel in distress? It sounded like one of the stories about Perceval, whose mother enjoined him to be ready to aid any damsel in distress he should encounter as a knight.

‘I hate to disappoint you, Peregrine, but I think the l’Estranges have heard too many romantic tales. I have been on many journeys and have never encountered a damsel in distress.’

‘But what of the Lady Marion?’ Peregrine asked.

Reynold frowned. Marion had been in trouble, having been waylaid upon the road, but it was his brothers Geoffrey and Simon who found her, not Reynold or Dunstan, the de Burgh who married her.

‘In fact, weren’t all the de Burgh wives once damsels in distress?’

Reynold choked back a laugh. A few of his brothers’ wives he barely considered damsels, let alone distressed ones. One or two were as fierce as their husbands, and he said as much to Peregrine. ‘If you dared suggest to Simon’s wife that he rescued her, she would have you dangling by the throat in less time than you could blink.’

‘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 did 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 neighbouring 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.

‘‘Tis a dragon, my lord.’

Chapter Three

‘It’s just as the l’Estranges said!’ Peregrine’s voice, laced with awe, rang out in the silence, but Reynold was not so gullible.

‘Yes, it does seem very familiar, doesn’t it?’ he asked, his voice lowering to a harsh whisper. Stepping closer to Mistress Sexton, he bearded her with a pointed look. ‘And I’m curious as to who is responsible.’

To her credit, the woman appeared bewildered by his attitude. No doubt she had been chosen with an eye towards her charms, which were intended to dazzle him into witlessness, and he felt the sharp sting of insult. ‘Was it Stephen? Or Robin? Whoever it was went to some trouble to involve you, considering how far you are from Campion.’

He turned to Peregrine. ‘Is that why you led me here?’

‘I—I? I did not lead you here!’ Peregrine stammered. ‘You chose the roadways, my lord.’

‘Yet I recall you suggesting Bury St Edmunds.’

‘But that’s just because you were heading east, my lord.’ The boy’s face flamed, and he acted indignant, yet Reynold had seen mummers and such who could appear convincing in some sham. And there was no denying that Peregrine was allied with the l’Estranges, a family that both Stephen and Robin had married into.

Reynold opened his mouth to demand some answers, but everyone started talking at once, and it was all he could do to sort them all out. As far as he could tell, Peregrine was denying any involvement in the so-called quest, Mistress Sexton claimed to know nothing of the boy or Campion, and Ursula wailed unintelligibly.

‘Silence!’ he said.

Everyone looked to him, even Ursula, who finally ceased her moaning. And in the ensuing quiet, Reynold heard something, an odd roar that was faint yet discernible in the stillness of the deserted village. Curious, he cocked his head to listen, but the noise was replaced by that of footsteps. Just how deserted was this village? Reynold put his hand on his sword as a man ran into the church carrying a pitchfork.

‘Get below!’ the fellow said, rushing toward the rear of the room, and the women, white-faced, turned to follow.

‘Hurry,’ Mistress Sexton said, putting a hand out as if to take Reynold’s arm just as something shot past him.

‘Alec! I told you to return to your mother,’ Mistress Sexton said to the blur that revealed itself to be a young boy. ‘Where is she?’

‘At the manor, mistress. I can run there.’

‘No, you cannot!’ Reaching for his arm, Mistress Sexton dragged the youth towards the back of the building, where shadows hid a narrow door and a spiral stair that led into a small cellar. Although Reynold did not share his brother Simon’s abhorrence for underground spaces, he was reluctant to join these strangers, especially if it was part of some prank being played upon him.

But he had been raised to respect women, no matter what their manner, and the urgency of these people made him follow, if more slowly than Peregrine. He did not shut the door completely and halted on the steps, where he could keep both the area below and the door in view. He could probably kick it in, if necessary, but would rather prevent it being shut—or locked—against him.

The two women huddled together, Ursula whimpering softly, and the man took up a stance next to Mistress Sexton. Although his pitchfork pointed toward the ceiling, there was no mistaking his defensive posture. Surely he was not her husband? Reynold tensed at the thought. He had assumed she was unmarried because she wore her hair down and, well, she was so beautiful … Reynold frowned at such reasoning. But hadn’t she called herself a damsel? Reynold felt a certain tautness in his chest ease.

Besides, the man’s clothes were not as fine as hers, nor was his manner, for he said nothing, only looked frightened. Indeed, everyone was still and silent, as though awaiting something, though Reynold had no idea what. Perhaps Stephen was arriving to personally witness the havoc wrought by his jest.

The thought annoyed him. ‘All right, I have followed you here like a trained monkey. Now what?’ he asked.

‘Shh! He’ll hear you,’ the boy Alec said, his face ashen.

‘Who?’

‘The dragon,’ the man whispered in a fierce tone.

Reynold snorted. ‘So it is here now? I admit I’d like to see the creature for myself.’ He turned to go up the stair, but a squeak from Alec stopped him. The stark terror on the boy’s face made him hesitate.

‘He can hear really well,’ Alec whispered. ‘Or else he sniffs us out.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Because sometimes he’ll burn the places where people are hiding with his fiery breath.’

Reynold tried to remember if he had seen any charred areas when riding through the village, but thatched roofs were prone to fire, as were the flimsy structures of most village homes. What would make these people think a dragon was responsible? Reynold’s eyes narrowed and then he shook his head as if to clear it. This was only a jest, some nonsense concocted by his brothers, and though the players were convincing, he would not be mocked as a fool. He turned once more to go.

‘Don’t move.’ The man spoke in a nervous high-pitched voice, but his words made Reynold swing toward him. Although the fellow still appeared frightened, he was holding the pitchfork in front of him, as if intending to run Reynold through with it. Let him try, Reynold thought, his hand on his sword hilt.

‘No, Urban, stop!’ Mistress Sexton said, grabbing at the man’s arm. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I am protecting us all from this stranger and his actions,’ the man said, though he seemed to possess more bravado than bravery.

‘This stranger is a lord and a knight who is here to save us,’ Mistress Sexton said, and the pitchfork dipped, as though its owner faltered in surprise.

‘Perhaps your weapon might be better used against the dragon,’ Reynold said, wryly. ‘You are welcome to join me above.’

Without waiting for a reply, Reynold was up the stair and through the narrow door in a moment and heard no sound of pursuit. Indeed, he heard no sound at all. Whatever had driven the group to the cellar had stopped, and the building was eerily quiet once more. Reynold moved to the exterior door and scanned the area outside, but nothing stirred. Thankfully, his destrier and Peregrine’s mount remained where they were tied, Sirius idly flicking his tail at a fly, with no sign of distress.

Reynold glanced upwards, but the only thing in the sky was a bird or two. Leaning against the doorframe, looking out over the oddly empty village, he tried not to wonder why his brothers had concocted this elaborate scheme. In their younger days, boredom, restlessness and a competitive streak might have driven them, but to these lengths? And now they all were occupied with new responsibilities, except for Nicholas, who usually was not one for such silliness. Had Reynold once expressed some yearning to Geoff over a romantic tale long forgotten? To slay a dragon? His wish for a damsel, or a lady of his own, he hoped he had kept well to himself.

Reynold shook his head. There would be time for such musings later. Now he just wanted to get away from a place that, fraud or not, was too strange for his taste. And then what? And then where? Again, Reynold pushed such thoughts aside, focusing solely on Bury St Edmunds. Hearing footsteps behind him, he straightened, but it was only a rather shamefaced Peregrine who approached.

‘You would think that a hungry beast such as a dragon would make short work of such tasty morsels, wouldn’t you?’ Reynold asked, inclining his head toward the horses.

‘My lord, I swear I had no hand in this,’ Peregrine said. ‘All I know is what the l’Estranges told me about your quest.’

‘The seers,’ Reynold said, with a low sound of dismissal.

‘‘Tis true! They can foretell the future, my lord! Why, I’ve heard that—’

Reynold cut the boy off with a raised hand. ‘Do you see a dragon?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘Then let us cease this nonsense and be gone.’

‘My lord, I …’ Peregrine’s words trailed off as though reluctant to voice his opinion. That had to be a first, Reynold thought wryly.

‘Well, what is it?’

Wearing a worried expression, Peregrine faced Reynold directly. ‘I think they are serious.’

‘What?’

‘About the beast, my lord. I know you believe the l’Estranges had something to do with it, but I don’t see how. And those people seem really frightened.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I didn’t follow you up the stairs right away, a cowardly act that I’m sorry for, but the man with the pitchfork was right by me,’ Peregrine explained in a rush. ‘And after you left, they were arguing.’

‘Who?’

‘That man Urban and Mistress Sexton. I think he’s her servant or inferior, but he still tries to tell her what to do.’ Peregrine glanced behind him and lowered his voice. ‘I fear he’s a bully.’

Reynold almost laughed aloud. They were standing among empty buildings in an abandoned village inhabited only by a couple of people who were raving about a dragon. And Pergrine was concerned that one of them, a fellow who looked ill at ease wielding even a pitchfork, might act the petty tyrant? It didn’t take his brother Geoff’s intelligence to figure out just why the boy was concerned. Mistress Sexton had made at least one conquest, though not, perhaps, the one intended.

‘I don’t think we should leave her here with him,’ Peregrine said.

Reynold shrugged. ‘She is welcome to go with us to Bury St Edmunds.’ Or wherever she makes her true home.

Peregrine shook his head. ‘She won’t go. I think she’s pretty stubborn since she wouldn’t listen to that man.’ The boy gazed up at Reynold with a look of expectation, as if waiting for him to fix everything with a wave of his sword.

Reynold frowned. As the runt of the de Burgh litter, he was used to seeing such blind faith directed at his brothers, not himself. ‘What would you have me do?’

‘Listen to me.’ Mistress Sexton’s voice rang out behind him with a strength and determination not evident before, and Reynold turned towards her. She stood alone, lovelier than ever in a shaft of light from the doorway, her hands clasped in front of her, and he could see why his young squire was so taken with her. But Reynold told himself he was older and wiser—and far more cynical.

‘You cannot abandon us,’ she said, with a fierce expression that did not lessen her beauty. ‘I charge you upon your vow as a knight to hear me out. Let us go to my home, where you can eat, and we can talk.’

‘Why should we open our pitiful stores to those who may rob us?’ Urban asked, appearing behind her.

‘There is precious little to steal, should they be so inclined,’ Mistress Sexton said, without even turning towards the man. She kept her attention upon Reynold, and such was the force of it that his own will wavered. What if she wasn’t lying? He could almost hear his father’s admonition not to turn his back on a woman in trouble.

‘You don’t know this stranger,’ Urban protested. ‘And you have only their word that he is a lord or a knight.’

Reynold gave Urban a long, assessing look, trying to determine what part he played in the scheme. The fellow appeared both frightened and belligerent, but one thing was clear: Peregrine wasn’t the only one taken with Mistress Sexton. Was Urban simply covetous of the damsel, or was he the bully Peregrine thought? Reynold had an obligation to aid those in need, as Mistress Sexton liked to point out. But was there a need, and, if so, just what was it?

If he could get her alone, Reynold thought he might be able to discover the truth, but that idea led his mind in another, more tantalising direction until he put a stop to it. He needed to keep a clear head, lest he become just another addled admirer of Mistress Sexton. Even if she wasn’t a liar, experience had taught him to be wary of women, especially beautiful ones, for they had no interest in a man like him.

‘Very well,’ Reynold said. ‘I shall hear you out.’

The look of relief on her face made Reynold uncomfortable, and he stayed well back when she led the way out of the church. From that position, he could keep a wary eye on the pitchfork, lest it find its way into his back.

Gathering the reins of their horses, Reynold and Peregrine retraced their route round the curve in the road, then followed a short track to the small manor. It looked like any to be found in a little village, solidly built of stone and slate, except for the forlorn aspect and the grass that was growing too tall around, proclaiming its neglect.

Inside, the hairs on the back of Reynold’s neck stood up again, for he had never seen a hall such as this: empty, lifeless and silent except for their own footsteps. Mistress Sexton’s voice, when it rang out, nearly made him flinch.

‘Adele,’ she called. ‘Come out, for it is safe now. And we have guests.’ A woman hurried in from the kitchens, fright etched upon her worn features, but at the sight of the boy she cried out and ran forwards.

‘Alec!’

Throwing her arms around the lad, she wept with apparent relief, and for the first time this day, Reynold began to wonder whether he was in the wrong, for who would pretend such fear and joy? The words of the l’Estrange sisters might be coincidence or otherwise, but these people did not seem capable of perpetrating so enormous a hoax. Indeed, Reynold felt a bit ashamed of his assumption that even here, so far from Campion, the de Burghs would hold sway.

With a glance, he took in the small band that appeared to be the only inhabitants of the village: one sullen fellow who looked unable to defend himself, let alone others; a boy younger than Peregrine; the boy’s mother, obviously a servant; and the two other women.

As if divining his thoughts, Mistress Sexton turned towards him. ‘This is all that is left of Grim’s End,’ she said, her bearing proud none the less. ‘Will you hear our story?’

Over a simple meal of cheese, dried apples, and some kind of egg dish, Mistress Sexton spoke. ‘It began even before spring, so that few proper crops were put in, and the winter seed was destroyed. Animals were killed and their owners were run off.’

‘People were afraid. They would rather start anew than face the beast,’ Urban said, and Reynold couldn’t tell whether he was disgusted with those who fled or wished he had joined them.

‘We learned to hide when we heard it coming,’ the boy Alec said.

‘We have little growing except small, scattered gardens, and no cows or pigs or oxen. And what food we have stored cannot last indefinitely,’ Mistress Sexton said.

Obviously, they were frightened of something, but any beast might kill animals or attack humans, and fires were usually the result of dry thatch and sparks, not burning breath. ‘Why a dragon?’ Reynold asked.

‘Someone woke it!’ Alec said, wide-eyed.

It had been sleeping? Before Reynold could comment, Mistress Sexton spoke. ‘Our village, Grim’s End, was founded by a dragon-slayer. You must have seen the mound across from the church.’

The odd hill. Reynold nodded.

‘‘Tis said that the dragon is buried there, and when the attacks began, the villagers thought it had reawakened, though there were no disturbances in the earth.’

Reynold studied the small group carefully. No mummers these, but people who were definitely afraid of something. Of what, Reynold was less sure. Although he did not have personal knowledge of every animal, a dragon seemed more otherworldly than natural, no matter what the local lore might say.

Dragons or worms were giant serpents with wings, a tail and clawed feet with which they could grasp their prey. They could swallow animals and people whole, spit fire or poison, and lash a victim with their heavy tails. And they were difficult to kill because of the nearly impervious scales that covered them.

Although Reynold kept his expression impassive, he knew what Stephen would say in a mocking tone. Have you ever seen a dragon? Do you know anyone who has ever seen a dragon? There were always tales from travellers and sailors of wild beasts and those who claimed to have seen them, and St Perpetua, St Martha and many others besides St George were revered as dragon-slayers. Geoff’s books had pictures of the creatures, some drawn in intricate detail.

But Reynold had never come face to face with one. ‘Who has seen it?’ he asked.

For a moment they were all silent, then Alec began chattering about this person and that person, young Jem and Henry the miller’s son. He was joined by Urban, who seemed to take umbrage at the question, launching into a long, involved display of indignation.

Reynold held up his hand for silence. ‘But who among the five of you has seen it, personally, with your own eyes?’

The question set off another outburst from Urban, culminating in, ‘Are you calling us liars?’

It was Mistress Sexton who quietly and gracefully took control of the conversation before things became too heated. ‘I admit I was sceptical at first,’ she said, ‘but there is no denying its roar and the damage it leaves in its wake. What else could be responsible?’

Reynold could not comment on the sound since he had heard very little of it, but he knew that the poor animals used in bear-baiting roared loudly. Perhaps one had escaped its owners. More likely a wolf or wild boar was responsible for any attacks, while the fires were nothing more than a coincidence, attributed to an awakened creature by ignorant people weaned on village traditions.

When Urban would have protested again, Mistress Sexton stopped him with a glance. ‘It matters not,’ she said, leaning forwards, to eye Reynold sombrely. ‘What matters is that you, Lord de Burgh, are bound to help us.’

The hall was hushed as everyone awaited his reply, but Reynold knew he could not deny such an entreaty. Knightly honour, as well as his de Burgh blood, demanded that he aid those in need. And Grim’s End was plagued by something, even if it was only an especially vicious wolf that carried off livestock.

Although there were many things here that did not make sense, including why the liege lord had not sent men to dispatch such an animal long ago, Reynold’s duty was clear. And he need only kill the beast to be on his way again. It was hardly a challenge, though a raging boar might be a bit more difficult to handle.

As for the other possibility, Reynold preferred not to consider it. For now, at least, he still drew the line at dragons.

‘Mark my words, there will be trouble between those two,’ Ursula said, as the two women prepared for bed. ‘‘Tis like bringing another rooster into the henhouse.’

‘Ursula!’ Sabina felt her face flame. A rooster was brought in to breed with the hens, hardly a similar circumstance since she was a maiden and had no intention of breeding with Lord de Burgh. The very thought made her catch her breath, and she deliberately turned her mind from it. ‘The situations are not at all alike.’

Ursula eyed her cannily, and Sabina was forced to acknowledge, if only to herself, that Urban was being difficult. Her father’s man, he was fiercely loyal to the Sextons; she knew he had her best interests at heart. After her father’s death, he had urged her to leave Grim’s End, promising to take her anywhere that would offer her refuge. But she had refused to abandon her home and her family’s heritage. The Sextons, descendents of the church’s original warden, were said to be related to the founder of the village, as well. How could she abandon it?

‘‘Tis your own fault, Mistress,’ Ursula said, in her usual plain speech.

Sabina frowned. Perhaps the older woman was right. Sabina probably had leaned too heavily upon the servant after her father’s death, subtly allowing him more input into her decisions. But what else was she to do? Eventually, there were none left in Grim’s End except three women and a boy. As the only adult male, Urban had naturally assumed a more prominent position.

‘Once you give a man mastery over you, you can never get your own back,’ Ursula warned, as if privy to her thoughts.

‘I would hardly call Urban my master,’ Sabina said.

‘No, but what does he call himself? That’s the question.’

‘I cannot conceive of him calling himself my master,’ Sabina said. Nor could she imagine any man except her father in that role, although Lord de Burgh would appear to be master of just about anything he wanted. Again, her breath caught, and she veered away from such thoughts.

‘Urban has simply become accustomed to being the only man in the village, sole counsellor, protector and provider of sorts. It has nothing to do with me.’

‘As you say, mistress.’ Ursula bowed her head in apparent agreement, but that phrase always proclaimed the opposite. ‘Still, you can see why he might not take kindly to this stranger’s usurpation of his place.’

‘Lord de Burgh is not replacing him. Lord de Burgh is doing us a service, and once that service is done, all will return to normal again,’ Sabina said, hoping it was true. Perhaps Urban could travel to the nearby villages, urging the former inhabitants to return to their homes and bringing new families, as well, so Grim’s End could grow and thrive once more.

‘As you say, mistress.’

Sabina gave her companion a sharp look. ‘And just what would you advise?’ Although Urban had been right to be suspicious of strangers, Sabina was desperate for aid, and this knight seemed the answer to her prayers.

‘I would advise us to leave, mistress,’ Ursula said, as always.

‘And where should I go, an unmarried woman with little except the land you would have me abandon?’

‘There is one who would still have you, if you but knew how to contact him,’ Ursula said.

Sabina’s head jerked up at this new suggestion, and her fingers tightened upon the brush she was running through her hair. ‘Julian Fabre is dead.’

‘You don’t know that for certain,’ Ursula said softly. ‘His own father did not know.’

‘He is dead,’ Sabina repeated. She set her brush aside and rose to her feet, signalling an end to that conversation.

Ursula sighed, but did not comment.

‘Our hope now is Lord de Burgh, and I would ask that you treat him with respect,’ Sabina said as she slipped into bed. She could understand why Ursula and Urban were leery of the man, for Lord de Burgh was tall, strong, assured and, well, rather grim. He would make a fitting foe for the beast, but a dangerous adversary for any person at odds with him. Sabina shivered at the realisation.

Seeming to guess her thoughts, Ursula slanted her a wary glance. ‘Let us hope that you have not unleashed upon us something more perilous than the dragon.’

Chapter Four

Reynold lay on his back, put his arms behind his head, and tried to appreciate his comfortable berth. He was at Sexton Manor, in a soft bed with clean linens, a sliver of moonlight shining through the window to cast a pale glow on the small, tidy room. But he could not relax. Certainly, the eerie emptiness of the village and its peculiarities was enough to give even a hardened warrior pause. Would he wake up to discover it was all a dream or find himself roasted like meat on a spit?

When showing him to his room, the servant Adele admitted that the remaining villagers often slept in the cellar, fearful of night-time attacks. But this evening they would seek their beds, as if Reynold’s very presence would protect them. That sort of faith sat poorly upon him. In truth, he had never shouldered such responsibility by himself. He had been involved in rescues, battles and skirmishes of various sorts, but always with one or more of his brothers. Never alone.

Reynold shifted uncomfortably under the weight of their expectations. Here in the darkness, distanced from those involved, he realised that he should have tried to convince Mistress Sexton and her companions to leave Grim’s End. But if there was some beast preying on the people here, it might simply move on to the next place.

Reynold frowned as he mulled over his options, the safety of the villagers his upmost concern. Perhaps tomorrow he should insist that the others go, while he stayed to concentrate fully upon his task. Not only would he prefer that they be removed from any danger, but he had a feeling that Mistress Sexton would present a distraction even to the most hardhearted of men.

Shying away from that subject, Reynold looked to where Peregrine had made his pallet by the door. The youth had been sunk in silence for some time. Was he languishing over Mistress Sexton, or was he having second thoughts about urging Reynold to listen to her?

‘Are you regretting our stay already, squire?’

‘No, my lord,’ Peregrine said. ‘I’m just wondering how you’re going to fight it.’

Fight it? Did his squire know how attracted he was to the beautiful damsel? Then, with a start of surprise, Reynold realised that Peregrine was talking about the worm. Reynold loosed a low breath. ‘I don’t think there is one to fight.’

‘Still and all, we might be prepared.’

Reynold could not argue with that, a good idea in any situation. ‘All right,’ he said, sensing that his squire wanted to discuss their course of action, should a dragon swoop down upon them. ‘What would you suggest?’

‘Well, the saints just cast them out, usually to the desert.’

‘I think we’ve agreed that I’m not a saint,’ Reynold said, drily. Nor did he understand how a mere mortal would communicate with the beast. He paused to think. ‘But didn’t St George shove a spear down its throat?’

‘Yes …’ Peregrine’s words trailed off as though he were reluctant to speak further.

‘What?’ Reynold asked. Although he didn’t do any tourneying, he could handle a lance and a sword.

‘That would require really good aim and an awful lot of strength. And who’s to say the thing wouldn’t burn the spear with its fiery breath?’

Reynold squinted into the gloom. He had never really concerned himself with the techniques needed to kill a worm, but he supposed that any mistakes would be costly, if not fatal. In the hushed silence of the room, he found himself wishing for his brothers’ counsel. This was just the sort of question they would argue over for hours, whether they really believed a dragon posed a danger or not.

Geoffrey would propose a variety of clever and unusual solutions, while Simon would advocate brute force, and Stephen would proclaim uninterest. Suddenly, Reynold missed them all. For the first time since leaving Campion, he wondered whether he ought to return home, but then what? Nothing would have changed.

‘Do you know any more of the stories?’ Peregrine asked, and Reynold searched his memory. His family thought Geoff was the romantic, always ready for a chivalrous story, but that was because Reynold kept his opinions to himself. He had not cared to be mocked as the moonstruck one, pining for adventures he would never have, living out the lives of heroes bold and whole while knowing he was not.

Once in a while, his shrewd father would give him a book or suggest a tale, but he had avoided his brothers’ taunts. And yet now that small victory seemed petty. Perhaps if he had let his interest be known, he would not be struggling so hard to remember dragon lore. ‘Didn’t someone just beat it with a club?’ he finally asked.

A long silence followed while Peregrine presumably mulled over that idea before ultimately rejecting it. ‘I don’t see how the creature would sit still for that. What’s to stop it from flying away, and what about its tail and breath?’

Reynold agreed with a grunt. And who knew if any of the accounts were based upon fact? How many dragon-slayers lived to tell the tale? And how many such valiant acts were witnessed?

‘I know I’ve heard stories where the hero digs a trench and hides in it in order to smite the beast’s belly,’ Peregrine said. ‘But that would take a lot of time and labour, especially with no one else to help. Do you think a hole would work just as well?’

Reynold could not picture crouching in a freshly dug hollow waiting for an opportunity to poke the underside of anything, let alone a ferocious beast. But it was just the sort of tactic Geoff might suggest and Simon would dismiss as faint-hearted.

‘That’s if the belly really is vulnerable. Some say it is, and others say it isn’t,’ Peregrine said. ‘And, you’ll need some protective garments, of course.’

Protective garments? Reynold had his short mail coat and some gauntlets, but no shield or helmet. If he had planned on going into battle, he would have brought Will and all his gear.

‘But it shouldn’t be too hard to make some fur breeches and soak them in tar,’ Peregrine said.

Fur breeches? The day he donned such things would be the day his brothers all laughed themselves to death, worm or no worm. ‘I don’t think we need to go that far,’ Reynold said in a tone that brooked no argument.

‘There are several stories like that of the founding of Grim’s End, where a local hero slayed the dragon and was rewarded with rich lands,’ Peregrine said. ‘One such fellow pushed a big stone into its mouth.’

‘And how did he get it to hold still for that?’ Reynold asked.

Peregrine had no ready answer. ‘Others used poison,’ he suggested.

Although that sounded more feasible, it would require a significant amount of a deadly substance, of which Reynold knew nothing. However, his squire certainly seemed well versed in a variety of subjects. ‘Where did you hear all these tales? Can you read?’ Reynold asked.

‘Of course, my lord. The mistresses l’Estrange have been training me up for knighthood.’

Ah. That might explain why they had sent him off with Reynold, hoping that the opportunity might come for a sudden elevation in status.

‘And, of course, there might be magic involved.’

‘Of course,’ Reynold said in a voice heavily laden with sarcasm. At least the sisters weren’t here, exhorting him with various strategies. He could just imagine facing the great beast while they shrilly called out instructions.

‘I’m afraid we’ll have to do without the magic,’ Reynold said. So far, their conversation had only made him more aware of the main problem with the task: there were simply no hard-and-fast rules, as there were for tourneying or hunting. All he and his squire had were conflicting reports and half-remembered legends, some more famous than others. ‘What did Beowulf do?’ Reynold asked.

‘Well, he didn’t come out of that too well, did he?’ Peregrine asked, subtly reminding Reynold that the hero was mortally wounded in his battle. ‘But I know that he couldn’t have killed the dragon without the help of his faithful squire.’

So that was it, Reynold thought, as the reason for the discussion became clear at last. Poor Peregrine probably thought he’d be called upon for heroic feats during an epic battle with the beast. Reynold slanted a glance at his squire and tried for a reassuring tone. ‘I really don’t think it will come to that.’

At least, he hoped not.

Closing his eyes, Reynold effectively put an end to a conversation that would have seemed ludicrous only a day ago. Next he would be expected to ride into battle on a unicorn, he thought, swallowing a snort. In order to accomplish that, according to the bestiaries, he would have to find out where one lived and bait the place with a virgin. He nearly laughed aloud at the likelihood of that … although Mistress Sexton might volunteer.

Reynold sucked in a harsh breath as he pictured her lying on a green bower, long strands of her golden hair flowing about her, smooth and bright as ribbons. For a moment, his chest ached with the beauty of the vision, but he pushed it aside firmly. There was no point in taunting himself, a lesson that he had learned the hard way.

Lest he forget himself and fall prey to Mistress Sexton’s charms, Reynold forced himself to remember the visit to Longacre years ago when he had realised the depth of his difference.

The de Burghs had been visiting a noble family with several daughters and fostered girls, probably in a misguided attempt by Campion to expose his sons to a female household. But the earl was not pleased with the outcome, as the young women fluttered around the boys and Stephen was caught in a compromising situation that enraged their host and curtailed future stays at noble homes.

In his mind’s eye Reynold could see each one of the girls. Pale and soft, with high voices and flashing smiles, they had been more exotic and enticing than the finest sweets. But it was Amice who had enthralled Reynold. He had thought her beautiful, perhaps as beautiful as he now thought Mistress Sexton.

Indeed, probably more so, because his young heart had not yet been hardened. He had trailed after her like a lovesick puppy, and she had tolerated him, no doubt in order to gain access to his brothers. For good or ill, the older de Burghs did not notice or else did not care to share the obvious: that Amice did not return his admiration.

Reynold had had to find that out for himself. He had come upon a gaggle of the girls giggling and whispering, only to stop short when he heard his name mentioned in her company.

‘He is quite taken with you, as everyone can tell. What say you?’

‘Reynold? Why should I be stuck with the lame one?’ Amice asked in a petulant voice. ‘Let one of the fostered girls have him. I’ve my eye on another de Burgh.’

And that was the way of it, then and always, as the boys grew into men. If they chanced to meet a well-born woman, she preferred one of his brothers—or even his father.

In the back of Reynold’s mind, he might have thought that by leaving them behind, he would no longer suffer in comparison. But he could not leave behind his leg, which soon gave evidence to all that he was the de Burgh who was different, the lame one.

The next morning, Sabina sat at the head of the manor’s table for the first time in a long while. For years she had taken her place beside her father, looking out over a hall bustling with residents and servants. But those few who remained in Grim’s End these days usually gathered elsewhere, in the kitchens or cellars or a villager’s empty home, to eat. They varied their movements and their sanctuaries, so as to avoid attack. And that lack of routine and comfort had become their lives—until now.

Sabina hoped that sort of existence was over, yet she sorely felt the lack of her household, knowing that she could not present her guest with all that she would have in the past. Although Lord de Burgh did not look like the type who would be impressed by much, he was probably accustomed to far more than she could provide.

She told herself that he was just a man, like any other, and not the first knight she had known. But when he entered the hall, Sabina realised just how wrong she was. Reynold de Burgh was not like anyone else she had ever seen. Tall, dark, lean and handsome, he might have been excused for some conceit, but he did not even appear to be aware of his own good looks.

As he slowly made his way across the tiled hall, Sabina decided it was the way he held himself that struck her. Although he had none of the arrogance of the vain, he possessed a quiet confidence that inspired trust. She knew that this man would not quake in the face of danger or dither over any decision. Steady strength and a cool, casual assurance had been bred into him and were evident in his every move.

Sabina loosed the breath she had been holding as her body relaxed, perhaps for the first time in months. Maybe now she would not jump at each sound, fighting against the panic that seemed to assail her at every turn. For surely, if anyone could vanquish their foe and return their lives to normal, it was this man.

As he drew nearer, Sabina saw he wore that rather grim expression Ursula had described as harsh. It wasn’t, of course, though neither was it open and friendly. Yet even his grimness was heartening, a sign that he was no light-hearted jester, but a serious warrior. Sabina wondered what had shaped him, for he was young, certainly younger than Urban, and maybe even younger than herself. And yet he must have a wealth of experiences beyond the small realm of Grim’s End.

Yesterday, he had seemed nothing more than a figure of legend, a hero who appeared just when she needed him. But now Sabina found herself curious about the man himself. Had he fought in battles, knowing death and destruction such that a dragon was trifling in comparison? Sabina wanted to know, but he was no common visitor and she sensed that he would not welcome her intrusion.

Indeed, his greeting was clipped, and when Sabina gestured toward her father’s chair, empty beside her own, he shook his head. Instead, he sat on the bench at the side of the table, as far away from her as possible.

Ignoring the slight, Sabina called for Adele to bring some ale and food. Ursula had gone into the kitchens to help, but Urban appeared, as if he had been waiting behind the wooden screen at the end of the hall for Lord de Burgh’s arrival. Sabina gave him a nod, grateful, as always, for his sharp eyes and constant protection.

‘Mistress Sexton,’ Lord de Burgh said, recalling her attention.

His sombre expression did not bode well, and Sabina felt a sudden fear that he would not hold to his word. Had he partaken of their hospitality only to go on his way, leaving them to their fate? ‘Yes?’ she asked, tension filling her once more.

‘I would like to take you away from here. I’ll be happy to escort you to the nearest village, to relatives you may have elsewhere, to your liege lord’s manor, or even to my own home,’ he said, looking as surprised by that last offer as Sabina felt. She might have questioned him about his residence, if she were not so distressed by his advice to leave her own.

‘She is not going anywhere with you.’ Urban spoke up from his position nearby, but Lord de Burgh did not bother to acknowledge him.

The knight kept his gaze on Sabina as he made clear his intent. ‘I would like to take you all away from here.’

Urban quieted at that, and why wouldn’t he? He had been trying to talk her into leaving for months. Apparently, he had found some common ground with the stranger, but Sabina could not join them. Instead, she felt an overwhelming sense of betrayal. Lord de Burgh had agreed to help them. Would he now abandon them, as had so many before him?

‘You have a duty to do, sir knight, and that is to slay the dragon. Have you thought better of the task over the night?’ Sabina spoke sharply, hoping to wound or shame him, but he gave no sign of feeling either.

‘I would only that you and the others be safely away while I dispatch the … beast.’

Sabina felt a small measure of hope return, yet long months of frustration and broken promises made her weary and suspicious. She wanted to believe this man, just as she wanted to believe that a knight’s word was good. But she knew that was not always the case. How could she be sure of his success, if she were not here to witness the deed? And, even if she did trust him to complete his task, how could she flee as so many others had done and leave her village in the hands of a stranger?

‘No,’ Sabina said, quietly. ‘You are welcome to escort the others where they will, but I am staying.’

‘I’m not leaving you here with him!’ Urban sputtered.

‘That is your choice,’ Sabina said.

Adele appeared, bringing some apples and cheese and ale, and Sabina ate silently, trying not to stare at the knight in their midst. She regretted the sharpness of her words, brought on by her own fear and panic, and she realised that she would do better to tread softly around the stranger. ‘Twould be wise to remember that she needed him and not the other way around.

When she had finished her meagre meal, Sabina rose to her feet and addressed her visitor. ‘Come, my lord, let me show you my home, and perhaps you will see why I care so much for Grim’s End.’

For a moment, Sabina thought he might argue, but a flicker of something, perhaps resignation, passed over his features. Then he downed his cider, picked up an apple and stood. ‘Very well,’ he said, with a nod.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Urban asked.

Sabina glanced towards him, surprised by his sharp tone. For a moment, she could find no cause for it, and then she realised just how far removed she was from the niceties that once had ruled her life.

Those who stayed in Grim’s End had clung together, their numbers dwindling, until the remaining few had become like a wandering family, making camp where they would. No one paid heed to who was with whom, where or when. Indeed, Sabina often had been alone with Urban, who had made no objection at the time. But she could understand the need to keep up appearances for their guest.

‘Perhaps Ursula can walk with us,’ Sabina said, heading toward the kitchens to call for her attendant.

Urban made some sort of sputtering noise again, as if protesting, and Sabina eyed him curiously. As her father’s man, he was well accustomed to protecting her, but she saw no need for it now. Everything about Lord de Burgh spoke of honesty and courage. And if he were up to mischief, he could have robbed and murdered them in their beds.

And since he could easily overpower the older man, there was no sense in Urban following her every movement. The thought had barely crossed her mind when Sabina realised how much she longed to escape his company, and she immediately felt a pang of guilt. They were all grateful to Urban, for how could they have remained here without him? Yet his gloom and fear were a palatable presence. Sabina could not remember the last time she had been outside without the threat of attack dogging her steps. Nor could she remember the last time she had a conversation that did not revolve around the survival of their small band.

Selfishly, Sabina longed for both, away from Urban’s sullen presence. Yet she might have invited him to join them had not Ursula appeared at that moment to say that Adele had need of him. Sending them all a chary look, Urban disappeared into the kitchens, while Ursula hurried to accompany them.

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