Reynold de Burgh: The Dark Knight

by Deborah Simmons

  When they finally caught a glimpse of movement ahead and heard the noises of life, Reynold grunted in relief. As if released from a dream, he welcomed the sights and sounds of Sandborn, a bustling village that appeared to be crowded, perhaps with new residents. Although not much larger than Grim’s End, Sandborn was situated right on the coast, and he and Peregrine enjoyed a hearty meal of fresh fish in a small ale house.

  The proprietors were friendly and talkative until Reynold mentioned Grim’s End. He had hoped to find someone to deliver supplies there, but the man and woman shook their heads and grew silent, obviously eager for their guests to exit.

  ‘See, everyone knows about the dragon,’ Peregrine whispered as they left the tiny building.

  ‘Everyone knows something,’ Reynold said, squinting at the sky above them, clear and blue as a certain pair of eyes. ‘But what?’

  Luckily, they had asked about one of Grim’s End’s former inhabitants before mentioning the village itself, and now they made their way to a small hut that had been pointed out to them as the couple’s home. They found the woman tending the small croft in the back of the house.

  ‘Githa? Githa Smalle?’ Reynold asked. The old woman straightened and eyed them warily.

  ‘I would ask you some questions about Grim’s End,’ he said.

  But at the mention of the village, the woman turned pale and glanced about, as if to find some way to escape.

  ‘We mean you no harm,’ Reynold said. ‘I only wish to know why you left the village.’

  ‘I do not speak of it!’ she said, hurrying into her house and shutting the door behind her.

  Peregrine wanted to follow the woman, but Reynold shook his head. ‘Just as you would, these people protect their own, and I would not care to have a mob wishing us ill.’

  Eyes wide, Peregrine nodded, and they went in search of the woman’s husband. They found him in the fields, so he could hardly flee, but he was not much more informative.

  ‘You must know why we left, else you would not be here,’ he said, his face brown from the sun and lined with age. ‘We are entitled to our lives and a safe place to live them.’ He lifted his head, as if expecting an argument, but Reynold nodded.

  ‘Of course. But what drove you away?’

  The man leaned upon a long staff. ‘It was the beast, as well you know.’

  ‘What kind of beast?’ Reynold asked. ‘Did you see it yourself?’

  ‘No. But a man doesn’t have to see the devil to know he’s there.’ He turned and went back to his work, shaking his head at any further questions.

  ‘If you will say no more, then who else can I talk to?’

  The man hesitated, as though unwilling to name his fellows, but finally he pointed a bony finger toward another hut, recently built, its wattle and daub obviously fresh. A cow and a pig were penned in front of the structure, and Reynold walked past them in order to rap on the door.

  The man who opened it was short and stout, with the look of someone who fears little, giving Reynold hope that he might at last learn something.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I come seeking information about Grim’s End.’

  But even this hardened fellow blanched. ‘If you are thinking of making your home there, taking our old land, filling our old homes, beware the ancient evil,’ he said, then he moved as if to close the door.

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  ‘We do not speak of it,’ the man said in a low voice. ‘Do you want to draw it here?’

  ‘Draw what here?’ Reynold asked. This time he held up a small coin, and the man took it with a wary glance.

  ‘You would do better to spend your money elsewhere, settle here in Sandborn or further east, where the land is good.’

  But Reynold had not paid for advice. ‘What do you fear?’ he asked.

  The man leaned closer to whisper his reply. ‘It flies through the air. It destroys all in its path. That is all I can tell you.’

  ‘Did you see it yourself?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how can you say what it is?’

  The fellow shook his head angrily. ‘A man does not have to stare death in the face to recognise it. I heard its awful roar! I saw its fiery breath! It set my house alight! I did not stay around to get a closer look at the inside of its belly.’

  He slammed the thin wood of his door in their faces, and Reynold felt the sting of conscience. Perhaps he deserved such treatment. Just because no one had seen the attacker did not mean that they had not suffered…something. And he would do well to remember that.

  Reynold looked up at the sky, but it was empty, as always, and the sun had passed its zenith. ‘We should go back,’ he mused aloud. Although he hated to admit it, this trip had been a waste of time. He had learned nothing except that those who had left Grim’s End were just as frightened as those who remained.

  ‘Perhaps we should try another village,’ Peregrine suggested, as though unwilling to admit defeat.

  But Reynold shook his head. ‘It will be the same there, the same everywhere.’ Whatever attacked Grim’s End was like a lone wolf, a rogue that slinked in and stole the chickens and more, but went unseen and uncaught. Yet how could a dragon remain hidden? Just how big was the beast?

  ‘Hello! Sire!’

  Reynold turned at the sound of the hail to see an old man hobbling toward them, waving an arm. He limped, and Reynold felt himself flinch, as he always did, at the sight.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You seek the beast?’ the man asked. He had a wild look in his eyes and stank of ale, but he grinned, revealing a couple of missing teeth.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I heard you talking. You’re interested in Grim’s End?’

  Reynold nodded.

  ‘I’m Gamel. I lived there for many a year and can tell you anything you wish to know, for a decent meal.’

  ‘Who holds the village?’ Reynold asked. Unwilling to throw good coins after bad, he was not about to pay some wanderer to conjure tales of some fanciful place.

  The fellow cackled, as though pleased by the test. ‘Mistress Sexton, as last I knew.’

  Reynold nodded stiffly and paid him. ‘Now, tell us why you left your home. And I would hear enough to have my money’s worth.’

  The old man nodded vigorously. ‘Of course, sire, of course. ’Twas the dragon that sent us all running. Someone woke it from its sleep,’ he said, leaning close. ‘’Twas Cyneric the Grim who killed it, you know, the first worm, the great one.’

  Reynold squinted at the fellow. ‘I thought “grim” was a name for the beast.’

  Gamel shrugged. ‘’Tis said that it was such a sight that people came from all around for the burial. And then they stayed, settling there by the burial mound. ’Twas Cyneric’s descendants who had the first manor house, too, though ’tis long gone now.’

  Reynold frowned, confused, but the old man kept talking.

  ‘Sexton Hall stands there now, like a guardian of the mound. The church on one side, the hall on the other,’ he said, pointing a gnarled hand. ‘But nothing on the other sides except grass and trees. So maybe that’s where someone poked him and woke him.’

  ‘How?’ Reynold asked.

  Gamel shrugged and cackled. ‘Who knows? But ’tis awake now. We heard its roar and smelled its breath that soon lay waste to all around.’

  ‘But did you see it?’ Reynold asked, reaching out to grasp the man’s arm. ‘Did you see the worm yourself?’

  Gamel grinned. ‘Didn’t I promise to tell you all you wished to know?’ he asked. ‘A rare creature it is, something between a lizard and a bird, with that demon fire in its belly. It can swallow you whole or whip you to death with its tail.’

  Reynold felt a chill dance up his spine. Was the old man telling the truth or embellishing upon a sighting from a distance? Or was the ale talking?

  ‘How big is it?’ Peregrine asked, wide-eyed.

  ‘As big as that there,’ Gamel said. He gestured to a buil
ding the size of the church in Grim’s End, certainly far larger than any animal Reynold had ever seen.

  Reynold studied the grinning fellow, unsure of what else to ask. He had sought only to find someone who had seen the dragon, and, apparently, he had finally met his man. Gamel had certainly given him a description, but could he trust it?

  ‘Have you heard enough? Can I get my supper?’

  Reynold hesitated, then released him with a nod. The old man whooped and hurried off, limping as he went. Still, Reynold watched him go, trying to make sense of what he had said.

  Was Gamel mad? Or was there really such a beast? Reynold felt a sort of stunned shock at the thought. For, if so, how on earth would he kill it?

  The sun was dipping low as they neared the village. ‘Will we reach Grim’s End before nightfall?’ Peregrine asked, with an anxious look at the horizon.

  ‘Yes, we aren’t too far away now,’ Reynold said, sending the boy a sidelong glance. ‘Are you eager to get back to Mistress Sexton?’

  Peregrine appeared flustered, and Reynold grunted, urging his mount forwards. They had been travelling at a good pace, even though they were loaded down with supplies, and he was glad now that he had not brought back a cow, which would have made for a much slower, though perhaps livelier trip.

  Even the bawling of cattle would be welcome along this stretch of road, for it was as empty as before. Obviously, the people of Sandborn, and perhaps everyone in the area, avoided Grim’s End, going so far as to abandon the road that led to and from it. In fact, the silence was such that when Reynold heard a sound in the brush nearby, it startled him. He glanced up, seeing nothing in the dark copse of trees.

  ‘Is it the worm?’ Peregrine asked, his voice little more than a squeak.

  Before Reynold could answer, something burst from the shadowed cover of leaves, hurtling directly towards him. It was no dragon, but an attack none the less, by a hooded horseman, and Reynold cursed himself for his lack of alertness. The deserted track had lulled him into inattention when he should have known better. Although superstitious villagers might avoid this area, travelling ruffians and robbers could not be counted upon to do the same.

  It was too late now to do anything except draw his sword. Although Sirius could outrace nearly any other horse, Peregrine on his smaller mount would be left in the dust, easy pickings if the villain did not follow Reynold.

  ‘Hold,’ Reynold shouted, but a sword came slashing towards him. He knocked it aside with his own, steadying himself as the horse and its rider swung around for another charge. Sirius was well trained and moved with just a nudge of Reynold’s knee, dancing out of the way, and again Reynold blocked the assailant’s weapon. He tried to get a good look at his foe, but the light was fading, and the hood shadowed the man’s face.

  His horse was smaller, as was his sword, but he was quick, competent, and perhaps desperate, which gave strength to even the weakest opponent. Reynold needed all of his skill and wits about him. Sending Sirius dancing away, he tried to get behind the fellow, but suddenly Peregrine was there, tugging at the man’s cloak.

  What the devil?

  Reynold heard a groan and a shout, and then Peregrine was knocked to the ground, where he could easily be trampled under the hooves of any of the three horses that were clustered together. Instead of running the attacker through, Reynold grabbed at the man’s reins, pulling the other horse away with his own, while trying to avoid the weapon that sliced through the air.

  When it came perilously close, Reynold loosed the horse’s reins and sent Sirius around to the opposite flank. Peregrine’s mount, the smallest of the three, fled in the face of the stamping and whinnying of the larger beasts. Reynold could only hope he had moved the battle far enough away to save the boy, for he could waste no more attention upon his fallen squire.

  He swung his sword in a high arc towards his assailant, but even before it made contact, the man howled in pain. Instead of fighting off Reynold, the fellow swung backwards, as though attacked from behind. Reynold heard a thud, and then the rider turned and fled, his mount eating up the ground to disappear into the darkness of the woods.

  For an instant, Reynold thought of giving chase, despite the gathering twilight and his unfamiliarity with the area. The dark horse was no match for Sirius, and few men could best a de Burgh. Although his pride called for satisfaction, Reynold resisted the urge, for he had more important concerns. His squire had fallen in the fray.

  Dismounting quickly, Reynold kept his reins in hand. Peregine’s horse was gone, but who knows what might have happened to the boy while he was down? Reynold found him lying in the road, unmoving. Stepping close, he knelt to the ground, looking for injuries, but there were no visibly broken bones and no blood.

  Foolhardy boy. Courageous, but foolhardy.

  ‘Peregrine,’ Reynold said, cursing his solitary state. He knew little of healing and had no way to summon help. All he could do was throw the boy over the back of a horse and hope that their attacker was not summoning companions from a camp in the forest.

  ‘Peregrine,’ Reynold said, his tone more urgent. He put a hand to his squire’s head, feeling for lumps, and the boy stirred.

  ‘M-my lord,’ he said, opening his eyes. He blinked and started to rise, but Reynold stopped him.

  ‘Hold, squire. Are you hurt?’

  Peregrine frowned. ‘No,’ he said, as though testing himself. Then he surged upwards. ‘He knocked me down!’

  ‘I thought you fell,’ Reynold said. Relieved to see the boy’s outrage, Reynold held out a hand to help him to his feet.

  ‘Well, I guess I did fall, at first,’ the boy said. He reached down to dust himself off, then bent to retrieve the long knife they had taken from the thieves. ‘I pricked him, right in his leg,’ he said, with a grin.

  Reynold saw the blood on the blade. ‘Good work, but let us not tarry in case he has friends.’

  Peregrine’s triumphant smile vanished. ‘My horse!’ he said, glancing around the deserted track.

  Reynold whistled, and the black came trotting back. They hurriedly mounted and put some distance between themselves and the wood though it was nearly full dark now.

  ‘I wish I could throw a knife like that crippled boy,’ Peregrine said. ‘I mean the boy who wasn’t really crippled,’ he added. ‘But I knew I couldn’t, so I tried to get close enough to bury it in his chest.’

  ‘By pulling on his cloak?’

  ‘Well, yes, but I did strike him, my lord, and just like when the knife hit you, it was turned away. He must have been wearing a mail shirt, just like you do.’

  Reynold found that hard to believe, and yet, the boy would not lie. He had struck at the villain, fallen from his horse, and risen to try again, this time thrusting his blade into the rider’s leg, only to be knocked down once more.

  ‘Maybe he’s a knight, too,’ Peregrine said. He paused, as if mulling over his words. ‘But he couldn’t be, not when he’s a brigand attacking travellers.’

  ‘Knights go bad, like everybody else,’ Reynold said. He slanted a glance at the boy. ‘It is expensive to maintain a good destrier, proper equipment and a squire, as well as pay the scutage or days owed to one’s lord. Unless you come from a wealthy family, capture others in battle, or are successful on the tournament field, it is a hard life, a fact that is conveniently missing from the romances.’

  ‘Perhaps he was an outlaw.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Reynold said, but he was more concerned with the two of them than their assailant. The roads were always prey to attacks, especially along a wooded stretch, and Reynold thought himself equal to any fight. Now he wasn’t so sure. If not for the boy, he could have managed, yet his squire was lucky to have escaped serious injury or death. And what if there had been more than one assailant? Reynold shook his head, his de Burgh confidence shaken, as they neared the outskirts of the village.

  And that’s when he heard it, a faint noise that could be called a roar, if closer. Already uneasy, Reynold felt th
e shock of full-blown fear for perhaps the first time in his life. For he had not yet reached the outskirts of the village, and Mistress Sexton might be in danger, with nothing except Urban and his pitchfork to protect her from the kind of monster Gamel had described.

  Too late, Reynold regretted his hasty departure, and with a low curse, he urged his weary mount onwards to Grim’s End.

  It was growing late, Sabina knew, for she kept glancing at the tall windows, where the light was fading. The hall was cast in shadows, an eerie reminder that things were not as they should be, and without the presence of Lord de Burgh, even the familiar turned sinister, frightening…

  Ursula had suggested they do their mending, and Sabina had welcomed the task to keep her mind occupied, but it wasn’t working. And Urban was no help. For the past hour he had been pacing the room, predicting doom.

  He was certain that Lord de Burgh would not return, and though Sabina tried not to let his words sway her, she was becoming concerned. It was nearly dark, and still there was no sign of the knight, yet Sabina was sure he was the one she had waited for during the bleak months that Grim’s End had been under siege. His arrival seemed no accident, but the answer to her prayers, and she would have sworn his word was good. Surely he would not abandon them to their fate?

  ‘If he’s a lord, as he says, he’s got better things to do than stay here,’ Urban said. ‘Some nobles live in castles the size of the abbey at Bury St Edmunds, with servants to attend their every need. They have elegant garments, fine food and wine, hunting, hawking and entertainments to rival the king’s own.’

  Urban did not have to gesture to the small, dim hall for Sabina to realise the difference between such a household and her own. Here, they hid from the dragon in the shadows, while the de Burgh home probably blazed with light and sound, candles and torches, music and dancing. Sabina tried to picture such a place, but what she saw more clearly was a high-born woman wearing rich clothes, furs and jewels, waiting for a certain knight…

  ‘I’ve heard that noblemen don’t even bathe themselves, but are washed by the lady of the house,’ Ursula said, slyly.