Reynold discovered that Urban slept in the cellar, where the Grim’s End residents had often made camp in the past few months. His pallet was not far from Alec’s and Adele’s, but the stairs were within easy reach. Having made a show of seeking his own bed earlier this evening, Reynold let them settle in for the night before returning to the now-darkened hall, where he huddled with his squire.
‘I can ask Alec if he’s heard or seen anything,’ Peregrine suggested in hushed tones, but Reynold shook his head.
‘Let us not alert anyone to our interest.’
Peregrine’s expression was one of shock. ‘You don’t suspect Alec of being involved in…something, do you?’
Reynold shook his head, though he wasn’t about to exonerate anyone at this point except perhaps his guileless squire. ‘Still, he might inadvertently give away our plans.’
Peregrine nodded, though he appeared wary. Good. The boy needed a reminder not to give his trust so easily. Then Peregrine looked down at the shadowy tiles, as if uncomfortable. ‘My lord, I’m sorry about what I said earlier,’ he whispered. ‘It’s not my place to—’
Reynold cut him off with a raised hand. ‘Let us speak no more of it,’ he said in a tone that brooked no argument. Reynold had no desire to return to the topic of Mistress Sexton or his own deficiencies. Perhaps there had been some truth in the boy’s tirade, but Reynold did not have time for such contemplation now.
Peregrine looked as though he had plenty more to say, yet he held his tongue. And with parting nods, the two dispersed to dark corners of the manor, Peregrine to keep watch by the hall doors and Reynold in the kitchens. Reynold concealed himself where he could view both the cellar and the doors and sat back to wait.
But he could not get comfortable. Although he had long since grown accustomed to the oddities of Grim’s End, now he was reminded of the eeriness of the place. He had kept watch before in far more dangerous circumstances and had gone into battle fearlessly. But this was different. Instead of a bustling manor, he was in a silent, empty shell, the only building occupied for miles around, and Reynold could not shake the sense of unease that crept upon him.
The moon was casting a faint glow on to the tiles when he heard the soft sound of movement coming from the stairs that led below. Although he had been expecting it, still the noise was chilling. And soon a cloaked figure emerged, passing so quietly by him that it hardly seemed to be Urban. Indeed, if Reynold had not known that only three people occupied the cellar, he might have thought the shape was someone else.
But Reynold knew it was not Adele or Alec who slipped so furtively out the door. Leaving his hiding place, Reynold followed just as silently, yet once outside, he saw no sign of his quarry. A thick fog had rolled in from the sea, blanketing the area with white, obscuring even the most familiar landmarks, and for one long moment Reynold imagined Urban disappearing into it like a wraith.
But then he heard a sound, loud in the silence, and he whirled, as if to face some unknown foe, only to find nothing. Its direction was confusing in the mist, and Reynold hesitated. He had expected Urban to go to the stables, perhaps to steal one his mounts, or to the barn or mill, away from prying eyes.
Yet the faint noise came from the opposite direction, meaning Urban was moving away from the manor and its outbuildings toward the sloping hillside of the mound. But what would he do there? Reynold squinted into nothingness as he kept to the shadows at the rear of the Sexton home, his footsteps falling softly against the giving earth.
He had never been to the mound, for there was nowhere upon the raised earth in which to hide a beast or an outlaw camp. And although legend claimed that the village was founded by a dragon-slayer who buried his foe there, it was not a place normally visited. Grim’s End had grown up nearby, but did not encroach upon it. Indeed, it seemed apart from the man-made structures, ancient and forbidding. Although sheep must have grazed here in the past, there were none to do so now, and the grass grew tall, swaying in the night breeze.
Reynold felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, for even though he knew there was no worm menacing the village, it was hard not to imagine something stirring to life deep within the grassy tomb. Reynold remembered his earlier jest—that the dragon was invisible—and felt a sudden chill.
The sound of moving soil somewhere close by was startling in the stillness and made it seem as though something was rising up from the grave, though Reynold could see nothing. He wondered where Peregrine was, for the stout-hearted squire appeared to have advice for any situation. If here, no doubt he would recommend the use of a magic sword and might well pull one out of a nearby rock, like Arthur himself.
Magic, which Reynold oft mocked, seemed real in this most peculiar location, and he even regretted his sport of the l’Estranges, for they might do better here than he, weaving some spell to banish the mist and even the night itself.
Yet Reynold had only his wits and his sword arm, so, hand on his hilt, he crouched low, approaching the sound as best he could in the disorienting fog. Suddenly, something loomed up before him, and he drew in a harsh breath. But it was only the ruins of the old church, the worn dragon on its crumbling side leering at him through the veils of vapour.
Had he gone too far? Where was Urban? Was he inside what was left of this place? Reynold circled the remains of the building before stepping over the stones of what had been one wall. But there was nothing within, only a jumble of rocks and grass. A trick of the moonlight through the haze cast a glow upon what was left of a carving, and Reynold recognised the message that was written in the new building.
Repent and Seek Your Reward.
Reynold found himself staring at the Latin words, then jerked as he heard a sound again, the same dull thud. Crossing towards the opening, he stepped out of the old church once more, moving in the direction of the noise. It was louder now, as though whoever—or whatever—was causing it had grown careless.
Reynold began to head up the slope, but then he heard a clunk directly to his right, as though he was right upon the sound. Or atop it. His unease returned full measure, and he sank low to the ground, where he barely missed being hit by a shovel.
What the devil?
Reynold reached up and snatched at the handle, pulling the owner of it down with him. The frightened shriek that accompanied the flailing limbs beneath him could only belong to Urban, and Reynold rose to his feet, jerking his captive by the neck. The dark hood fell away, and Urban’s pale face materialised out of the mist.
‘’Tis you!’ the man choked out.
‘Who else were you expecting?’
‘No one, no one, my lord,’ Urban said. ‘Unhand me!’
Reynold let go, and Urban fell to his knees, clutching his throat. ‘How dare you!’ he croaked, lifting his head to glare at Reynold.
Ignoring the man’s protests, Reynold took up a warrior’s stance, hand upon his sword hilt. Although he had neither heard nor seen anyone else, he remained wary, lest someone come out of the darkness at him.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘’Tis none of your concern,’ Urban said.
‘Everything here is my concern because Mistress Sexton has made it so.’ As soon as the words left his mouth, Reynold felt the sharp prick of suspicion. Was Urban here upon some order from his mistress? Were not all women spoiled, selfish and deceitful? ‘If you are on some mission, speak now.’
‘I am a free man and steward to the Sextons,’ Urban said. ‘I need no one’s permission to come and go.’
‘Perhaps not, but when there are only five inhabitants, every person’s movements are of interest. What do you here?’ Reynold asked. Picking up the shovel, he crouched low to the ground, where even the thick fog could not hide evidence of Master Urban’s activities. He had been digging. But for what? And why here? And why now?
‘I do not answer to you.’
Reynold slanted him a hard glance. ‘And yet I will have an answer.’ Sweeping a hand into the small hole, Reynold felt noth
ing except earth. Was this the first time Urban had been out digging or would he would find the soil disturbed elsewhere, should he look in the morning light?
Obviously, the man would not be here at this hour, if he did not want to hide his actions. But what, if anything, had they to do with the plague upon Grim’s End? Sitting back on his haunches, Reynold eyed the slumped figure carefully. ‘What are you looking for?’
‘Game.’
‘And what is it that lives underground?’
‘Moles. Mice. Rabbits. I thought to build a trap.’
‘In the dead of night,’ Reynold said, rising to his feet. ‘Methinks I have never seen you so ambitious during the day.’ Slowly, Reynold circled the area, but there was only Urban and his shovel and this small hole. Was he looking for something, or burying it?
Before Urban could tell what he was about, Reynold snatched at the man’s cloak and searched his person. Despite Urban’s squeaks of protests, Reynold found only a sack, which he had either emptied or intended to fill. But with what?
Further questioning did no good. Surprisingly, the man who always appeared most afraid did not waver in the face of Reynold’s grim queries, but claimed that he was the one suffering injury.
‘I have every right to conduct my own business, without interference from you, a stranger who has no power here,’ Urban declared.
‘And what business might that be?’ Reynold asked, tempted to show the scrawny fellow just how much power he wielded with his sword arm.
‘I have already told you.’
‘Ah, yes, the hunt for moles,’ Reynold said, his voice laden with disdain. But he had no desire to linger here upon the slope that housed the dead, especially when it was cloaked with a mist that sent sounds awry and made even a grown man lose his bearings.
‘Very well, let us have Mistress Sexton’s opinion,’ Reynold finally said. For a long moment, he thought Urban might even refuse to accompany him back to the manor, but at last they made their way to the hall.
The noise of their entrance brought Alec and a wary Adele up from the cellar. Leaving the indignant Urban there with them and Peregrine, Reynold marched up to Mistress Sexton’s bedchamber. He knew which one it was, of course, for he had been guarding her for some time. But he had never begged entrance before, and, as he faced the portal, he wondered why he had not sent his squire on this errand.
It was too late now, so Reynold knocked upon the worn wood. He heard Ursula’s nervous query and announced himself upon an urgent errand. He could have left then, but something held him at the door even as Ursula opened it.
‘I need to speak with your mistress,’ Reynold said, his voice suddenly low and hoarse. He had said little to Mistress Sexton since his rude behaviour earlier in the day, and he wondered, wildly, whether he should take the opportunity to apologise. But then he remembered Peregrine’s tirade that had followed. Had Urban listened and reported all to his mistress? Reynold’s lips tightened into a thin line as he recalled his purpose here involved nothing personal.
But Ursula obviously thought otherwise, for she slipped away, as though to give him privacy. Reynold would have called her back, but the door swung open, and Mistress Sexton stood in the entrance.
She had thrown some sort of heavy robe over her nightclothes, and behind her lay a bed, its linens disordered, from which she had so recently risen. Reynold quickly glanced away from the sight that made his heart pound. But ’twas no easier to look at Mistress Sexton herself, for the moonlight glowed on her golden hair, giving her an ethereal look, as though she was not of this earth. But hadn’t she always been too beautiful, too perfect, for mere mortals, for Reynold de Burgh?
‘What is it, my lord?’ she asked, her lovely features tense with anxiety.
Reynold cleared his suddenly thick throat. ‘There is no danger,’ he assured her. And he had to stop himself from stepping over the threshold to take her into his arms, intending comfort, but seeking more…
‘’Tis Urban,’ he said.
Mistress Sexton’s gaze flew to his. ‘Is he hurt?’
Reynold shook his head, jealous of her concern for the man. ‘Not yet,’ he muttered. He drew a deep breath, trying to concentrate on the matter at hand, rather than the sweet scent of her, stronger here in the darkness, in the closeness…
‘I found him sneaking out of the manor long after the rest of you were abed,’ Reynold said. ‘I followed him into the mist and found him digging a hole at the edge of the hill where you claim the dragon is buried.’
Mistress Sexton’s eyes grew so wide in her pale face that Reynold feared she might faint, though he had never seen her show any signs of weakness. Still, it was the middle of the night and she recently roused from bed, so he reached for her, simply to steady her upon her feet. But she stepped back, away from him, shaking her head vehemently.
And before Reynold knew what she was about, he was staring at the door, shut firmly in his face.
At first light, Reynold looked down at the hole in the ground, unseeing. He flexed his hands, trying to deny the urge to hit something with his fists. What was the matter with him? That was the sort of thing his brother Simon would do—punch away angrily at anything. It was Simon who had the temper, not Reynold, who had learned long ago to keep everything to himself. So why was he suddenly boiling over with rage and frustration that he had thought well tamed?
He blamed a sleepless night, as well as Mistress Sexton. If she hadn’t waylaid him, begged him to do her bidding, and then dismissed him like the basest villein…If she weren’t so beautiful. And if she hadn’t made him believe, hope, want…
‘My lord?’ Peregrine’s voice pierced the darkness of his mood, recalling him to the matter at hand, a pile of soil and the place where it had once been. Reynold already had searched the slope for signs of other disturbances, but found nothing.
‘Unless Urban filled in any previous area, replacing even the grasses, this is the only spot,’ Reynold said. He wished now that he had thought to follow Urban before, that he had trusted none of them, not even Mistress Sexton.
Peregrine studied the hole, then glanced beyond it to where the ground gently sloped upwards. ‘And this is where the dragon is buried?’ he asked quietly.
‘According to Mistress Sexton,’ Reynold said, though he was beginning to wonder what—and who—to believe. Yet, as Peregrine pointed out, Urban’s hole was close to the mound, and Reynold felt a nagging at the back of his mind. He searched his memory again, for something that would explain Urban’s actions. And the answer came to him so swiftly that he wondered why he had not considered it earlier. Startled, he glanced at his squire, only to see the same enlightenment reflected on the boy’s face.
‘Wasn’t Beowulf’s dragon guarding a treasure?’ Peregrine asked, softly.
‘Exactly,’ Reynold said. There were other tales, too, in which a frightening creature, such as a worm, guarded a grave that held precious burial goods. ‘The dragon shall be on the mound, old, exultant in treasure,’ he said, quoting an old proverb.
‘But I thought there was no dragon,’ Peregrine said.
‘There isn’t a beast with wings, but there’s something, or, more likely, someone,’ Reynold said. He squinted into the distance, cursing himself for his slow wit. ‘It’s so obvious, why didn’t I think of it before?’
‘But no one said anything about a treasure.’
‘Oh, yes, they did,’ Reynold muttered, frowning. ‘Didn’t Mistress Sexton mention a hoard of coins?’
Peregrine’s brow furrowed. ‘Yes, but that didn’t have anything to do with the dragon,’ he said. ‘And, anyway, I thought that was just a story.’
Like so many that whirled around Grim’s End, weaving in and out of its past and present, Reynold thought. And who could tell which were authentic? Geoff claimed that even the most outlandish tale was based upon a small grain of truth. So where was Reynold to find that nugget?
‘Weren’t there a couple of accounts of a human turning into a dragon becaus
e of a curse or his own lust for the worm’s treasure?’ Peregrine asked. His eyes grew wide. ‘You don’t think Urban can turn into a dragon, do you?’
Reynold snorted. ‘No. I think he’s barely a man, let alone a beast.’
Peregrine appeared relieved, but then he lowered his voice. ‘Besides beasts, there are stories of ghosts appearing at the mounds that hide valuables. You didn’t see any, did you?’ he asked, warily.
Reynold shook his head. If there were any ghosts, last night would have been the time for them to appear, for he’d never faced an eerier evening. But now, without the darkness and the mists and the strange sounds, the area appeared benign, simply a formation of the earth, where tall grasses swayed gently.
Reynold poked thoughtfully at the soil with the tip of his boot. ‘Perhaps we should see if there is anything buried here.’
Peregrine gasped. ‘Dig up something’s grave?’
Reynold shrugged. Was this really a tomb or only a peculiar hill? Reynold knew of only one way to find out. ‘I would like to know what Urban is seeking.’
‘But look at what happened to Beowulf,’ Peregrine protested, obviously appalled by the suggestion. ‘Isn’t that sort of treasure cursed?’
Reynold shook his head. Unlike his squire, he feared no such blights, perhaps because, deep down inside, he felt cursed already.
Chapter Twelve
S abina was surprised to find the hall empty, despite the early hour, and as she walked towards her chair, she tried not to think the worst. She had slept little, tossing and turning and wondering whether she had dreamed of Lord de Burgh’s visit to her room. But his absence this morning was telling, and she feared that he had gone, even though she could not blame him. Resting her hands upon the back of her chair, she took a deep breath in an effort to steady herself for whatever lay ahead.
Reynold de Burgh: The Dark Knight Page 15