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