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,