Hunting of the Last Dragon (7 page)

I ran then, slithering in the mud, and found Lizzie's
cage empty, the door open. I wanted to call her, but I dared not. What if she wanted to go with him? Mayhap they often stole away together, and I would but make a fool of myself by following. In an agony of doubt I stood listening, but could hear only the thumping of my own heart. Then a call. Shrill and afraid; a maid's voice.

'Twas all I needed. I went into the trees, towards the sound. It was pitch-black in the shadows under the trees, though in parts the moonbeams poured through, bright almost as the day. Water dripped all around, and my feet squelching in the mud must have been heard a mile away. By corpus bones, I was afraid! Afraid of finding them, and afraid of not finding them. And if they were found, what would I do? Never would I beat Richard in a fight. I stopped, thinking to go back and call Tybalt. But would he laugh, and tell me to leave his son to his wenching? If he cared nothing for the sufferings of the bear, why should he care for Lizzie?

Hardly breathing for terror, and wishing I had brought my bow, I went deeper into the woods. I stumbled on a root and fell heavily, sliding some way in the mud, and making more noise than a pig in a panic. As I got to my feet I had half a mind to go back anyway, and trust to fate that Lizzie was willing with him. At that moment I heard a voice, muffled and
low, and full of threat. Richard's voice. But no sound from Lizzie. Quiet, I crept forward. I could see nothing in the shadows, but I heard Richard speak again. Of a sudden I noticed, in a pool of moonlight on the muddy ground, a patch of scarlet, dark as blood. I picked it up; it was Lizzie's silken dress, that I had washed. I looked up, peering through the dark. And then I saw them, two blacker shapes against the darkness of a tree. Lizzie stood against the trunk, and he was pressed against her. Uncertainty flooded over me again. If she were unwilling, would she not call out? I dropped the dress and was about to creep away; but then I saw a flash of steel near Lizzie's throat. Without thought I rushed at Richard to haul him off. Hearing me, he swung around, the knife still in his hand. I saw his teeth glimmer as if he laughed, and he slashed towards me so quick, I heard the whistle of the blade. Somehow it missed, and I stepped backwards and fell. Then he was on me, and I was holding his arm with the knife, but the point was cruelly close to my face. His other arm pressed across my throat, so hard that I could not breathe, and for an age all was suffocating pain and fear; then I saw stars and fire, and thought the dragon and death and hell had come.

Then of a sudden the weight across my throat was
gone, though something heavy fell across the rest of me; and I drew in breath at last. It was Richard across me, limp as a sack of flour. I threw him off and got to my feet. Lizzie was close, a stump of wood in her hands. In the moonlight her face was parchment white, and her eyes shimmered and were full of fear. She dropped the wood and backed away, wiping her hands on her skirts as if to clean them.

“Sweet Jesus—I've killed him!” she said.

I bent down and put my hand upon Richard's chest. All seemed deadly still. Blood matted his hair above his right ear, and ran from his nose. I dared not put my hand upon his parted lips, to see if there was breath. Standing, I asked Lizzie if she was harmed. She shook her head, then spied her silken dress, and hobbled across the muddy ground to pick it up.

“He told me he was setting me free,” she said. “That's why I brought my mother's dress, and wore my shoes. He said you had given him the key to my cage, and would be waiting for me, to take me away. He said I would never live in the cage again. His words were sweet, and he was kind. That's why I came quietly with him. And then, when we were here, afar off in the trees . . .”

“I'd made no plot with him,” I said. “He cut your key from my belt while I slept. But I woke after, saw
your cage open, and came to look for you.”

At that moment we heard a shout and the barking of dogs. I looked towards our camp, but could see nothing. Had Tybalt found her cage unlocked, and thought she had escaped? God's soul, there'd be a hunt now, for sure, and blame laid somewhere! And as for Richard, lying like a corpse—

“They'll hang me for murder!” whispered Lizzie, looking at him. Richard groaned just then, and moved a little. Dogs barked and howled, coming nearer.

Without thought, I swept Lizzie up into my arms and ran. And as I ran clouds covered up the moon again and rain began to fall, and I remember thanking God, for it meant my footsteps would be lost in mud, and no one could hunt us down.

Like a nightmare it was, that flight. I could see nothing for the darkness and the rain, and though Lizzie was a little thing, she was heavy after hours of carrying, with the wetness in our clothes weighing us both down, and the mud ankle deep at times. Sometimes I could have sworn I saw wolves' eyes shining at us through the rain, and once we heard something huge—a bear, possibly—crashing through the woods alongside of us. We stumbled into trees and rolled down banks, and a hundred times I slipped and fell, hurting us both, and all the while we were driven on
by the dogs howling like fiends in hell.

And on that fiendish note I think I shall end for today, Brother Benedict. I hear the bells tolling for prayers—a peaceful note, after my tale's terror. What? You want me to go on? Well, it is tempting to, and such kindly devotion to your task is most commendable; but I did plight my word to the Abbot that I would never keep you from your prayers. So off with you! Godspeed! I swear I shall not start again without you.

Greetings, Brother! You are ready early today, your quill neatly sharpened, I see, and candles already lit, and a merry fire in the grate. A good day for writing, this, with rain outside and a cold autumn wind a-blowing! You have the better task, I think: I just saw Brother Nicholas out in the yard trying to round up the geese and head them into the barn. The Abbot wants their feathers kept in fine fettle, since they're his only supply of quills. He's very determined to have a pile of books copied out, so he can begin his dream of teaching every soul to read. I'm not sure that the geese will be right thrilled about it; they've few enough tail feathers already.

All right, I'll continue! God's truth, you monks have lively ways of getting across your wants, despite your vows of silence!

I did not rest that night. I followed the river upstream, knowing it would take us from the woods and back to the town. A little after cockcrow we left the trees, to find a sunny day. I was mortal weary but dared not stop, knowing Tybalt valued Lizzie and would likely be out on his horse, searching. But I changed the way of carrying Lizzie, and took her on my back, as I oft had carried little Addy. It was easier that way, and Lizzie could hold on with her arms about my neck. Travelling northwestwards, we avoided the town, skirting the tilled fields and the meadows, then kept to the tracks through the moorlands. We passed villages and farms, and saw people shearing sheep while others washed the fleeces in the streams. I thought of my mother twisting yarn upon her distaff, and my heart ached. All of me ached, from memories and weariness, and from the beating Richard had given me the day before.

Near the middle of the day I stopped to rest. We had been walking through stony moors following a stream, which I supposed would lead to villages further ahead, where we might get food and shelter for the night. We stopped by an old oak tree, and I set Lizzie down in the shade. “I need to sleep,” I said. “I can't walk night and day without rest.”

Crouching by the water, I drank deeply. It was
brackish but quenching. Lizzie crouched nearby to drink.

“Would you like a swim?” I asked, thinking of the day I had danced in the river with her and raised Tybalt's ire.

“I think not,” she said. I was sorry, for I would gladly have carried her in again.

When we had finished drinking she got her mother's silken dress from where she had dropped it on the grass, and washed it in the shallows, cleaning off the grime from last night in the woods. I offered to help her, but she shook her head and went on with the washing, dipping the scarlet folds in the stream, then rubbing them carefully to get off the stains. I wondered that she held the silk so dear, then remembered it was all she had of her old life, all she had of her family. And I thought how I would have given much to have just one little thing my parents had owned, some tiny link, something I could touch that was of them.

The washing done, she limped up to the tree and hung the silk across a branch to dry. Then she stood at the edge of the shade, looking out across the rolling wastes we had crossed. Very still she stood, her eyes like polished ebony, her gold-brown skin as glowing as the day. I had not often seen her on her feet, for
she had been always sitting in her cage, or else lying on the ground while I cleaned it out; and it was odd to see her standing free like that, beside the wild moors. Looking at her, I felt awkward of a sudden, for her skirts were wet and clinging, and she was willow-slender and graceful, and pleasing to the eye.

Limping back, she came and sat at my feet, close, her arms about her knees, her gaze still on the moors. “Do you think Tybalt will find us?” she asked.

“He'll not find us now,” I said. “The rain has washed away our tracks, and his dogs will never get the smell of us.”

“If Richard dies, what then? Will they look again for us, and hang me on a gallows?”

“Nay. Richard won't die. 'Twill take more than a chip of wood to kill him off—'twill take a falling oak.”

She laughed a little. “What will we do, Jude?”

“Find a village and beg some food and a place by a fire tonight. On the morrow we'll seek a place for you to stay. A nunnery, mayhap, where you'll be looked after.”

Frowning, she asked, “What will you do?”

“Find a farmer to hire me for work. The lords pay people well to have their land tilled these days, since the Black Death killed off so many of their workers. I heard that some of the larger estates are going to ruin, from
want of men to work them.”

“I could work on a farm.”

“I think not, Lizzie. Maids either marry or they become nuns. Unless they're highborn, and then they might live in lord's houses, and serve the ladies there.”

“I'm highborn.”

“That's different.”

“Why?”

“Our highborn maids are not made lame.”

“Then there's no place for me.”

“I didn't say that. I think a nunnery would be best. It doesn't mean you have to be a nun; the nuns would look after you until you found something else to do. It would not be an unpleasant life.”

“How do you know? Have you lived in a nunnery?”

“No. But it would be better than a cage, I'll warrant.”

“It would be a different kind of cage. I don't want to live in a nunnery.”

“By God's soul, Lizzie, give me peace! I don't want to discuss this now! I've walked all night and half today, and I'm bone weary. I'm tired of fretting about my own fate, let alone yours. Let me sleep for now, and we'll talk on this later.”

I lay down in the shade. Lizzie didn't move, but she made a little sound as if she wept, and I was sorry I
had spoken sharp with her. Remorseful, too tired to make amends, I put my arm across my eyes and tried to sleep. But although it was pleasant there by the stream, and I was weary to the bones, I found I could not rest. My nerves were jangled, and a worm gnawed at my conscience, over Richard, and because I had stole a maid well paid for by her owner. Also, as the full import of what I'd done began to dawn on me, there were other worries.

I'd had little to do with a maid before, apart from my sisters and the taunting Prue. How would it be between Lizzie and me, now that we were fugitives and wayfarers together? What would people think of us, her plainly not my kin, nor I her husband? How would we sleep together in the fields? Close for safety, or decently separate? And what of all the ordinary things I would normally do in private—like picking my teeth or my nose, or scratching myself, or farting, or moving my bowels? 'Tis all very well for you to laugh, Brother Benedict, but all these things were mortal worrying to me, at the time. I even felt discomforted trying to sleep that afternoon, knowing Lizzie sat nearby, mayhap watching me. It is one thing to feed and tend for a maid in a prison, another to live with her in liberty.

I slept at last. When I awoke, the sun was on its
downward journey, and Lizzie was gone, the red dress with her. Alarmed, I leaped to my feet, thinking Tybalt had come and snatched her off. But then I spied her stumbling and limping further on, still following the stream.

Cursing, I ran after her. I got to her at last, and grabbed her arm. Her face was wet with tears and sweat, and she must have been in agony from walking all that way.

“What are you doing, dimwit?” I asked.

“I'm going on alone,” she said, trying to walk on, sobbing with every step. Her shoes and bandages were red.

“Why alone?” I asked.

“Because I won't be a nun. And I won't be a millstone around your neck, neither. You have no duty to help me out.”

“Oh, Lizzie, 'tis not from duty!” I said.

“What is it, then? Do you think on me as Richard did?”

“No! Never that!” Taking both her shoulders, I made her stop. She stood with her arms crossed over her mother's dress, her eyes downcast. She looked so small, so all undone, that I near wept myself, from pity.

“Truth to tell, Lizzie,” I said, “you remind me of
my sister Addy. More, I have no home, no family, and I feel . . . well, I feel akin with you. It helps me to help you, for it gives me a reason to live. I'll not put you in a nunnery, nor make you do anything you are against, I swear. Now, can we travel on together, in peace?”

She smiled a little, and climbed onto my back again, and we went on. The stream was a good guide, for it kept us watered, and took us to more fields of yellow wheat ripe for harvest, then to a village. We spied some fresh-baked oaten cakes cooling in a window, and I'm ashamed to confess that I stole them, for we were hungry.

I felt stronger after we had eaten, and walked more quickly, following the lane out of the village, still heading west, my eyes lowered against the sinking sun. I had no idea where I was, or what villages we passed, since I could not read the milestones on the roads. I thought only to put as many miles as I could betwixt ourselves and Tybalt. Sometimes on the lanes between the villages we passed other wayfarers, all travelling on foot: pilgrims on their way home after visiting shrines, or black-gowned friars, or peddlers with pots and pans, charcoal sellers, traders, and lepers. But by sunset the tracks and lanes were deserted, and I began to be haunted by fears of demons and ghosts. And I remembered that the
dragon was said to fly at dusk and dawn, and now was a devilishly dangerous time to be out. I wished I had looked sooner for a house to stay.

There was a village near, for I could see its church tower above the trees. I cut across a meadow full of rye, and came to the tiny hamlet just as the sun went down. It was a village such as Doran had been, too small for an inn, with only a square-towered Norman church and a few thatch-and-mud houses crouched either side of the dirt lane. Behind the houses I could just make out, in the gathering gloom, the crofts with summer vegetables well grown, and tiny farm buildings, and a cart and plough or two. I stood Lizzie on her feet and she waited in the darkling lane as I approached a house.

Firelight glowed inside and smoke came out the windows, smelling of beans and vegetable broth. From within came sounds of running feet, children shrieking with laughter, boys quarrelling, and a dog barking. Above it all a baby bawled lustily, and a woman shouted for peace. I banged on the door, and there was instant silence inside.

“You'd best open it, Edwin,” said the woman's voice. “Well, go on! You're the man of the house now.”

There was the sound of a bolt cautiously drawn back, and the door opened a crack. I glimpsed part of
a face and one wary eye, before the door was slammed shut again. “It do be a maid and a lad, Ma,” said a lad.

“Well, don't stand there pop-eyed, let them in.”

The door was opened wide, and I went back to Lizzie, and she leaned on me as we entered in. The lad who admitted us stood on the threshold a moment, scanning the evening skies; then he banged the door shut and bolted it again.

For long moments there was total quiet, but for the yelping of a small dog as it jumped around Lizzie and me. Little could I see, for smoke, but the boy threw a bundle of wood on the fire, and in the leaping flame-light I saw three little children go and cling to their mother's skirt. Their eyes, as round as plates, were fixed on Lizzie's face. Two other children moved closer to a boy of about ten summers, who crouched on the dirt by the fire and stirred a cauldron of broth. Pigs and poultry roamed in the rushes on the floor, and a cow with large curving horns was tethered in one corner. The smells, the homeliness, awoke a deep longing in me.

“You've brought the freak,” said the woman, holding her babe closer, and making the sign of the cross. “The freak from the fair. Like Old Lan. God help us all.”

“Her name's Lizzie,” I said. “I beg of you, good mother, let us stay. And give us, if you will, a bite of
food each, and we'll be gone by morning. We'll not harm you or rob you, I swear by Jesus' blessed tree.”

“It's not robbing I'm worried on,” she said, jiggling the babe to keep it quiet. “The freak's an evil maid, a heathen. I'll not have her in this house. Nor you. It's not right, you travelling alone with her. I'll thank you to leave, and right quick.”

I began to plead with her, but the eldest boy edged past us and opened the door again, and began to push me out. Lizzie clung to my sleeve, and I was still begging for a bed for the night, when the woman started to scream.

“Out! Out!” she shrieked. “Out, afore I call the priest to chase you out, and your devils with you! Out!”

I picked Lizzie up and backed out into the night. Still the woman yelled, and people began to come out of the other houses. Hearing the woman's shouts, and doubtless thinking we were thieves, they all started screaming, and some threw stones. One hit Lizzie, making her cry out. A man came out and set his hound on us. I ran then, raising dust in the shadowy lane, while people shouted and cursed, and stones rained all around, and the hound snapped and snarled at my heels. I don't know how far I ran, trying to get away from the damned thing, while Lizzie nearly choked me with her arms, and I shook all over from terror and
fatigue. We left the dog at last, and I stumbled on down the pitch-black road. A silver moon was rising, and I could see wheat on either side, and trees black against the starry sky, but little else. Then somewhere in the fields a wolf howled, and I glimpsed yellow eyes in the darkness to my left, and was sure a pack was after me. I started running again, gasping and blind, half choked by Lizzie's arms about my neck. Then something flew out of the wheat beside the lane, its wings whirring in the quiet dark, and I near lost my wits from fright. I ran again, and tripped and fell. I remember that, as I went down, I tried to turn so I would not fall on Lizzie. There was a sharp pain in my foot, and I suppose I smashed my head upon a stone, for all became bright stars and blackness, and that is the last thing I remember of that night.