Meows from a gather of mangy cats sang a wretched tune beneath a dripping slate tiled roof. Shop fronts were closed, wooden boards pulled down and tied for the evening. Macarius neared the castle courtyard and noticed the blazing iron torches shaped like dragons. Banners swayed in the minimal breeze. Distant pipes called to revelry. Indeed, merrymaking stirred behind the castle walls.
There were almost a dozen dragons nesting but a league to the north. Did the village fête in the shadow of such danger?
Were they aware? But surely their female slayer must have alerted them? Else, why ever would she be so quick with him at the gate if she had not rushed to warn them all?
Amandine had not given him details of his stay in St. Rénan, only that it was a happy summer. He did never elaborate; so many secrets he kept to his breast. But Macarius knew the old man had likely a woman, or two, reason enough to stay a while in any city. But he could not imagine Amandine taking the young woman he had met as a lover. He did possess decency. So what had called him to the woman?
Whistling to direct his mount to the left, Macarius spied a thin young man doddling outside a cart stacked with firewood.
Upon question, the squire in ragged green hosen—but a spit-spot clean tunic—informed Macarius the villagers had gathered in the castle keep to celebrate the kill. A dragon had been slain in the courtyard this afternoon. Lord Guiscard invited all to celebrate and drink and eat for days. Dragon meat would be passed around until all had filled their bellies.
Mayhap the woman had slain a dragon. And this day? Hmm… Of course, Macarius required proof of the act. Likely the village men had rallied and taken down the beast.
“And,” the squire added, “it be much safer than walking about outside. The dragons will swoop down and bite you right out of your boots.”
Macarius had noted the boots sitting just outside the battlement walls.
“So, boy,” he leaned down from his high mount, “you know there are other dragons?”
“To be sure! They fly the sky waiting for a man to forget his caution.”
Macarius nodded in agreement. He straightened in the saddle. That familiar surge of adventure teased his muscles. Such fortune to arrive at a dragon infested city.
Nine dragons, the woman had said. And how had she counted?
“My thanks,” he said to the young squire. “Will you lead me to your lord?”
“Indeed, sir.”
Alive with merriment, music and much ale and smoking meat, the keep was crowded from wall to wall with most every resident of St. Rénan. Dragon meat was tender and savory when cooked right, Lydia had once told Rhiana. Still, no amount of cajoling would convince Rhiana to taste the meat. It was difficult enough to account herself for the sin of killing. And it wasn’t as if dragons were bred for consumption, like a lamb or even cattle. But she did not discount others for joining in the feast.
Rudolph skipped by her, a hunk of dark meat on a stick clasped in one hand and a giggling female’s derriere in the other. Rhiana returned his wink and then found herself sliding her palms over the pale ocher tunic and braies she wore.
All about her couples were dancing and whispering in each other’s ears and some even kissing. Dulcimers decorated the air with lively rhythms that enticed women’s hips to swivel and the men to circle about them. The women wore their hair in braids and curls and crowned their temples with delicate flower garlands. No wonder they attracted a curious suitor, Rhiana decided, the sway of their skirts and the tinkle in their laughter was an entrancing thing. So utterly female and beguiling.
And here she stood, being passed by, almost as if a ghost, by every male in the room. A hard lump at the back of her throat made a swallow difficult. “I…” Want, she thought. What they have. To be fancied by a man. To know a man’s regard.
Should have changed to a gown—
The sudden gush of fire close behind Rhiana made her spin. There, near the hearth, stood Sebastien de Feu, the fire juggler. Wearing brown leather braies—he never wore a shirt; fire hazard—the dancing fire tricked across his muscled chest, drawing Rhiana’s interest. In each hand he held a five-pronged torch that resembled a dragon’s claw, glittering with flames at each of the five talons. Swishing the torches before him painted brilliant white dashes and circles and zigs in the air to delight all. Children danced around him, unsuccessfully held back by their mothers.
Sending a charming smile to Rhiana, he then breathed upon one of the torches and sent the flames gushing over heads and toward the center of the keep.
Compelled by the beauty of the flame, Rhiana stepped closer. She forgot her masculine attire. Why, she forgot the festivities. All that mattered was the flame dancing through the air, swishing hot breaths across her face as she moved even closer, until she stood so close a child called out for her to mind her distance.
Sebastien’s grin defied the difficulty of his stunt. Though he wore a steel helmet fashioned with bronze laurel leaves around the perimeter to protect his long black hair, Rhiana had noticed previously he also wore many a scar from burns. The most prominent on his left forearm, which stretched to a thin pink sheen, because his muscles were so bold and tight.
“You are entranced, douce et belle?”
Shaking her head out of its tizzy, Rhiana realized Sebastien spoke to her. Douce et belle. Too pretty a moniker to place to her, but he was ever kind to her, and always willing to talk.
He leaned in toward her. She could hear the fire torches hissing behind his back. The scent of the oil he used to keep the torches burning sizzled in the air. And the scent of him, oil mixed with his intense and dark presence, almost overwhelmed Rhiana.
It could be the smoke and flame; they always disturbed her senses.
She touched a stone in the nearby hearth wall, for balance. Consciously tugging the hem of her tunic, she could not meet the man’s dark eyes. Dark like the lava stones in the caves, she knew, for whenever he was not noticing her, she noticed him. A flutter in her breast troubled, and suddenly she could not find her voice.
“My lady? Have my flames burned your tongue silent?”
She shook her head. A tilt of her chin caught his eyes, and she held his stare for a few moments. Feeling her neck and face flush with warmth, Rhiana convinced herself it was merely the close presence of fire.
So close, the fire, and in the form of muscles and sinew and beguiling dark eyes.
“You never talk to me, douce et belle. Do I frighten you? I would like it if you would say but a few words.”
Frightened by something so wonderful as flame and…and…him? Rhiana began a grin.
“My lord, the dragon slayer!”
Suddenly alerted by the seneschal’s voice, she turned from Sebastien’s beguiling eyes and stood on tiptoes to see about the keep. Dancers who reveled and made merry parted as a stranger entered the keep.
Finding an audience with the baron of St. Rénan proved easy enough, even after the squire had abandoned him for the lure of hot dragon meat and a game of sticks. Macarius had merely to sight in the high table amidst the revelry of drunken lackwits. The glint of gold tableware could not be missed.
Macarius strode through the grand hall glittered with golden fixings and freshly strewn rushes. Fresh flower garlands draped the doorways and the backs of chairs. Tapestries on the east wall depicted the dragons’ fall from grace with the evil angels. A particularly grand dragon skull, gilded around the circumference of the eye openings, hung high on the wall over Lord Guiscard’s chair. The upside-down cross indicating the kill spot glittered with rubies set in gold.
Studying the beast’s skull, he determined Amandine might have been responsible for that one. He knew of but two other slayers in Europe, and rarely did they venture close to the sea, for the added hazards, such as the cliff-side entrances to the dragons’ lairs and, well, there was the sea and all its dangers. Amandine had liked to travel the coast, knowing the greatest challenge always offered the most satisfying results. Besides, he’d once told Macarius of the sirens. He had not seen one himself, but what riches he would give to see a flash of scale and to catch a pretty green smile.
Sirens. Macarius nodded. Yes, he would like to see the sort, and would, surely, for his travels took him far and wide. What a catch that would make, eh? He would commission a massive tank and display her for all to see when finally he settled and built his own castle upon the sea.
But enough of that nonsense. He had a more urgent commission to gain. If there were so many dragons, that could only mean one thing—the hoard, which attracted the beasts, must be tremendous.
The seneschal who had seated himself to the right of the lord whispered into his ear and gestured toward Macarius. His reputation obviously preceded him for the baron nodded and grinned. How joyous this village would be to receive him into their arms!
“My lord Guiscard.” Macarius bowed grandly before the damask- and silver-lace festooned high table. His gauntlets clicked against the sword sheath at his hip. Flames from the many wall torches glittered across the mesh hauberk skirting in dags below his coat of plates. The very flesh on the left side of his body pinched with the movement of so grand a bow, but Macarius was accustomed to pulling a face over the pain. “I am delighted you have bid me welcome into your home.”
Guiscard twisted his fingers, ringed with sapphires, and studied Macarius with vivid blue eyes. “My seneschal tells me you are a dragon slayer?”
Did Macarius detect a note of boredom in that tone? Must be the abundant wine, and a night of festivity surely altered a man’s sense of generosity and need for protection.
“I am indeed a slayer, the greatest in all the land. Macarius Fleche. I travel constantly, and mark no city, village, or demesne my home. I have followed my father’s profession, and before that, his father. I once worked with a partner, but alas, he has fallen to the bane of our profession. Therefore, I am the last of a most fearless and revered breed.”
“I see. Quite the pedigree.”
Macarius bristled proudly. “I’ve patents if you wish to look them over.”
“No. Just get to the point, Fleche. What brings you to St. Rénan? Do you not see we celebrate? If you wish to join the revels, be my esteemed guest, but if you’ve another reason for interrupting…”
Macarius snickered at Guiscard’s bantering disregard. A glance about found the entire keep had settled to observe and whisper. So let them! This day their lives would alter for the better, thanks to his skills.
