The Dragon and His Maiden, part 1
Dragons were powerful, fearsome creatures who delighted in human suffering. They lived on the flesh of maidens and only hunted livestock for sport. They were cruel and hideous, all of them. The only thing a dragon was good for was the testing of honorable young knights. All men knew this to be unassailable truth.
I dug one sun-warmed, callous-covered hand into the coarse black curls piled atop my head, sighing in deep aggravation. One of Mother's regulars had drunk himself into even more of a stupor than usual last night, to the point of making himself sick all over the floors. Of course, it fell to me to clean the mess. Throwing myself into the disgusting task with furious scrubbing and muttering under my breath, I missed the sound of boots clumping into my dank little corner of the building. It wasn't until the man spoke that I realized his presence.
“Poor little darling, forced to toil in filth and grime, when she could be putting her talents to ever so much better use.”
The voice rolled over my skin like tallow, or perhaps lard - slimy and more loathesome than the stinking mess that I was currently bent over. As complimentary as the words might be, coming from another, from him they were crude and openly suggestive.
The good, marriageable girls in the village - doughy bakers' daughters, pasty-faced merchant girls - all looked at William Thorne's face, angular and attractive, and saw the man they most desired. Young, strong, virile, blond-haired and blue-eyed, the young knight was a catch beyond their imaginings. Only those who knew what to look for saw the flatness of his gaze, the cruel slant to his smile. Here was a man who delighted in causing pain, especially to those who could not defend themselves. He'd left the village a couple of years before, to be trained in the use of a sword. I'd not heard that he'd returned. I'd rather hoped that he would lay hands on the wrong man's pretty daughter, and end up not coming back at all.
With a wet slap, I threw my rag back into the bucket and glared up into the eyes of the most dangerous man in the village. “I see you've made your way back here after all. I rather thought that the Lord's castle would be more suited to a man of your stature.”
Thorne chuckled, bending to catch my chin in an unyielding grip. “Still haven't learned any respect for your betters, I see.” I merely kept up my defiant stare. His flat blue eyes held my enraged green as surely as his gauntleted hand held my face. “I'm getting married. The Lord honors me with the gift of one of his daughters. A pretty enough thing, but not really my sort. Too gentle. Too willing.” The slime laughed at this, as if we'd shared a private joke. The sound made my blood run cold. When I said nothing, he continued on with his ramble. “So! In celebration of this momentous occasion, I thought I would go on a hunt. You know, have some fun before I have to be a dutiful husband. What do you think, my little raven?” His free hand was suddenly on my waist and slid upwards until he found my breast and squeezed once, hard. I flinched once, in pain and revulsion, and he smiled his cruel smile.
He released my face long enough to backhand me across the cheekbone. I crumpled into a heap on the floor as he rose, laughing. I listened to the tromping of his feet as he left the otherwise empty alehouse. As I lay there, surrounded by stink of filth and my own fear, I remembered the scar on the face of my friend, Rhian, daughter of the town harlot. She had tried to fight him when he had come to her looking for a “proper send-off.” Now the left side of her face was twisted into a mockery of her former prettiness, and she might be dead if not for my mother taking her in and letting her help with the alehouse now and again. She'd never quite been right after that, skittish where she'd been brash, fearful where she'd been brave.
At that exact moment, with Rhian's face fresh in my memories, I felt my fear coalesce into one shining piece of determination - that would not be me. It was at that moment that I knew what I had to do.
Rising from my huddle on the floor, I walked away from the rag and bucket, leaving my fear behind me with the partially-cleaned mess. My mother would be displeased, but she'd get over it soon enough. Cheek aching terribly - there would likely be a mottled blue-black stain across it already - I made my way to the stairs that led to my tiny room, above the business that had kept my mother and I from being forced into the same circumstances as Rhian and her mother. With single-minded determination I searched my room for what I called my “poaching clothes” - a sensible tunic and leather breeches that I wore for my occasional forays into the King's forest. Donning them swiftly, I took my shortbow and the horn-handled long knife that had been my father's. I loosed my ebon curls from their messy pile and grasped the length in one hand, preparing to shear them as short as a boy's - but something, some small measure of vanity stopped me. Instead, I rebound my hair and hid it as best I could beneath a cap.
Night was swiftly falling, and I intended to be in the forest before full dark. With only my two weapons and a small travelling pack - containing rope, flint and tinder, a length of blanket, and a sharpening stone - I set out from my mother's house without a word to anyone.
My mother would worry, yes. She would also be furious at the loss of her help. I hoped that my departure would cause the old woman to take on Rhian permanently. I didn't dare tell anyone where I went - William Thorne would sure question them, and I had no doubts that either my mother or my best friend would tell him if she knew. I didn't hold it against them - neither of them were the strong women they once were.
With the swift and sure steps of someone who knows the forest and its dangers well, I ran, and prayed under my breath that if I were found, it would be by beast, and not by man. I feared death not half so much as I despised the notion of becoming William Thorne's whore.
I dug one sun-warmed, callous-covered hand into the coarse black curls piled atop my head, sighing in deep aggravation. One of Mother's regulars had drunk himself into even more of a stupor than usual last night, to the point of making himself sick all over the floors. Of course, it fell to me to clean the mess. Throwing myself into the disgusting task with furious scrubbing and muttering under my breath, I missed the sound of boots clumping into my dank little corner of the building. It wasn't until the man spoke that I realized his presence.
“Poor little darling, forced to toil in filth and grime, when she could be putting her talents to ever so much better use.”
The voice rolled over my skin like tallow, or perhaps lard - slimy and more loathesome than the stinking mess that I was currently bent over. As complimentary as the words might be, coming from another, from him they were crude and openly suggestive.
The good, marriageable girls in the village - doughy bakers' daughters, pasty-faced merchant girls - all looked at William Thorne's face, angular and attractive, and saw the man they most desired. Young, strong, virile, blond-haired and blue-eyed, the young knight was a catch beyond their imaginings. Only those who knew what to look for saw the flatness of his gaze, the cruel slant to his smile. Here was a man who delighted in causing pain, especially to those who could not defend themselves. He'd left the village a couple of years before, to be trained in the use of a sword. I'd not heard that he'd returned. I'd rather hoped that he would lay hands on the wrong man's pretty daughter, and end up not coming back at all.
With a wet slap, I threw my rag back into the bucket and glared up into the eyes of the most dangerous man in the village. “I see you've made your way back here after all. I rather thought that the Lord's castle would be more suited to a man of your stature.”
Thorne chuckled, bending to catch my chin in an unyielding grip. “Still haven't learned any respect for your betters, I see.” I merely kept up my defiant stare. His flat blue eyes held my enraged green as surely as his gauntleted hand held my face. “I'm getting married. The Lord honors me with the gift of one of his daughters. A pretty enough thing, but not really my sort. Too gentle. Too willing.” The slime laughed at this, as if we'd shared a private joke. The sound made my blood run cold. When I said nothing, he continued on with his ramble. “So! In celebration of this momentous occasion, I thought I would go on a hunt. You know, have some fun before I have to be a dutiful husband. What do you think, my little raven?” His free hand was suddenly on my waist and slid upwards until he found my breast and squeezed once, hard. I flinched once, in pain and revulsion, and he smiled his cruel smile.
He released my face long enough to backhand me across the cheekbone. I crumpled into a heap on the floor as he rose, laughing. I listened to the tromping of his feet as he left the otherwise empty alehouse. As I lay there, surrounded by stink of filth and my own fear, I remembered the scar on the face of my friend, Rhian, daughter of the town harlot. She had tried to fight him when he had come to her looking for a “proper send-off.” Now the left side of her face was twisted into a mockery of her former prettiness, and she might be dead if not for my mother taking her in and letting her help with the alehouse now and again. She'd never quite been right after that, skittish where she'd been brash, fearful where she'd been brave.
At that exact moment, with Rhian's face fresh in my memories, I felt my fear coalesce into one shining piece of determination - that would not be me. It was at that moment that I knew what I had to do.
Rising from my huddle on the floor, I walked away from the rag and bucket, leaving my fear behind me with the partially-cleaned mess. My mother would be displeased, but she'd get over it soon enough. Cheek aching terribly - there would likely be a mottled blue-black stain across it already - I made my way to the stairs that led to my tiny room, above the business that had kept my mother and I from being forced into the same circumstances as Rhian and her mother. With single-minded determination I searched my room for what I called my “poaching clothes” - a sensible tunic and leather breeches that I wore for my occasional forays into the King's forest. Donning them swiftly, I took my shortbow and the horn-handled long knife that had been my father's. I loosed my ebon curls from their messy pile and grasped the length in one hand, preparing to shear them as short as a boy's - but something, some small measure of vanity stopped me. Instead, I rebound my hair and hid it as best I could beneath a cap.
Night was swiftly falling, and I intended to be in the forest before full dark. With only my two weapons and a small travelling pack - containing rope, flint and tinder, a length of blanket, and a sharpening stone - I set out from my mother's house without a word to anyone.
My mother would worry, yes. She would also be furious at the loss of her help. I hoped that my departure would cause the old woman to take on Rhian permanently. I didn't dare tell anyone where I went - William Thorne would sure question them, and I had no doubts that either my mother or my best friend would tell him if she knew. I didn't hold it against them - neither of them were the strong women they once were.
With the swift and sure steps of someone who knows the forest and its dangers well, I ran, and prayed under my breath that if I were found, it would be by beast, and not by man. I feared death not half so much as I despised the notion of becoming William Thorne's whore.