Reynold de Burgh: The Dark Knight. Deborah Simmons

best to oblige them. By now, he was so well practised in the art that he would not let anyone see himself, not even a strange lad who already knew far too much about him. So where else would they head?

      ‘What made you think we are going to Walsingham or Bury St Edmunds?’ Reynold asked.

      ‘We are heading east, my lord.’

      Reynold was impressed. ‘And how can you tell that, by the sun?’

      ‘I’ve got a chilinder, my lord.’

      Reynold looked at the lad in surprise. Not many travellers possessed the small sundial. Just how well had the l’Estranges supplied the would-be squire?

      ‘I looked at all the maps, too. Glastonbury is south, and Durham is north.’

      Reynold began to wonder how long the l’Estranges had suspected he was leaving. He was tempted to ask Peregrine, but thought better of it. Did he really want to know the answer?

      ‘You obviously have your heart set on a longer journey than our thief Thebald had in mind,’ Reynold said. ‘But maps are usually of little use.’

      Geoffrey, the most learned of the de Burghs, had complained that most were vague and ill made. In fact, on the map of the world, the Holy Land was at the centre, with various places of the ancient world boldly marked, while other countries were depicted only by fantastic beasts. England was at the edge of the world, as though marking the end of it, when sailors knew that was not true.

      What Peregrine referred to was probably one of the routes written down that showed little or no drawings, but placed the larger towns on a line of travel and estimated the distances between them. ‘Twas a little better, but still … ‘I’d put my faith in a good reckoning by the sky, the tolling of the church bells to guide me or your chilinder,’ Reynold said.

      Peregrine grinned at that, and Reynold felt his own lips curve in response. ‘Where would you like to go?’ he asked, surprising both himself and the boy. He expected that the youth would say London, for who would not want to see that great city?

      Instead, Peregrine shrugged. ‘It doesn’t really matter, does it, my lord?’

      Reynold slanted him a sharp glance. Had last night’s misadventure stolen all of the boy’s enthusiasm?

      But Peregrine did not appear to be unhappy. ‘I just mean that where we head is not quite as important as what happens, is it?’ he said. ‘Since we are on a quest, I mean.’

      Reynold snorted. Surely the boy was not hanging on to that bit of nonsense? What had the l’Estranges said? That he was to slay a dragon and rescue a damsel in distress? It sounded like one of the stories about Perceval, whose mother enjoined him to be ready to aid any damsel in distress he should encounter as a knight.

      ‘I hate to disappoint you, Peregrine, but I think the l’Estranges have heard too many romantic tales. I have been on many journeys and have never encountered a damsel in distress.’

      ‘But what of the Lady Marion?’ Peregrine asked.

      Reynold frowned. Marion had been in trouble, having been waylaid upon the road, but it was his brothers Geoffrey and Simon who found her, not Reynold or Dunstan, the de Burgh who married her.

      ‘In fact, weren’t all the de Burgh wives once damsels in distress?’

      Reynold choked back a laugh. A few of his brothers’ wives he barely considered damsels, let alone distressed ones. One or two were as fierce as their husbands, and he said as much to Peregrine. ‘If you dared suggest to Simon’s wife that he rescued her, she would have you dangling by the throat in less time than you could blink.’

      ‘Still, they were all in need of aid.’

      ‘Some, perhaps,’ Reynold said. ‘But none were menaced by a dragon. Did the l’Estranges mention to you that they enjoined me to slay one?’

      That silenced the lad. When Reynold glanced his way, Peregrine was looking straight ahead, his face red. Perhaps the boy still believed in such things, and though some might have taken the opportunity to mock the youth, Reynold did not. There had been too many times when he wanted to believe himself—in the romantic tales, in the healing wells, in the possibility of making himself whole …

      But he drew the line at dragons.

      ‘I think we’ve missed it somehow,’ Peregrine said.

      The boy’s disappointed expression reminded Reynold of Nicholas, the youngest of the de Burghs, and he felt a twinge of wistful longing. Had he ever been that young and eager? He felt far older than Peregrine—and his own years.

      They had been travelling for more than a week, swallowing dust, fording streams and avoiding forested areas and the brigands that frequented them. They had given away the thieves’ mount to those in need. And at Reynold’s insistence, they had kept off the old wide roads to the smaller tracks and byways, which meant they had taken a meandering route that might have led them astray.

      Yet Reynold could muster no concern. While an interesting destination, Bury St Edmunds inspired no urgency, perhaps because he couldn’t help wondering what would follow their visit there. For now they were pilgrims. What would they become afterwards? Eventually, his coin would run out. And he had no wish to join the rabble of the road—outlaws, former outlaws who were sentenced to wander abroad, bondsmen who had fled their service and vagabonds who kept to unpopulated areas in order to avoid arrest.

      The thought gave him pause. As a knight and a de Burgh, he was a man of discipline, ill suited to an existence without goal or purpose. He had set out to escape the happiness and expectations of his relatives, but leaving behind his family had not given him the satisfaction he had sought. Had he had hoped that once away …? But, no. He had trained himself not to hope.

      ‘Perhaps we should turn around,’ Peregrine suggested, rousing him from his thoughts.

      Reynold shook his head. He did not like the idea of retracing their steps, making no progress, going back … ‘There’s a village ahead. We can right ourselves there.’

      But when they reached the outlying buildings of the settlement, they saw no one about to question concerning their whereabouts or the direction of Bury St Edmunds. Indeed, the village was eerily devoid of life. Reynold slowed his massive mount, as did Peregrine his smaller horse, and the sound of the hooves were loud in the silence. Too loud. Around them, Reynold heard none of the typical noises—of animals, screaming babies, shouting children, bustling villagers, creaking wheels and banging tools.

      The hair on the back of Reynold’s neck rose, and he tried to dismiss the notion that someone was watching them.

      ‘What is this place?’ Peregrine asked, his voice hushed with apprehension.

      ‘It looks deserted,’ Reynold said. In his travels with his brothers, he had come across the remains of abandoned buildings and even villages. ‘Sometimes the land just isn’t good enough to sustain the residents, so they move to richer soil. Sometimes repeated floods cause them to move.’ Reynold paused to clear his throat. ‘And sometimes death is responsible.’

      Reynold heard Peregrine’s swift intake of breath. ‘Do you mean someone killed them?’

      ‘Not someone, something,’ Reynold said. ‘Sickness can strike and spread, wiping out all but a few who flee for their lives.’ His words hung in the air, and he tried not to shudder. Unlike his brothers, who carelessly considered themselves invincible, Reynold was aware of his own imperfections and mortality, and he felt a trickle of unease.

      ‘Then maybe we should turn around.’

      ‘No.’ Reynold spoke softly, but plainly. This place did not hold the stink of death, and yet it seemed that something was not right. What was it?

      ‘So there’s nothing to be afraid of?’ Peregrine asked. His question, hardly more than a whisper, was followed by the sudden sharp sound of something flapping in the breeze, and Reynold saw the boy flinch.

      ‘No,’