Heroine...

Perhaps next week I’ll go back to murdering more characters, but for today a little bit of nonsense can be good for the soul.

The hills gently rolled and stretched as far as the eye could see – and then beyond that too. Molly Evans swept along the well-trampled path, her head tilted up to enjoy the warm spring brightness. The splutter of morning sunshine had brought the tourists out faster than a hive of ants converging upon a spilt ice cream cone. Intent on quiet solitude Molly had moved further and further away from the sickening romantic display of sweethearts walking hand-in-hand or gazing at one another over a picnic hamper. Problematically she was now miles away from anywhere and a damp fizzle had replaced any previous sunshine.

Determined to not let this ruin her precious hours of holiday, Molly let herself drift amongst idle thoughts. Here she was roaming rocky peaks like Jane Eyre, skirts catching in the breeze as she tried to run from the past. She was like Elizabeth Bennett traipsing about the countryside with a pair of fine eyes. She was like... Well she was actually more like someone’s bedraggled laundry. Her hair whipped painfully across her skin and her face was bright red and perspiring from the unintended hike.

Searching for a dry patch Molly plonked herself down on the grass. She rubbed distractedly at the stitch in her side, whilst she attempted to stop wheezing like her asthmatic hoover did back home. Deciding this was as good a time as any to have a tea-break she reached for the gingerbread stowed in her bag. The biscuit gave a satisfying snap as she broke off a small piece. Without warning she felt herself being pushed and with a startled yelp she tumbled down the hill.

Stunned and disorientated she lay still, her body trembling from the shock as each little twinge and bruise made itself known. As she blinked rapidly she found herself looking up into a pair of solemn brown eyes. A ribbon of drool hit her cheek making her flinch. The hairy face continued to look down at her with great interest.

“Mw-argh-ah!” She gasped, crushed under the weight of the biggest dog she’d ever seen.

“Pilot!” A cross voice called out sharply. The dog peeked over its shoulder before looking guiltily back at Molly. Pilot? She thought, wondering why the name seemed so familiar. The dog, which was roughly the size of a Shetland pony, shuffled back and sat on the ground beside her. Tentatively she sat up, running her hand over her body to check all her limbs were still intact. She now found herself in a better position to see the dog’s master. A man was striding quickly toward them. He wasn’t at all good looking. It’s not like she found the whole tall, dark and handsome thing attractive.

Her brain suddenly made the connection it had been seeking. She glanced between the dog and its owner. Pilot – Jane Eyre – Mr Rochester...

“Oh God.” Molly moaned plaintively to herself. She was about to meet her very own Mr Rochester with mud smeared across her face and wet grass sticking to her bottom. As he came nearer, however, she realised that he wasn’t glowering, brooding or sneering. He was in fact smiling apologetically. He was no Mr Rochester, just as she was no heroine. They were just a man, a woman and a very big dog.

Spring Has Sprung

Having walked past these medieval remains so frequently they have begun to blend into the background, and yet with a splash of colour and some early morning sunshine they are made eye-catching once more.

 

Who Fired The Canon?

An illustration of St Norbert from a twelfth-century manuscript of the Vita Sancti Norberti. Norbert was the founder of the Premonstratensian order (known as the 'White Canons').

The Dragon Slayer...

“I’m looking for a woman.” The dominating figure darkened the doorway of the brothel, the stranger’s spurs resonating against the uneven flagstones. An uneasy hush settled over the occupants of the room leaving the repetitive thud of bed-frame meeting an upstairs wall to fill the silence.

“Aren’t we all mate.” A friendly but warning voice finally answered. The room was crammed full of sailors and soldiers made volatile by enforced celibacy. Their ship had probably found berth only that afternoon. As the stranger shifted forward a restraining hand was slapped on his shoulder.

“Move aside. Mate.” The stranger’s face was shadowed by a wide brimmed hat but the quiet bite of his voice carried unequivocal authority. Two swords were strapped across his back, the gleaming ivory hilts curving against his shoulder-blades like a pair of wings. There was also a bag slung casually over one shoulder. The hand eased cautiously away from the stranger as the whole company stared in nervous fascination at the bag. It was made from the hide of a dragon.

Dragon-skin could not be bought or bartered by either merchant or emperor. There was only one way to possess their skin. You had to kill it and take it yourself.

There had always been stories throughout the three kingdoms of the dragon-slayers. Men supposedly trained from boyhood in the ways of dark magic. They were widely feared, respected and hunted. Their secret knowledge was both a danger and yet of high value to each of the emperors. The men in the brothel, however, decided it was simpler and safer to pretend ignorance.

Unhindered Owain ap Draig took a seat at an empty table, its other patrons moving hurriedly elsewhere to join friends. A drink was warily placed before him and he settled down to wait. He had seen one of the slaves slip from the room during the confrontation and knew that it was only a matter of time before she arrived. Though he had pursued her relentlessly in the past months he felt tense at the prospective reunion. He may have faced down dragons and pards, but she was a different beast altogether.

“Well well. Hello handsome.” A husky voice crept along his skin and he ground his teeth against a shudder. He made a point of draining, slowly, the remainder of his drink before looking up in acknowledgment.

“Flick.” He greeted courteously, nothing in his manner giving away how he really felt about the woman before him. The petite beauty with her soft unblemished skin should have seemed out of place in a hell such as this but he knew that her appetites were every bit as coarse as the other patrons. She settled herself comfortably on his lap, her arms reaching around his neck in a way that made her unlaced gown gape revealingly. With over-familiarity she tipped his hat back so that she could see his face more clearly in the half-light.

“Such a shame.” She sighed to herself, gently running a finger over the puckered scar that distorted the left side of his face. It was the angry red of a recent wound and seemed to throb under her caress. He couldn’t help but catch the heady combination of wine and lust which fragranced her bare skin. “Would you like me to kiss it better?” Her lips brushed wetly against his ear. “Just like old times.”

Nobody even saw him move. One moment she was draped over him seductively and the next she was bent over the table with her arms twisted painfully behind her back. It was easy enough to subdue her struggles. Despite her sly and devious disposition he had the natural advantages of height, weight and strength.

“Like old times enough for you?” He questioned mockingly. The last time they had met of course he had been the one tied up. There was too much history with this woman to feel anything but the need for revenge, he reminded himself as she undulated against him suggestively.

“I do remember how you always liked this position. Though I never knew you enjoyed having an audience.” Savagely he yanked her to her feet. There was amusement colouring her remarkable eyes and her lips tilted saucily upwards. With bruising force he hauled her out of the brothel, unaware or unconcerned by the studious indifference of the other patrons.

“Where is it?” He demanded harshly once they were alone, the frigid bite of air striking him as a welcome relief.

“I don’t have it.” She didn’t feign ignorance at least. Any patience he possessed, however, had been spent by her seductive antics. Grabbing one of her hands he unfurled the fingers with incongruent gentleness. The blade hissed as he unsheathed it from his belt.

“Do you really except me to believe you?” Her body trembled slightly but he expected more from the snow that melted against her naked skin rather than through any fear of him.

“I don’t have it.” She reiterated calmly. “But I know who does.”