Reynold de Burgh: The Dark Knight

‘Yes, I have a bad leg,’ Reynold said.

‘Were you injured in battle?’

Reynold shook his head. ‘I’ve had it since birth,’ he said with a carelessness he didn’t feel. But the pose came easily to him, for he was accustomed to hiding his feelings, whether it be his resentment when his brothers urged him on, making light of his affliction, his jealousy at the abilities they took for granted, or his bitterness at his place as the runt of the litter that was the grand de Burgh family.

‘Was it the midwife’s doing?’

Lost in his own thoughts, Reynold was surprised to hear the question, for no one ever asked him about his leg. He never discussed the subject. Although he could hardly reprimand the boy for simple curiosity, Reynold could not bring himself to comment, especially when the question was one none could answer. He gave a tense shrug.

‘I—I only asked because my sister helped the midwife at home, and she says sometimes the baby isn’t in the right position to come out properly. The women try to move it as best they can, but who knows what injury they might do? And some come out not at all or feet first. Is that what happened to you?’

Again Reynold shrugged. There was no use speculating since everyone involved was dead.

‘Or it could have been the swaddling,’ Peregrine said, as though thinking aloud. ‘They’re supposed to stretch and straighten the baby’s limbs, but carefully. The midwife told my sister that bad swaddling has caused men to grow up to be—’

The boy must have realised what he was saying, for he stopped abruptly, leaving his final word unspoken.

It hung in the air between them, an appellation that Reynold rarely heard, but was painful none the less. He drew in a deep breath and spoke in a tone intended to put an end to the conversation.

‘I am not a cripple.’

Chapter Two

They kept along the same road. Wide enough for a cart, it was probably designed for market traffic. After their experience the night before, Peregrine suggested a smaller track, which led to a manor house where they could rest in safety and comfort. But Reynold was not eager to proclaim his whereabouts, and he reminded the youth that danger was part of travel.

Frowning, Peregrine didn’t appear quite as eager for adventure as he had a day earlier, but ‘twas a good lesson for him, Reynold knew. Better that he learn now rather than later when they were even further into the wilds.

‘Are we going to Walsingham or Bury St Edmunds?’ Peregrine asked.

Reynold slanted the boy a glance, for he had given a pilgrimage no thought beyond using it as an excuse to leave his home. But now he considered the idea more carefully. They could hardly continue wandering aimlessly through the land, and a pilgrimage would give them a destination and a worthy one. Indeed, had he been alone, Reynold might have headed to the healing well that the thieves had mentioned—just for curiosity’s sake.

But Peregrine’s presence stopped him.

Reynold had learned to keep his private yearnings to himself long ago—when his father had caught his brother trying to sell him the tooth of Gilbert of Sempringham, the patron saint of cripples. There was nothing personal in the deceit; Stephen had quite a busy trade in dubious relics going among his brothers and other gullible parties. But, Campion, horrified by Reynold’s duping, had put an end to it.

And, Reynold, young as he had been, understood it was better to hide his feelings, along with any trace of vulnerability. His family preferred to ignore his bad leg, and so he did his 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.’