Rhiana

“My lord, and good people of St. Rénan—” Yes, involve them all. It only increased his esteem. “I understand you’ve a dragon problem.”

The woman sitting to Guiscard’s left—very nearly in his lap—reached for a sugared sweet and pressed it to her thick red lips. Her dark eyes held him with an intense fascination that bordered on eerie.

Guiscard gave a dismissive sway of hand. “Eh. St. Rénan has always been known to harbor dragons. You’ve seen one…”

Such complacent disregard!

“But, as I am given to understand,” Macarius said, now a bit quieter, but still firmly, “not for some years. Yet the dragons have returned to the caves overlooking the sea.”

“You purport to know our village well.”

“My father spent the summer here a few years back. He waxed effusively on the gorgeous meadows strewn with fragrant meadowsweet, and of your hospitality, my lord.”

Best to lay things thickly, Macarius knew.

“Seems we’ve a rash of eager slayers, of late,” the baron announced.

“My lord?”

Another dismissive shrug.

Macarius felt the eyes of all upon him. Beaded hennins draped in silks of all colors tilted in interest. Men wielding pewter mugs of ale, and a woman’s backside in the other hand, paused to listen. Still the musicians played, but quieter, background accompaniment to the show before the high table. At the rear of the keep a man holding elaborate fire torches held a pose of interest, his arms high to light him like a gilded statue. Even the three-legged mutt wending its way through the crowd seemed interested.

Macarius did not mind the attention. Stand back, one and all; he’d show them his skills. Who dared to put a challenge to the greatest slayer in all the land? He’d snatch that challenge up with his teeth and spit out the booty for all to admire.

Lord Guiscard stretched forward in his chair. “We don’t need you, Fleche.” He flicked his multi-ringed fingers at Macarius. “I bid you leave as quickly as your mount can carry you from the village.”