Hunting of the Last Dragon by Sherryl Jordan Page A

stop doing that? I’ve confessed all this to the Abbot, and he’s shriven me, and said a blessing over me. Now can we get on with the tale? I’d like to think I can tell it truly, as ithappened, without you frowning and tut-tutting and splattering ink every time you cross yourself.
    Now, I’ll tell you of my life those days, in Old Lan’s house. At first I was as restricted as Lizzie in my walks, because of my sore ankle, and so I stayed mainly about the dwelling, resting in the shade. Lizzie went on short walks with Lan, or helped in the garden, or they sat on stones under the trees, talking together for hours like old acquaintances. When working in the house, Lizzie sat upon a stool to spare her feet, and she seemed at home, content with her lot.
    I cannot say I shared her contentment. I feared Old Lan, and sorely resented the fates that made me stay. Though Lan had commanded me to stay abed and rest, whenever she was out of the house I got up and stood on my hurt foot, hoping to strengthen it, thus hastening the day when Lizzie and I might leave.
    One afternoon, while Lan and Lizzie were out in the garden, I hopped over to the suit of armour, to inspect it. It was dusty and dull with smoke, but beautifully made, each link in the mail skilfully joined. I lifted it in my hand; it was heavy, but slid and moved like a silver skin. Leaving it, I lifted the sword from the wall, withdrawing it from its steel scabbard. It was heavier than Tybalt’s sword and cunningly etched with wondrousdesigns. There were jewels about the handle, and a coat of arms in scarlet and blue. I wondered who the man was who had owned it, and how it came to be here in Lan’s house, with the armour and helmet. What was his name, and who had been his lord?
    â€œHis name was Ambrose,” Lan said, coming inside, her arms full of vegetables. “He was a knight, sorely wounded, and stayed here for healing. I told you to rest your foot, boy. I know you’re eager to be gone, but you don’t hasten healing, walking before you should.”
    I put the sword away, unnerved because she knew my thoughts. It was one of her less alarming habits, knowing what lay in people’s heads—and in their hearts, no doubt.
    Lizzie came in, too, her hands dusty with the soil, and with dirt smudged across her cheek. She smiled at me across Lan’s bent back, then sat on the dirt floor in the shade. Both cats leaped from the hearth and curled up in Lizzie’s lap. They were like fond kittens with her, though they snarled and spat at me. Lan crouched by her fire and began cutting up a cabbage and throwing it into the broth.
    â€œYou knew this knight well, old mother?” Lizzie asked.
    Lan put down the knife and rested back on herheels, her eyes peering through the smoke, beyond it, to things I could not see. I sat on the bed, sensing a story brewing.
    â€œAye, I knew him well,” Lan replied, soft and dream-like. “He was manly and tall, and lithe as a whip, once his scars were healed. Beautiful he was; my joy, and the love of my life. And I was the love of his.”
    I smiled, for she was mortal ugly. “I was a young widow then,” she went on, “as comely as Jing-wei. I found him on the lane one day, much as I found you, Jude. He was covered with ash, and he could hardly stand nor speak from pain and weariness. I brought him here, and helped him take off his armour, so that he could lie down and sleep. And under the mail his tunic was scorched to rags, and in parts melted onto his skin, for he was sorely burned. And when I washed the dust and ash from his face, his skin came off as well. All over he was burned, and the scars were a long time healing.
    â€œHe had killed a dragon, though not before it breathed on him. Long had he studied the beasts, and knew much of their habits and weaknesses. He had a fine mind, did Ambrose, curious and well informed. He was right brave, and gentle, too. Never had I