Page 4 of The Dragon Sacrifice

The story about the bishop was he was a man of the cloth who delighted in doing the king’s most violent bidding. He was in charge of Selection, made appearances at beheadings, and he was the one the king sent to demand taxes from starving priories. His gaze felt like a trail of cold fingers as he turned first to her and then to Horace.

“M’lord,” Horace stammered, coming around the counter toward the bishop. “To what do we owe the pleasure?” Horace bowed so low he nearly scraped his head on the floor.

“I’m in need of meat for my men. Whatever you can spare. This should suffice.” The bishop dug out several gold coins, dropping them in Horace’s palm. The butcher’s eyes grew wide.

“Yes, sire. This will suffice for sure.” Beaming, Horace strode into the back, bellowing for Tommas.

“And who might you be?” the bishop said, turning to Seela.

Was he speaking to her? A common peasant? Seela didn’t know how to answer. Should she bow or scrape? Following her first instinct, she simply stood where she was and answered his question. “I’m Seela of the Deep Forest.”

“Deep Forest?” he asked, stepping closer. His eyes traced her body hungrily, and it made her want to draw her cloak around herself like a barrier, though she knew that would be rude. She stood stock-still like a deer in the sights of an archer, trying not to move.

“You’re very lovely for a peasant girl.” His bushy eyebrows raised.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, hating his backhanded compliment and the fact she had to thank him for it. She hated his trim little beard, his smell of talcum powder. She hated the way his steely eyes lingered on her breasts. Forget the goat—she wanted the hell out of the butcher shop.

She took a step toward the door. He moved to close the gap between them, wedging himself between her and escape. His hand slipped around her waist, palm settling on her behind and giving it a squeeze.

Hot breath smelling of onions pulsed against her neck. “I might just allow you into my tent tonight. What a lucky girl.” His tongue slithered up the length of her neck like an oiled snake.

Her body reacted before her brain. Her knee went up, planting itself into his crotch as hard as she could. The bishop folded with an oomph, clutching his codpiece protectively. Angry eyes flashed up at her.

What had she done?

“You bitch,” he said through clenched teeth.

Seela didn’t wait to see the consequences of her actions. She fled, running out of the shop and down the street.

When she got to the safety of the trees, she stopped, clutching a trunk to catch her breath. Was he after her? There was no sign he was perusing her, though a man like that didn’t really need to give chase, did he? He could summon her mother and Seela to court, make them pay that way. Or he could send his knights to her house. She’d given him her name, a foolish thing. But would the slight be enough to warrant revenge? Maybe he’d be too embarrassed to explain why he was causing trouble for Seela. A man rebuffed might not want to admit a peasant girl had handed him his nuts in a sack.

Seela smirked a little despite her circumstance. The look on his face…

She rushed home, her cloak drawn around her, hiding her face as best she could. When she burst in the door, Mr. Whelp was gone, and her mother was busy setting the house to rights.

“Back so soon?” Her mother glanced up, noting the fear on her daughter’s face immediately. “Everything okay?”

Seela placed her cloak on the hook by the door. She set the door latch down, too, though that wouldn’t stop soldiers and their swords. “Mr. Whelp is gone, then?”

“Gone and done. His mistress paid, thank the Lords. I was worried she wouldn’t since she wasn’t his wife.”

“His wife didn’t want him,” Seela said smugly, going to the basin to wash. She could still feel the bishop’s hands on her skin and she wanted to douse her whole body, though there wasn’t time nor water.

“What happened in the village?” her mother asked.

Seela had no goat, nor fennel, and her coin was still in Horace’s hands. Should she tell her mother? It would do nothing to solve her predicament, and it would only cause her mother to worry. In the firelight, her mother looked haggard, grey hair limp and sagging from the bun at the top of her head. Bags hung under her normally bright hazel eyes. Eyes exactly like Seela’s.

“Nothing happened. I ran into Mickey. They were drinking to Mr. Whelp in the tavern.”

“And draining his kegs, no doubt.” Her mother put a kettle on the fire and then turned to her. “We have an hour before we have to be in the square. Would you like me to help you dress?”

Seela sighed. The last thing she wanted to do was get dolled up for Selection and Festival, but it was compulsory. All valley folk were required to attend, or they’d be charged a steep fine and spend some time in jail.

“I can dress myself, but I’ll ask you to braid my hair.”

Her mother nodded, falling into the wooden chair beside the fire. “You can have the bedroom. Come out when you’re ready for me.”

Seela slipped into the other room, then drew the curtain. It would be nice to have her mother’s deft fingers at the buttons on the back of her dress, but she could see her exhaustion. Plus, Seela wanted to be alone with her thoughts. She kept picturing the bishop’s face, his hands on her. He had power and wealth. A smart girl would have gone to his tent, plied him with her body, and seduced him. Seela had never been able to bring herself to do any of those things. She’d given many boys the knee-in-the-balls trick over the years. Now, they knew better than to lay hands on her.

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