Over the days that passed, he became
more morose. Sometimes the medicine made
him too sluggish to take part in their performances. Some mornings he would smile wistfully at his
mother when she passed a cup of goat’s milk between the bars. Other times, he would knock it flying out of
her hand, taking some of her skin with it.
He spoke very little, his tongue having been charred so much by the
fire-breathing. he had a sickly, pale
greenish tinge to his skin, bloodshot eyes and a weary, slack jaw. He was becoming more and more unpredictable
as the reptilian part of his brain gained increasing dominance over the human
part.
‘We must travel west and north,’
said Holger. ‘Through Gascony and
further north. We can make our way to
England. Maybe there, we can leave the
past behind.’
It was in Larressingle, however,
that trouble caught up with them.
They had joined jugglers and clowns,
musicians and poets inside the castle wall of new yellow stone. They pitched their tents – one for Julian and
one in which Holger and Birgitta got dressed for the parts they were to
play. An old tale, much loved, about a
dragon that prevented villagers from drawing water from the well. Holger and Birgitta had taken a walk round
the area. It was warm, welcoming place,
full of smiles and friendly people. They
noticed a sturdy fig tree that might be used in their act. Also, a well, entwined with blackberries – the
perfect setting. Opposite the saddlery,
there was a low wall and, in sheltered corners, the tall stems of hollyhocks
swayed gently in the south-western breeze.
One of the prettiest places they’d ever come across.
What could possibly go wrong?
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