Part 2: Georgie And The Dragon
Summer, 1814
"We're going to have to sell the sword."
Three identical gasps filled the room.
Georgiana Burns looked into the shocked eyes of her younger brother and sisters and shrugged. "I'm sorry. But Papa's replacement will be here in a week, so we have to vacate the vicarage. We've nowhere else to go, and grandfather's sword is the only thing we have of sufficient value to sustain us."
Mama's few pieces of jewelry wouldn't fetch nearly enough, and could be put to better use when the time came to find husbands for her sisters. But the sword - now that would lease them a cottage, clothe and feed all four of them, and still see to Richard's education.
"But that sword belonged to St. George himself," Ella protested, looking up through the lenses of her spectacles. "It slew the dragon. We can't sell it. It's our heritage."
Georgie leaned across the table to squeeze her youngest sister's shoulder. "We must, dearest. There's no other way." The sword had been her grandfather's prized possession, and she did hate to sell it. Not that she believed her family was genuinely descended from the St. George, or that the sword in question was his, but it was very, very old, and the gems in the cross on the pommel were real.
"Actually, I think there is." They all swivelled to look at Lottie. Her usually dreamy blue eyes were clouded and she gnawed on her full lower lip. "Squire Partridge did mention..."
"No!" He'd mentioned it to Georgie, too, and it was one of the reasons she wanted to get out of the village as quickly as possible. She had no intention of selling her sister to the fat, fifty-something squire. And she didn't trust him not to take what he couldn't obtain through honourable means.
Lottie sighed. "Well, then you could find a husband. It seems to me that that would solve everyone's problems."
"Certainly, dear. I'll run right out and do that." Georgie shook her head. While pretty, blonde Lottie was already fighting off suitors, Georgie had never had that problem. With flame red hair and a too-plump figure, she wasn't the sort men fought duels over. Even at only two-and-twenty, she already knew she was permanently on the shelf.
"I know another way." Twelve-year-old Richard slowed his inhalation of the stew to speak up. "I heard the squire and the Lord Mayor talking today..."
"Richard, what have I told you about eavesdropping?" Georgie looked down her nose and tapped her fingers on the table.
"But Georgie, this is important," he argued. "There's going to be a big meeting tomorrow at the church. Lord Weir may even be there. They're going to have some sort of competition among the maidens of the village for Midsummer, and the winner gets a fortune."
"What?" The others all spoke at once, laying down their spoons and staring at Richard.
He named an amount and they stared even harder. It wasn't an enormous fortune, but it would see the four of them through a year, perhaps two.
"It's true," he insisted, his ruddy cheeks flushed more than usual and his green eyes gleaming with excitement. "And I heard Squire Partridge say that Georgie would be perfect."
"But Squire Partridge hates Georgie," Ella, ever logical, pointed out. "Surely he was speaking of Lottie. You must have just heard 'Miss Burns', and misunderstood."
"I'm sure nothing will come of it," Georgie said firmly. She gestured to the others to resume their meal. "But I shall attend this meeting. If nothing else, perhaps one of the gentlemen can tell me how to go about selling the St. George sword."
Early the next morning, Georgie sat in the back row of the parish church and gasped for breath. Certainly, she'd known that beliefs here on the Welsh coast were more primitive than those in Devonshire, where she'd lived as a child. But it had never occurred to her that things could go this far. "Unbelievable!"
"You are absolutely certain that this archaic tradition must continue?" The voice was deep, cultured, and annoyed. Georgie had never seen the earl of Weir before, but there was no mistaking the man. He sat on the dais with the mayor and the squire, and though he lounged indolently in his chair, he easily dominated the scene. His tall, fit body alone set him apart from even the best-nourished villagers, as did his exquisite tailoring. She tried not to stare at his handsome, sharp features, or his raven-black hair and stunning silver-grey eyes, which were presently narrowed. She truly did.
"The security of the village depends on it," Squire Partridge insisted.
The lord mayor nodded gravely, as did the village elders arrayed behind him. "The sacrifice has kept this village safe for over five hundred years. It must continue."
"This sacrifice is ridiculous," Lord Weir argued.
Georgie nodded in astonished agreement as the man continued.
"I find it absurd that in this modern year of 1814, you still insist on not only believing in dragons, but in sacrificing one of your own daughters to the imaginary appetites of the creature."
And that was the crux of the matter.
The people of Draigmor shared a hallucination. Every last one of them appeared to believe in a dragon. Furthermore, they planned to sacrifice some hapless maiden to said dragon, in order to ensure another thirty years of the dragon's protection. If it wasn't so farcical, it would be terrifying.
"We've raised a good bit for the bride-price," the lord mayor announced. "If you match the amount, my lord, as has been the tradition, the family of the girl will receive a healthy sum."
The sum was staggering, and Georgie's jaw dropped - it even exceeded what Richard had overheard. A family could live frugally on the amount for several years. Then she caught herself. As if any family would take payment for one of its daughters.
Lord Weir, at least, was a voice of reason, though no one seemed to be heeding him. "Bride-price," he sneered. "Wergild, more like. How many more innocent girls will you cast out before you ignorant villagers realize, there is no dragon? I'm sure the poor women have fallen victim to the sea and the elements, or to wild animals."
"Aye, there is a dragon," old Mr. Dewey said from a front pew. Georgie had to crane her neck to see him. "Saw him myself I did. When I was just ten years old."