St. George and the Dragon - 1. Chapter 1: The Summons

It had only been a week since he had received the letter and now he was struggling to find his way along rural byways far from the beaten track in a little frequented corner of England. Since leaving the major highway, he had encountered torrents of rain intermingled with dense fog, both increasing with each mile. Road signs, those few that became visible through the obscuring weather, held no meaningful direction. He blundered on, sometimes slurring off the road in particularly dark and wet sections. The road he travelled came to an abrupt end in the face of a tall hedge, the intersecting road perpendicular. His instinct drew him to the left. He peered into the fog and saw nothing. The right offered no better advantage.

He reminded himself of the prospect of adventure that had prompted this journey, that and the letter that bade him come. Yes, that was the overly formal summons he had received from his uncle’s solicitor, “You are bidden to come to the Village of St. George on Wear to discuss matters to your advantage.” The letter offered condolence on the passing of his uncle, Uncle Jack, who had emigrated from the US to England, ostensibly to find his writer’s muse, more likely to create distance between his disapproving relatives and his unconventional life. He didn’t know what sins Uncle Jack had committed and no one would speak of him. Family dinner conversations came to a complete halt when Jack was mentioned, at least whenever children were present.

Still he had received the letter. What possibly could be “matters to your advantage?” He speculated that the vaguely mentioned house and grounds could be anything from a grand estate to tumble-down cottage. He would need to proceed to find out.

A faint glow appeared down the road to the right. “Ah, civilization,” he concluded and turned the car toward the light. Water sluiced across the road, causing the unfamiliar rental car to lose traction. The light brightened, dividing into two headlamps as they came ever faster toward the car. A blast of an airhorn identified approaching the light as a vehicle, a large very fast vehicle, with no better traction than his car had, evidenced by the swerving and careering lights. Again, a blast of the horn and the massive truck was upon him. He pulled the wheel hard toward the edge of the road just as the truck, laden with immense logs, roared past. His car bounced over an unseen obstruction and abruptly halted; the engine died.

His attempts to open the car door were frustrated. He lowered the window and poked his head out into the weather. Even in the dim light he could see that the car was enmired, stuck axel deep in what might be a slow moving stream.

“Adventure, huh?” he cursed aloud as he pulled himself through the open window, landing with an unhappy squish on two quickly sogging feet. With effort and at some risk of losing his shoes to the encapsulating ooze, he made his way to the road surface.

“Well the truck came from somewhere,” was the reasoning he used as he embarked in the direction from which it had come. The rain softened and gloom lifted as he soddenly plodded along. Open fields gave way to a dense, encroaching forest. “Ah, the logs,” he reasoned. A drunkenly aslant sign became visible as he walked. “The George and Dragon, Fine Ales, Distinguished Cuisine, Lodging,” it proclaimed. It also promised to be one-half mile past the bridge just now emerging from the mist a little further down the road.

The bridge was further than he had guessed and the “half mile” was surely optimistic. He hoped what the pub promised was not also overly optimistic. Had the clouds not parted allowing starlight to silhouette first the church tower, then the surrounding low buildings and cottages, he might have walked straight through village, so dark was the night. Further along past the star-illumined church yard, a single lantern pierced the night. As he approached, he could just make out the epic battle between an armored knight and a fearsome serpent dimly fought on a hanging sign. “Ah, the George and Dragon.”

The sociable sounds of a lively pub reached out as he neared. The nail-studded door yielded with a sharp creek, all other sound abruptly ended. He entered the bar-room to find it crowded with assorted locals, all staring at him, their faces a strange mix of fear and anticipation.

“It’s not him,” a strong local accent called out.

The room burst back into conversation. He approached a vacant spot at the bar, eyebrows raised in question.

“A foul night it is, sir. And what might you be doing out in it?” The red-cheeked publican asked with sympathy and pointed curiosity.

“Ummm, I was looking for St. George on Wear,” he offered hesitantly.

“Well, you’ve found us, alright. And if you don’t mind me askin’, who are you?”

“I’m here to meet my uncle’s solicitor, or actually his estate agent, I think you call them. I’ve got his name here somewhere.” He pawed through his pockets, withdrawing a battered scrap of paper. “Here it is. I’m to meet a Mr. Priddy. I was supposed to meet him at two this afternoon, but I’m afraid I got lost. The directions seemed clear enough, but I got turned about in the storm.”

The publican put his head through a hatch leading to another room. “Amos, the fellow you were expecting has come up here. You’d better come, he looks the worse for wear.” Then to him, “You look soaked through, how about something to warm your insides?”

He accepted the proffered whiskey and downed it in a gulp.

“Aye, that’ll do you good. Now, how did you end up in such a state?”

“Thank you, sir, I do feel better.”

A small, tidy man in an old-fashioned suit arrived at his elbow peering through thick spectacles. “Mr. St. George?”

He nodded, now working a second drink more slowly.

“Yes, I’m Charles St. George.”

“We’ve been worried when you didn’t show up today, though not surprised with the weather. You’ve come through alright.” Then to the publican, “Mayhew, he’s the one I told you of, you remember, Mr. Jack’s relation.”

“Indeed, sir? Well, welcome then.”

“Thank you. I’m afraid I had to abandon my car back aways, on the far side of the bridge.”

“You came afoul of the night?”

“The night, an incredible slick road and a truck hauling logs, as well. The car is off the road in what I think is a stream. I had to escape through a window, it had sunk so I couldn’t open the door.”

“Ah, that’d be the ‘Mire’. That whole stretch of road succumbs in weather like this.” The publican, Mayhew, returned to hatch shouting, “Ned, have that half-wit son of yours help out this gentlemen. His car’s in the Mire.”

“Me son ain’t a half-wit, maybe a dim-wit, but he’s more than half there,” a broad, hearty man replied with an equally hearty laugh. “It’ll be ‘til morning ‘til we can do anything. No sense heading out in this. It ain’t likely anyone else’ll be fool enough to drive along the Mire, beggin’ your pardon sir. Did I hear you’re Mr. Jack’s relation?” This last to Charles.

“Yes, I am, Mr. St. George’s nephew, not a fool I hope.”

“Well, don’t worry about a thing, we’ll handle it for you. Where can we drop your car?”

“I’m not sure. I was advised that Mr. Priddy would handle the arrangements…” his voice trailed off as he looked expectantly at the small man.

“I’m afraid we have few options here in the village…” Mr. Priddy began.

“Why, you’ll stay here with us,” a proud Mr. Mayhew interrupted. “I’ll have the missus warm up a room.”

“Make sure it’s on the far side of the house,” Mr. Priddy insisted nervously.

“Aye, as far as you can. He’ll no doubt be along soon.”

The assembled crowd all turned and stared at the door.

“Well then,” said Mr. Priddy interrupting the silence, “I’ll be off then. I’ll stop by in the morning to collect you, Mr. St. George.” He skittered to the door and opened it. There he froze in his tracks, his posture revealing the fear his face no doubt showed. He slowly backed into the bar away from some unseen terror.

“Mr. Priddy,” came a suave voice from outside. “Mr. Priddy, you’ve been avoiding me.” Everyone in the bar froze in place, all facing the doorway.

Through the doorway came a man. Tall, without being overly tall. Muscled, without being bulky. Masculine, without being oafish. Handsome, no beautiful, as beautiful and graceful as imagination can bear. Charles St. George felt his heart stop and his penis swell.

“Well, well, what have we here?” The man had spotted Charles. The man released Mr. Priddy from his gaze and sidled up to Charles.

“This, Robby, is Mr. Jack’s nephew, Charles, come about the property, I expect, that’s what Mr. Priddy was doing here,” Mayhew intervened.

At the mention of Jack, Charles’s uncle, Robby’s features softened, his head nodded thoughtfully. “Well then, Mr. St. George, may I call you Charlie? Well, Charlie, do let’s get better acquainted. Mr. Mayhew, may we use the lounge?” Robby put an arm around Charles’s shoulders and guided him into the adjoining room. A raised eyebrow and a nod toward the door was all it took to rout the assembled patrons – all men – from the lounge with the exception of an elderly man snoozing by the open fire. Mayhew dashed in to waken him and escort him from the room.

“You’ve been out in the weather, by the look of you, Charlie. Let’s set up by the fire.”

“I’m afraid I’ll steam,” Charles replied amiably.

“Mr. Mayhew, another round for my friend and a pint for me, if you please sir.” The drinks quickly appeared.

“So, Charlie, now that you’ve found us, will you be staying?”

“I’ve only just arrived. I’m not exactly sure why I’ve been summoned, other than it has to do with some kind of legacy from my uncle.”

“Surely you know about his house? Jack’s house,” again the thoughtful look, “Jack’s house is a gem. I’ve done all the renovation work over the past couple of years. Not large and showy, mind, but comfortable and spacious enough. He always said it suited him just fine for his writing.”

“I’m afraid I know little about my uncle. He seems to have been a black sheep of some sort,” Charles confessed.

A knowing look passed over Robby’s face. “If you want my advice, I’d suggest you stay around a while, get to know the places your uncle loved. I’d be please to show you about, help you settle in, get comfortable.” Robby slid closer to Charles, putting his arm around his shoulders as he spoke.

“That’s very generous of you, Robby. I’m curious to learn about my uncle. You see, I’m a writer, as I understand he was.”

Robby pulled Charles closer, leaning in as if to share a secret. Charles could feel Robby’s breath on his neck, it was warm, seductive. Robby’s opposite hand reached to Charles’s shirt, unbuttoning from the top to allow his hand to slide, caressing Charles’s nipple. Charles’s head tilted, responding the Robby’s lips as they softly kissed his neck.

A soft murmur came from across the room. There in the hatchway to the bar were the faces of six or so of the bar crowd, each straining to see what transpired in the lounge. Charles jerked to consciousness and pulled back from Robby’s grasp.

“Um, yes, well I, indeed, um yes, it would be good, very good to see the area. I would very much appreciate your generous offer, if it’s not too much trouble, of course we can settle things, times, things, um, ah tomorrow? Mr. Mayhew, is that room ready? Um, I’m actually quite tired, as it turns out. Yes, I think I’ll turn in?” Charles all but leapt from the fireside settee he had been sharing with Robby, heading for the doorway to the bar.

Robby sat agape, struggling to understand that he was alone. “Alright you bastards,” Robby shouted at the bar patrons, “you don’t think you’re going to get away with that. Johnson, get in here, you’re first, on your knees.”

Charles heard Robby’s command, but followed Mayhew to his room, not daring to wonder what Robby had meant.

***

Charles’s room on an upper floor of the pub was comfortable, the bed more so. His exhaustion from the day’s ordeal soon overtook him and he fell asleep. Despite the depth of his sleep, far away sounds crept in, just below his awareness. Voices shouting, grunts and cries, indistinct yet somehow erotic, demanding satisfaction. He awoke to utter silence, painfully erect. A single touch was enough to bring his orgasm. He relapsed into sleep, images of Robby’s face, the feeling of Robby’s touch replaying time and again through his dreams.