The Princess and the Dragon

Saint George, Gustave Moreau, 1869

When the day of sacrifice came the King wept. Seated upon his throne he lamented, ‘I will never see my daughter on her wedding day. I will never feel the blessing of grandchildren. Life will be like ash upon my tongue.’ The King sat at the foot of his throne, his trailing cape of red and gold curled about his boots. His crown, bejewelled with rubies and emeralds, sat heavy upon his head. He wept.

‘Your Grace. The smallfolk are outside, beckoning for Your Grace to make good on your word,’ the Chancellor, draped in black and white said.

‘Tell them no,’ the King said. ‘I cannot bear to be without my daughter.’

The Chancellor bristled, ‘I fear they will not take kindly to that Your Grace. The Princess Sabra is the last of our youth, without her sacrifice the dragon will descend upon your city once more. The beasts foul breath will kill many.’

The King wept, ‘So be it. I will take a week for reprieve, a week to grieve. Tell the smallfolk that.’

The Chancellor bowed and shuffled from the throne room. The disgruntled braying of the people flooded the room as the doors opened. ‘Hear ye, hear ye, the King will take one week to grieve for his daughter, return henceforth.’

‘Then what are we to offer to the dragon to assuage its foul and killing breath?’ The butcher shouted.

‘We are running low on sheep,’ the baker said. ‘Soon we will have to give two people a day!’

The crowd grumbled.

‘Take two sheep a day, as we used to do, and return in a week,’ the Chancellor said.

‘But what about after that?’ The candlestick maker said.

The Chancellor remained silent.

The week passed and the King mourned but now he swallowed his tears. The Princess Sabra stood atop the stair, bedecked in the finest silks, with streams of lace from her tiara cascading behind her. The ensemble of royal purple and virginal white shimmered in the sunlight, her cheeks rosed and her eyes dry. ‘Do not weep for me, Father, but for the people who have lost their loved ones too.’ The King smiled, grief stymied in admiration for his youthful daughter’s wisdom.

The smallfolk waited at the gates, all dressed in black, with the last of the sheep, a rope about its neck. The florist stepped forth and handed the rope to Princess Sabra, the animal baa’d. The Princess turned to her Father and smiled sadly. The King suffered his grief and smiled back, watching as she led the sheep through the gates of Silene. The King and Chancellor followed, a dozen yards behind, the smallfolk in tow.

Sabra processioned down the cobbled road, flanked by moors of heather, towards the shore of Lake Lerna. The great and terrible dragon, its rotting breath most foul, slumbered beneath the azure and tranquil surface. The Princess found a rock to tie the sheep too and set herself upon it too, her silk slippers powdered with silt and sand. The King looked on aside the smallfolk of Silene, silent and tense, of a distance safe from the dragon’s putrid breath. The Princess began to weep.

George guided his white stallion along the cobbled road to Silene. Lake Lerna stretched out to the east, framed by ragged mountains and drenched in sunlight. His plate shimmered, his lance sharp, his resolve firm. Reaching the peak of a moor his eyes fell first upon the walled city of Silene, gates open and walls barren. ‘How safe a city it must be to have its gates thrown open and not a guard in sight,’ George said to his steed. Next he saw the King and smallfolk of Silene gathered on a hill between their city and the lake. ‘That’s odd, perhaps there is some festival today,’ George encouraged his steed onward. Then he spied the Princess in her silk, weeping on a rock, as a sheep nibbled at tuft of marram by her foot. ‘No, something foul is afoot,’ George said, brow creased. He cantered toward the Princess on the rock.

‘Fair Princess, why do you weep?’ He said casting a shadow over the young woman.

She sniffled and looked up, eyes widening, ‘You must leave, Ser Knight, or the dragon will surely be the end of you!’

‘I fear no dragon, Princess. Tell me, why are you waiting for a dragon and why are good folk watching on?’

The Princess Sabra exhaled, ‘A dragon with foul breath dwells beneath this lake. Everyday we must sacrifice to it lest it menace our once joyous city. Today,’ she swallowed and sat upright, ‘I am to be that sacrifice, along with this sheep.’

George felt his humours surge, ‘Preposterous! I will slay this dragon for you, Fair Princess.’

‘Gallant knight, you will surely lose for the dragon is great and terrible with rotten breath that kills all who breathe it!’ As the Princess spoke the tranquil lake gargled. The water frothed and bubbled. Waves lapped against the silt and sand.

George hefted his lance and lowered his visor, ‘Fair Princess, hide behind that rock!’ He directed his stallion to face Lake Lerna. The water’s surface broke. A dragon, green of scale, great and terrible emerged, with serrated teeth and putrid breath, and spread its leathery wings spraying the shore with spume. The gallant knight gripped his heater shield tight, blessed with the Cross as it was.

The dragon roared, a deep rumbling poured from its throat with no moving of snout, ‘Are you to be my sacrifice today, knight?’

‘Nay! I am to be your blight,’ George spurred his steed to a gallop and couched his lance upon his breastplate.

‘Foolish man! You creatures should know thine place amidst this world,’ the dragon raked at the gallant knight with tenebrous claws like swords.

George hefted his shield, the shock of the blow rippled up his arm yet his defence held firm. ‘No dragon can be suffered to live!’ He roared, his lance straight and true.

A deep and terrible tremble guttered out from the dragon’s throat. A wretched green haze smoked between its teeth.

‘Its breath! Gallant knight, take care of its breath!’ The Princess Sabra wailed.

George gripped his lance tight and urged his stallion on. As the lurid green breath suffused the air the gallant knight speared the dragon. His skin burnt, and his eyes stung. His lance pierced the beast’s orange eye and burst from the back of its skull, scale and blood burst amidst shimmering steel. His steed reared, as the lance struck true, kicking and braying. The dragon guttered a final rumbling sigh, its breath reduced to mist.

The Princess Sabra emerged from her hiding place and ran to George, ‘Dear Ser, you’re maimed! Allow me to aid you.’

George removed his helmet and dismounted, his skin blistered and bleeding, ‘No need, Fair Princess, for the Lord will provide.’ He strode to the rock and as he reached down it split asunder, and a spring of water gushed forth. Catching a cup in his hand he drank and felt his burnt skin mend and the bruises on his arm heal. He knelt and gave a prayer of thanks to the Lord. As he rose The King approached, dashing down the moor with the smallfolk in tow.

‘Ser Knight, what is your name so I may aptly reward you?’

‘George, Your Grace,’ he bowed.

‘Ser George you have saved my daughter, my city, and my people. I offer you the hand of my daughter, Sabra, as the greatest reward I can offer yet still pale to the bravery you have shown this day.’

‘I’m afraid I must refuse as I am promised to another,’ George said.

‘Then I must offer you a weight of gold and silver and livestock,’ the King said.

‘I’m afraid I cannot accept that either. For I was sent by the Lord to assist you in your plight and not to receive reward.’

‘Then… how may we honour you, Ser George?’ The King spoke and the smallfolk gathered round.

‘Keep true to the Lord. Build a great church on this spot. Honour his priests. Care for the poor, that is all I ask,’ George said.

‘Of course, of course, we will do all you ask,’ the King wept with joy, Sabra at his side.

‘Your Grace, Fair Princess, I beg your leave,’ George bowed, mounted his white stallion, and urged his steed back towards the cobbled road.

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