The Flame Eater
Page 1
Barbara Gaskell Denvil
Contents
Historical Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Acknowledgements and Historical Notes
About the Author
Also by Barbara Gaskell Denvil
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It’ A Wrap
Historical Foreword
My first love was always medieval mystery, crime and romantic adventure. This all started with a fascination regarding the events and living conditions of 15th century England. With great enthusiasm, I began researching this period when I was just a young child.
When I started writing some years ago, I set the books during that time, I quite quickly made the choice to translate my books into modern English. “Thou art a scoundrel,” just didn’t appeal, and no one would have wanted to read it. I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to write it. However, this leaves the author with a difficulty. Do I use entirely modern words, including slang, or do I create an atmosphere of the past by introducing accurate 15th century words and situations.
I made the choice which I continue to follow in all my historical books. I have been extremely strict concerning historical accuracy in all cases where I describe the background or activities. I do not, on any page, compromise the truth regarding history.
Wording, however, is another matter. For instance, all men (without titles) were addressed as “Master ----” But this sounds odd to our ears now. Only young boys are called master now. So I have adopted modern usage. ‘Mr. Brown,” has taken over from ‘Master Brown”. It’s just easier to read. I have used some old words (Medick instead of doctor for instance) but on the whole my books remain utterly historically accurate, but with wording mostly translated into modern terminology, which can be understood today, and hopefully allow for a more enjoyable read.
I was once criticised for saying that something had been bleached. (I didn’t imply that they went to the local supermarket and bought a plastic bottle of the stuff, paying on credit card). But yes, in that age bleaching was a common practise. They used various methods including sunshine and urine. But it was bleaching all the same.
Indeed, nowadays most writers of historical fiction follow this same methodology.
I would love to know your opinions on this, so do please get in touch.
Chapter One
The curve of his thigh skimmed the melting candlewax. He sat amongst the platters, the rolling cups, the crumbs and scattered food, watching the reflections from the chandelier play along the polished pewter. He swung one leg, tapping his foot against the side of the table. His other foot rested on the body lying beneath.
A small flame hissed as the toppled candle stub extinguished in the spilled wine, for the table setting had been ruined in the struggle. Cold pork crackling and crumbled honey cakes lay strewn beneath the swing, swing, tap, tap of his foot, and the red wine puddled with the red blood, seeping to the edges of the rug.
The man stood eventually, looking down at the corpse as it sprawled, tongue protruding, eyes glazed. From the fallen wine jug, the trickling Burgundy dripped to the gaping mouth below. The man watched and smiled, but finally shrugged, clearing his thoughts of whimsy as he bent to finish his work and start the fire. As the first little flame rose amongst the piled napkins, the man turned and strode from the hall.
Outside the stars were singing. So he knew he had done the right thing.
They found his lordship’s charred remains within the hour. The messenger set off just minutes later, riding hard for the castle and his lordship’s father.
The curve of his thigh, sleek in fine grey wool, rested peacefully against the table, avoiding the mess of pottage. Another table; a far smaller table, gouged along its outer edge, one leg wedged with splintered willow chips to keep it stable, a smeared slime of onion and smashed turnip across its surface and the faint smell of smoked bacon rind. Another candle stub hissed, extinguished in thick trickling soup. The drip, drip of the sour green slid from the table to the ground where it was absorbed, not by the dry beaten earth but by the neat white apron of the woman lying there, her legs askew and her mouth slack lipped and open.
The body did not bleed, as the other had. Around the neck were black bruises, the marks of fingers, and the welts of a leather belt.
In the deepening shadows, the hearth was cold and no faggots were stacked. The cauldron hung empty, the poverty apparent. What food was now wasted, its spilled remains already congealed, was all there had been.
A chicken pecked at the woman’s outstretched hand, accustomed to more active fingers that scattered seed beneath the old table.
The man stood watching a moment. Then he buckled his belt back around his doublet, pulled it tight and readjusted the clip on his hat, flicking its small brim from his face. As he strode from the tiny dark chamber, he looked back once and smiled.
The fire he lit took hold almost at once, surging up the walls into the flimsy rafters, and sucking at the wattle, the daub and the thatch. Scarlet and gold roared upwards, gathering force and threatening the tenements close by.
The man was some distance away when the fire discovered the woman’s body, and claimed her grey frizzled hair, her careful little headdress, her outworn clothes and her tired old flesh.
Eyes down, feet together and hands clasped neatly in her lap as the low winter sun warmed the back of her neck, the young woman waited. Her mother said, “Look at me, Emeline. I want to make sure you are not glowering. And when you promise to obey me, as you certainly shall, I need to see the willing obedience in your expression.”
Emeline said, “You know I’ll obey you, Maman.”
“And don’t fidget with your fingers, Emma. Idle hands make for idle thoughts. It is high time you were married.”
She had not raised her chin, and spoke to her fidgeting fingers. “But he is dead, Maman, as we all know.”
“Don’t be absurd, child,” said the baroness. “You understand me perfectly well and will now marr
y the wretched man’s brother, since your father has not the slightest intention of allowing all that tedious negotiation to be wasted. The families will be affiliated, whichever brother is the target. And since Nicholas is now heir to the title, it is him you shall have.”
The baroness’s eldest daughter sat in silence for a moment, her gaze studiously blank. Finally she mumbled, “But I hate him. Everybody hates him. Do you mean me to marry a murderer, Maman?” and then wished she had not said it.
The Baroness Wrotham was standing very straight in front of the vast fireplace, and as she drew herself straighter and taller, the wind whistled down the chimney and black smoke gusted out in a small ball of fury. “May the Lord forgive me,” said her ladyship, “if I strike you one day, Emma, but if you ever say such a thing in public, I will have your father thrash you again. No doubt once you are married, young Nicholas will beat you for me. Murder is a monstrous allegation, and is almost certainly untrue. At least – there is no legal accusation as yet. And you cannot possibly hate a man you have never even met. Besides, the deal is done and the bride price practically agreed. Our families will be properly aligned to the benefit of both, and you will prove yourself dignified and obedient while accepting your Papa’s decision with ladylike compliance. In other words, you will behave as you never have before.”
“Peter loathed his brother. He said Nicholas was deformed and mean spirited and lewd. He said Nicholas was sour as a quince and coarse as a bramble weed.”
The wind was rattling the casements and the little flames across the hearth flared and sank. The baroness had to raise her voice. “What has any of that to do with it? If you do not like the man once you marry him, you will allow a suitable period to pass, produce the obligatory two sons, and then refuse to admit him to your bed just as every other good woman in the land chooses to do with a husband she dislikes. I will hear no more, Emeline. The matter is settled.”
“He’s probably the sort of man who would try to force me.”
“Then good luck to him,” sighed her Maman. “If he ever manages to force you to do anything at all, I must ask him how he achieves it.”
“I liked Peter.”
“Then Peter should not have got himself killed. You may consider yourself remarkably fortunate to have been almost affianced to one man you imagined you liked, which is certainly more than ever happened to me. But since you were never wed to Peter, and the settlement was not even finalised, there is no difficulty in arranging your union with the brother. Not even a dispensation will be required.”
The sun had faded and now the wind was whistling outside. “Peter was murdered.”
The countess gathered up her short velvet train and tossed her small stiff headdress, preparing to march from the room “Peter – Peter – I am tired of hearing of a matter now quite inconsequential. His death was no doubt sheer carelessness. And if it wasn’t, then I am entirely uninterested. Your Papa would be very cross with you for questioning God’s will. And you know quite well how your Papa reacts when cross.”
“How can he know it’s God’s will for me to marry the wrong brother?”
“Your Papa knows everything,” murmured her mother. “The priest has never dared argue with him, and nor will you.”
Upstairs, Emeline recounted the conversation. She folded her arms across the warm window sill, rested her chin on her wrists and gazed out across the hedged garden, the windblown meadows and the Wolds beyond. Her sigh was heavy with regret at being both misunderstood and mistreated.
“I suppose I sympathise,” said Avice from the shadows of the bed curtains, “but if I were not your sister, I would say it was a very good match and you should be grateful. A castle, no less. His papa once sat on the Royal Council, so you’ll go to court with new gowns and drink from real gold and silver. I doubt Papa will ever find me an earl’s son. I shall probably get the seventeenth son of an alderman.”
“You can have my earl’s son.”
“Don’t be pouty, Emma. One day you’ll be a countess. And he’s rich. Richer even than Papa.” She cuddled up against her sister’s side of the bed, enjoying the softer, larger and grander pillows. “You’re not thinking of – disobeying – are you?”
“Don’t be silly. I just thought Maman would consider my feelings for once. Take my preferences – at least into account – and perhaps speak to Papa on my behalf.”
“What good would that do? Papa has never changed his mind about anything – at least, not since I was born. And anyway, you really liked Peter. You were so happy to marry him. The brother can’t be so different. And you’ll get a new gown for the wedding feast.”
Emeline sighed again. “You know exactly how it happened, Avice. Once Maman told me a match was being arranged for me with the heir to the Chatwyn title, I was honoured. Of course I was. Then I was introduced to Peter, and he was so handsome and charming. I just knew, right from the beginning, I was going to love my husband. So tall, and gallant and kind. But Peter talked a lot about his brother. He despised him.”
“Well,” said Avice, testing the bouncability of the mattress, “we shall meet this horrid creature next month and find out just what he’s like at last. Since we’re all invited to the castle, it will be six whole days and nights of incredible luxury and roast venison and new gowns and beeswax candles and real foreign wines and huge sugar subtleties and fur lined eiderdowns and all the things Papa won’t let us have.”
“With the wretched Nicholas paying court to me, and me having to be polite.”
“You can pull your fingers away, and simper. I always wanted an excuse to simper. But simpering at the swineherd’s son just somehow wouldn’t be worth it.”
“I’m more likely to spit,” said Emeline. She returned her gaze to the heather pale hills on the horizon. “I wonder if Papa will make the horrid man accept a smaller dowry. Peter was hanging out for everything he could get. He admitted it. We used to laugh about it. I hope Papa makes Nicholas take a pittance.”
“It will be our Papa and his Papa,” Avice shook her head, “and nothing to do with anyone else.”
“I know.” Emeline slumped lower on the window seat. “But how can you bargain top price for a husband who is ugly and rude with a horrid temper and sinful habits?”
“And horns and a forked tongue? Wake up, Emma. His father’s an earl. Nicholas will be an earl. Earl’s always get what they want. Goodness knows if Nicholas actually wants you, but he’s going to get you anyway. And maybe a few sinful habits might be fun.”
The sleet angled sharply through the trees, turning the paths first to churned mud and then to ice, the ruts solidifying. The horses slipped and danced, pulled into snorting single file. Their breath steamed, their riders swore. The cart wheels leapt, axles groaning, hurtling Lady Wrotham from one cushion to another as she held onto her headdress and bit her tongue and wished she had chosen to ride. The litter’s low hooped confines swayed as the base planks rolled, the rain outside pelting against the waxed canvas and drowning out the neighing, the cursing and the sullen stamp and plod of hooves beyond.
Epiphany not long past, the January weather already smelled of snow. The small cavalcade was soaked, tabards and surcoats sodden, hats wilting over slumped shoulders, the horses’ bridles jingling and the wet reins squeaking between gloved fingers. Overhanging leaves collected the unrelenting torrents, then surrendered them, dumping sudden rivulets upon those riding below. The five men at arms had trotted a little ahead, clearing the way. Baron Wrotham, very stiff in the saddle, was followed closely by his two daughters and their ladies, braving the winter weather, flush faced and squint eyed in the cold. The clatter and slosh of the household trundled behind.
Four long days’ journey, two aching nights in small wayside taverns, and the main family stayed over for the third night at the Ragged Staff Inn on the road from Dorridge, buried their noses in hippocras and hot possets, were too wet, bad tempered and tired even to complain, then bundled their aching limbs between well warmed sheets and
slept on past dawn the next day.
During the long night, the rain stopped. A brittle white sparkle tipped each scrubby blade of grass along the hedgerows for a bright frost and a clear sky lit the morning.
Six hours later they rode from the forest’s edge down into the wide valley’s cradle where the castle walls soared golden from their waters. The portcullis was raised, and the drawbridge lowered. A buzzard sat like a lone gargoyle on the battlements, peering below, picking her target.
A different day, a different place, but the curve of his thigh skimmed the deep stone window ledge, the elongated muscles enclosed in coarse brown wool, the swing of both legs out and over. Then the drop. Eight foot to the ground, landing light and lithe in the cobbled courtyard, adjusting, balancing, and pivoting for escape. A long fingered hand grasped a bundle of skirts – a man’s wrist pushing from the frilled cuff, the shift emerging half torn from the gown’s too tight neckline, the apron adrift, a man’s boots beneath the bedraggled hems. Masculine body, wide shouldered, long legged. Feminine clothes; the soft pink of a servant’s well-worn livery.