The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  He did not suit his skirts. Not a convincing disguise but there should not have been anyone to see. Instead there was someone. The befrocked gentleman turned his head, the straw hat darkening his face into shadow, and stared straight into the young woman’s startled gasp. He grinned, shrugging, gathered his skirts up again and without a word strode off towards the stables.

  She watched him go. Too brazen for a thief, too assured for a scullion, the Lady Emeline wondered who, in this castle of grandeur and disdain, dared prance in borrowed clothes, play the fool, and climb from windows. She had seen little of him, and more of his legs than his face, but thought she would recognise him if seen again. The profile had seemed elegant in its shadows beneath the absurd maiden’s bonnet. But then he had turned his head. She had seen the flash of sky blue eyes, but also the pitted crevice of a scar slashing from lower lid to earlobe and dividing the flesh, a rut as deep, it seemed, as that along the winter paths. One blue eye was part drowned in iced milk. A disfigurement that, even from the shadows, marked a face as forever memorable.

  “My son,” said the earl, “apologies for his absence. Unavoidably called away. Sadly, since my elder son’s death, the estate claims more of our time than we’d like, and Nicholas – well, Nicholas is Nicholas. I trust he’ll return – eventually.”

  There was the very best Trebbiano, the sweeter Malmsey for the ladies, tansy cakes and candied raisins soaked in honey displayed on silver platters. Refreshments were served in the great hall, draughts retreating behind the thick tapestries, the fire blazing on a hearth almost as wide as the road from the forest to the drawbridge. It was a great carmine splendour. It also smoked and smelled of soot.

  Baron Wrotham looked down his nose. “Your courtesy is much appreciated, my lord,” he said and did not look as though he meant it.

  The earl waved long plump fingers. “You’ll be tired. The journey – the unpleasant weather – the roads were at least passable, I see. Good, good. You’ll be needing to rest, of course. You’ll be shown to your quarters.”

  Her ladyship tottered upright and curtsied. Her legs barely held her and she wished indeed to rest. She took her elder daughter’s arm, and, effectively dismissed, they followed the bowing steward from the hall. Avice scuttled behind them. His lordship the baron remained. He had a great deal to say. It was some considerable time before he took to his bed.

  But Emeline had very little to say before closing her eyes. The bed was wide and warm and soft but being squashed between her mother and her little sister, she was less comfortable than she had expected. Waiting until she heard her mother’s gentle snores, she then quickly mumbled into Avice’s ear. “I’ve no doubt the wretched Nicholas was sulking in his bedchamber. Scared of meeting me because I know he murdered his brother.”

  Avice sniffed, avoiding the sudden movement of elbows. “How does he know you know? And how do you know he knows you know? And if he’s wicked, he won’t care what you know. Wicked people don’t sulk. I sulk. You sulk. He wouldn’t.”

  “I don’t sulk.”

  “You’re sulking now just because your beastly betrothed isn’t showing the slightest desire even to see what you look like.”

  “Go to sleep,” said Emeline.

  Chapter Two

  It rained again on her wedding day. There was thunder in the west, and its echoes rolled across the battlements.

  They helped the bride into her gown. Emeline shivered, goose skinned. Her mother tightened the wide satin stomacher and Avice sat on the window seat, hugging her knees as she watched. Nurse Martha was combing her mistress’s hair and the two dressers, who had been attending the baron’s daughters since they were in nethercloths, shook out the great sweep of the velvet sleeves, brushed down the short train, and nodded with eager approval.

  “Oh, mistress, you’re as pretty as one of the good Lord’s own precious angels,” murmured the maid Petronella. “His lordship will be so proud.”

  Emeline opened her mouth and her mother pinched her sharply. “One word, Emma – one wrong word and I warn you, I shall tell your husband to thrash you on your wedding night.”

  “If he bothers to attend his wedding at all.” Emeline gazed at the wilting stranger in the long silvered glass before her. The gown was more beautiful than any she had ever previously owned; gold embroidered satin and rich saffron velvet trimmed in murrey and laced with golden ribbon.

  “Don’t be absurd, Emma,” sniffed her ladyship. “The bride price is agreed, and a shockingly high price it is. But the earl was adamant. Your Papa was quite worn out after the negotiations were complete.”

  Martha continued to comb Emeline’s hair, which she would wear loose for the last time. She shook her head, and the russet curls rippled. “You mean he’ll come for the money if not for me? But we were visiting here nigh on six days last month, and he hid the entire time. None of us met him and I’ve still never set eyes on him. He didn’t even come to wish us goodbye. It wasn’t normal. It certainly wasn’t polite. And now this time – the wedding imminent yet no sign of him last evening after we arrived. He didn’t even join us at supper. Does he eat with the scullions in the kitchens? Is he frightened of me? Or merely a clod with the manners of a donkey?”

  “You will meet him at the chapel doorway,” said the baroness. “Which is perfectly proper.”

  There were a hundred candles smelling of beeswax and sweet perfumed honey. The small altar was draped with silver cloth and the great silver cross, heavily embossed, reflected the candlelight. Outside the wind howled and the narrow arched window, its haloes and suffering saints momentarily sullen, rattled in its leaden frame with no sun to brighten the colours. The priest stood holding his bible, and around him the families had gathered in two small gossiping groups.

  Just before the alcoved doorway, a tall man stood alone. He was dressed in black velvet, the doublet laced in gold, his hands clasped behind him, his head uncovered, and his face turned towards the corridor as though waiting for someone.

  The baroness escorted her daughter. From the cold passageway Emeline entered the great golden aureole of candlelight, and recognised the man waiting there at once. The deep disfiguring scar which divided the left side of his face seemed more profound in the fluttering light, the long pit drawn black by shadow, but scarlet by candle flame. He did not smile nor did he greet her, but turned as she came beside him, now facing the priest at the chapel entrance, and there, in a cool, quiet voice he took her for his wife, speaking the simple words of contractual intention. Mistress Emeline accepted, answering in whispers as prompted. The small ring was blessed, the castle chaplain nodded, murmuring confirmation in nomine Patris, et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, the families and a handful of friends clucked, adding blessings of their own, and the earl announced it high time they gathered in the hall for the feast to begin, or half the dishes would be cold as the stone.

  The great hall was well warmed and well lit, the minstrels’ gallery was filled with music and joviality, the tables were heaving with steaming platters and the twenty or so guests were already wellnigh cupshotten. Nicholas was drinking heavily. Emeline sat to her husband’s right hand beneath the tasselled awning, ate very little, and drank nothing at all until his beringed fingers grasped her cup and filled it from the flagon, saying, his voice soft and lazy, “If you are to face me later, my lady, with anything remotely suggesting pride and composure, you should probably first drink everything on offer. And this being my father’s castle, I promise the wine on offer is both palatable and plentiful.” And then he refilled his own cup, drained it, and again looked away to talk to others.

  More candles, the blaze from the hearth brighter still, a dancing liturgy of flame and shadow, and Emeline hunched in her finery, golden as the swaying lights. She ate only a slice of venison with prunes, for the food was highly spiced and her stomach refused the smell, the weight, the heat and the taste of it. But she drank as bid, while the minstrels played and some of the guests pushed back their benches and rose to dance. N
icholas did not invite his wife to dance. Behind his seat, standing neat in a livery far grander than the usual, stood the young lord’s squire, who helped serve him. They spoke often though it was beyond Emeline’s hearing. His father sat on his left side, but he spoke little to him, and more regularly to a solid gentleman sitting beyond the earl’s bulging shadow. The earl bellowed for the wine jugs to brim again and again and buried his nose within the rim of his cup.

  Emeline heard little of any conversation. “Adrian? You here?” from Nicholas.

  “I am certainly here, cousin, as you would remember if you stopped drinking long enough to do so.”

  “Stop drinking? As a permanent reminder of exhausting boredom, perhaps? Bad advice, Adrian, and far too late.”

  “Then be assured I am here and shall remain here,” replied the solid young man. “And will no doubt help drag you to bed at the appropriate hour.”

  “Never needed your help, not with that nor with much else,” Emeline’s new husband grinned, consonants not yet noticeably slurred, “and never with anything as interesting as tonight is likely to be.”

  “Impolite and unnecessary, coz. At least remember your bride, Nicholas.”

  “Not likely to forget her,” Nicholas was laughing. “Would rather spoil the fun if I did, don’t you think?”

  It seemed interminably late when her mother came to Emeline’s elbow, signalling to take her upstairs. She then led her, suddenly deep in quiet shadow, along narrow stone corridors and steep steps and finally into the young lord’s bedchamber. Emeline was dizzy, barely stumbling as she tripped on her saffron velvets. Then the servants waiting at the doorway threw open the great creaking oak, and Emeline stood and blinked. A small fire deep within the hearth flared with a rush of scattered reflections, but there were also candles, everywhere candles, in sconces, on tables, a chandelier of ten small flamelettes and a huge silver candlestick beside the bed. She sank down onto the settle by the fire and wondered if anyone would pity her if she cried.

  Her mother hauled her up. “Remember you are a Wrotham, my girl. Dignity, always dignity. Your husband will show you what to do, and you will obey him utterly.”

  “What,” sniffed Emeline, “if he doesn’t know what to do either?”

  The baroness said, “Don’t be ridiculous, Emma,” and began to unlace her stomacher.

  “But with that – face,” Emeline whispered, “he will not have had – no girl would have – so perhaps he has never – either.”

  Her mother scowled and pinched her wrist. “Enough, Emma,” and her bustle of maids hurried around, carefully removing all the sumptuous beauty they had heaped upon her just a few hours previously.

  The bride grabbed her mother’s hand. “Maman, tell me the truth. Is it so bad?”

  “Nothing is ever as bad as the anticipation of it,” mumbled the baroness. “And remember, child, you will be respected for your courage and your obedience, however frightened you may secretly be. And the young gentleman has drunk a great deal, for I was watching him, which may help him quickly to sleep. Doubtless he has no great experience of treating women with respect, for sadly his mother died when he was very young and he has no sisters. But I believe he is kindly natured for he ordered that you be allowed to prepare quietly, without parades or the snooping attention of the feasters. No brawlers are to be permitted into the chamber here, and no winking, sniggering revellers eager to watch the preparations for your wedding night.”

  “Perhaps it’s himself he doesn’t want being watched,” muttered Emeline. She could hear her voice wavering with the odd distortion of her own vowels. “And I’m – well, I drank more than – that is, more than I ever have in my life before. So I shall try and go to sleep before he comes in. Indeed, I am very, very tired.”

  “You are very, very stupid,” sighed her mother, “though I cannot blame you for drinking too much wine on such a day. But I can certainly blame you if you try and avoid your duty. Besides, you look very pretty in your shift, my dear, and your hair shines quite wonderfully in all this candlelight. If only your dear Papa would permit the burning of so many candles on these cold nights. But that is quite another matter – so clamber into bed now, my love, and see what a great high mattress it is too, and well warmed I am sure.”

  Needing a little help, and not only because she was quite tipsy, Emeline climbed onto the bed. It was wide, heaped and richly curtained, four great oaken posts carved and scrolled, hidden within a swirl of painted damask. A welter of pillows and bolsters wedged her straight, and she sat, staring into the exaggerated wealth of lights. Her mother rearranged the pillows. Emeline mumbled, “Maman, please snuff some of those candles. I feel as though – as though I am on display.”

  “As you are meant to be, my love,” the baroness pointed out, and began to shoo the other women from the chamber. “He will be here very soon, for I can hear voices in the far dressing room. Remember pride, dignity, duty and modesty.” And she bent, kissed her daughter’s cold cheek, and hurried out.

  Emeline had time only to breathe deep, whisper one short prayer, and hope for courage. She was not even aware that he had entered from another door until he spoke.

  He said, “You look cold, my lady. Has the bed not been warmed? Shall I build up the fire?” Making her turn in a flurry, staring at him. She had been sitting huddled, her arms wrapped defensively around her. Then he smiled, saying, “Or perhaps you are simply preparing for the inevitable attack?”

  She swallowed hard. “Is it attack you intend then, my lord?”

  He wandered over to the hearth, kicked the flames from glow to spark, leaned one elbow to the great wooden slab of the lintel, and regarded the shivering woman within his bed. His voice was no louder than the crackle of the logs. “Attack? No, attack is not my style, my lady.” He paused, as if considering either his words or his behaviour, and to what extent he wished to be polite. The candlelight above and beside him accentuated the scar cutting across his face. Finally he sighed, and said, “You look – delightful, madam. And you were beautiful – in the chapel. I found –,” and his voice trailed off as if further diplomatic effort was beyond him.

  “Truly gallant, my lord, but unconvincing.” Emeline sniffed, increasingly uncomfortable. Her head hurt. Her stomach hurt. She said in a hurry, “Perhaps you’d like to borrow the dress yourself one day.”

  He laughed and walked over, sitting to face her on the edge of the bed. He appeared relieved, as if her words had suddenly released him from some burden. But Emeline froze, expecting contact. He did not attempt to touch her, and instead, after a moment said, “Are you so frightened of me?”

  She said, “I’m never frightened of anything.”

  “Really?” He smiled again, but the warmth no longer reached his eyes. His left eye was part clouded, spotting the bright blue with cream. Emeline wondered if his vision was blurred, or even entirely lost. “How – admirable,” he continued softly. “I, on the other hand, have been frightened of many things over the years. Indeed, fear has more than once saved my life.”

  She gulped, and said, “Is that a threat?”

  Her very new husband sat back a little in surprise. “How very challenging,” he murmured. “My reputation appears to have preceded me. Peter, I presume.” He gazed a moment at her scowl, then stood abruptly and reaching out, pinched the flame from the tip of the flaring candle beside the bed. The shadows suddenly moved closer. From the darkened dazzle he said, “I have not so far, I think, appeared threatening, though perhaps not entirely sober. Nor are you sober, my dear, and both conditions are no doubt my fault. So then let us treat this as the practical business that it truly is, and do our duty instead of prolonging a pointless conversation for which you are clearly not prepared.”

  “Practical business?” she mumbled, sinking lower beneath the flush of sable bedcover.

  “Is that the way you wish to see it?”

  Nervous and miserable, Emeline hiccupped and did not answer. Nicholas turned at once and, striding quickl
y across the chamber, attended to the various sconced candles and the smaller stubs remaining lit. He snuffed each one, then loosened the chain to lower the chandelier, and killed all the little flames until the shadows loomed in deeper and deeper, swallowing every detail into darkness. Only the hearth remained bright with a scatter of simmering crimson and a sudden shooting brilliance, slanting intermittent illuminations to the painted ceiling beams, then shrinking again into black. Through the prancing spasmodic firelight, he returned to the bedside and stood looking down despondently at his new young wife. “Which,” he said, inhaling, “if we are to be ruthlessly practical, brings practical although undiplomatic questions. Without wishing to be – ungallant – I should ask you, my lady, whether in fact you are a virgin.”

  Emeline squeaked, flushed, and bit her tongue. Her scowl turned to glare. She managed to say, “How – dare you!” and dragged the bed cover up to her chin.

  Nicholas shrugged. “I have no objection, either way,” he said, studiously careless. “It would simply make a difference to how I take you.”

  Horror became confusion and she said, “Take me? Take me where, for goodness sake? The only place I want to go is to my own bedchamber, wherever that is.”

  “I was referring –” and he shrugged again, and sat once more on the edge of the bed, facing the quivering shadows within it. “I know you wanted Peter,” he continued softly. “I am sorry. In some ways, I miss him too. But now we are wed, and must make the best of it, I am ready to try – not to make you happy if that is to be impossible – but to protect you, and hopefully to make you comfortable.” He reached out one hand, but she shrank back, and he let his hand drop. “Very well,” he decided. “Perhaps, all things considered, we should leave this – business – for another day.” Then he stood slowly again, and crossed to the other side of the bed. He still wore his shirt, elaborately pleated linen long and loose over his hose. He sat beyond her sight, pulled his shirt off over his head, unlaced and tugged off his hose, swung his legs up and climbed beneath the covers. Emeline did not watch him, but felt the mattress sink, and wriggled further to the other edge. Finally, his breath warm on the back of her neck, he murmured, “I won’t disturb you. No doubt you are tired, as I am. Have they shown you where the garderobe is situated, should you need it?” She remained silent, so he continued, “I expect to be gone in the morning before you rise, so will not see you until dinner. Sleep well.” And the hushed quiet again absorbed the shadows.