The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  She did not know she had slept until she woke much later, accepting that the headache must be a hangover, but also knowing the foul smell, and the sense of accompanying dread, were something else entirely.

  Chapter Three

  The grate was dark and cold, the window shutters enclosing the chamber in night. But it was fire she could smell, not the little smoky ashes remaining, but something raging and blazing beyond her sight.

  Emeline sat up slowly, shifting herself carefully and trying not to disturb the unfamiliar bulk at her side. The body, visible only as a darker shadow within the shadows, reverberated gently as it breathed. There was no other movement. Emeline slipped from the bed, adjusted her crumpled shift, and stood. She tiptoed to the hearth but saw no glimmer of life, yet the stench of burning was insistent. She could not remember which door led out to the castle corridors, so leaned her cheek against the one she thought correct. The smell seemed stronger. She pulled on the handle and opened the door.

  She stood there a moment, turning once, then twice. No flaming danger shattered the darkness. Wide awake now, and too alert for further sleep, she followed the winding stone walls, feeling for discovery. Her bare feet were frozen on the cold hard stone, and she could hear the little flap, slap of her hurried footsteps on the slabs. For a moment there was no other sound, and then she heard something quite different. A distant roar disturbed the silence, as of waves on a beach, very far off but of an incoming tide. Emeline stopped, listening. The echoes were louder; the stink was rank. She took one pace more and stood at the top of a stairwell, dark curved walls and steps winding down into invisible black. Then, as she peered past the newel, the black below was splashed with light and a glazed vermillion shone virulent in the depths.

  Emeline turned and ran. She had left the door to the bedchamber open for easy recognition, and now raced in. Her flurry woke him and Nicholas sat up, bewildered.

  “There’s a fire,” Emeline croaked, “and huge flames down the stairs.”

  “I can smell it,” Nicholas said, and was already out of bed. He did not stop to dress and hurtled from the room, shouting over his shoulder, “Stay here, shut the door, and I’ll be back for you. Listen out for whatever happens.”

  She promptly disobeyed. The window gave access to possible escape, but would surely be too high. Frightened of being trapped, instead she grabbed the bedrobe her maid had left for her at the foot of the bed, tugged it on, tied the sash tight and hurried back into the corridor. Still dark, still cold, the passage whispered with a wisp of invisible fumes smelling of filth and destruction. She did not go towards the narrow stairway of before, but turned left, searching for other stairs and a different escape to the ground level. The darkness remained impenetrable, but she was glad of it. Light might mean flames.

  Endless doorways, doors locked, passageways lost in gloom, Emeline held to the walls for guidance but discovered no way down. She called fire, knocking on closed doors, but no one came and she ran on, losing breath, losing direction. She had no idea where Nicholas might be, and saw neither him nor anyone else. Eventually she found more steps, steep, narrow and winding, but they led only upwards.

  Emeline leaned back against the wall, panting, knowing panic would only cloud her judgement and obscure her choices. But it was panic she felt and could not control. The castle was huge and as yet she had seen little of it, but knew this was the Keep, the soaring central block. Below was the grand hall, directly beneath the earl’s quarters and those of his son where she had been sleeping. This was backed by the kitchens and down again to the cellars of storage, wine and grain. The women’s and guests’ quarters where she had stayed the month before were spread throughout the castle’s vast western wing, and there her parents and sister would be housed. She knew no path to reach it, nor if the way would be open.

  She was running again when she heard the screams. Emeline stopped, felt a great heave of nausea and the weakening tremble of her knees, steadied herself against the stone behind her, and listened again. She did not think herself braver than any other, or more capable, nor the best person to come if others could not help themselves. But she returned to the steps leading up, raised her hems, and raced upwards. She met flames half way up. The billows of sudden heat exploded in her face and she fell flat, her feet scrabbling for traction while slipping ever backwards.

  The roaring virulence swept over her head and was gone, a hungry dragon impatient and furious. Her hair was scorched, her face blistered, and she trembled, horrified at the startling and astonishing pain of heat, even that which passed and barely touched. Suddenly her fear, already considerable, was exacerbated. Afraid to go back down and afraid to continue up, Emeline sat on the stone step and breathed deep. The little crowd clambered down towards her, stopping when they could not pass, crying for her to run. Children mainly, and women. Then two men bent and lifted her, hauling her up and hurtling on down the steps with her between them. Emeline was mumbling, someone was shouting, a child yelled, “Lady, come with us.”

  One of the men said, “We knows the way, lady, and will get you out. Hold on.” She held. It was a great burly arm, sweaty, and muscled, but she clasped it with desperate hope and was helped along a corridor, still dark and cold, until there were more stairs, wide this time and shallow, leading straight down.

  Stumbling, each pushing against the other, the group raced downwards. But with a stink of hellfire and sulphur the flames came up to meet them, a raging wall of unbelievable heat that threw them back. The large man gripped Emeline’s wrist and in minutes they were back in the upper corridor, searching for which way to turn. The man croaked into Emeline’s ear, “Can you jump, lady?”

  And she gasped, “I shall have to.”

  The rising flames were close behind them now and the roar deafened speech and screams and sobbing fear and everything except the frantic terror. Sparks flashed, shooting cinders and the luminous dread. The children, half naked, streaked ahead, leaping to a casement window where the passageway angled deep and sharp. It was not so high and not so narrow and scrabbling fingers pulled it open, flinging the frame wide. At once the children climbed, each helping to hoist the other onto the stone sill, and immediately disappeared one by one into the cold black nothingness outside. The wind gusted back, bitter as the star shine beyond, chilled flurries that cooled the burning faces waiting for their turn to escape.

  The man shouted, “You next, lady. Them lads will catch you.” And with two vast clammy hands around her waist, he launched Emeline upwards until she clasped the window ledge. She clung one moment, the freeze in her face and the bursting hell heat behind her, then up, legs over and no care for her shift hitched almost to her hips, and at once released herself into the depths below.

  She was caught. First slim hands and small children’s arms, but then a man’s grasp, lifting her bodily. Immediately she stood on the cobbles as the children scrambled back and instead the muscled and naked arm around her was hard and supportive and she was staring into her husband’s scorched gaze. He held fast and pulled her with him although she could hardly breathe, running until there was grass and a gentle rise of soft green where he released her, and sank down beside her. Behind them the slope dipped down to the castle moat, and the little gurgle of water was a wondrous relief.

  Nicholas said quickly, “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head, though she was not entirely sure. Over his shoulder she watched the mighty silhouette of the castle Keep rage in blazing fury against a lurid sky. Flames shot like cannon from every window and a rancid black smoke swirled and wheeled in the wind. A million sparks flared and danced, caught in winter’s bluster, flaring like burning stars against the sweep of cold reality behind. Emeline whispered, with no voice to speak louder, “Is anyone else hurt?” Then she sank back, resting her head on the damp ground and closing her eyes. She could still hear the horror, could smell it and taste it but the heat was just a distant threat in a sudden burst of flying ashes.

  Nicholas loo
ked down at her a moment, then straightened and, as she opened her eyes again, said, voice raised above the fire’s roar, “There are other rescues to organise, and I must arrange relays from the well and the moat. Will you stay here and watch my father? He is hurt a little, but not too badly I think.”

  Wedging herself on one shivering elbow, Emeline stared around. For the first time she saw the others, taking note of who they were. Most were servants, many hurrying back to help douse the fire, others searching for their friends and families. Emeline recognised the smartly dressed squire, now soot stained and running, buckets in both hands. But the earl, fully dressed unlike his son, lay on his back, gulping and sobbing, terrified and half unconscious, his belly rising and falling fast, his eyes wide and wet to the sky. He was drenched, as if someone had thrown water over him, and his fine silks were ruined and ragged, all burned in tatters and blackened wet strips.

  Over the noise of the fire and the gurgled suffering of the earl, someone was screaming. The sound was thin and high, like the wailing of a seabird. Emeline said, “Is that – is she – dying?”

  “No one is badly burned. No one is dying.” Nicholas stood and sighed, pushing the hair from his eyes. “Different people have different reactions to fear. We’re all afraid. But there’s a lot to be done and I have to go. Are you all right? Can I leave you here?”

  She looked up again at Nicholas, now standing over her, and managed to nod. His body was thick in ash and smoke hung in his hair like bedraggled ribbons. His face was inflamed, and the disfiguring scar was ingrained with dirt. He was, she realised, wearing only his braies, which were also badly burned and barely covered him. But it was his flesh she noticed more, for he was bleeding and blistered and his chest and legs and arms appeared to ooze as though the skin was preparing to peel quite away. It was as if, instead of clothes, he wore the destruction of the fire itself.

  Swallowing hard, Emeline whispered, “Of course. But it’s you who are hurt, not me. I think you should rest now, and if you tell me what to do, I can help.”

  The young squire hurried over, quickly recounting the situation so far, saying both wells were pumping and the staff organised in relays. Nicholas turned away from Emeline. “Stay here and comfort my father,” and to the young man, “Get back there, David. Hurry them up. I’ll be with you immediately.” Emeline watched him stride off, a barefoot stranger, broad shouldered and long legged across the old cobbles back to the burning Keep.

  She crawled towards the earl but did not know what to do for him. “My lord, are you in pain? You are safe now, I promise, and I think Nicholas has saved you. Is there anything you need?” Though had he asked for something, she had no idea how she would have fetched it. Instead he lay quivering and silent. When a page hurried over, promising to bring ale and other aid to the lord, Emeline was thankful and crept back alone to quieten her pounding head and her heaving stomach, stifling the fear she had recently claimed never to feel.

  Above her, the great black emptiness of the night sky had turned a scorched and virulent orange, as if the clouds themselves were burning. Sparks still flew, spangles of a threatening nightmare as the peaceful dark transformed, stinking and hideous, its thousand fingers all flame. The smoke haze spiralled and fanned out absorbing heavens, stars and the now invisible contentment of the countryside beyond.

  It was many hours later when the fire was finally extinguished. A steady dawn was a pale insipid hesitancy behind the swirling stench. A host of people, some crying, some hugging, hurried around Emeline and the earl on the grassy slope, watching the new day shimmer and wake beyond the destruction of their home. But the great stones still stood, and although the windows were now empty and where there had been glass it was shattered and gone, the walls had not tumbled and the huge wings of the castle’s separate towers, the stable blocks, the guards’ houses, the cobbled bailey, the smaller courtyards, and even the arched entrance with the machinery for the portcullis and drawbridge, were all untouched. Yet up the walls of the Keep were the scorched and blackened fingers marking the passage of the flames. And where wooden outhouses had backed the Keep with a ramble of pantries, butteries, breweries, storerooms and bakehouses attached to the kitchens, there the fire had consumed everything and left only smouldering sticks and a rubble of paving.

  The earl was carried on a great canvas litter, four men to heave him on to it and six to lift it and bear him away. Emeline stayed where she was. Her eyes smarted as the putrid yellow smoke, carried by a gusting wind, billowed in gradually dissipating clouds, and coughed as she swallowed soot. But when the servants begged her to come under cover, and said they would lead her to where it was safe, she refused. It was only open air that seemed safe to her now.

  The fear remained. She felt it like black stones filling her lungs and belly, and she smelled it amongst the ruin. At first she was dazed, waiting quietly without consciousness of time. But then, as the paralysis of terror faded, she began to shake, so violently that she could not stand. Finally she cried, at first unaware of it, and then uncontrollably so her throat hurt and she felt sick. The tears swept down her cheeks, streaking through the soot, and leaving her utterly exhausted.

  Eventually it was the steward, whom she recognised although his face was covered in ashes and his clothes were scorched, who came to find her. “My lady,” he said, bowing even though she was huddled at his feet. “I have been requested to inform you regarding your family, my lady, that they are well and their quarters quite untouched by the fire. They have been informed of your safety and have gathered in the western solar. I am further instructed to take you there, should you wish to join them.” He waited a moment, and then added, “But forgive me, should you wish to see his lordship first, my lady, I will lead you to him instead.” He paused again, before hurrying on, “I should warn you that the young lord is grievously injured, and will need some care, and for some time to come I fear. The castle barber is with him now, but the Chatwyn doctor is much injured himself and needs attention. A boy has been sent to Leicester to bring back both town doctors, though sadly we cannot know how soon they may arrive.”

  Emeline stood slowly, stiffening her knees and testing her balance. Then she took a deep breath while imagining her parent’s inevitable questions. She could visualise her sister’s frightened face, the avid interrogation, and the criticisms of everything that had, and had not happened, should she admit to it.

  She sighed. “Then you had better take me to my husband,” she decided.

  It had not been the wedding night she had imagined.

  Chapter Four

  They had taken him to the western wing. Here, at the greatest feasible distance from the ruined Keep, the smell had barely invaded within, nor had any damage been sustained beyond one shattered window. The mighty oak doors had been shut fast against all danger, and although buckets had been filled from the moat and still stood adjacent, they had not been needed.

  At her request the steward led Emeline to a large bedchamber usually reserved for guests, and there she entered quietly amongst a stream of bustling servants. They brought possets, jugs of water and clean cloths, linen towels, trays of herbs, fresh bandages and cups of hippocras. Emeline brought nothing but herself, but tiptoed to the bedside, and sat there on the stool placed for her.

  The bed, unlike his own where she had passed the first half of the night, was neither wide nor deep. The covers were all pulled back and the patient lay exposed, flat on the uneven lumps of the fleece below, his eyes closed. The bed curtains, tied carefully away against the headboard, were dusty and of indistinct colour. Across the chamber a small fire smoked fitfully and Emeline felt that the smell of it alone would disturb a man already injured by flame. She said nothing, and watched where, across the other side of the bed, the barber surgeon was carefully removing his lordship’s braies. She had never yet seen any man entirely naked. That the first should be her husband seemed fitting, but Emeline blushed, and lowered her gaze to her lap.

  The surgeon called
her attention back. “My lady, I fear you need doctoring yourself. Your hair – the welts –”

  She raised her fingers tentatively to her face and whispered, “I didn’t realise. But it cannot be serious. I think I am quite unhurt.”

  Removing each thread of ruined ribbon from the fastenings of the braies, the surgeon again concentrated on his work, lifting the scraps of material where the heat had almost seared the linen to the man’s skin. Nicholas did not move and Emeline thought him unconscious. His breathing was steady though shallow, but where the skin was already shedding, his body was glazed as if boiled. The surgeon murmured, “This is not my proper business, my lady, and I am not qualified. But someone must help, for Doctor Ingram is sore sick and must be doctored himself. I can only hope the medick arrives from Leicester before our lord sickens further.” He sat back a moment, the charred shreds held nervously between his fingers. “But one thing I can assure you, my lady, that no amputation will be needed as long as proper care is given now, for infection is the danger where the skin is broken, and evil humours may creep in.” He looked up again suddenly, staring across the bed at Emeline. “Will you take over, then, lady? Have you ever nursed folk, and attended to your family? Do you know the use of herbs and salves?”