The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  She did not. She said, “I will try and wash away the burning, and the ruined skin, and the ashes and soot. Will that help, do you think?”

  “It may.” The barber sank back in disappointment. “I had hoped another – I fear to do harm, you see. This is not my skill, my lady, nor know of any in the household who could do better except our apothecary, who is now tending his lordship the earl. Washing a body may bring greater risk, but his lordship will surely not catch cold with that fire still merry in the grate and all the windows well closed. Meantime I shall interrupt the apothecary and get him to the Spicery for ointments. A cream for burns first I hope, and if not, perhaps butter will suffice.”

  “I think,” Emeline mumbled, “that all the kitchen outhouses are destroyed, and their contents with them. But I will do what I can,” and leaned reluctantly over her husband, touching the great blisters across his chest. Some were raised, pus filled and virulent, others raw and bloody. She was glad he slept, both for his relief, and so she might touch him without his eyes on her, watching her embarrassment.

  The barber hurried off, clearly thankful to relinquish responsibility and to search for a lardy poultice, goose grease, or anything someone might suggest as a treatment for a man badly burned. “’Tis likely Mister Potts is still with the earl hisself, my lady,” he stated as he pushed past the other scurrying servants, “and I shall go there first. I will be back directly, with whatever he tells me will be efficacious.”

  Emma sat alone and regarded her husband’s ruined body. The smooth swelling of muscles at the top of both arms was striped red raw, and his forearms where the veins stood in grazed prominence, were bloody. His legs were long, the thighs well-muscled and the calves well shaped, but it was at the top of his legs she preferred not to look. Indeed, she pondered, immediately perplexed, why a man needed such complicated and unexpected appendages, and why the good Lord had decided to fashion man so differently to woman. For a moment she even wondered if, during the undoubted exhaustion of creation, God had experienced a sudden moment of juvenile hilarity and in a fit of humour had decided to make mankind a figure of fun, before returning to the sane and sensible creation of the woman. With a small hiccup, Emeline silently asked forgiveness for such unholy ignorance, and wondered instead if Nicholas was simply malformed, and entirely different to other men. Peter had told her many times that his younger brother was misshapen and ugly, explaining that his sins were apparent in the meanness of his appearance. But Emeline, having finally met her groom, had presumed this described the terrible scar that marred his face, and nothing more. Besides, attempting to be honest with herself in spite of her shock, Emeline had to admit that a gentleman’s codpiece, often ostentatiously prominent, certainly suggested that all men were equally oddly endowed. Now she trusted, although without much conviction, that once this man demanded she consummate their marriage, she would become gradually accustomed to such strange and unpleasant necessities.

  Resting a bowl of water on her lap, she laid the washcloths on the edge of the mattress and proceeded to use each one to cleanse her husband’s burns, discarding them once befouled. She washed across his torso, around the dark flat nipples and down to the hard plain of his stomach. As the ashes and the blood slipped away beneath her frightened fingers, she realised his skin was not all over burned, but where the blisters were worse across his arms and chest, the damage to his flesh was severe. When she touched there he sighed, as if even in his sleep he felt the pain. Her fingertips travelled light, not only for his sake but for her own, feeling the hard muscled strength of him strange. At least she knew her blushes were known only to herself. So, with nothing else for a poultice or even a bandage, she quickly laid the remaining strips of cloth over him, all soaked in the remaining clean water. She carefully covered the parts of him she found most hard to contemplate, and finally called for more water, pouring this across the ravaged arms and chest. The palms of his hands, being raw, she held for some time in the water before resting his hands, now wet and cold, by his side. Then she prayed, hoping that God would still listen to her in spite of her previous amazement and criticism concerning His clearly mischievous design of masculine anatomy.

  Several times she poured more water, keeping the linen coverings soaked and cool, and trickled streams across his hair and forehead where his skin still seemed aflame. In all that time Nicholas lay motionless except for the patient rise and fall of his breathing, and Emeline was not sure whether he slept, remained deeply unconscious, or whether, perhaps, he simply chose not to return to a world of pain.

  It was some considerable time later when the barber returned with the apothecary, though she still slumped at the bedside, hands clasped and eyes closed. The new man exclaimed loudly, “My lady! That water is shockingly cold. His lordship could catch the pneumonia, or a chill might threaten his weakened state. He must be kept safely warm.”

  Emeline sat up with a start. “But he is so horribly burned,” she explained, “and has been heated to extremes. A little coolness on that poor weeping skin would surely be a relief?”

  Mister Potts shook his head, appalled. “Sadly you have no medical training, my lady. But in the doctor’s absence, I will do what I can. I have discovered cream and butter in the cow shed, and have already been treating his lordship the earl with both. But some remains. And once these rags are dried in front of the fire, I shall use them as bandages.”

  “So much sodden linen,” scolded the barber surgeon, “has leaked onto the mattress below, and the bed is quite soaked. I do not know where a new mattress might be found.”

  “This one can be turned,” said Mister Potts, “and I shall instruct the pages accordingly. But in the meantime we must build up the fire and warm the sheets.”

  “Poor Nicholas,” sighed Emeline, relinquishing her seat. “I was only guessing I’m afraid – seeing the heat of burns and thinking cold water would counteract the pain. I see I was wrong. I hope I’ve done him no harm. Now I shall go and see to my parents. But I shall, I suppose, be back.”

  It was late that evening when she finally returned to her husband’s temporary chamber. She had spent some uncomfortable hours with her family, and they had insisted she receive some treatment herself, with the singed tangles combed from her hair and the florid grazes on her face and hands smothered in pork fat. The steward had organised collections from the local farms and provisions had quickly been brought in, yet dinner had been a sad affair, taken in the Western solar and without the presence of any member of the earl’s household. Emeline had then thankfully accepted her mother’s advice, and had rested in her sister’s bedchamber for the afternoon. Avice immediately felt tired too and had then taken advantage and asked a number of questions which Emeline had no intention of answering with any honesty, and tried to avoid answering at all.

  “So what exactly,” Avice snuggled up under the bedcovers, peering through the shadows at her sister’s tired expression, “was it like?”

  “The fire? It was terrifying and hotter than anything I could ever have imagined, and it roared like a beast. Now I need to sleep.”

  “I didn’t mean the fire.” Avice wriggled closer. “Go on. I’m not that much younger than you. You can tell me.”

  Emeline had sighed. “You mean – being married? Well – that is – it’s exactly how you might imagine.”

  “But that’s the problem,” complained Avice. “I can’t imagine it. What happens?”

  Emeline made a wild assumption. “Kissing,” she said.

  “Is that all?” demanded Avice. “But some women say it’s sublime and ecstatic. And some say it’s horrid and it hurts. Then they just refuse to explain what it’s really all about. But kissing is just drab and ordinary.”

  Emeline sat up suddenly shocked. “Avice! Do you mean to tell me you’ve already kissed a man?”

  She giggled. “Well – a boy. In fact, two boys. One was the swineherd’s son when I was six and it took me ages to catch him. The other was Papa’s secretary two years
ago, and he caught me. Not that I ran very fast.”

  “I shall inform Papa, and have the wretch dismissed.”

  “Don’t you dare,” objected Avice. “Poor little Edmund Harris. He’s never done it again. Though I keep smiling at him.”

  “Well, if you want me to keep your secrets,” warned Emeline, “then you must also let me keep my own. Now go to sleep.”

  More to escape her family than with any desire to do her marital duty, Emeline entered her husband’s sweat infused bedchamber again late that afternoon and slowly approached the bed. It was already dusk, though the shutters had closed in the windows all day and neither draught nor light entered. Only one candle had been lit at the bedside, but the hearth was splashed with flame and a fiery brilliance illuminated the room. Two pages tended the blaze and another was sweeping the tumbled soot while the barber surgeon concocted a cup of simmering milk sops on a trivet over the fire.

  The figure in the bed was no longer immovable. Nicholas was propped up against a mass of pillows, and was awake although he appeared fractious and uncomfortable. His legs were hidden beneath the bedcovers, but his arms and torso, heavily bandaged, were visible and it appeared he was still unclothed. He was speaking as she entered. “If,” he said, “you think I will agree to swallow that vile smelling sludge, Hawkins, you are even more addle brained than I am at present. Bring me some decent wine, and then I might have the strength to leave this gaol and stagger to the garderobe instead of pissing my bed again.” He turned to his squire and body servant, who was hovering diplomatically silent in the shadows. “David,” Nicholas called. “is there no solid food to be had?”

  The apothecary interrupted in a hurry. “My lord, it is on strict orders from the doctor. A goat’s milk junket with white bread is the only diet to be followed for some days, with small ale permitted on the second morning. Indeed, Doctor Ingram has prescribed the very same for himself. Your constitution must not be over taxed, and no wine can be served.”

  “I am already,” Nicholas said softly with an edge of menace, “broiled like a lobster, yet you encase me in greased linen armour, turn the bedchamber into an oven, and poison me with slop.”

  Emeline thought he looked extremely pale. Apart from the vivid cut of the scar across his face, his visible skin had faded to an icy pallor. She stepped forwards with a confidence she did not feel, and said, “It would seem you’re already feeling better, my lord.”

  “Ah.” Her husband looked her over, seemingly disappointed. “Not the doctor from Leicester, then? Therefore not the man I can threaten with disembowelment unless he prescribes me wine and an edible supper.”

  “I’m amazed you have any appetite, my lord,” Emeline said, keeping her distance. “Earlier today I thought you near to death.”

  The patient smiled faintly. “Hoped to be a widow before the day was out, I suppose?” He leaned back against his pillows and momentarily closed his eyes. “My apologies for my recovery. But if I am repeatedly denied food, no doubt I shall oblige you soon enough.”

  Emeline mumbled, “I suppose you have some excuse for being bad tempered, my lord, but there’s very little point being cross with me. I did try to help earlier on, but your Mister Potts said I made matters worse. I hope your mattress is not still – damp?”

  “It is,” her husband replied without compunction, “because I can’t get out of bed to piss. But whatever you did to me earlier, I doubt it made anything noticeably worse unless you strapped burning logs to my body. No doubt the doctor will think of doing just that tomorrow. He has already turned this chamber into a cauldron fit for frying bacon. And,” he turned back to the surgeon, “he left instructions for me to be doused with goose grease from the farm and alum earth straight from the Vatican lands, so I’m likely to slip bodily from my charming wet mattress at any moment. And if the wretched man dares come armed with his fleam, I shall personally set the dogs on him.”

  “Choleric,” announced the surgeon in a voice of pessimistic prediction as he bent again to mix his milky potion.

  Nicholas managed to raise his voice. “If,” he announced, “you have the effrontery to be alluding to my bad temper, Hawkins, I can tell you this is nothing compared to how I intend behaving once I have the strength. Ask my squire David over there lurking in the corner pretending to be deaf. He’ll inform you how good natured I invariably am. But assuredly my choleric disposition will worsen at the earliest opportunity.”

  “I think,” Emeline said, “I should leave you to your rest, my lord. At least the chamber smells – most pleasant. Rosemary needles perhaps? And lavender?”

  His glare returned in her direction. “It is only the Turkey rug which benefits from the strewn rosemary, my lady, and does me no good at all except, perhaps, cover the stink of piss and boiled flesh. And I must inform you I have always loathed the smell of lavender.”

  Emeline hung her head, feeling almost culpable. “Then I wish you a good night’s sleep, my lord,” she managed, and backed hurriedly from the chamber.

  There was nothing else to do but return reluctantly to her parent’s quarters.

  Chapter Five

  Three endlessly tedious days later, Baron Wrotham regarded his daughter. “You will sit immediately, Emeline. You have been raised with a strict adherence to duty and a clear knowledge of your place in society. You are therefore not a picklebrained country simpleton and I will not have you fluttering before me in this inconsequential manner. In truth, you should be on your knees in the chapel, praying for your husband’s full recovery.”

  “The chapel is burned to the ground, Papa.” Emeline reminded him, sitting quickly on the small stool at some distance from the hearth. She clasped her hands in her lap and attempted to look meek. “And so, of course, is my lord’s bedchamber, and my own temporary apartments which were also in the Keep. Which is why I have been staying in the guest quarters with you and sharing a bed with Avice. I now intend approaching his lordship – if you do not object, Papa – regarding the possibility of establishing my own chambers somewhere else, as surely I would eventually have done in any case. Separately, that is, if such a space exists –well, unless –”

  “I have passed some hours in discussion with his grace this afternoon,” her father informed her. “His lordship still suffers from the results of the accident and expects to be bedridden for some days further, but he is a little recovered. Between us we came to the conclusion that, under these unexpected circumstances, you will return to Gloucestershire with me as soon as the journey may be arranged. Your husband will be unable to undertake any semblance of normal married life for some time to come, possibly months. Suitable accommodation can no longer be supplied at the castle. You will travel home with us at the earliest opportunity.”

  She stared at him. “But I’m a married woman now, Papa,” she objected. “Surely I should stay with my husband? You are usually very strict about – duty, Papa, as you’ve just pointed out. Isn’t my duty here now?”

  He shook his head, dismissing her. “Yes, you are legally wed, Emeline, and having passed the first night fulfilling your conjugal vows, you may rightly consider that you belong at your husband’s side. I commend you for your sensitivity. However, the earl and I are in accord. There is too much to do here, and once his lordship is able, he will return to Westminster where his presence is demanded at court.”

  “I don’t see why that should affect me,” she mumbled. “Nor why he would leave when his son is so ill.”

  “Your opinion is of no consequence whatsoever,” her father pointed out. “But I must tell you that the country is under a great cloud for her gracious highness Queen Anne is seriously unwell. This is of considerably greater moment than your husband’s condition or your own discomfort. Indeed, it is said the queen is gravely sick and is like to die. With no children now living to secure a peaceful continuance to the monarchy, parliament urges the king to look towards prospective alliances with the royal houses of Portugal and Spain, where marriages might be arranged w
ith the heirs of Lancaster.” The baron sighed, as though feeling the weight of these political decisions. He continued, “Your father-in-law has evidently taken on some responsibility for these negotiations, and must therefore return to parliament as soon as possible.”

  Emeline dared argue. “But this is my home now, Papa. As a married woman I have the right to make my own choices.”

  The baron frowned. “There will be no one here to attend to your needs or properly chaperone your presence. You will do as you are instructed, Emeline.”

  “Surely my husband will be my chaperone.”

  “Your husband will be many weeks in bed and under doctor’s orders, madam. He may not even survive. Almost half this castle, including all the principal chambers, is utterly destroyed. Rebuilding may take years. You have no experience of running a household on your own, and few of the staff would even recognise who you are. There is no place for you here.”

  “I can learn, Papa. I can –”

  “You can do as you are told, Emeline. I will discuss this no further.”

  It snowed in the night.

  She had dreamed. The hush and bitter chill of snow banking the outer window ledges had frozen the draught, and she had slept poorly. Once again she awoke with misgivings and the dread of approaching danger, but this time there was no crackle of flame or renewed reminder of smoke. She did not know what she feared, but crawled from the bed, trying not to disturb her sister. Avice snored a little, snuggled tight with her knees to her ribs, and snuffling beneath the covers. Emeline was wearing her sister’s shift, almost all her clothes having been destroyed in the fire, but her own bedrobe lay to hand and she pulled it on. She lit a candle from the hot ashes in the hearth, slipped out into the corridor, and tiptoed to the unshuttered window at the far end. It still snowed and against the high silver scatter of stars, the crystal flight seemed unworldly and unutterably beautiful.