The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Emeline took a deep breath. “You are utterly and completely vile,” she informed her husband. “And I loathe you.”

  “Poor benighted little mouse.” Nicholas shook his head. “I suppose I shouldn’t squash your romantic delusions, but if you’re going to have anything to do with my family, you might as well face the truth. Your father wanted the match because he’s ambitious. Has wealth and property but never got anywhere in politics, so wanted to affiliate with someone previously on the Royal Council and powerful in parliament. Simple as that. There was a friendship between your great grandfather and mine, which was the polite excuse used to initiate talks. But basically my father agreed because you’ll be rich as Croesus one day. Not a hard sum. Even with your family as religiously devoted as a cloister of monks and mine as shockingly irreligious as a parcel of barbarian heathens, an alliance was expected to benefit both parties. Your poor little fluttering heart was certainly not taken into consideration, and Peter, being the heir, wanted your money. You might not want me, madam, and who’s to blame you. But Peter – well, Peter – oh, never mind about Peter. I daresay one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

  Emeline sat through this speech with growing hauteur, waited a moment, pursed her lips, clasped her hands a little tighter, glared and said, “Did you kill him then?”

  Nicholas stared back at her in utter silence. His animation and humour blinked out and a furious and growing anger flashed in his bright blue eyes. Then it gradually faded. His face, tired and still inflamed with the welts and blisters from the fire, seemed suddenly sad. “I won’t dignify that question with an answer,” he said quietly. “Especially coming from my own wife. If you want an annulment, my lady, you can explain the situation to your mother, and no doubt something can be arranged. In the meantime, I think I should prefer to be alone. If you see any of the servants, perhaps you’ll be good enough to tell someone I need help returning to my bed. Now, I am sure your mother is waiting for you.”

  Emeline stood, blushed violently, and ran quickly from the room.

  She did not go to her mother’s chamber, nor search for her father or sister. She found a pageboy and gave orders for him to help Nicholas back to his quarters. Then she hurried outside.

  It had stopped snowing some hours previously but there were places, banking up against the huge stone walls, where the white freeze lay unmarked and pure and beautiful. The air was spitefully fresh and the sky was low with threatened storm, but the stench of burning had been washed away and the world felt clean. Emeline would have wandered further, but she was cold and her feet were soon numb on the ice.

  Beside the ruined Keep some of the rubble from within had been piled without in an ash grimed heap of stone, charred wood and tumbles of ruined utensils. Beside this, dark with interesting shadows, a narrow space wound between the sooty wall and the tossed rejections. Here Emeline squeezed herself, with no particular desire except seclusion. She did not wish to speak to those who would doubtless be looking for her, to be scalded or to be judged, yet had no place of her own for escape, neither bed nor chamber. So she hid in the dark and closed her eyes. She still wore only her spoiled bedrobe and her sister’s shift and the cinders in her hair remained, but it was the cold that bothered her at last. She was crawling out from the little crevice when she heard voices and the passing of horses. Being in no way presentable, she crept back and stayed where she was. Through a crack in the rubble she saw only one strip of daylight, but nothing interrupted her hearing.

  The voices were young. A girl said, “Look, it’s only the central Keep, Adrian. So the fire didn’t spread. But what of Nicholas?”

  A male voice answered her. “Isn’t that what we’re here to find out?”

  Hooves on the cobbles, a small retinue with the jingle of harness and the snorting of horses. Over the busy clatter, the girl answered, “Badly injured, the messenger said. If he succumbs – and after dearest Peter – what then?”

  “Not dead yet, they say,” sighed the man. “There’s no need to suppose it. Nicholas is hardly so fragile to expire at a whiff of smoke.”

  “Nicholas fragile? Oh, hardly.” The girl sniffed. “We all know Nicholas. Irresponsible. Feckless. But robust enough I suppose. Strong enough to run away.”

  “Run? He didn’t run fast enough for once, if he’s as injured as they say.”

  The horses’ hooves were louder as they passed Emeline’s hiding place. She glimpsed the flutter of tabards, the swing of a fur trimmed sleeve, the kick of spurs and a cluster of sleek bay flanks as the retinue rode on towards the stable block. Only faint voices echoed back. “And will the new bride be sad, do you think? Too pretty to be a widow so soon.”

  Then the man, “Married to that drunken wretch? She’d be better off widowed. First almost affianced to the other bastard, and now wed to this one. Each worse than the other, each as bad as their brute of a father.”

  The girl’s last words, “Hush, someone will hear you, brother. And you must never ever say such things about Peter, especially now he’s – gone. You know how I – liked him. And Nick is a coward, but not a brute. Just a fool under all the teasing and the mockery.”

  Then barely heard, the man’s voice, “We are here, are we not? And have ridden all the way back here in spite of natural exhaustion? That, my dear, is manners. I will always behave as I should. But I do not have to love my cousins.”

  Distance claimed the voices beneath the retinue’s calls for the ostlers. So Emeline sat very small and cried soundlessly into the ashes.

  It was a long time later when she finally reappeared and that was because she was hungry, of which mundane realisation she was heartily ashamed. She had considered hurling herself into the moat but decided it was far too cold and it would be unfair to ruin her sister’s best shift. She decided she would find something to eat first and then change into the oldest and most threadbare gown remaining to her before running away as best she could. How to achieve all this without being seen would be the greatest challenge, but the drawbridge was down, and the guards were certainly inside by the fire, probably with their noses in cups of ale. Once she approached the world beyond the castle, surely no one would see or stop her. She had it planned. It didn’t go to plan.

  The make shift kitchens had been set up at the back annexe to the western wing, where a small additional bake oven had been enlarged and the old stone chamber transformed with a central fire and long tables. Emma found it quickly since the smoke, there being no existing flue nor chimney, and the busy file of kitchen boys, made its position clear. But as she entered, two small scullions regarded her with deep suspicion. One growled, “Might be a made up kitchen, nor has the proper space nor pots nor hearth, but there’s no dirty beggars allowed in here and that’s a fact. Off with you.”

  Since the boy came only to her shoulder, Emeline stared back with dignity. “I am the Lady Emeline,” she said, “and therefore your mistress, so watch your manners. I am looking – that is, I missed dinner. At least I think I must have. Is it over?”

  “An age past,” scowled the boy. “And you don’t look like no lady to me. Them guards ought to keep the village wenches out ‘stead of snoring in the warm all day. You’ll get no crusts here, lest you come abegging for left overs after supper wiv the others. Now off wiv you.”

  Emeline could smell roast meat now going cold on the great spread platters, waiting to be served for supper that evening. It was almost a full day she had not eaten but she felt too weak to argue, and knew she looked exactly like the beggarly slattern the boys had taken her for. Her only consolation was in the hope that her parents, the earl and her husband were all worried sick about her second disappearance.

  The kitchen had been warm. The blast of snow born wind outside almost made her change her mind but she wrapped her arms around herself and ran fast for the arched gateway, the guards’ house and the great planked drawbridge.

  A heavily muscled arm in chainmail stopped her half way across, and an enormous clammy hand grasped
her arm, fingertips pinching hard. “Hey, mistress. Wot’s you doing then, and where’s you come from? Running away like a thief, and covered in soot. Bin crawling through them burned rooms, I expect, seeing just wot you could nick.”

  “Certainly not. I am –” and gave up. She knew quite well her identity would not be believed. “Oh dear,” she said. “Look, I’ve nothing stolen on me. You can see I’m not carrying anything. Just let me go.”

  “Gawd knows wot you might have up your shift, missus,” decided the guard.

  Others came out from the shadows, interested in the capture. One said, “Let’s ‘ave a look then, girl. Lift them skirts and show us wot you got.”

  The first man shook his head. “Molesting some village trollop? The young lord would have your head on a spike, Noggins. Leave well alone.”

  “Please let me go,” whispered Emeline.

  “Not on your life,” decided the guard. “You comes along wiv me, girl, and we’ll see wot the earl thinks.”

  “You’ll not be popular wiv his lordship interrupting him this hour o’ the day,” remarked another. “Still farting his midday bellyful, he is for sure, resting in his bed.”

  “I’ll take her to the young lord instead then,” decided the first guard.

  “Won’t be interested in wenches neither,” said the second man. “Just wed, and part burned alive he is, poor bugger.”

  Emeline was struggling, but now surrounded by six armed guards, two of whom had a good hold on her, she pleaded, “Then please let me go, for I’ve done nothing, and I promise not to come back.”

  “Can’t,” insisted the first guard. “Mayhaps you was lighting fires. Mayhaps you lit that first one. Mayhaps you’ve silver up your shift. I ain’t takin’ no risks.” And he began to march her back over the drawbridge towards the castle’s western wing.

  It started snowing again.

  There were four people in Nicholas’s chamber. They all looked up in considerable surprise as Emeline entered, a guard either side. Nicholas was sitting propped up in bed, a swathe of pillows behind him. Two chairs had been drawn to the bedside, and a girl wrapped in a velvet pelisse sat in one. The other was empty but a young man stood by the hearth, his elbow to the lintel and his foot to the grate. A page knelt at his feet, building up the fire, and two panting hounds lay on the turkey rug, basking in the flames’ reflections.

  “Caught running,” explained the principal guard in a faintly apologetic voice. “Not sure wot to do wiv her, my lord, being as how there’s still stuff to steal in the Keep, and damage to be done. But we didn’t want to examine the wench wivout your permission, sir. Though looks mighty suspicious, she do, in all that mess and dirt, and no shoes and no hat.”

  Emeline stood very still and looked at no one. She stared down at her toes, and noticed how they had painted little black patterns across the polished floorboards. She could not hug her arms around herself since they were both clasped very tightly by the men who had brought her, and she knew that her now filthy bedrobe had fallen a little open, revealing an equally filthy shift and the vague outline of her body through the fine linen. Her hair, thick with dust and other filth, hung improperly loose and bedraggled across her shoulders and down her back, and she was sure her face was besmirched, but she could not free a hand to wipe across her cheeks. Since she had previously been crying, she also supposed that the dirt on her face would be striped into sooty streaks, and she could even taste ashes on her tongue. She did not blush, for the horrible shame she felt had turned her to ice, and beneath the filth she was as white as the snow now falling steadily outside. She refused to raise her eyes.

  The guards pushed her forwards a little, presenting her shame to their lord.

  “A beggar, a thief and a maker of fires, if you asks me, my lord,” continued the guard. “I’ve never seen a trollop so deep in sin.”

  “She does look rather dishevelled,” agreed Nicholas with a delighted smile. “But you can leave her with me, thank you, Rumbiss.” He turned to his guests. “So, my dear cousins. Let me introduce you to my wife.”

  Chapter Eight

  “I am laughed at and mocked by Nicholas,” Emeline said, low voiced. “who has no consideration for my feelings whatsoever or even for my pride, which you’d think would reflect on his own. I’m stared at by his two cousins as if I’m an interesting but rather unattractive beetle for whom they feel some pity. Papa simply shouts at me, Avice just giggles, and the castle servants grab at me, thinking me a thief. So, Maman, what will you do?”

  “Bundle you into the bath tub as quickly as possible,” said her mother, hands on hips. “Honestly Emma, why do you insist on being so bothersome? Your Papa is furious, and he has every right to be. He believes you are bringing shame on us all.”

  Emeline sniffed, and said, “I don’t care, Maman. I don’t care what all these horrid people think. The earl is a beast and his son is just a liar – and a horrid mean pig.”

  “I have ordered the tub set up in here in front of the fire,” said her mother firmly, “and old Martha will help you wash your hair. I shall see to it that you have some of your old clothes to dress in afterwards, which is a shame, but all the precious new gowns and shifts were burned. All that remains are your old things left in my own trunks. You may have to borrow something of your sister’s, and then I shall escort you to your husband’s chamber. You will apologise to him for your recent absurd behaviour, and whatever he orders you to do after that, you will obey.”

  “He doesn’t want me,” said Emeline, going pink. “Except to laugh at.”

  “Consider yourself exceedingly lucky that he only laughs instead of beating you raw, my girl.” The baroness remained standing, looking down on her daughter’s soot blackened curls. “The poor man must wonder what sort of imbecile he has wed. At least he did see you beautifully gowned at the chapel.”

  “And I don’t want him,” Emeline mumbled. “So I shall come home with you and Avice on Monday, and just do my best to avoid Papa.”

  “Too late,” announced the baroness, “your husband insists you remain at the castle. So he does want you. What he wants you for is another matter of course.”

  They were interrupted by the troop of scullions who set up the linen lined barrel beside the hearth, and the stable boys carrying buckets of steaming water. So the bath was filled and the steam rose to the ceiling beams where it formed small drops of watery condensation along the painted rafters, and turned the entire chamber into a moist and clammy dungeon of mesmerising mist. Emeline sat, refused to watch and stared out of the window, even though the small panes were immediately fogged and completely opaque. The baroness bustled off to arrange the appeasement of her own husband and new clothes for her daughter, while the family’s ancient nurse loomed over the proceedings, sponge and soap in hand. There was at least the consolation of good Spanish soap perfumed with flowers and herbs, water which was truly hot and strewn with dried lavender and whole cloves of spice, and Nurse Martha held a real sea sponge and not simply a wet drab of cloth. This was a castle of lavishly wasted luxury, clearly quite opposed to the abstemious strictures of the Baron Wrotham’s household.

  “Well now, my sweetest mammet,” Martha held out both arms, “I will scrub you soft and pink all over and dust you with pounded cinnamon. Come to me, my duckling and I will sing as I scour.”

  The shift and bedrobe were discarded and Emeline hopped into the scalding water, sank deep, and allowed the tingle to release all the chill and the tension from her body. The warmth absorbed her, and she closed her eyes. Her nurse wielded the huge scrunched sponge, but Emeline kept her eyes shut. This heat, unlike that which had ripped the flesh from her cheekbones and chin, and which had turned the ends of her hair into tight singed tousles, was soothing and lapped her in comfort. Steamy ripples pressed against her breasts, turning her nipples soft. She sighed in pleasure.

  It was dark outside now, and the shutters had been lifted into place. The chamber was enclosed by steam, and the candles and wax ta
pers hissed and spat, objecting to the condensation. The room was well lit, another luxury. The cost of upkeep must be enormous. Emeline decided Nicholas might well need her money in time. If she stayed.

  She had missed supper, being in no fit state to present herself at the dining table and knowing that apart from the earl himself, there would be the guests. Two cousins, who, although they had been present at the wedding, remained strangers. Peter had spoken of both in the past, kindly of the girl, less so of the man. The next day Emeline expected to face them again, but for tonight she hoped to be left in peace. Apart, perhaps, from apologising to her husband though only if she was forced to it. He would be dining in his chamber, again forbidden by the doctors to leave his bed.

  So it was a great surprise, though not a pleasant one, when Emeline heard a voice above the splashing of her bath water, and snapped her eyes open in a hurry.

  Nicholas said, “Very pretty, my lady,” and she blushed, quickly submerging herself up to her neck. Nurse Martha stopped mid scrub, sponge and dripping arm raised, and hurriedly curtsied.

  He was leaning against the door jam, supported on the other side by a sturdy wooden crutch. His pageboy hovered behind him, but Nicholas grinned, and with a word over his shoulder sent the boy away. Then he staggered in, discovered the chair, sat as though he might never again be able to rise, and stretched both one leg and the crutch out before him with a sigh.

  Martha said, “My lord, shall I continue, my lord, or shall I leave you with my lady?”

  “You have to stay,” said Emeline, trying to squash down further into the soapy water.

  “You can leave,” said Nicholas. “I’ll call for you once I’ve finished here. I shouldn’t be long.”

  Emeline gazed disconsolate as her servant swiftly obeyed her husband and scurried off, busily drying her arms as she closed the door behind her. Emeline, now invisible up to her chin and trying not to blow bubbles, glared at her husband and said, “For someone who is supposed to be near death, you manage to hobble around surprisingly well.”