The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “There’s no bread, neither fresh nor stale for trenchers. But platters are here,” and he brought two over, and spoons for them both.

  They conserved their candles for the small room took light when the little fire blazed, but the gloom dragged into the dismal hours of a dismal afternoon, even when sunshine flickered sometimes through the cloud. It was near supper time when Rob marched off to speak to his brother, but returned quickly, saying only, “Well – like I said afore. ‘Tis a dull life for dull folks.” He looked across at David, and at Nicholas beside him. Rob said suddenly, “By the by, your gent’s waking.”

  David leaned over in a hurry. “My lord?”

  Nicholas had opened his eyes, frowning as he tried to wedge himself up a little against the sweat sodden bolster. “David?” He rubbed his eyes, trying to focus. “Is it dinner time? I smell food, but I’ve no appetite for it. Has something happened? Have I been trampled by horses? And who the devil is that?”

  “More a saint than a devil.” David smiled, immediately reassured. “It’s my neighbour, Rob. Don’t you remember him from last night? But you’ve been ill all day, my lord, and dinner time is long gone, with the pottage you smell long eaten. Through all that time you’ve been unable to sit, unable to speak, and the pain, I believe, has kept you unconscious. That at least was a gift of salvation. But now it seems you are a little – just a very little – recovered. I pray that’s true.”

  Nicholas fell back on the straw, lost again within the shadows. His voice was soft, as though he had no strength for louder. He murmured, “I’ve been ill then? Nor fight nor battle? I hurt in every limb, as though kicked and battered.”

  “My lord, with your permission, I’ll examine you. Where does it hurt?”

  After a pause, Nicholas said, “Everywhere,” and closed his eyes.

  David searched him, once more pulling up the soiled shirt, and calling for Rob to bring a candle. With trembling and gentle care, he traced the flattened muscles across his master’s chest, barely touching and quickly drawing back. Finally he said, “It’s true. I’d swear the rash is already fading, and the bruises beneath the skin are pale and shrinking. There are no new marks and the flush and heat is lesser too. There are without doubt neither buboes nor swellings of any kind.”

  “Your fingers at my groin,” Nicholas told him faintly, “are most disconcerting. Whatever you’ve lost, my friend, you will hardly find there.”

  “But my lord,” David insisted, “I feared the worse. And some hours ago the marks of the pestilence, although never fully developed, were clear enough to see. But now the rash is almost disappearing. My lord, we are all saved.” He sat back on his heels, breathing fast, as though excited. “There’s little bleeding. And no diarrhoea.”

  Nicholas tried once more to sit, failed, and fell back again, closing his eyes. “But I see the world through scarlet streaks and my lips are cracked. My throat burns and I have a terrible thirst. Every bone in my body spites me.”

  David hurried to pour ale, and held the cup to his master’s lips. “Beer for the thirst, my lord, then wine for the pain.”

  Nicholas drank, winced, but drained the cup and said slowly, “The pestilence for sure then? And you are safe, with no signs – no fever?”

  “Nothing, my lord.” David refilled the cup.

  “And you?” Nicholas looked up at Rob, now relighting the fire after another fall of soot. “I forget the name, and have no notion why you’re here. Are you ill?”

  “Nor a hair nor a feather,” Rob assured him. “I was in the Clink ten years back, and the pestilence had the poor buggers dropping like fleas in a flood, both them behind the bars and the keepers alike. But me – no. I got a sore head and a nose bleed, and that were all. This time I reckon on the same. It’s the good Lord, far as I can see, that don’t want me mucking up His nice clean heaven nor dragging through purgatory complaining too loud and setting up a beer stall. So’s the worser I curse and steal, the safer I am.”

  Nicholas smiled weakly. “An interesting thought.” He drank the second cup of ale, and leaned back again. “The same, I suppose, might apply to me. If you call indiscriminate dalliance a sin, then I’ve sinned my share. But I feel half dead, and death might be preferable to the way I feel now.”

  “You won’t die while I’m here to prevent it,” objected David. “And you’re better, my lord, a whole mountain better I assure you, at least than you were some hours back.”

  “I could not feel worse,” Nicholas said.

  “Them buggers in the Clink,” Rob told him, “was screaming and wailing. I saw one poor wretch, just a little mite he was, but then so was I at the time. His whole scrawny body went to mush. Black bruises outside and no control inside. Bowels like water, and that weren’t pleasant in a small space. And bleeding – well, there weren’t no place he didn’t bleed from in the end. Common blood first, red as you’d expect but then dark and smelly. He lay on his straw, crying. Weeping blood he was. Then blood out his arse and his prick, his gums and his ears. So nasty, it put me off crime for a twelvemonth.”

  Nicholas gazed up at him, blue eyes hooded. “An eloquent description, my friend. But I have my own memories of the suffering this disease brings, and to those I loved. If I die, then so be it. But I have no wish to listen to the horrors of times past.”

  “My lord,” David again held the cup to his lips, “the day is almost over and if you are in pain, you should sleep. Sleep is always a good medicine. So next I’ll bring wine.”

  “Have I already slept for days?” Nicholas wondered. “I remember a procession of dreams, passing ghosts and a feeling of dread.” The twilit shadows were growing heavier through the lightless window, and his bed was left in darkness. He closed his eyes. “The light burns and the dark is most welcome but now the thought of sleeping is dreary, not restful. I’ve no wish to dream of misery and foreboding.”

  David shook his head. “I doubt you were asleep at all, my lord. You were ill, delirious at times, and unconscious at others. Now, perhaps, you can sleep as a healthy man does, and wake refreshed.”

  “Healthy? Perhaps.” Nicholas sighed. “But the pain in my legs and back is severe, so I’ll sleep to escape, and take the wine you spoke of. But am I recovering, or will I worsen in the night? Have you checked for buboes?” He slipped his hand up around his neck, feeling, fingertips tentative.

  David shook his head at once. “I checked, my lord, and there is nothing but the rash.” He again lifted the sweat grimed shirt. “Here,” and touched, very gently. “The wretched rash of pale bruises still cover your chest. But only that.”

  Nicholas winced when touched, then peered down, though through the gloom and the pain in his eyes, he could see little. “Painful – but no worse than other pains,” he sighed. “And I could weep for a bath.”

  “Not possible here, my lord.”

  Rob was sitting a little apart, the wine jug in his hand. “There’s the bathhouse not more than a stride away. But that’s more for the pleasure of other things, as you might say. ‘Tis more whores than soap you’ll find there.”

  Nicholas drank the wine brought to him, and tried to smile. “I’ve no strength for that – nor for much else at present. And I pray I’ve passed the vile sickness to none of you, whoever you are. So I’ll sleep again. Perhaps all of us will wake to a bright new day.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Not the next day, nor the next, but in three more days Nicholas woke without headache or rash remaining, stretched both legs, flexed his toes, and breathed deep. The air was still with a mild warmth, recognising spring. The fire had gone out and the smell of the soot and the sweat sodden straw beneath him were nauseating. But he did not feel ill. He felt joyously alive. His muscles obeyed him and at his first attempt to stand he remained on his knees only moments before rising. David was instantly beside him. Nicholas stretched. “It’s a good morning,” he said, “Let’s have that foul curtain down, and see the sun.”

  David obeyed. “Your voice is
strong, my lord. This is a wonderful awakening. But it’s too soon, I think, to be out of bed.”

  “But there is no bed,” Nicholas pointed out. “That heap of rank effluence counts as neither mattress nor pallet. I’ve no doubt ruined it myself, with shit and sweat – but ruined it is.” He looked up suddenly. “And who on earth is that?”

  “Never thought meself so easy forgot,” said Rob, ambling over. “But seeing as how we’ve met a good few times now, reckon I might as well introduce meself again. I’m Robert Bambrigg, your lordship, being a neighbour in this tenement. And a right helpful one too, as it happens.”

  “Then I’m very much obliged to you,” said Nicholas, leaning back heavily against the support of the wall. “What have you done exactly?”

  Rob thought a moment. Then he said, “Well, come to think of it, not much. But I were willing.”

  “He kept me company,” David interrupted, “and stopped me going insane with worry. He may have done little to alleviate your suffering, my lord, except to hold a candle when I needed it, and light the fire when it blew out, but nor could I do more myself. And his presence stopped me falling into dread and madness, convincing myself you were dead or dying. He showed courage too, and did not run.”

  “Then I’m doubly obliged,” Nicholas said. “And it seems luck has blessed us all, since neither of you show the marks of illness, and I am, without doubt, recovering. I can believe it now.” He accepted the cup of warmed hippocras which David had prepared, and drank deep. “It’s strange, though,” he continued, “that the pestilence is such a terror, and each outbreak kills so many, yet we three have escaped as if this room carries some special charm.”

  “This room? But this is the worst slum in the city, my lord.” David smiled, drinking his own hippocras. “My father always said folk would be better off in The Tower dungeons than living here – but for thieves and whores, well, this is almost freedom.”

  Rob nodded with sympathy. “On the run too, he was, my old man.”

  “This discussion of criminal brotherhood, fascinating though it is,” Nicholas murmured, “is of no immediate importance. My recovery, if that is what it is, echoes what happened when I was a child, and that interests me more. So what saved me then, and what saves me now? And you, David? And this other wretch? And beyond even that, what happens now? Am I safe to meet with others yet? Do I carry sickness in my clothes?”

  “I’ll burn your clothes if you wish, my lord.”

  “These are foul now, and certainly should be burned. I have others in the saddle bags – but should they all be destroyed? And what of Adrian, and Sysabel?” Nicholas sat forward again, blinking in the increasing daylight. “I left them in Nottingham. I thought to keep them safe from me, and me from them, since any one of us could have caught the thing. It spreads like smoke through the air, they say, so is all of Nottingham infected?”

  “Shut away here, my lord, and speaking to no one, we cannot know.”

  “They will know at court,” Nicholas said. “After tomorrow, unless I relapse, I shall go to see my father, and find out. And at court there are others I need to see, and matters to decide. I cannot risk asking to see his highness at this point, and in any case I doubt he’s at Westminster. But I may approach Kendall or Brampton. Then, once I’m strong enough, we’re off to Wrotham under Wychwood.”

  Rob frowned. “Ain’t never heard of no place like that.”

  “Gloucestershire,” said Nicholas, “and my wife.”

  “Which reminds me, talking of wives,” nodded Rob, “you knows, I suppose, of the queen?”

  The court was deep in mourning. Where there had always been music, now there was silence, the echoes of footsteps or the gentle murmur of reverential sympathy. Where there had been dancing and laughter, the pace was now careful and sedate. Where there had been colour now there was shadow, and where there had been hope, now there was none.

  The Earl of Chatwyn regarded his son with vague distrust, and said, “I cannot say you’re that welcome, tell the truth, my boy. This whole place has been as dark and dismal as the inside of my boot, and drunken feasts all cancelled this ten days and more. The king, poor soul, is as wretched as I’ve seen him. They got on well, you know, him and his consort. He misses her. Rides out with his falconer most days, I hear, to get the wind in his eyes and his mind on other things. When there’s no royal duties, he spends his time in silence. And it’s dark blue, black or morado we’re wearing as you should know, boy.” He eyed his son’s rich green velvets. “That cote could be taken for an insult – and what’s more – it needs a brush and a swab. You’re not looking your best and if you must come here uninvited, at least I expect you to do me credit.”

  Nicholas had been standing politely in his father’s presence, but now sank heavily to the chair beside him. “You’ve finished complaining, I hope?” he muttered. “My apologies for the clothes – it was the best I could do. As for everything else, I feel myself lucky to be alive. You came close to running out of heirs altogether.”

  The earl leaned back, tenting his fingers over the large black damask swell of his belly. “Been fighting again, my boy? Or got pissed and fallen off the battlements? And where the devil’s that silly little wife of yours? Not flung her in the moat already, I hope?”

  “I’ve decided to like her after all. She’s growing on me. But there have been other complications.” Nicholas briefly informed his father of recent events. He offered no details. “Since Chatwyn Castle was a seething hulk of soot and rank discomfort, I decided to visit Adrian. Unfortunately the pestilence hit Nottingham some two or three days before I did. His household was dying under his nose, though the fool didn’t know it. I caught the damn disease. I sent Emma to her father’s and came south to die alone. Not alone exactly since Witton was with me as usual, but I made sure no one else could catch the foul thing from me. I was sick, but not badly. Witton saw me through it and caught nothing himself. I seem to have the luck of the devil, since this is the second time. Now I need to know what’s going on in the city, and I’m planning a change in direction for myself. So I came to you.”

  The earl narrowed his eyes, pushing instinctively back in his chair. “The luck of the devil? Perhaps. But also the devil’s intentions, it seems. You will leave this place now, Nicholas, and take whatever vile humours you carry with you. Do you mean to come here – of all places – and to me of all people – and risk bringing the pestilence with you?”

  “I carry nothing.” Nicholas remained where he was. “It’s five days since I’ve felt as fine as a summer’s day. Whatever spreads this thing has gone. The companions I have are well, and so am I. I came here in good faith, and in need of advice.”

  The earl stood in a hurry, kicking away the chair and stepping back to the wall behind him. “My advice is to get out – to leave immediately,” he said at once. “And if you will not move, then I shall. The court is already a place of black regrets and mourning. You wish to bring more misery? You should never have come.”

  Nicholas sighed. “You ran last time too, I remember, though took Peter with you. You left the rest of us to die. Three of us did.”

  “Your mother,” puffed the earl, “was already – the signs were clear – and the smaller children – she could have left if she wished. If you think to pass the responsibility – and after all this time – and want to poison me now with the same spreading sickness? For what – for revenge?”

  “Your breath stinks of wine. No drunken feasts while the court’s in mourning? But there’s wine still to be had in your quarters.” Nicholas stood slowly, and went to the door. “Go get pissed again, father. You have a better excuse now, and can drink deep to forget me – and the fate that awaits you.”

  “The doctor,” stammered his father. “Send for a medick. Call him.”

  His son smiled, cold eyed. “But the doctor cannot help you, Papa. There’s no cure for the sickness you’ve already had all your life.”

  The corridors of Westminster Palace whis
pered with banners of deep purple and fluttering black curtains. Still in mourning after her grace’s death, the footsteps were hushed, the minstrels were quiet, and no feasts were celebrated. Nicholas walked quietly, leaving his father’s quarters and those more illustrious passageways where long windows looked out to the gardens and the great sconces flared with torchlight. He then headed into the narrow corridors, those less lit, less windowed, but busier since more minor nobility inhabited the lower echelons than the higher.

  He had no difficulty finding his uncle’s chambers. They were small, cramped, and at the back of the palace where the gently drifting perfumes of horse shit and mashed turnip announced those quarters of convenience only to the stables. Jerrid Chatwyn was not unlike his elder brother the earl, but, as the earl liked to point out, had never sat on the Royal Council. They had much in common, however. Jerrid was now slumped before the small grate and its little cheerful flames, a large cup in one hand, and the wine jug in the other. He was snoring.

  “The family failing reigns,” remarked Nicholas, entering without being announced. “Pissed and passed out.”

  His uncle opened one bright blue eye. “What else to do, my boy, when denied ordinary entertainment, and lacking the coin for other pleasures. Even the Winchester Geese have lately put up their prices, you know. It don’t please me, but probably pleases the wretched bishop as he raises the rents.”

  Nicholas sat without being invited, and stretched his legs to the fire. His knees were aching and his lower back throbbed. He sighed, and said, “Don’t tell me you can’t even afford the washhouses?”

  “Don’t trust those washhouse females. Half an hour in that putrid water, and you come out with spots on your prick and your purse cut.” With a yawn, he edged upwards and regarded his nephew, “Not that you’ve a scarcity problem in that direction of course. How’s the new wife?”

  Nicholas grinned suddenly. “Had little enough opportunity myself lately, uncle, wife or no wife.”