The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “Don’t mention Papa,” Avice begged her mother, “just when I was enjoying myself. Anyway, perhaps he has gone to visit the stewes in Southwark.”

  Baroness Wrotham turned in a hurry and slapped her youngest daughter’s hand. “Avice, I should have you flogged. First for knowing about such things – and then for speaking of your father in such a shocking manner. There is no humour in flagrant vulgarity, nor in the most appalling disrespect. If your Papa were here, he would take his belt to you.”

  “Well, if Papa were here, I would never have said it, would I!”

  Emeline was staring out of the window. “Papa is the last person in the world to behave – well – him of all people – as if he would. But I was thinking of Nicholas. I mean, I don’t know him very well yet. What if he has simply run away from me?”

  “To a bawdyhouse?”

  “Stewes and bawdyhouses,” exclaimed her mother, “are from this moment forbidden as a subject of discussion. I am shocked, Avice. Indeed, I am horrified. Of course Nicholas has done no such thing.”

  “Well,” whispered Emeline to her lap, “I just wonder if he has.”

  Entertaining Sir Adrian broke the monotony and soon the gentle entrance of May, the sunshine on the opening flower heads in the hedgerows, the calling and swooping of the birds and the sweet smells of blossom and briar rose, helped rid the estate of brooding melancholy, opening shadows to light. Recovering from the tedious journey between Nottingham and Gloucestershire, Adrian and his two retainers spent several restful days at the Wrotham manor, wandering daily into the village of Wrotham Under Wychwood. He was generous with praise, and promises.

  “The kindness and comfort I find here,” he told his hostess one morning, “are tempting me to prolong my visit, my lady. But I must leave and fulfil my promise to discover Nicholas and his fate. I shall leave tomorrow.”

  So that evening after bidding her cousin good night and thanking him for his care and interest, Emma scuttled to her bedchamber, threw off her little gauze headdress, uncoiled her hair and climbed into bed with relief. “Thank goodness,” she muttered, hugging her knees while scrunched up under the counterpane, sheet pulled to her chin. “At last the pompous bore is leaving, and soon I shall know where Nicholas is.”

  Avice cuddled beside her, having crept from her own bedchamber moments before. “How can you say such things?” she demanded. “I am in love with him. He is Sir Lancelot embodied, but more handsome, and kinder. The nobility of riding all the way here – and all the way to London – and risking his life and limb both on the road and perhaps because of the pestilence –”

  “Honestly, Avice, you are immediately in love with any man that appears between the ages of nine and ninety,” her sister complained. “If all you can think of is childish nonsense, then you can go back to your own bed.”

  Avice scowled. “It used to be your bed too, and you know how lumpy it is. Now just because you’ve got the guest chamber, you think you can order me around.”

  Emeline glared back. “Here’s me worried sick about Nicholas, and your wretched hero Adrian sits around here eating all our food and buying Maman silly little gifts so she weakens at the knees and gives him the best wine, when he should be riding at full gallop for London.”

  “I wish he’d give me little gifs.”

  “That would be most improper.”

  “Who cares about boring old ‘proper’? I wish he’d seduce me. I wish he’d abduct me. I dream of him kissing me. And it’s wonderful.”

  “This,” Emeline sniffed, “is even more ridiculous than the swineherd’s boy or Papa’s secretary. At least they were frightened of you. Who knows what Adrian might do if you tempt him. You know what the priests say.”

  “I don’t know what the priests say,” insisted Avice, “because I never listen to them.”

  “No one,” declared Emeline, “could fail to hear Father Godwin. His voice is like thunder.”

  “Oh, all right,” admitted Avice. “So the horrid old man spits and sneers about a woman’s wicked sins, and how feminine vice tempts honest men away from their moral determination. Well, I only wish it was true. I’ve been trying to tempt nice young men for ages and ages and they take no notice of me, What’s wrong with me? Am I so ugly? Papa says I’m plain and everything else is vanity, but I think he’s just being mean because people say I resemble Maman, and she’s beautiful.”

  “You’re very pretty,” relented Emeline. “But you’re a baby and have no idea what seduction’s all about.”

  “Really pretty?”

  “Avice, of course you are but all I can think about is Nicholas. I miss him. What if he’s sick? What if he’s gone to live with his mistress? What if he’s dead?”

  “Has he really got a mistress? With that horrid scar?”

  “What scar? Oh – yes, that scar.” Emeline sighed. “I had meant to ask him how – but it seems so rude, you know, and now I’ve virtually forgotten all about it. He is actually terribly attractive once you forget about the scar. And he has such wonderful fierce cheekbones, and a wonderfully strong jaw, and those wonderful brilliant blue eyes.”

  Avice shook her head. “Perhaps his mistress did it with the carving knife when she discovered him in someone else’s arms. “

  “It is rather odd,” said Emeline after a moment’s agonised pause, “when I realise how little I know about my own husband. Peter told me things – but now I don’t think they were true. And when the marriage was arranged and I asked questions, Papa said it was none of my business. I always thought that was a little unfair. And then of course with the fire, and Nicholas being horribly burned, and me being angry – well we didn’t really see each other for weeks.”

  Avice squinted into the bed’s shadows. “So you’ve changed your mind from hating him to adoring him without even knowing anything about him.”

  “Avice, go back to bed,” sighed Emeline. “At least now I’m a lady and I know my own mind. You just enjoy dreaming about one man after the other, when you don’t even know what love is. You’re just longing to be in love with anyone. It’s because of all those silly romantic stories you read. Lancelot and Igraine. Papa would burn them if he knew.” “Maman knows. She gave them to me.”

  Emeline gazed into the empty space across her sister’s shoulder. “I might be living the romantic stories myself,” she murmured, “if only life had been a little kinder. I could be in his arms now. But now he might be lying somewhere all alone in agony. He might be dying. He might be dead.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The curve of his thigh skimmed the trestle where two wine cups had been left, the flagon already empty. A fine white cloth covered the table but the meal was long finished, the platters had been cleared and the stools drawn back. There was no evidence of household servants, but the small downstairs had been left neat and clean.

  It was a simple house but not impoverished, and the remains of a generous fire still flickered within the recesses of the hearth. The chamber reflected and absorbed the dance of warmth, light and shadow. Only the gentleman who had recently forced his way inside now occupied the space, but there were noises from upstairs, echoes reverberating; voices, and laughter. The bumps and thumps, since the upper floor was the same planked barrier as the ceiling below, shuddered and the walls shook.

  The uninvited visitor sat silent for a while, listening. He did not smile. His movements were quiet and careful, smothered by the upstairs sounds, so when he climbed the stairs and entered the upper chamber, he remained unheard.

  A splash of late afternoon sunshine slanted through the window, angling past the rooftops outside. The beam lit the woman’s face. She was plump, pretty and young. She giggled, “Oh, Jamie, how naughty. How strong. How exciting. But surely you cannot do it again already?”

  The man who lay beside her on the bed was elderly and somewhat scrawny, but animated. He was naked and so was she and his head was buried between her breasts. His voice was therefore muffled. “With you, my pigeon, I can, and
I shall.” His head moved lower.

  “Oh, my big strong man, have pity on my poor weak female body,” the woman panted, arching her back.

  “Big, and strong indeed, my piglet,” the man mumbled. “And this time it shall be my way. You know how I like it.”

  As he crawled downwards over the humps of dishevelled sheeting, his face now hidden in the folds of her belly while breathing the heat of her sweat, his hands remained firm on her breasts, the fingers digging hard into the soft heaped flesh. He clung, as though fearing to fall if he released her. The girl squeaked, “Oh Jamie, that hurts,” and the man sniggered.

  “I pay enough to keep you here, Bess, and I shall take you as and how I want. Now, my girl, roll over.” She was obedient, and rolled. Her buttocks bounced upwards, and the elderly man slapped each one, making her squeal again.

  “Naughty, naughty, James.” Her giggles disappeared into the pillows as he climbed gleefully astride.

  The quiet intruder stood listening and watching from the doorway. The two in the bed saw nothing but each other. What they did now absorbed them so entirely, the possibility they could be interrupted while in the seclusion of their private bedchamber, did not at all occur to them. They did not see the knife, even when the sunlight turned the blade to topaz.

  Eventually, as he retraced his steps down the stairs to the chamber below, the unannounced visitor spoke very softly to himself. “There is little more ungainly, more incongruous, or more shameful,” he murmured as he wiped the soiled blade of his knife on the tablecloth, “than an adulterous lecher fornicating with a whore. Hypocrisy once again must pay the price.”

  He bent a moment beside the hearth, and flung the crumpled and now bloodstained table linen to the flames. The smoke billowed and the little sparks shrank back, then flared anew. The white cloth flapped as a draught gusted down the chimney. Like a bellows, the air urged on the flames. The cloth raged, catching alight and turning flicker to blaze.

  Still bending by the grate, the man moved back a little, the heat too sudden in his eyes. But he caught the corner of the burning material and swept it out so the fire spun like molten gold, and licked each thing it passed, infecting like the contagion of disease until small fires had kindled in every corner. Some fizzled, finding little fuel. Other sparks hissed, and grew. One wrapped around the banisters, and discovering old dry wood, leapt up the steps.

  It was silent now, upstairs. The previous jolly vulgarity had been quenched. As the flames licked and climbed, they found the bed, its half open curtains and its sprawled occupants. The two bodies lay quite silent now, one half covering the other, their nakedness almost concealed beneath the blood.

  There were no stars to signify the deed by song, for it was bright daylight. But the man had no doubts. He smiled at last, and quickly left the house, closing the door firmly behind him.

  From the comfortably snug corner of his exceedingly cluttered chamber, the Earl of Chatwyn pursed his lips, clutched his wine cup, and regarded his nephew with faint distrust. “No damned reason I can see,” he said, “so why should I either know – or care?”

  The court at Westminster remained partially in mourning. The deprivations of Lent had been more dour than was usual, and only days after the queen’s great Abbey funeral, Easter Friday had seen grief not only with regard to the usual religious traditions, but also on a state and personal level. Now six weeks since her grace’s death, black was still the eternal shadow, the tapestries remained covered, feasting was curtailed, and as the sunbeams dappled the gentle river’s pollution, so couples walked the banks in quiet contemplation, other entertainments not yet resumed. His royal highness was back at business. Those first wretched days of desperate escape out on the heath when the March winds blustered and the falcons stooped to the dash of the hare, were all the king had permitted himself. Even those had been interrupted by the necessities of the season, and his gracious highness had performed the duties of Palm Sunday and Maundy Thursday with bleak solemnity and a bowed head.

  Adrian stared back at his uncle. “Because my cousin’s wife is worried, sir, as she has every right to be, and is hoping I will find him for her. I had naturally assumed you would know where he is, and more importantly, whether or not he is ill.”

  “Wretched boy was ill. And,” the earl muttered, scratching his head, “he had the damned temerity to come here when barely recovered. I sent him off, tail between his legs. The queen hardly cold in her tomb, and my own son threatens to bring the pestilence into the very confines of the palace. I myself could have been infected. I didn’t ask the fool his plans nor where he was staying. Not with me, that I can promise.”

  “At the Strand House, perhaps?”

  “Go ask your Uncle Jerrid,” grumbled the earl. “I’ve no interest in it. The boy’s alive, that’s all I need to know. Like I said – I sent him off properly crestfallen, and asked no further questions. Didn’t answer any, either, nor will I yours.”

  “It is hard to imagine Nicholas crestfallen,” sighed Adrian. “He is a difficult man to crush. Even ill, I can hear him laughing at his own expected demise.”

  “Wretched boy,” snorted the boy’s father. “Takes after his fool of a mother.”

  “You’re planning a move yourself, uncle? Back north?” Adrian looked pointedly around at the piled clutter, the folded shirts and twists of silken hose prepared for transport.

  “Royal business. Spain next week. We have a king without a son, nor any wife to provide another. It’s marriage we need to promote, now the funeral is over.”

  “Spain? I heard the negotiations were with Portugal?”

  The earl frowned, scratching absently inside the open neck of his shirt. “They were. They are. I expected – but Brampton’s already gone to Portugal. Well – better him than me since he speaks the language.”

  “Since he’s Portuguese.”

  “Well, there you are then,” muttered the earl. “But the king wants a bride to combine the York and Lancastrian bloodlines. Stop any future jealousies or new hostilities. He’s battle weary, and has had enough of death. So Brampton’s off to Portugal, and I’ll be talking to the royal house of Castile.”

  “She’s very young,” remembered Adrian.

  “The Infanta Isabel – yes. All the better for breeding. A good match if I can pull it off. The Portuguese female is a good deal older, which might be a handicap. After all, the king needs an heir, not just a handsome wench in his bed.”

  Adrian straightened his back. There was no place to sit, and the chairs were heaped with packing bags. “But the Portuguese are particularly keen, I’ve heard. They’re offering the cousin Manuel for the old king’s eldest daughter as a dual arrangement.”

  The earl paused, frowning. “You surprise me, m’boy. Know a good deal more than I’d have expected of a northerner. But yes. The king promised her a fine match back when her wretched mother let her out of Sanctuary, so the chit needs a husband and she’s keen. They dream of romance, these silly young females, eager for a man between their legs. But this time it’s simple politics. The Portuguese want in, offering a double bargain so Castile will be pushed out.”

  “So instead you’ll do your best to push Castile in and keep Lisbon out instead?”

  The earl eyed his nephew with vague surprise. “You certainly know a lot about something not yet known to many,” he said sharply. “D’you come here to find young Nicholas, or to sound me out about the king’s marriage negotiations?”

  “Marriage? Monarchs?” Adrian smiled, narrow eyed. “I don’t give a cock’s feather for either, nor do I understand the joy of intrigue, uncle. I prefer straight speaking to kissing the feet of foreign diplomats.” He turned, grasping the door handle. “So good luck with your flattery and lies. I’m off to do my family duty and find Nicholas for his wife.”

  The village lanes, pebbled in limestone, wound like trails of melt water from the hills beyond. Each led to the village square where the local stalls were packing up. Without a licence for a fo
reign market but too far to walk for Gloucester, the farmers brought their radishes, parsnips and cabbages every Saturday while the baker brought his ready milled flour, and weighed it in front of his customers where it could be seen he added neither grit nor sawdust to cheat them. The village stocks, empty as always, stood at a distance.

  The butcher already had his shop facing the big hollow yew tree, but he sent his lad to set up a stall on the green where he sold chitterlings, glossy washed tripe, and sheep’s intestines ready stuffed. The old widow from across the wooded slopes brought the bundled faggots she had collected, tied in red twine, for though Wychwood was no forest at all, there were trees ready enough to drop their branches in the winter winds slashing sharp through the valleys. Behind the stalls, the goose boy stood eyeing the swineherd’s son, while the geese, feet tarred black and feathers all aquiver with fury, eyed the scrawny little pigs, mother red eyed as she kept her squealing piglets barricaded safe behind her bulk. The swineherd’s son held his stick raised and his feet firm planted, ever protective, while the barefoot goose boy was glaring and pugnacious.

  It was a warm morning but the wind was gusty and the low clouds threatened rain. There was the smell of fresh cut grass in the air and the perfumes of new baked bread, custards, lilac blossoms, egg crusted pastry and the last of the previous year’s apples roasted and dipped in honey. Then a scatter of old dry straw flew up from beneath the butcher’s stall, with a tang of stale spilled offal.

  Avice wore pattens to protect her shoes, but Emeline wore bright new leather boots with a lining of rabbit, the trimming peeping at her ankles. Avice linked her arm through her sister’s, her eyes bright and ardent with envy, resolutely fixed on Emeline’s feet. Emeline said, “I know what you’re looking at, Avice. But there have to be some advantages in being married, you know.” The sudden sunshine lit the trimmings on her hood, gilding the lemon velvet. She patted her sister’s small ungloved fingers. “But if Nicholas is safe, and comes back to me strong and shining, then I shall buy you a pair of boots too, and old Tom Thompson in Leather Alley will make them for you.”