The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “Of course I will,” she whispered. “I’ll come anywhere with you. And I’ll share your adventures.”

  “I’ll arrange some.”

  Emeline smiled into his shoulder. She had very little idea what an adventure might be like, but simply living in London sounded adventurous enough. “Would you,” she whispered, “help me dress? Or do you want to sleep?”

  “Neither.” He looked her over, his smile widening and his eyes bright again. “I prefer you naked. I like the feel of you. And I’m not tired. A few moments with you curled against me like this, and I shall want you again.”

  She ventured, “Don’t you want any supper?”

  “I intend having a very satisfying supper, but my food is here, not downstairs.” He grinned suddenly. “But I suppose you’re hungry as usual.”

  “Starving.”

  He laughed. “Get those crumpled rags off the floor then and I’ll dress you. I’ll take you downstairs, be polite to your Maman, eat something, come back upstairs, and have you instead of damp wafers and subtlety.”

  “My father doesn’t let us have subtleties. Sugar is too expensive.”

  “Then, my little love, since you are sweeter than sugar, we are in accord for once. Now – grab your gown and I shall try to make you respectable again.”

  It was a late supper. Nicholas lounged at the table, ignoring the several platters placed before him. The baroness pointed to the apple codlings.

  “My dear sir, my cook steams the best codlings in Gloucestershire, a favourite of Emma’s, but you’ve not eaten a thing. Are you tired, perhaps? Or not yet entirely well?”

  “Your daughters’ appetites are proof of your cook’s expertise, my lady,” Nicholas said. “And I am neither tired nor unwell. Simply that I have eaten so well for many days past, it’s a pleasure to rest the appetite for a day.”

  “Then I’ll eat the codlings,” Emeline said, looking up at the page standing dutifully behind her shoulder.

  Nicholas passed her the codlings. “And I expect to leave within the next few days,” he continued, “and, sadly, may miss your good lord’s return, madam. My affairs in London will not permit too long a delay. Naturally I should be devastated to miss him, but no doubt I shall meet up with him on some other occasion.”

  “My husband,” frowned the baroness, “went to London most precisely on your behalf, my lord. Having received no word, Emma was fearful for your health. Her Papa undertook to search for you, and to visit your esteemed father for news of you. I expect him back within a week or two at the most. I believe he would be sorely disappointed if you had already left before his return, sir.”

  “Ah.” Nicholas sighed. “The business of manners. Then I shall stay a few days longer, my lady, and at least hope to pass the baron on the road, and to wave, perhaps, in the passing. But I have matters of some urgency, and once Emma is ready to accompany me, we will be gone.” He looked across at his wife, who was sitting beside her mother. “It will not take you too long, I imagine,” he suggested hopefully, “to prepare for the journey?”

  “Oh, not long at all,” she said, gulping down the last bite of codlings.

  Avice looked from one to the other. “I wish I could come. It would take me less than an hour to be quite ready. In fact, I could leave now.”

  “Avice,” warned her mother.

  “Well,” Avice declared. “So it would. I have only two decent gowns and two shifts, since someone unmentionable ruined my best one. And I have only one cloak and two pairs of shoes. There’s three pairs of stockings and three ribbon garters, one horrid old bedrobe, and –”

  “Avice,” her mother interrupted her again. “That will be quite enough.”

  “Under the circumstances,” said Nicholas with a waning interest in his sister-in-law’s scant collection of apparel, “I’m surprised the baron didn’t manage to find me in London, since you say he intended visiting my father. After the first few days of illness when I was obliged to stay elsewhere – I took up residence in the family house on the Strand. A tumbledown old heap my grandfather liked to call the Chatwyn Palace, but a good deal more comfortable than the castle, even before the fire. My father knew exactly where I was, though doubtless he’s contrary enough to deny it to some. However, I hardly believe he’d not divulge my situation to my wife’s father. I left London only four days ago, and rode hard for Gloucestershire. Yet his lordship most certainly didn’t come calling before I left.”

  “Your cousin Adrian went to look for you too,” insisted Avice. “You must have seen him?”

  “Tragically, no,” said Nicholas with a faint smile. “Have you sent half the countryside searching for me, then?”

  “Only Papa and Adrian.”

  “How devastated I am to have missed them both,” Nicholas said, smiling widely at his hostess. “Perhaps my father was distracted. He’s about to leave the country, you know, and royal responsibilities invariably make him even more self-important than usual.”

  The baroness leaned forwards. “How interesting, my lord. My husband hinted how he was hoping to accompany your good father at some point. Might I ask the nature, and perhaps the destination, of his journey? Unless, of course, they are matters of a confidential nature.”

  “They probably are,” Nicholas waved one hand to the heavens. “Indeed, I’m fairly sure they are. But it’s the king’s desperate need for an heir, and some appropriate female to provide one. He wants English peace into the bargain, so he’s dealing with the princesses of both Spain and Portugal. Lancastrian bloodlines, you see, to avoid future jealousies. We English are, after all, a contentious nation. So my father’s off to Spain – which makes me think his highness is more serious about the Portuguese match.”

  Emeline blinked. “Your Papa, not that I wish to be in any manner critical, but is he the best person to employ as a diplomat in sensitive situations?”

  “Good Lord, no,” laughed Nicholas. “Which is why I imagine our good king is more serious concerning the Portuguese Infanta.”

  “And so soon after the queen’s death,” sighed Avice.

  “Oh, he has no choice. However much he’s mourning his queen, we the people shall never know. An heir is any king’s first duty,” said Nicholas, absently taking a small piece of bread from the communal platter, but playing rather than eating it. “I believe the Royal Council sent Sir Richard Brampton off to Lisbon some time back.”

  “The Portuguese negotiations may be secret,” nodded the baroness, “but his highness was very public concerning those horrid rumours some weeks ago.” Nicholas lifted one eyebrow. “Not, of course, that his highness had ever thought of marrying the young Woodville girl,” the baroness hurried on. “His niece indeed! A horrid thought, and such a religious man would never contemplate – but I was quite amazed that anyone else had started – or ever believed – such a shocking rumour.”

  “Rumour,” said Nicholas, “oils the cogs that turn the wheel of fortune.”

  “Papa will not let us listen to gossip,” muttered Avice,

  Nicholas grinned. “Yet it seems this time that even in the wilds of Gloucestershire, the vine spread its roots. Because the Portuguese were negotiating with our Royal Council for a union between his highness and the Infanta Joanna at the same time as proposing a match between the Infantas’s cousin Manuel and the old King’s daughter Elizabeth, rumour managed to put the two together and whispered that King Richard was thinking to marry the girl himself. Since his crown is entirely due to her and her siblings being discovered illegitimate, such a proposition was absurd. But rumour thrives on absurdities, and it is possible that some malicious soul had his – or her – own motive for spreading those rumours. The king likes to cut through confusion, so made an immediate proclamation to stop the silly tattle at birth.”

  “Tattle indeed,” blushed his hostess, “but it was your own dear cousin informed us, sir. Sir Adrian was here at Emma’s request, you see, since she was frightened for your safety. And he discussed the king’s marriage sit
uation in some detail. I was shocked at the rumour he shared with us. As my husband often says, the common folk are always ignorant.”

  “The king marrying his own bastard niece!” sniffed Avice. “As if he would want to – with every foreign princess after his hand.”

  “As well as an heir, the king needs foreign alliances, and marriage is a good way of finding them.” Nicholas shrugged, looking at his wife. “The proposed match is with the Portuguese king’s sister Joanna, and that’s an alliance worth more than gold. The beneficial union of disparate houses, you might say?” Emeline looked down quickly at her lap. “Though,” Nicholas added, eyes narrowed, “how Adrian knew so much is a puzzle to me, since he is rarely at court.”

  “Perhaps the Lady Elizabeth wants to marry her uncle,” suggested Avice.

  “I believe the girl wants to marry someone, and is already enamoured of her proposed Portuguese groom’s portrait,” said Nicholas. “And for a girl of announced bastardy, the most royal Manuel is a flattering proposal. Young women, it seems,” and he smiled again at his wife, “yearn for romance and call it love when they find it. But the whole matter of the king’s marriage negotiations is secret, which presumably means everyone knows about it.”

  “Chivalry and romance and dreaming of marriages,” Avice interrupted, sighing, “and wondering what it would be like. That’s even more fun than a new gown. And the king is supposed to be terribly handsome. Any girl would dream of marriage to a king.”

  Emeline glanced up at her husband. “You seem to know rather a lot yourself, my lord. Perhaps you actually know the king in person?”

  “Know his highness? I’m a lowly earl’s son, and only recently his heir.” Nicholas said, studiously regarding his empty platter. “How should I speak with kings, while stuck in that monstrosity of a castle up north?”

  Emeline paused, watching him a moment, then said, “But you haven’t actually denied it, I notice. And I know perfectly well how much you love that monstrosity of a castle.”

  Nicholas grinned. “Shall I be indiscreet then? Shall I admit that my recent adventures have involved this very situation?” He shook his head, still laughing. “Oh no, I’m not off to foreign lands. But Sir James Tyrell asked me to investigate the beginning of the rumours. He’s interested, as I am, in who might have started such gossip, clearly designed to cause trouble for the king. Knowing your friends is essential for any monarch, but knowing who wishes to build you problems is even more important.”

  The baroness stared and Emeline blinked at her husband. “You were actually working for his highness?”

  “Not so unusual,” Nicholas said. “Most of the younger courtiers, and many others too, offer service in such a way. Loyalty involves many different pathways. Tyrell, Lovell, Brampton, Howard, we prove our loyalty when we can.”

  “What did you discover?” whispered Avice, wide eyed.

  But Nicholas shook his head again. “That’s not something I can share,” he smiled. “And should have said nothing at all. It’s not a business I ever discuss with my family, and prefer to keep such matters private.”

  “I won’t tell a soul,” Avice assured him.

  Nicholas shrugged. “They wouldn’t believe you anyway. I’m the irresponsible coward and the family’s shame. It’s a useful position to hold onto.”

  Chapter Twenty

  They had ridden hard, first for the constable, and then, in company with the constable, for the sheriff. The sheriff had thrown down his quill and stared up in disbelief, ink blotting the parchment where he had been writing. But it was true, they assured him, and he must come immediately.

  It was still raining. The rain had helped put out the fire, but such damage had been done that it took considerable time before the full scandal could be realised. The roof had tumbled in, then both floors and ceilings. The great bed had toppled from above to below and now rested, scorched, blackened and partially upended against the table downstairs. Not that there were any stairs anymore. But the two bodies on the bed remained visible, flesh burned and ruined, and their identities, though more guess than recognition, were noted.

  “Lord have mercy,” uttered the sheriff. “Dickon, get yourself off to Wychwood and inform her ladyship.”

  “It’ll be dark, sir, by the time I arrive. And in this weather too.”

  “No choice, lad.” The sheriff gazed at the sprawled and charred remains before him, and gulped. “But don’t you go telling the widow just how he was found, mind. Use your manners and your common sense, now.”

  “But shouldn’t it be you, sir, being the sheriff, and not me being the lowly constable, what informs her ladyship?”

  “In this weather? Already I’ve a cold on the way.” The sheriff declared, gazing at the charred bones and distorted limbs before him. Then he sighed, acknowledging the inevitable. “Very well, duty’s paramount. I’ll face the baroness myself, and my assistant can accompany me. Alert the guard. I want four armed men, and fresh horses. I’ll time my arrival for the morning.”

  It was many miles distant and nearly an hour later when Nicholas regarded his wife through the shifting shadows of the unlit bedchamber. “So, what exactly has missing me entailed?” he demanded, grinning wide.

  She thought a moment. “Wanting you back. Never feeling comforted. Thinking so much about you. Worrying myself sick – in case you were sick.”

  He shook his head. “Not good enough. I want descriptions. At night, for instance. Did you dream of the pestilence, of pustules and poxes? Or did you dream of lying in my arms, and of me touching where you want to be touched?”

  “Yes,” Emeline whispered, looking back at him. “Both those things. All the time.”

  They sat together before the window, although the sky beyond the small diamond panes was partly obliterated by rain and the stars appeared blurred, like the small muffled reflections of candle flames. The window seat was deep but uncushioned, and Nicholas sat in one angle, facing her in the other. Their eyes, intent on each other, did not notice the hazy mists of moonlight outside, or the small bluster of the wind in the treetops. Nicholas reached out and took Emeline’s hand. “So when, in your dreams, I touched where you wanted me to touch –” he paused, then said, “where was it?”

  Although the shutters had not been raised, nor had candles been lit, so in the darkness he could not see her blushes. “I cannot say,” she whispered back. “I don’t know any words for such places, and nor could I describe – only to say you know where – where you held and touched me before – that one special time – in the castle before we left for Nottingham.”

  He laughed, which broke the spell of hushful secrets. “You could explain if you wanted,” he told her. “So instead take my hand,” and he held his fingers out to her, “and put me where you want.” She clasped his hand in hers as gently as if it might break, but he grasped her firmly back, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. “Without shame – since there is none. Now show me.”

  She took a deep breath, released very slowly, and pressed his fingers against her breasts. “Here. You know it’s here. I think you want to shame me, Nicholas. I’ve missed you terribly but you’re so horribly – challenging. And I know you didn’t miss me, but I don’t care about that.”

  He was still grinning, and he moved his fingers, tracing them down from her breasts to her belly, and then tucking them firmly into the crease between her thighs. “And here?” he demanded. “So, thinking of me, and needing me, but not having me – did you touch yourself?” He had already removed her little headdress and uncoiled her hair, and now she wore only her shift, loose pintucked linen, cloud white and fine enough to show the outline of her body and the dark shadow of her nipples beneath. Nicholas leaned forwards, rubbing his cheeks against the warmth of those small shadows, and smiling up at her. “Without me to arouse you,” he insisted, “how did you arouse yourself?” His fingers were still pushing between her legs. “Here? What did you do? Tell me.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I wouldn
’t – I couldn’t. I thought about when you touched me there – I remembered – I imagined you coming home to me. But I never could have done such a thing to myself.”

  He removed his impatient hand, and kissed her. Then he leaned her back against the leaded window frame, watching her. “My dear, you were brought up by a father as different from my own as fathers can surely be. But believe me, there’s no sin in pleasure.”

  Emeline gulped. “But self-indulgence can be wicked. First there’s duty and loyalty – and kindness – and respect for parents and –”

  “Come here,” he interrupted, and brought her head down against his shoulder. “Because I intend being very, very wicked.” Nicholas wore a short shirt loose over his hose, long dark legs stretched, boots lying discarded across the bedchamber floor, his doublet thrown beside them. Her own gown was tumbled at her feet. Now he clasped her hand again, and brought her fingers to his groin where the stiffened broadcloth of the codpiece lay loose, and he pressed her palm there. “When I missed you, which I did,” he murmured, “I touched myself, like this, as I want you to do now. With your small hand, it is so much sweeter.”

  “You only missed me – there?”

  “Principally.”

  “I missed you in lots of ways. I kept remembering the laughter in your eyes, and how your face puckers when you smile. Do you mind me saying about it – here,” and she reached forwards with her other hand, gently running her fingertips across his cheek where the scar cut deep and dark, dividing the flesh. “When you smile, and laugh, your face tucks up in two nice curled stripes, as if you’re making fun of yourself. I like that so much. I remembered it a lot while you were away.”