The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Father Godwin lit candles and knelt, muttering his prayers, but Nicholas hurried straight to his wife’s bedchamber.

  Emeline was neither asleep, nor undressed. She sat on the bed, playing with a cup of hippocras, twisting the small bowl between her palms as the warmth tingled through her fingers. She lowered her eyes as her husband entered the chamber. Nicholas threw his belt and boots to the empty hearth, and came beside her.

  She had sat alone for most of the day. Now, since Nicholas remained silent, she said, “You didn’t like him, and sometimes nor did I. But perhaps it’s all a mistake.”

  “Your father’s mistake.”

  She slumped, forlorn. “How do we even know it’s him? Did they show you – did you recognise – even after the fire? This – this murdered fornicator can’t be him.”

  “I saw him, little one, and knew him. I made the necessary arrangements. The coffin is now in the chapel downstairs with your priest, but will remain closed. You must take my word that your father died as we were told. Now your mother will arrange for his interment in the local churchyard.”

  Emeline whispered, “So it’s really all true? He was found with a – prostitute?”

  “Of sorts.” Nicholas stood, and helped himself from the wine flagon. “Do you need to know all this?”

  Emma stared up at him. “I need to know the truth.”

  Nicholas took her cup from her fidgeting fingers, refilled it, and drained his own. “There are no doubts, my dear. Those living nearby confirm he was there fairly often, and the woman was his mistress for at least three years – a Gloucester woman, widowed, with a twelve year son, though her son remained elsewhere. Your father evidently bought the house for her. Someone slaughtered them both and then set fire, presumably to hide his crime. Several houses in the same street burned and honest folk with them. Whoever hated your father enough, cared little for other deaths.”

  She shivered. “He was – hated?”

  “Few commit murder for benevolent reasons.” Nicholas came back to sit beside her. “There’s no guess as to who did this, nor why. But the sheriff will investigate, and because of your father’s title, someone will eventually be found to stand trial, guilty or not.”

  “Why say it like that?”

  Nicholas shrugged. “I know a thing or two about local justice. Should I make it sound sweeter, to please you?’

  He sat close but did not hold or comfort her. She whispered, “I don’t want lies. But kindness –”

  “It would be the same thing.” Nicholas stood again abruptly and wandered over to the little table below the shuttered window. Again he reached for the wine jug. “There are things I can’t tell you yet, my dear. But I’ll tell you this. After the funeral I’ve three men to see. That may be where the adventure comes in after all.”

  Emeline slumped again, staring down miserably at her feet. “So I won’t see you for another month or more?” she gulped. “And I’m to be abandoned again?”

  “What small faith,” Nicholas smiled. “I’ve promised you adventure. So I’ll take you with me, if that’s what you want. But you have the choice – to accept or refuse. And remember, if you choose to stay with your mother, then you abandon me.”

  “I’ll come with you, if you want me. But I can’t leave my mother yet. She needs – comfort.” She looked up at him again. Her lashes were moist. “And so do I.”

  “If you hope for sympathy, my love, then you’d better stay at Wrotham. I’m likely to disappoint you.”

  “What’s wrong with sympathy?” She straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath and glared as he yet again filled his cup. Now the flagon was empty. “All you do is drink. Do you try to get drunk? Is that what comforts you?” she demanded. “I know you didn’t like my father and perhaps you don’t like me either. But once you promised to be kind. I don’t want adventure. My father’s dead, and how it happened was horrible, and I’m trying not to think about what he’s done and how he was found and what it all means. All my life I was frightened of him. I don’t even know if I loved him. But I respected him. Now all the respect seems muddled up. I just want –” sniff – “a little comfort.”

  She had disguised the sniff but Nicholas came back to her at once and took her hand, rubbing his thumb across her small cold palm. “Silly puss. I like you well enough. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be inviting you to come with me when I leave. And I’ll wait until you’re ready – a week perhaps, or more if I must. But comfort isn’t something I’m used to giving, except to a lame horse or a bitch birthing pups. There’s not a soul taught me the meaning of comfort once my mother died, and I’ve managed without it. Now it seems like an awkward thing – more patronising than kind. Perhaps it’s something else I’ll need to learn.”

  Emeline stared down at her hand, and his fingers wrapped gently around it. She mumbled, “Pretend I’m just a bitch then – birthing – whimpering. Is that so hard?”

  He laughed, which didn’t help. “I’d rub your stomach and scratch behind your ears and tell you you’re a good dog. Then I’d take the pups, each one, and lay them at your teats. So not something I plan on doing with you, little one. A fine Burgundy eases pain much more, I promise.”

  “The jug’s empty. You drank it all.”

  Nicholas put his arm warm around her shoulders, relenting, bringing her head down against his cheek, his other hand still clasping hers. “Listen, my sweet,” and he murmured softly to her as indeed he might have to a suffering bitch by his hearth. “There’s things I’m good at, more or less. Others, I’m unpractised at best.” His arm tightened around her, and he caressed her neck, smoothing the hair from her wet cheeks. “Oh, I remember yearning for comfort when my mother died,” he told her gently, “and when I helped lay my infant brother and sister in their coffins, I was helpless with tears. No comfort was given, for there was no one to give it, but I remember what I craved, and will try and offer that now. Even when Peter died – but that’s another story best forgotten. So forgive me for being inept, while I try to improve.” He kissed her ear, a damp tickle as he smiled again. “But adventure, pissed or sober, is the surest way to forget misery, and there I’m skilled enough. If you stay with me, then it’s adventure we’ll have. For now I can’t explain more, except for starting with the three men I need to see.”

  “Which men?” she asked, peeping up as he once again drained his cup.

  “First my father. You say your father went to London to see him. Did he arrive? Or not? I should know if anything is to be discovered. And my father is about to leave for Spain. I’ve questions of my own before he goes, since I doubt he’ll return before autumn.”

  “But hardly adventurous.”

  “You don’t yet know my father,” Nicholas smiled. “But it’s once I leave him I expect the fun to start.”

  “So then?”

  “Then I want to talk to my cousin. Adrian offered to help find me too, I gather. Most obliging of him. And perhaps more interesting than I’d previously realised.”

  She was suddenly intrigued. “And the third man?”

  “A very different creature,” said Nicholas. “Name of Harry. I recently took his brother Rob into my service. Now I need them both. But that’s not where the adventure comes in. It will start later.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  He blew in like a thunderbolt with his retinue almost outpaced and his feathers windblown flat to the velvet, nose pink, teeth clamped, horse foaming, and all the fury and pride of the Chatwyns in righteously indignant bloom.

  The local boys from the village, sent to warn the Lady Wrotham that some fine and noble gentleman and his party were on the road under Wychwood, arrived too late. The gentleman himself was first to the stables.

  “I won’t be staying.” The Earl of Chatwyn dismounted, threw his reins and his gloves to the stable boy, and strode the cobbles to the main doorway, already thrown wide. “But I’ve a deal to say and I’m as parched as a prune in aspic. Where’s your wine and where’s your mistress?�
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  Baroness Wrotham hurried out into the pale sunshine and curtsied. “My lord, I had not expected –”

  “Well, of course you didn’t,” dismissed the earl. “I presume my son’s here?”

  Nicholas sauntered across the cobbles. “What a clatter and calamity,” he observed. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  “Follow me,” said the earl.

  Everybody did, with the lady of the house scuttling behind her guest, while Nicholas, nodding to his wife who stood bemused, ushered her inside with him and then closed the door firmly behind them all. The steward was immediately ordered away, and the small group entered the main hall as pages were sent for candles, wine and spiced biscuit. The earl did not take the chair he was offered, but took the wine cup in both hands. “Not some wretched diluted hippocras for the gullible, I hope? No, good. A thirsty ride,” he explained. “Damned roads. Ice and snow in winter. Mud and swollen rivers in spring. Now it’s wellnigh summer, and there’s more dust than in the jousting lists.” He signalled and his son obligingly refilled the cup, meanwhile refilling his own.

  Nicholas said, “You’ve galloped all the way from Westminster?”

  The earl ignored him and turned to the baroness. “Get rid of your servants, my lady. I’ve a matter of sensitivity to discuss.”

  Nicholas said, “Sensitivity? I doubt you know the meaning of the word, sir.” He brought a chair for his wife and stood behind it as Emeline sat, her expression masked.

  The baroness fluttered, standing alone and staring at her guest. The earl stood before her. “I intend arranging an annulment,” he informed her abruptly. “I’ve someone scribing the papers right now. It’ll be sent off to the Vatican next week.”

  Everybody gazed at him in increasing confusion. Nicholas said blankly, “But you’re not married, sir.”

  The earl finally acknowledged his son. “Don’t be a damned fool, m’boy. I’m here for you.” He put down his empty cup, hitched his thumbs into his belt, and extended his lungs as his stomach swelled. He said, “Admitted to me after the fire that you’d never bedded the wench. Since then you’ve been holed up in London and struck down with the damned pestilence. Had that fool nephew of mine searching for you, so presumably you didn’t return here for weeks. And no time for dalliance since then, I gather, what with sidling off to Gloucester, and whatever other odd business you’ve been up to.” The circle of open mouths remained silent around him. The earl continued, “So I’ve every intention of finishing the alliance.” He stared coldly at his son. “I take it, this is what you wanted, eh? Should have asked me before. I’m not pleased, but there’s no way out now it’s got this far. You never wanted the wench, and made that clear enough from the start. Well, now you’ve got your wish.”

  It took Nicholas a moment. Then he said, quite softly, “You’re either drink sodden or luna pickled, sir. Is there a full moon? I’ve two answers to give you, but both will be given in private. Then I suggest you leave for Spain as soon as can be arranged.”

  The baroness had sunk to the nearest chair, but Emeline now stood, coming forwards. Nicholas took her arm, leading her back to her shadowed seat. “I don’t understand,” she muttered, looking up pleadingly at him.

  “None of us do,” sighed Nicholas. “Dealing with my father can be meaningless at the best of times. I imagine he’s drunk as usual.”

  The earl twitched an eyebrow. “Your protestations don’t fool me, m’boy,” he said, raising his voice in irritation. “My trip to Spain is cancelled and that fool Ratcliff is being primed in my place. And it’s this wretched business of yours has caused it, family scandals, with my son slaughtering half the neighbourhood, and accusations flying through the palace corridors. Are you mad, boy? And have the audacity to call me pickle brained, when all the world knows what you’ve done.”

  Emeline burst into tears.

  Her mother gazed in increasing fear around the chamber, then began quietly to sob, both hands covering her face. From outside the door, a heavy thump rattled the floorboards, and a slightly muffled scream was silenced. Nicholas strode to the door and flung it open. Avice was huddled on the ground in the dark passage outside, blinking back tears. “Oh good God,” said Nicholas.

  Emeline glared at the earl, wiping away her tears with her kerchief and then loudly blowing her nose. “You have made my sister faint,” she accused his lordship in a small and muffled voice. “And made my mother cry. And we are already so – worried about everything. Papa’s funeral was just a week ago and we’re still in mourning. And you’re so wrong, so terribly, terribly wrong.” She bit her lip with a sniff. “And I wish I was dead too.”

  “Live with my no good son much longer, and no doubt you will be,” announced the earl. “Now listen to me, all of you. I’m not accusing anybody. Not that I don’t know the truth, but that’s a matter for the sheriff and I’ll cast no aspersions. But the fact is, everyone knows. First Peter. Now the father-in-law. Only one person links the two. It’s a nasty business, but I intend making the best of it. Splitting the two families as fast as can be – that’s my aim now. Show the Chatwyns have no interest in the Wrothams, and cut out any motive for blind murder. Nothing shady. A properly arranged annulment, and the bride price returned without rancour. And you’ll come back to Westminster with me, my boy. I’ll deal with you myself, but I’ll not have a son of mine with his head lying beside the block and all his Chatwyn blood draining into the sawdust.”

  Nicholas sighed. “If this is your idea of family loyalty and filial defence, sir, then I’d say you could have managed it better. First, I have no intention of obtaining an annulment, nor do I have the grounds. And secondly I have murdered nobody, nor had cause for that either. For someone who has ridden all the way from court just to clear your family name, you seem remarkably ignorant of the facts.”

  “I’m remarkably clear on one fact,” roared the earl, crimson faced. “I’m bloody well aware that his highness has cancelled my trip to Spain, and put any royal business on hold for me until this scandal is cleared up. Any chance of patronage and glory has gone up the chimney with the flames you lit, you wretched worm brained idiot, and I’ll not have another chance for a seat on the Royal Council next year because of you. The only way is to get you abroad before you’re arrested.”

  Avice had crept within the hall, and was clinging to her mother, legs trembling. The baroness managed to say, “Please, my lord, I beg you – no more. You are wrong, I swear. Oh, mercy, this is all so disturbing – so shocking.”

  The earl remained a swirl of fur and velvets, sleeves sweeping the floorboards. Emeline stood abruptly, avoiding her father-in-law’s furious march, and went to stand beside her mother and sister, one hand on the back of her mother’s chair, the other around her sister’s waist. She said, voice carefully controlled, “Nicholas, I believe you should take your father up to the small solar, and speak to him in private. I’ll look after Maman. She can’t deal with all this. You know she’s still upset about – well, about everything.”

  “Speak to him upstairs?” Nicholas regarded his father with faint revulsion. “I’d sooner just throw him out.”

  At which moment the Wrotham House steward stepped awkwardly through the partly open door, and cleared his throat, saying, “My lady. I do beg your pardon for interrupting.”

  Every head swung around in expectation. “For pity’s sake, Sherman,” wailed her ladyship, “go away. Or get wine. I ordered the staff to keep out. So don’t just stand there. Do something.”

  The steward bowed. “My lady, I regret to announce that you have another visitor. A young lady has arrived with her retinue, and is at present waiting in the withdrawing annexe. I explained that you were otherwise occupied, my lady, but she informed me that she has ridden a long way, and wishes to see you without delay.”

  “Oh good gracious,” exclaimed the baroness. “Some silly village woman? And at a time like this? Who is it?”

  “Another secret mistress, come to mourn her lover,” m
uttered Avice.

  The steward bowed again. “It is a Mistress Sysabel Frye, who begs leave to speak with you, my lady.”

  Emeline dropped her kerchief and Nicholas began to laugh. The earl, striding once again to mid floor with a flourish of crimson and a squeak of his boots, demanded, “That stupid niece of mine? What’s she doing here?”

  “Probably on a much more benevolent errand than yours, Father dearest.” Nicholas grinned.

  The baroness stood in a hurry, absent mindedly curtsied to no one in particular, and turning, hurried from the hall. Avice promptly took the chair left vacant, and started crying again. “I think,” said Emeline, “I am going to be sick.”

  Nicholas, remembering to appear comforting, put his arm back around her shoulders.

  The earl was glaring impatiently at his son. “All this feminine nonsense,” he complained, “is of no matter whatsoever. You don’t seem to appreciate the gravity of the situation, Nick m’boy.”

  “Oh, indeed I do,” smiled Nicholas, taking his wife’s hand. “Feeling sick can be a serious business indeed, and will probably interfere with what I had in mind for this evening.” He squeezed Emeline’s fingers in faintly amused apology. “As for you, Papa, I suggest you take yourself to bed as well. You need to sleep off whatever you’ve been chewing on for the past few days. I murdered no one, and can probably prove it if pressed since I imagine I was here in full view whenever it was done. Nor do I intend getting an annulment. I’m perfectly satisfied with my marriage as it happens, which is more than I can say for my parentage. Now, unless you want me to prove my violent tendencies and knock you down, you had better come upstairs with me. I’ll find you an empty bedchamber and tie you to the bed if necessary.”

  “This matter isn’t finished,” spluttered the earl. “And if you think I give a damn about that silly little niece of mine – I just hope she’s left her fool aunt behind.”