The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Nicholas interrupted him. He released his wife’s hand and strode across to confront his father. “Sissy is probably here to show this family has some manners after all,” he said softly. “She knows her brother went off to find me, and won’t know I’ve since turned up here. Now she’ll have heard of the baron’s death, and will have come to offer help and condolences. Something I doubt had occurred to you, Papa?”

  “Help? Help indeed,” scowled the earl. “I came to save your silly neck and extricate myself from this family pickle. If you think I’m going to sit peacefully in Westminster while the king wipes his hands of the Chatwyns, then you don’t know me.”

  “Since I know you remarkably well,” said Nicholas with a small impatient sigh, “I know full well you’re interested only in preserving your position at court. If the king has cancelled your diplomatic mission to Spain, it’s probably because he realised you’d make a raker’s midden of it. You’d not be the first I’d recommend for organising a marital agreement on behalf of royalty. So he ordered you to ride to Gloucestershire instead, to give comfort to the Wrothams and your poor fatherless daughter-in-law.”

  “Well, well, that’s as may be,” sighed the earl, unbending slightly, “it’s true his grace has his own quiet way of doing things. But if you’d heard the gossip flying north, south and west – and every wretched rumour monger whispering that it’s my son who first killed his brother – and then his poor little wife’s father –”

  Nicholas had dragged his father upstairs when the baroness finally brought her new young visitor into the hall. The four women sat white faced as Sherman served hippocras and honey cakes. It was nearing suppertime, but the baroness had not yet asked for the table to be set, nor decided how many there might be to feed. She was hoping it would be fewer than she feared.

  Emeline said, “It’s totally delightful to see you again Sissy, and most kind of you to come.” She was busy picking up the biscuit crumbs she had dropped in her lap. It was distraction she needed. “You have just missed your uncle.”

  “What a relief,” said Sissy, accepting a cup of warmed hippocras.

  Avice shook her head. “He’s still here – upstairs. I suppose we can’t hope he’ll stay up there forever. He’ll have to come down one day.”

  “I may go to bed early,” Sissy decided. “It has been a tiring day, and travel is always so exhausting. Besides,” she looked around, expecting confirmation, “I suppose he’s drunk. Both of them, no doubt.”

  Nicholas faced his father through the long shadows. The room was small, but the twilight entering through the one casement window did not reach the corners. “I’ve no idea,” he said, “whether this is the bedchamber you’re supposed to be given or not. Since it’s a miserable place with a dreary stench, it would be all you deserve, though presumably the baroness has ordered your bags to be dumped somewhere or other. But for the moment no one else is sleeping in this one, so we can at least talk in private.”

  His father pulled up a wide armed and cushioned chair and sat within it, ignoring the groan of unaccustomed wood to bulk. “Gloomy house,” muttered the earl. “Light some candles, m’boy.”

  “I doubt I’ll find any,” remarked Nicholas. “My dear father-in-law was the thriftiest soul I’ve ever met. But I didn’t kill him.”

  “If –” said the earl.

  His son interrupted him. “I’m not entirely clear when it was done,” he said wearily. “But at a guess, I’d say I was already here, probably in bed with my wife, and with enough witnesses to swear I was nowhere near Gloucester. Does that satisfy you? Or are you simply concerned with what others may think, and not actually bothered about my guilt or innocence?”

  “The court thinks you did it.” The earl stared glumly at the dust and horse spittle on his riding boots. “The whole of Westminster thinks you did it. The Council thinks you did it. And the king thinks you did it.”

  “The king won’t think anything of the sort,” said the Chatwyn heir without any visible signs of concern. “He’s not the sort of man to jump to foolish conclusions, and besides, he knows I’m not the sort of man to have murdered my wife’s father without strong motive.”

  “And how would he know that?” demanded the earl. “You’re rarely at court, thank the Lord, so the king wouldn’t recognise you from a damned Flemish pig salter.”

  Nicholas smiled faintly. “Never mind about that. It’s you, dear Papa, who should know me better after all. Yet you seem curiously eager to convict me.”

  There was a pause. Then, “Peter,” muttered the earl.

  Nicholas sighed. “Yes, indeed. I rather wondered if you suspected me all along. I know you were disappointed it hadn’t been the other way around. Peter did try to kill me once, of course. But I did not retaliate. Now I see we shall have to talk at some length.”

  “So where’s the damned wine jug?” demanded his father.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  There were awkward silences across the dinner table. The earl’s rank conferred the place of honour and Nicholas sat at the far end, which was how he liked it. The baroness discussed the recent mild weather, but only Sysabel took much notice of the conversation, informing everyone that it had rained for several consecutive days that week in Nottingham.

  The courses were a little more plentiful and slightly more elaborate than had previously been served in the Wrotham household, for since his lordship’s unaccountable death the baroness, initially a little surprised at herself, had begun to make her own choices. Encouraged by both daughters, she now consistently requested more appetising meals, and now she had not just one but three important visitors, she had ordered the kitchens to produce the best of whatever they had available and could put together in such a short time. There were, of course, apple codlings.

  Avice, suddenly inquiring why everyone at Westminster Palace evidently assumed Nicholas had committed vile and heinous murder when they had no possible knowledge of the facts nor even knowing who Baron Wrotham was, was quickly glared into silence by her mother. But then Sysabel answered, “It’s rumour, you know, that sprinkles the whetstones of every town. No one is too interested in truth when gossip is so much more intriguing. And Nicholas is hardly well respected – or trusted –” but she caught Emeline’s glare, and her voice faded out.”

  Emeline said, carefully avoiding all eyes and staring down at the remains of an apple codling on her platter, “Is it – true then, my lord? That people at Westminster truly believe Nicholas guilty? Even of – his own brother’s death?”

  “Ah,” said the earl, nose in his wine cup, “not a discussion for the moment, young lady.” He drank deeply and looked up again, absorbing the variety of expressions fixed upon him. “Doubt my son will thank me for prolonging – as it were – that particular subject.” He drank again, immediately looking around for the nearest flagon. Thankful to find one within reach, he appeared to relax. “Besides,” he said as he refilled his cup, “No doubt the boy didn’t do it after all. Says he didn’t. We’ve talked – upstairs, as you know. Well, seeing as I can’t vouch for one nor the other, I’ll take his word for it.”

  “Generous of you,” murmured Nicholas.

  “Besides,” the earl said, a little gruff, “’Tis true enough. The boy’s not the sort to do such a thing.” He looked up, his glare now fixed firmly on his son. “My boy Peter, he led our own troops up to Carlisle back in ’81. Joined the skirmishes, and was commended for his leadership.” The earl put down his knife with a snap. “Adrian, stuffy little cock a’ poop that he is, did the same in ’82. Saved some other fellow’s life and killed a couple of reivers or something of the sort. Was knighted afterwards on the field by the duke himself.” The earl still stared pointedly at his son. “Nicholas, now,” he continued, “did nothing of the sort. Didn’t volunteer. Didn’t join his brother’s muster. Didn’t care to risk his precious life in the wilds of heathen Scotland.”

  Nicholas appeared remarkably unconcerned by these revelations. “So I’m clearl
y a coward who dislikes bloodshed,” he smiled faintly. “And am therefore an unlikely murderer.”

  He excused himself immediately after the meal was finished and after a final thanksgiving had been led by the priest over the final course of wafers and hippocras, a family habit the baroness had not yet broken. As the table was cleared, the priest shuffled off, and the ladies joined the earl by the empty hearth in the hall, Nicholas bowed briefly and explained he needed to speak to someone outside. Emeline opened her mouth to ask who and why, but Nicholas left abruptly, marching outside into the deepening night.

  Since manners and propriety precluded her from bouncing up and following him as she would have liked, she turned instead to her father-in-law. “My lord,” she said, avoiding her mother’s baleful stare, “I can offer my own assurances that my husband could not, did not, attack my father. Nicholas was ill, he was away, and then he came back to me. And how would he have known where my father went, when none of us had any idea at all?” She took a breath, smiled carefully and clasped her hands meekly in her lap. She then said, “But there are other matters I know nothing of. I should be most – grateful – if you would tell me, my lord.”

  “Humph,” said the earl.

  “There are things I want to know too,” said Avice in a hurry.

  “Avice, it is past your bedtime,” said her mother. “Your new tutor is due tomorrow morning. You will have a great deal to do.”

  “I don’t need a tutor,” objected Avice, “I can read and write and I know everything already, even though Papa said I’d never learn to count past three. But he was wrong. About everything.”

  “Avice,” threatened her mother, “Bed.”

  “Please, just one question,” Avice pleaded, half rising from her chair. “I mean, he’s family now, isn’t he? So,” she stood, peeping up with a small simpering smile, “I have always wondered how Nicholas got that – scar. If it wasn’t in battle?”

  The earl tapped his fingertips across his stomach. He was not accustomed to being surrounded by females, and it was many years since a pretty girl had simpered at him. “Well now,” he said with magnanimous patience, “Not battle, no, not young Nickolas. He was twelve, you know. Most unfortunate.”

  “An accident?” Emeline leaned forward slightly.

  “Accident? Well, yes. That’s what it was.” The earl seemed unwilling to continue.

  “Oh do go on,” insisted Sissy from beside him. “There’s no secret after all. We have forgiven Nicholas long ago, surely?”

  The earl humphed again, further confused. “Forgiven him? Didn’t do anything to forgive, you know, not that time anyway. Not his fault. Must be fair. Just an accident, you know. Boys playing. Archery practise. Peter never meant it of course, but have to admit, it was Peter’s fault.”

  Sissy gulped and shook her head. “Oh uncle, that’s just not true,” she said. “Of course I wasn’t there, but Peter told me all about it later. They were out practising at the butts, early one morning. Peter said Nick pushed him, trying to make him fight. Naturally Peter refused. He was two years older after all, and knew he’d win. He just didn’t want to hurt Nicholas, so he went back to shooting at the target. Nick ran right in front, goading Peter into fighting. Peter’s arrow was aimed at the butts, but it hit Nicholas square in the face. Peter was so upset.”

  “I imagine,” said Avice, wincing, “Nicholas was rather upset too.”

  Emeline shivered, staring at her husband’s cousin. The earl sighed. “A nasty business,” he said. “I heard the screams from the hall and ordered a couple of pages to investigate. Blood everywhere. I called my surgeon – fellow called Mannbury in those days – an excellent barber. He got the arrow out eventually. Nick was in bad shape for some time.” He looked sharply over at Emeline. “Peter’s story – well, he told it one way. But other witnesses told it a little differently. Nick was pretty sour about it of course. Pain – disfigurement – just a boy – I understood. But then, when Peter was killed, well it was years later of course, but I wondered. Revenge. Stands to reason. So proof or no proof, I had my doubts.”

  There was a small silence as the shadows lengthened. Avice grabbed back her abandoned wine cup and reached for the jug. Pewter clinked on pewter. “I think,” said the baroness with a deep sigh, “it has been a long day. I believe I shall retire, my lord. Sherman will show you to your chamber, sir, and Martha will show you to yours, Sysabel, my dear. I wish you all a very good night.”

  Emeline escaped outside.

  The stars were a cold shimmer in the darkness, and a glimmer of moonshine from behind the clouds spun pearl drops across the cobbles. She could not see Nicholas. Turning to go back into the warmth and her own bed, she suddenly changed her mind and headed instead in the opposite direction, wandering out across the courtyard to the stables. The familiar smell of horses, dry hay, snuggled sweat and fresh manure was strong in the sharp little breeze. One horse was awake, snittering and snorting, objecting to the disturbance. A medley of grooms boys snored, content in the warm straw. Then Emeline heard the voices.

  Her husband’s voice said, “I’ve talked to the boy already. He’s half-starved and terrified.”

  “All the easier to shake the truth outta the brat, then,” said the other voice.

  “Which is true,” Nicholas conceded. “But the way it was done, I can’t see it being him. Just a few questions should suffice. You’ll soon discover whether he knows anything.”

  “You’re too kind hearted, m’lor,” muttered the other man. “No doubt the brat were after claiming the house and the coin he thought were in it.”

  “Then a little unwise to set fire to the place, and so destroy whatever he hoped to inherit, don’t you think? No,” decided Nicholas. “You’d do better to approach the child with food and a few pence for his next meal – encourage him to talk with kindness. He needs a friend. Threaten the boy, and he’ll no doubt be scared into silence, guilty or innocent.”

  “But if you already don’t reckon it’s him, m’lor –?”

  “No, I don’t think it was him. Who it was – well actually I have an idea, but it’s an idea I don’t want to have,” said Nicholas, somewhat obscurely. “So first I’ll eliminate all other possibilities. Gloucester tonight. Then we’re off to London.”

  Footsteps in straw, a shuffling of men, and the further disturbance of the horses. Emeline recognised her own palfrey’s impatient whinny. The other man cleared his throat, seemed to walk away, then called from a distance, “Within the hour then, my lord?”

  Nicholas said, “David’s already packing my bag. You can wake one of these brats, and get my horse saddled ready. David’s too – and yours. One spare for baggage.”

  “No outriders, m’lor? They say the roads is getting more dangerous now the baron’s gone and no one sent to patrol the boarders.”

  “No outriders,” Nicholas said, his grin obvious in his voice. “I want speed, not grinding propriety. I’ll save your miserable hide for you if we get stopped by thieves.”

  The other man’s snort sounded very like the horses. “Before midnight then, m’lor. Right here, ready saddled.” And his footsteps disappeared in the direction of the outhouses.

  Emeline stamped the three steps needed and regarded her husband with fury through the shadows. Her palfrey, smelling her familiarity, kicked at the stable door. Nicholas looked down in faint surprise. His wife glared up at him and said through her teeth, “I knew it. You’re a vile, horrible, dishonest pig man. You promised to take me with you, but you’re just running away from me in the middle of the night. Or is it your father you’re running away from this time? Perhaps you’d like to borrow one of Nurse Martha’s gowns? In either case, you’re the miserable coward your father called you.”

  “Did I promise?” wondered Nicholas vaguely. “How unwise of me.”

  “You’re always promising things and then you don’t do it,” she accused him. “Your promises are useless, worthless feathers in the wind. You – you’re –”

&
nbsp; “I probably am,” grinned Nicholas. “But in fact I had every intention of asking if you wanted to come with me – mad escapes in the night being the stuff of all the best romances of course. Hardly proper for young ladies. But then, I’m not much interested in proper, as you might have gathered.”

  Emeline sniffed and bit her lip. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Regarding what, precisely?” smiled Nicholas. “Being proper, or the romance of escape? Both quite true, I promise.”

  “There you go, promising again,” she glowered. “And you know quite well what I meant. I think you’re lying and I’m quite sure you meant to run away and just leave me a message to find in the morning, just like last time.”

  He took her hand firmly, leading her away from the stables and out into the little hedged garden and its neat paths, parsley sprigs and moonshine. “You speak too loudly, my love, and will have my father alerted and half the household gaping through the windows.” He pulled her along until they stood together under a willow, its drooping leaf disguising their shadows. “Now,” he said, “listen to me and don’t interrupt. My father has every intention of dragging me back to Westminster to face my accusers and show an innocent face. Then he’ll wrap me in fishing net and transport me bodily to Flanders or Portugal or some such. I’ve been avoiding the old man for years, and it’s exactly what I mean to do again. A long sea trip most certainly doesn’t appeal to me at present and nor do my father’s attempts to bully me into his way of life. Simply refusing to take any notice of his demands is much like voluntarily running onto an unsheathed blade, or at the least beating one’s head against the castle battlements. My only other form of escape would be to knock him down. But I won’t do that. He’s too old, too fat and usually too pissed. Instead I intend disappearing. Then I intend discovering who slaughtered my brother and your father.”

  “Oh.” She went pale, unnoticeable in the night’s looming black, and mumbled, “But you don’t know who it was, so how can you know it was the same killer?”