The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “Bloody murder doesn’t happen every day, even in London’s back alleys. When two people, linked by family, are killed within the same year and in exactly the same manner, then I have almost enough brain to see the probabilities.”

  “The fire –”

  “Few know,” Nicholas said, “since the details of Peter’s death were kept as quiet as we could manage. But since I was first on the scene after the messenger arrived with the news, I know more than most. Peter was slaughtered a house in Nottingham – and his visit there was clandestine. His throat was cut, and an attempt was made to burn the body. But the fire didn’t travel, and with his doublet doused in dribbled wine, went out. Your father – well, the similarities are clear enough.”

  “I don’t want to know anymore.”

  “If you come with me,” Nicholas pointed out quietly, “you’ll be faced with worse truths than that. You’ll be faced with discomfort, danger and surprise. Will you risk your reputation and your safety? I can guarantee your life, but little else.”

  She shook her head. “Your father thinks you’re a coward. You’re not, are you?”

  Nicholas laughed. “My father doesn’t know me. Nor do you.”

  “Then I’ll gallop off into the night with you,” said Emeline in a rush, “and find out.”

  “In which case,” Nicholas said, “you’d better hurry upstairs and pack yourself a bag with as little as you think you can live with. Practical necessities, changes of linen, a warm cloak and no baudekyn gowns.”

  “I don’t own a baudekyn gown. You never bought me one.”

  “I will, as soon as I have my brother’s killer in gaol.” One hand to her elbow, he was leading her back towards the house. “But I leave in less than an hour, with or without you. So hurry. And for God’s sake, don’t tell anyone else or make enough noise to wake up my wretched father.”

  “And Martha? She’s very efficient, and can pack in no time –”

  Nicholas shook his head, pushing her forwards. “No Martha. No Avice, Sissy, or your mother. No servants and no secret whispered confidences.”

  Emeline now had the hiccups. “I have to come alone?”

  “You don’t have to come at all,” Nicholas told her. “But if you do, you won’t be alone. You’ll have me, and once we get to London I’ll set you up in the Strand House, and fill it with nursemaids and female companions to look after your things. But no females yet, nor anyone to slow me down. Leave letters for your family explaining what you’ve chosen to do – if you’re entirely sure you want to do this – but try not to make it sound as though I’ve abducted you by force. My father would love something else to accuse me of. And don’t tell anyone where we’re going.”

  “I don’t know where we’re going.”

  “London eventually.”

  Just one moment longer she stood beyond the scuffle and busy smell of the stables and stared up into the face of her husband. “You’d sooner I didn’t come, wouldn’t you?” she whispered, the final hiccup swallowed back.

  A couple of the stable boys were already saddling horses, hauling out the panniers and saddle scabbards while scrubbing down the young lord’s great sleepy liard. Nicholas said, brusque now, “Of course I would. It would be far easier without you. But perhaps less interesting. Admittedly I’m surprised you want this, but hurry, or I shall leave without you anyway. If you’re not back down here within the hour, I’ll assume you’ve changed your mind and crawled into your nice safe warm bed. In which case, I shall blow you a kiss to your chamber window, and ride off into the night.”

  For one very short and chilly breath, Emeline realised she could not do anything so ridiculously absurd, dangerous, uncomfortable and positively shocking. Then she straightened her shoulders, shook her head, hiccupped again and said, “I’m coming.”

  “Well, you’re a brave little thing,” Nicholas smiled at her. “And I admire you for it, even though you’re probably quite mad. Which means you’ll fit nicely into my family. Now quick, quick – and remember, not a word to a soul. But for pity’s sake get rid of those hiccups.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It was a huge and saffron moon behind the trees. Branches were black lace silhouettes, stark against the gold.

  Nicholas rode a little ahead, speaking quietly with David Witton who kept close to his side. Emeline, tired now, trailed behind. The soft fur lining of her cape, hood up, tickled her ears. She breathed in the chill sting of night breezes, gazing forwards at her husband’s back through the tiny mist of her own breath. The easy swing of his shoulders was rhythmic, dark in mahogany and beaver, his horse’s tail twitching. The moon followed, always there, always watching, a fat sated Scorpio moon, pure gold, promising adventure.

  Behind her rode the man Emeline did not know, a burly and quiet stranger, but who she had overheard talking to her husband an hour back when discussing his planned escape. The man led the baggage horse and was, she presumed, a servant, even though Nicholas had ordered her to bring none. He had also, she presumed, been told to ride behind her and protect her back.

  Emeline had left the home of her childhood without interruption, and had tiptoed downstairs and out to the stables to find Nicholas waiting for her, her palfrey’s reins in his hand. Down the old pathways and through the sleeping village, the horses kept to a brisk walk until they were past the shadow of the church steeple striped across their path. Then their pace had quickened and the moon had burst out from behind the clouds, shining like a burning torch. And so, taking the high road to Gloucester, they slipped away from the mundane safety of friends and family, and entered the world of possibility and doubt, risk and insecurity.

  It was nearing dawn when Nicholas rode into the courtyard of the White Boar, and jangled the bell to wake the landlord. Beneath the indignant rustle of the little russet squirrels in the trees, a sleepy eyed ostler was bribed to unbridle and water the horses. Then finally Emeline clambered into a bed slightly musky and even more lumpy than the mattress she had only just become used to at home. At first she slept alone. Nicholas was downstairs talking quietly to his companions as the tavern keeper swept up last night’s spilled ale as his wife piled yesterday’s remaining cheat rolls into the oven for the unexpected gentleman’s early breakfast. It was some hours later when the Chatwyn heir crept quietly into bed beside his wife, gazed at her crumpled bump under the covers, shook his head with tired amusement, and closed his own eyes. Outside the sun was now growing bright yet the wayside inn’s early business did not disturb its sleeping customers.

  Emeline woke and found she was being watched. Nicholas was sitting on the end of the bed, fully dressed, and regarding her with patient sympathy. She had barely opened her eyes when he said, “I have to go somewhere. This time I can’t take you with me.”

  Having gloomily concluded it was unlikely her husband would be joining her in bed anytime soon, she had not removed her shift the night before. Now she was able to struggle up with impunity – staring into the day’s pallid light. She glowered, mumbling, “So even though you brought me here, you don’t really want me. Did you even bother coming to bed last night? And how long will you be gone this time? An hour? A day? A week?”

  Nicholas grinned. “I don’t do things I don’t want. If you’re here, and you certainly are, then it must be because I want you. And I spent several very comfortable hours wrapped around you this night – though it was past dawn when I came upstairs. You slept through all my caresses, presumably enjoying sweet dreams. I’ve no intention whatsoever of abandoning you in this dreary tavern for too long, but the person I need to see now is not anyone I could conceivably introduce to you. I shall be back before evening. Does that suffice?”

  “Who?” she demanded. “Who is this creature who cannot even be permitted to set eyes on me? Who is it, and why is he so important that we’ve come all this way instead of going straight to London? Or is it a she? Do all the men of my family have mistresses in Gloucester?”

  “If I had a mistress in Glou
cester, I think I’d introduce you to her and then sit back and watch the entertainment.” Nicholas was still grinning. “No, my dear. I’m going to see a boy, little more than a child. But you are staying here. If you try to follow me, I shall take you back home.”

  The small boy stood straight, shoulders back, hiding his fear as best he could as he faced his accusers. His hair, matted and pale, was in his eyes. He held his hands very still, fisted by his side. “Nort, m’lor, I swear it. Me Ma, I misses her terrible hard, m’lor. And him, well, I seen him little enough. Meant nort to me, ‘cept more bread and beans on the platter. Weren’t allowed to talk with the gent. Weren’t allowed in that big house neither, ‘cept after it were empty, and I were sent to clean up.”

  Nicholas frowned. “The big house? I know of none. Was there another? The house where your mother died was just two rooms and a shed.”

  “T’were big to me, m’lor. I ain’t never lived nowhere ‘cept here, and this be one room, no more and I shares it wiv the hens.”

  Nicholas nodded through the shadows. The single chamber was cramped although it held little more than a hearth with hanging cauldron, two stools and a straw palette in the corner. The floor was beaten earth and a wiry threshing of rushes held out the draught from beneath the only door. A tiny window was closed by oiled parchment, and the now blazing sunshine outside did not enter beyond a faint and gloomy glow. Nicholas said, “So you claim to know nothing of your mother’s protector, nor anything of her killer? Her lover bought her the big house you speak of. Surely that interested you? You knew him to be wealthy? And are there enemies you know of? Family, perhaps, who criticised your mother’s behaviour, and resented her good luck? Do you have a father, angry over his wife’s adultery? And the baron? What of him? Was he ever followed here by those asking questions – or by someone wanting to know his direction?”

  Throughout, the boy slumped wearily, barely comprehending. Eventually, since Nicholas had stopped speaking some moments ago, the boy mumbled, “I don’t rightly understand, m’lor. T’were me Ma as brought me food every day and that were all I asked. Her days was her own to pass as she wished. And I ain’t got no Pa. Never did.”

  Eyes narrowed in faint suspicion, Nicholas asked, “But you knew the whereabouts of the other house. So you went there. And you saw the baron?”

  “I went there to clean and scrub, m’lor,” the child answered. “When me Ma told me, but only after the grand gent were gone.”

  Nicholas sighed, resigned. “And when did you last eat?”

  The child hunched his shoulders, unclenched his fists and looked down at his bare toes. “Don’t rightly remember, m’lor. Three days, I reckon. I knows the baker’s wife and she give me the stale bread when she has it left over.”

  “Giving you coin will hardly help,” Nicholas said, untying his purse and taking out three silver pennies. “If I give you little, it won’t last long and then you will starve again. Yet if I give you much, the locals will be suspicious and either steal it, or beat you for presumed stealing.” He sighed, looking back over his shoulder at his forlorn companion. “You might join my company, and look after the horses perhaps. Do you know anything of horses?”

  The boy’s eyes glinted. “Nort, m’lor, ain’t never had cause nor come near them big teeth. I looked after our chickens once, but me Ma strangled them and that grand gent ate them.”

  “Well, the little blighter’s honest at least,” muttered Rob from behind. “Coulda claimed a stable boy’s skills, just to get the job. But told the truth instead.”

  “I’ll do wot I’s told, whatever you want, m’lor,” the boy hurried on. “I can learn. I’m willing. I works hard when there’s ort to do.”

  “I’ve no need of another servant.” Nicholas looked him over. “But I dislike leaving you here with nothing to face but starvation. Board your house up, tell the mayor it’s for sale – do what you want. But if you choose to come with me, it’ll be neither comfort nor safety I’ll offer. You’ll get food twice a day, and a bed of sorts most nights. I’ll work you hard and expect obedience. Make your own decision.”

  The child answered before Nicholas had finished speaking, and had fallen to his knees, hands clasped. “Wotever you tells me, m’lor, I’ll do and be grateful – wondrous grateful – until me dying day.”

  Nicholas’ mouth twitched. “Don’t idolise me, boy. That wouldn’t suit at all. And there’s another complication. I travel with a lady who is my wife, and you’ll treat her with the utmost respect. But she’s not to know who you are. You are not to mention your mother to her, nor the gentleman who became your mother’s lover. Do you understand?”

  The boy shook his head. “Not rightly m’lor.”

  “Neither my wife nor any other person we meet from now on can know you are the son of the woman lately killed while in the arms of Baron Wrotham. That is precisely what I mean. Do you understand now?”

  The boy turned the shake of his head to a nod, staring from beneath his increasingly tangled mop of dun hair. Rob said, “And wot is this urchin’s name, anyway?”

  Finally rising from his position of supplication, the child said, “Wolt, sir, being as me Ma called me Walter, if it pleases you.”

  “Don’t please me none,” decided Rob. He turned to Nicholas. “Does it please you then, m’lor?”

  “Not particularly,” Nicholas smiled. “But I doubt I’ll remember it anyway. So, boy,” he held out his hand, offering the three silver pennies, “I shall send Rob here to collect you before sundown today. In the meantime, eat and buy yourself some shoes and an oiled cape. Arrange whatever you wish regarding this house, and then wait for me. If you’re not here at sunset, I shall presume you’ve changed your mind and have no wish to join me. In which case, keep the money and organise you own life.”

  “I’ll be ‘ere, m’lor, no doubt nor nuffin’ save death’ll keep me gone.” The child was shivering, although the afternoon outside was warm.

  “Well, try not to die,” suggested Nicholas, “since that would seem a shame just as your life is about to improve.” He thought a moment as he turned towards the door, then said, “Not that improvements are all that likely, come to think of it. But I won’t let you starve.”

  Back out in the sunshine, Rob said, “You keep this up, m’lor, and we’ll soon have a whole bloody retinue of ragamuffins and thieves.”

  “I have you,” Nicholas pointed out, foot to the stirrup as he remounted. David had been waiting in the alley, holding the horses. “Might as well collect others of the same. Now – I need to talk to the sheriff. Then back to the inn.”

  The next day they took the road early and headed south east for London. Emeline did not remark on the addition of a skinny rag tail brat who clung astride the baggage horse, trailing well behind in the dust kicked up by other hooves. Magpies were chittering in the branches above their heads, and a sweet smell of hawthorn floated on the sunbeams. The party stopped midday for dinner, when Nicholas ordered apple codlings and watched his wife eat six. They did not stop for the night until late, and the tavern was a bedraggled affair with its thatch half tumbled and a scurry of mice in the upper beams.

  Nicholas made love to his wife and kissed her gently as she regained her breath, tucking her in with apologies for the smell of mouse piss on the counterpane. He then retraced his steps downstairs to speak with David. Emeline was asleep when he finally returned to the small chamber, which is what he had hoped for. They left again very early the next day, just as a pearly dawn peeped over the still darkened hills.

  They skirted townships and marketplaces, sometimes travelling the back lanes away from the jumble of traffic, ox carts and flocks of sheep, having no wish to advertise their party and their destination. But they stopped each day for food and retired to some convenient hostelry each night, never too late for a hot supper and a bed before the fatigue of travelling turned to utter exhaustion. But Emeline wilted as the horses plodded, and was glad when their road took them into shade and over streams where the
horses stopped, thirsty and eager to drink. “Tired, my love?” Nicholas asked her as they dismounted in the cool by the grassy damp banks of the river they had forded. “Rest here then, or stretch your legs as you wish. There’s ale in the sumpter’s panniers, and oat biscuits too, if you want them.”

  “Tired? How could I be tired?” Emeline shrugged, leaning back against the mossy trunk of an oak, its roots in the shallows. “When the journey is so pleasant and so leisurely, and my husband so conversational and such an attentive companion that I’m barely conscious of being away from home.”

  “I know. We’re all weary, little one.” Nicholas smiled, but his face was grey and lined and there were purpled smudges beneath his eyes. The deep scar across his face seemed to have burrowed deeper, as if the flesh had shrunk around it. “But this is how I travel, if I travel at all, and indeed I’ve eased my usual pace only for you. Would you have us a month on the road, with all the local gossip recounting our names and direction and our presence known in every village before we arrive?”

  “Would it matter?” She stared at the horses, noses to the water, and wished she might do the same with her toes. “I thought travelling with Papa was tiring, but it was never as – abandoned – as this.”

  He laughed. “You seem always to fear abandonment. So do you want our route known ahead and our arrival expected, with children running behind to beg for pennies every mile we ride?”

  “It’s a bath I want.”

  “When we reach the Strand House.” He extracted the sack of ale and brought it to her. “First I need to make sure no one else is staying there, then I’ll settle you in comfort at last. In the meantime, we ride, we sweat, we eat ill cooked meals at ill cleaned taverns, and we make good speed in anonymity. Should I have warned you of the disadvantages before you chose to come with me?”

  “You did,” she sighed. “I didn’t really believe you. Surely we’re respectable enough people, so I don’t understand the need for anonymity. Are we robbers, to hide our names and titles?”