The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  It was that following night when, discovering her maid in tears, Avice said crossly, “Oh very well, then. Sissy and I can share a maid. You and Petronella can ride back to Wrotham House in the morning and tell my mother I’m safe and on my way to London. But no one must come after us, and we’ll be taking secret back roads and sleeping under the trees.” Sysabel raised her eyebrows at this, but Avice hurried on, “Just tell Maman I’m happy and safe and I’m going after Nicholas. He’ll look after me so she needn’t worry. In fact, you’d better tell her we’ve caught up with Emma already, and then she’ll be quite content.”

  “But mistress,” quavered the maid, “that would be a lie.”

  “Oh, pooh,” exclaimed Avice. “It won’t be a lie tomorrow because by then we will have. So by the time you get back and talk to Maman, it’ll be the truth.”

  The Gloucestershire lanes were puddled in sunshine and the leafy hedgerows they passed were sprinkled with blossom and the first flutter of butterflies. The little party ambled, old Bill in front, eyes half shut against the day’s glitter, and the remaining maid dutifully at the rear. Sheep grazed the rolling foothills and breezes shuddered the valley grasses. With a buzzing of bees in the hedgerows, they breathed in the soft nodding smells of wild flowers, dusty lanes and new growth in the underfoot leaf litter.

  But their pace, at first amiable, soon became interminable. Avice, Sysabel and Hilda began to hate their horses. They ached and their backs throbbed. They feared sun blemished noses and fingers crinkled from too long in riding gloves. They yearned for baths, for afternoon naps with the shutters closed, for hot dinners and cool wine, and the soothing comfort of their families. Avice missed her mother but sniffed into her kerchief and would not admit to it. Sysabel was equally as miserable, but at least had no mother to miss. Hilda the maid decided her life was over. Avice began to feel like the murderer she was hoping to uncover.

  With a lack of funds, they stayed in the smaller hostelries and many times shared a bed with other wives and daughters travelling the same roads. They avoided river crossings because Avice did not want to get her hems wet, so they headed south east by the rising sun, with the general hope of one day hitting Oxford.

  Folk said, “’Tis a terrible long way, Mistress.” Or, “Make for the Little Mill, then the Big Mill on the stream, and then best ask for Witney, be it market day. If’n market day has bin and gone, then Witney ain’t worth the visit. Best keep straight on.” Finally, “’Tis Ossford Town has them big univestersy houses, where the clever folk go. You finds one o’ them clever folk and ast him – for I’ve not left my village past the bakers’ in the past forty year.”

  It rained and everything turned to swamp.

  They did not catch up with Nicholas.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Nicholas stood at the wharf and watched the great sails dip and shudder, falling to the decks as they shed their streams of briny water. The sailors were bare foot, better for climbing ropes and not slipping on wet and salty planks, and their hands were practical and horned with calloused ridges, hardened against blisters and welts. But what they were bringing up from the hold was a different danger altogether.

  The wind battered cob thudded against the old pier as the prow and stern were hard roped to the quay. The gangplank’s end slid to shore, gradually the boards ceased to groan though the gale still whined through the loose rigging, and finally the men began to heave their captive towards his wretched destiny.

  The bear whimpered, confused and unbalanced by the roll of the waves, little food and the smell of men. Heavily chained, it clanked from boat to land, shuffled to the wharf and stopped there, bloodshot eyes to the sun tipped clouds, thankful to recognise the surety of earth beneath its paws.

  Those sailors hauling neither beast nor bundles were racing to the nearest tavern. Nicholas was distracted then, his eyes to the bear’s lolling shamble and its huge brown furred bulk, thick with dirt and the sticky residue of old wounds. When he felt a very human hand creep to his belt from behind. Nicholas swung immediately, his own fingers steel gripped to the errant wrist. There was a sharp gulp from behind and the stranger’s fingers went limp.

  Harry Bambrigg lurched back, gulped again and mumbled, “’Tis you me lor, may the Lord God in His nice clean heaven forgive me. How were I to know it were you? Expectin’ Rob, I were, but he ain’t here.”

  “So you thought you’d make sure the walk down to the docks wasn’t entirely wasted?”

  “It’s a fat purse you’ve got there, m’lor. You didn’t ought to carry so much tempting coin around to lead poor honest folk into crime.” Harry rubbed his wrist. “And you’ve a nasty grip on you, considering last time I saw you, you was sick fit to die.”

  Nicholas smiled. “Yes, I’ve a strong arm and you should remember it. I had a fair aim with the Welsh bow once, and no doubt a life of climbing out of windows also helps. So I’m quite prepared to protect my purse when needed.” His smile turned to a grin. “But I didn’t expect to have to protect it from my friends.”

  “Well, I’m proper honoured to be called a friend,” said Harry, relaxing. “I’m just glad you didn’t break my wrist, m’lor’, which feels like you surely could’ve. That woulda spoiled me career real nasty.”

  “A failed career, I imagine,” Nicholas said, “since your creeping fingers were as obvious as that poor wretched bear just offloaded.”

  Harry scratched his chin. “You’ve never bin to the bear pit in Southwark, m’lor? Nor set a wager for beast ‘gainst hounds? Then you’ve not lived to the full is all I can say. And as for wretched, ‘tis a beast with all the temper and cruelty of a Frenchie missing his dinner. Them buggers come from the forests of Calabria – and kills as sure as be killed, they tells me. Evil is as evil does, I say, and merits death.”

  “I consider the Southwark bear pits even more hideous than the Southwark brothels,” Nicholas said.

  “Can’t afford neither,” said Harry sadly. “Wish I could.”

  “Your brother,” Nicholas told him without noticeable sympathy, “is waiting for us in the Katherine Tavern. I have a job for you both.” He turned away, watching one of the cob’s sailors striding towards him. “And I see the man I came to meet, who will tell me whether the job is urgent, or otherwise.”

  It was later that afternoon when Nicholas rejoined his wife. She was in the small private solar attached to the hostelry bedchamber, and she had been watching his approach from the adjacent window. She was therefore prepared, and when he entered the room she ignored him and continued with her supper. She had ordered her own apple codlings.

  He said, “You don’t seem overjoyed to see me,” threw his gloves to the window seat, kicked off his boots and tossed them to the small empty hearth, and strode quickly over to sit beside her. “Hungry as usual, I see? With luck we’ll find the Strand House still employs its Florentine chef.”

  That made her turn towards him. “Oh gracious fortune, we’re going there at last, then? So we really shall have a proper home and stop this hideous journeying and moving and sleeping in other people’s beds?”

  “Well, hopefully you’ll be sleeping in mine.”

  She discarded the last apple codling into its syrup, and threw her arms around her husband’s neck. “Oh – wonderful. It’s been three wretched days in this horrid place, and ages and ages on the road, and before that it was Maman’s and that lumpy bed, and before that it was more travelling, and Adrian’s house for half a night until we were all threatened with disease and death – and before that –”

  “The fire,” nodded Nicholas, “and sleeping in the west tower with the smell of soot to flavour the porridge. What a delightful marital experience you’ve enjoyed so far, my dear. Didn’t you believe me when I promised you adventure?”

  “This isn’t adventure. It’s torture.”

  “Since I’ve been threatened with torture more than once, I can assure you it’s something way beyond the boredom of travel, my dear.” He grinned at her, spooned
up the single apple codling she had discarded, and ate it himself. Mouth full, he continued, “And now I suppose I should explain what’s been happening, and what will probably happen next.”

  “Your loyal squire,” Emeline informed him, “has been explaining matters in your absence. At least there’s someone in your employ with manners and intelligence who takes me seriously enough to tell me what to expect.”

  “How can I tell you what’s on the next horizon when I don’t know myself,” objected Nicholas, “and if Witton has been explaining it all to you, then perhaps he should explain it all to me.”

  “And he told me all about the Strand House too,” she smiled, remaining determinedly affable. “He said it used to belong to your grandfather, who left it to the whole family to use at will. And since your father was the eldest and inherited the title, he has prime claim, but he’s not at the castle then he’s usually at court so the house stays empty. Your uncle Jerrid, who sounds rather sweet, uses it sometimes, and so does Adrian. Your aunt Elizabeth used to stay there when she was younger, especially before her husband was killed at Tewkesbury. And Mister Witton told me you often go there, but it depends on the secrecy of your movements, and sometimes you prefer to go to a rather less salubrious address which actually belongs to him, close by The Tower. He says I wouldn’t like it there, which is why you haven’t taken me.” Nicholas was frowning, so she hurried on, “What David Witton did not tell me was why on earth you like to be so secretive all the time. Why would you hide in a tiny little place belonging to your servant, when you could stay in a grand house amongst the palaces of the nobility?”

  Nicholas sighed. “Probably because I’m pissed half the time, like my father.” He smiled suddenly. “It’s the only reason I’ve bought you some decent clothes of course – so I can borrow them from time to time.”

  “So,” Emeline refused to giggle, “we remove to the Strand House tomorrow morning? Have you discovered whether Adrian is there already?”

  “He isn’t,” Nicholas told her, “which is the main reason I’m prepared to take you there. The less I see of the rest of the family, the better. But I warn you, we’ll receive visitors from time to time. Too many people know of the place. Even your wretched father knew of it. He kept hinting that he ought to be invited, since he wanted a close place to use for gaining access to court and the king’s ear.”

  Emeline looked up, startled. “Don’t tell me the king may come calling?”

  Nicholas regarded her for a moment, eyes narrowed. “I wonder just how much Witton has actually told you, my dear. But in any case, his highness does not trot around to call on his subjects at whim. If he wants to see anyone, he summons them to court. But you will meet him, since I suppose I shall have to take you to Westminster Palace at some time.”

  Emeline’s frown blossomed into a blazing smile. “Oh, gracious heavens. A new gown then. Baudekyn?”

  “No doubt,” grinned her husband. “And perhaps one for you too.”

  It dawned fine and clear, with birdsong, the church bells chiming for Prime, and the Thames at low tide. Sprats jumped in the shallows and the dragonflies dipped iridescent reflections from water to wing. The gardens all along the Strand sloped down to the riverbanks, grass sprigged with daisies. Emeline stood, her feet in the clover and her hands clasped in delight, gazing up at the long house. She exclaimed, “It is marvellous,” seemingly transfixed.

  “Then get inside,” said Nicholas, “before it starts to rain.”

  Half bricked with a wooden framed central entrance, the house was full three storeys high. Peaked garret windows peeped beneath a proud slate roof with four groups of towering chimneys. The lower windows, overlooking the river, were large mullioned and bright, all fully glassed. Emeline breathed deep. “Oh, blessed miracles and bounty, there will be light.”

  “There’ll be rain too,” insisted Nicholas. “The sky’s clouded over and those clouds threaten thunder. Harry and the boy are stabling the horses and Rob and David have the baggage in hand. Alan, my other man, is already based here. If you need anything, my sweet, while I’m not around, then ask Alan or David. I trust them both entirely. Now come quickly, my love, let me show you the Chatwyn attempt at comfort.”

  The rain began with a great sloshing downpour, huge heavy drops pounding on the roof and streaming from the overhang of the upper storey. The house had started to bustle and the grand door was flung wide. Against the outside thrum, the steward clapped his hands and summoned the servants from their apathy. Hippocras was set to warm, the fire was lit in the kitchen hearth, cauldrons unearthed and cupboards explored for supplies. The pantry woke, the buttery heaved into action, the spicery was dusted and the candles were aflame in the hall and in the sconces up the main staircase.

  Emeline whispered, “You didn’t warn them we were coming?”

  “Certainly not,” said Nicholas. “This is far more entertaining, tests the organisational skills of the household, and gives them all something to complain about afterwards.” He turned as a page hurried to take his wet cloak, hat and gloves. “And tell Sanderson,” Nicholas instructed the page, “we expect dinner within the hour, and an early supper to make up for dinner’s inevitable inadequacies. But first of all wine, and plenty of it.”

  The page managed to smile, bow, and trip over a puppy racing to greet the newcomers. It slid the polished floorboards, tail swinging enthusiastically. Emeline found her fingers warmly licked as she reached down to slip out of her wet shoes. The house soon thundered with puppy enthusiasm as the rest of the litter discovered the new excitement, and as the storm grew outside, so the thunder escalated both within and without.

  It was after supper, with parcels and panniers unpacked and two good meals digested, that Emeline said, “I love your house, Nicholas. Can we stay forever?”

  “Oh, without a doubt, and into a glorious eternity,” he said. His feet, ankles crossed, rested on the low table where a candle gently smoked a wisp of honey perfume and two wine cups, one empty and one full, stood waiting. There was a small hole in one toe of his soft knitted hose. “But,” Nicholas continued, “that’s only until something interrupts us.”

  “So not forever then. And what will interrupt us this time? Fire? Pestilence? Your father? Battle, murder, the apocalypse?” She sat on the wide window seat, her gaze on the pelting sleety grey beyond the glass. “And who will be staying for such a short forever?” she sighed. “Both of us? Or only me?”

  He grinned. “Yes. All of that.”

  So she turned and faced him. “Nicholas, I’ve told you I love you and I’ve told you I don’t care if you don’t love me. I’ll be comfortable here, and it’ll be interesting to try and be the lady of the house for the first time. There’s all London to explore, and perhaps even the court. But I didn’t come all this way to sit alone and give orders to servants and play with your dogs and wait and wait for you to come back.” He did not answer at first, so then she said, “When I first told you I loved you, you said I couldn’t, because I didn’t know you. So how am I ever going to know you if you keep running off? I’m not your father. I don’t carry a stick. I’ve no plans to murder anyone. You like me well enough in bed.” She looked away again, staring at the rain. “Surely I’m not such a burden for the rest of the day.”

  He did not move, though his smile faded. Finally he said, “But you want comfort and you want sympathy, and I’m unpractised at both. Would you be content to ride through the night? Will you obey me if I tell you to sleep in a damp cellar? Can you go all day without food? Are you prepared to lose your reputation, and be known as the mad wife of a mad murderer? And even if you are prepared for all these things, how could I ask it of you?”

  She looked up instantly and stared at him. “And when do you need to do any of those things yourself? And sympathy? I’d as soon expect angels to jump down the chimney. You talk of adventure, but you’ve never fought in battle. You talk of the king but you don’t go to court. When something threatens, you just run away. You
don’t even care about being called a coward. And now you say you’re going to find who killed my father, but you just pretend you’re doing something clever and dangerous while you hide from me.”

  He was silent a moment, then spoke softly. “It’s a mad bad world, my love, and every kingdom needs those who will surrender their comfort in order to help their king.” He sighed, as if not intending to say more. But then he shook his head, and continued. “For instance, little one, I went to meet someone at the docks, who brought the message I’d been hoping for. There are those, but I’ll name no names, who thought their lives at risk when King Richard first came to the throne. Some of them fled the country, and went to Brittany and France. Now there’s one who regrets that choice, and wants to return. The king sanctions that return. The poor wretch attempted to sail back to England last November, but he failed. He was – let us say – dissuaded. Now the French hold him hostage. But I’m told he has found a way, and will try again.”

  She gasped. “You’re going to help a – a fugitive?”

  “A simple young man who discovered that foolish bravado and too much belief in his own importance, did him no good at all. Now he has learned that sitting in France at the side of the traitor Tudor is even more unpleasant than behaving himself at home. His mother has called him back. I have been asked to help, if he manages to arrive on our shores.”

  “You work for – the king?”

  Nicholas did not miss the disguised sob, nor the candlelight reflecting the moisture in her eyes. He leaned back, gazing up at the high painted ceiling beams and their vaulted arches, addressing the trail of dust, out of reach of the cleaner’s brooms. “Is it easier to think me a coward, little one? Perhaps I am. Does it matter?”