The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “I still love you.” She fumbled for her kerchief and blew her nose defiantly. “I don’t blame you for not fighting in the wars. I wouldn’t want to go to battle either. But you’ve suffered too. It must have been terrible when your mother died. And then that accident with Peter’s arrow.”

  Nicholas moved at last, placing both feet firmly again on the floor, and turning his chair to look at his wife. “Accident?” he said. “You asked who? Adrian? My father?”

  “I didn’t ask.” Emeline blushed slightly. “But your father and Sissy were talking about it. It sounded – dreadful. Your father said you were ill for such a long time afterwards. And he said it wasn’t really your fault.”

  “Good of him.”

  “I’m not prying,” she said quickly. “I’m just – well – trying to be sympathetic.”

  “A good example,” Nicholas said, standing abruptly and wandering off to find the wine flagon. He returned from the far table, jug in hand, and refilled his cup. “It proves how useless sympathy can be. And since you believe Peter was worthy of canonisation, I won’t bother telling you the true story.” He drained his cup, and handed the other, still full, into his wife’s hands. “Drink,” he ordered her. “It brings more comfort than words.”

  “I don’t want wine.” She shook her head furiously. “All I want is peace, and friendly company. In fact, right now all I want is a bath.” And she replaced her cup firmly on the little table.

  Nicholas stood over her, looking down with a frown that etched the left side of his face in disapproval, the scar burying deeper and catching the side of his mouth in a scowl. The he reached forwards, and took her wrist. “Come with me,” he said softly, “and I’ll give you bath, adventure, and sympathy as I know it.” And he pulled her up on her feet, turned, and led her inexorably towards the great double doors at the end of the hall.

  She squeaked, “You’re drunk,” as he raised one foot and kicked the doors wide. “Nicholas, you’ve no boots on. It’s absolutely pouring, and there’s lightning and thunder and it’ll be so muddy and now it’s almost night.” Then she pulled sharply away, whispering, “Are you going to throw me in the river?”

  He was laughing as he tugged her outside. “You want a bath? I’m going to share it with you.”

  He allowed her to pause one moment just outside the doorway as the heaving soaked blackness absorbed them. The rain pelted, slamming against them both, against the pale plaster of the walls behind, against the little bushes, herbs and paths, and against the great bending trees further down the slope. Nicholas walked resolutely into the storm and held Emeline close to him, one arm around her shoulders, the other hand gripped to her wrist.

  No stars, no moon, only torrents of heaven’s overflow and a small blustering wind. Suddenly lightning fizzled a twisting silver furrow into the darkness above, and the echo of a thunderous drumroll followed immediately. “I – am – drenched,” Emeline croaked. “Please – where – why?”

  He pulled her on. She felt the ooze of mud inside her shoes, wrapping around her toes. Where his fingers clasped her arm, the rain collected in rivulets. Her tiny gauze headdress began to slip down the back of her head, weighted by water. The neckline of her gown, velvet trimmed, sagged open and the rain found its own entrance. Her skirt hems slammed against her shins, soaked heavy. With no breath for complaints, she struggled and was hauled towards the riverbank.

  The birch stood alone, low branches thick with dripping leaf. Nicholas stood beneath its damp shelter and its spreading shadows. Against the bark, the perfumes were loamy and rich. The rain, a little muted by the tree’s overhang, was warm on the evening air as the faint sour smell of the river slipped up between the leaves. Nicholas pressed Emeline back against the trunk and lowered his mouth to hers. She tasted the water drenching her face and his, the wisps of her uncovered hair, and the heat of her husband’s lips. He pushed his tongue into her mouth, tasting her as she tasted him. His body was pressed to hers, the sodden welter of his clothes further soaking her own. She caught her breath and closed her eyes. His voice was so tight to her ear that it was a hot breeze. “No one can see us from the house. I’m going to undress you. I want you naked in the rain.”

  She tried to shake her head. “Not here –,” but he was grinning. Emeline stared at the tiny milky drops in his left eye as they caught the last crackle of lightning above and turned his bright blue iris into white flame. “You are – frightening,” she whispered.

  Nicholas snorted as his hands roamed. “Your nipples rise through the wet silk. So deliciously tantalising,” and smoothing downwards, unclipped the wide band just below her breasts, then loosening her gown where it was laced beneath her arm. The deep V neckline was already gaping and finally he slipped the heavy material from her shoulders. It sank and crumpled to her hips. Beneath it, her shift stuck to her, outlining her nipples, dark as her gown. The linen clung. Nicholas slipped his hands inside, warming and drying her as the tree trunk scratched at her back. She stopped struggling.

  His wandering fingers found the fastening, untied the ribbon and pulled it loose from its eyelets. Emeline stood uncovered to the dip where her navel rested just above the first hint of belly. The rain sluiced down her, discovering the swells and angles, making its own little pools and ripples as she shivered.

  “Cold?” The increasing darkness remained warm. Even the summer storm did not chill the night.

  Emeline shook her head. “No. Hot. Inside, not outside.” Her hair was loose now, hanging in thick water logged ringlets, diverting the flow of the rainwater over her skin. Nicholas traced the rivulets, one finger down from her neck, curving out then pushing into her cleavage, down her ribs and to the round soft plane below. There the rain puddled until he tugged, and all her clothes fell sodden around her feet. She stood naked apart from her gartered stockings and her little mud squelched shoes, and he took her again in his arms and pressed her harder back against the tree. She could barely see him, too lost in fluttering leafy shadow, and his eyes, now heavy lidded, barely glinted. He said, very softly, “Do you want to please me, Emma?”

  She whispered, “You have to teach me.”

  The lightning again interrupted, startling silver arrows bringing one short and sudden moment of visibility and a shatter of vivid reflections across the river. The Thames was rising fast, its waves white tipped. Then once again everything was dark as the thunder bellowed. Nicholas murmured half muffled by echoes and reverberation, “Touch me.” He took her hand and brought it between his legs, one knee bent between hers, keeping her thighs apart. “Hold me, discover me. You’re getting to know the rest of me, now know me here. Around first, then over, softly or tightly as you wish. Thumb below here, fingers wide. Down, then down to the base, then up again, pulling and tight. Every part is sensitive, just as you are, some places more than others. Find the places.” His own fingertips were still running, exploring across her breasts, circling the aureoles, pushing up under her arms to the nestled curls, then down her body again to the richer, thicker curls at her groin. He cupped her there, his thumb to the opening, rubbing gently until she squirmed. Then he grinned and said, “Gloriously wet, my love, and not just from the rain. Look at me.”

  Her eyes flickered open, her lashes sparkling with rain and blinking back the falling drops. “I’m – soaked,” she whispered.

  “Oh, yes indeed you are,” smiled Nicholas. “And now I shall share your bath, both outside and in. I shall take you standing up, but afterwards I shall carry you to bed and dry you, and tuck you in the warmth, and stay beside you until dawn creeps in.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  He had wrapped her in his discarded shirt to bring her in to the house again, up the wide stairs and through the dark corridor to the bedchamber. Here he laid her on the soft yielding counterpane of gold thread and white fur, removed his wet shirt from her, plumped up the pillows behind her and smiled. He was naked too, although he had draped his doublet over his shoulders. Now he threw that off and began
to walk the chamber, lighting candles beside the bed and on the table. A flask of wine had been left there with cups beside, and he filled the cups and brought one to Emeline. The candlelight turned the wine to cherry, shot with as much gold thread as the bedcover.

  He put up the shutters across the two windows, wandered into the adjoining garderobe and returned with some damp cloths and several towels. Then he sat beside his wife. He lifted her leg, bent it, rolled off her sodden stocking and brought her foot to his naked lap. He began to wash her toes as they curled, pressing down as she felt the rising muscles of his groin beneath her sole. “You’re beginning to learn how to please me after all.” He twisted the wet cloth between her toes, cleaning away the accumulated mud. Then he took a towel, and briskly dried where he had washed.

  She said, “All my clothes are lying down in the storm. So are half of yours. What will the servants think in the morning?”

  “That they have odd masters with odd desires, and so will gossip about us in the kitchens.”

  “You don’t care?”

  “Why should I?” He leaned across her, removed the second stocking and washed her other foot.

  “There’s mud everywhere,” Emma giggled, “and your feet are worse than mine. You didn’t even start with shoes on.”

  He bent over her suddenly, kissing her hard. “Not such a practical bath then?”

  She sipped her wine, peeping at him over the brim. “So were you drunk, Nicholas? Are you still? Are you all the time?”

  He laughed, throwing the mud crusted cloths to the ground. “Was I? No. Am I? Not yet. Am I always?” He paused, looking down at her. “No, little one, I am not my father. But life can be sadly disappointing, and a fine wine masks the sharper edges. Is that inebriation? I was intoxicated on our wedding night, and that was purposeful. Usually I prefer my head clear. You’ve not yet seen me entirely drunk.”

  “I was drunk on our wedding night too. That was the first time in my life and it was horrid.” Emeline wrinkled her nose. “I had a dreadful headache afterwards and I still had to face4 all the horror of the fire.”

  “You should have drunk another cup. That’s the best way to deal with fear and pain.”

  She reached up tentatively, fingers to the black scar down his left cheek. “That must have been – all those things,” she whispered.

  He sat back a moment, watching her as though wary. Then he said, “The surgeon took four hours to get the arrow head out. It had gone fairly deep, and because I was only twelve, he took pity and tried to make it easy for me. Yet I think his slow concern made it worse.” Emeline tucked her fingers between his thighs, and he clasped his own hand over hers. “That’s – comfortable, my love. Are you trying to encourage me to talk? Well, it’s not so grand a story. Old Mannbury used a small pair of wooden tongs, something he found in the spicery I think, for cracking nutmeg. He fiddled around with the gash in my face, got both blades in and stretched the wound open with enough space between flesh, sinew and muscle to grab the arrow head with the points of some pliers, and wrenched it out.”

  Emeline gasped. “And it took four hours?”

  “There was rather more to it than that,” shrugged Nicholas. “First breaking off the shaft without jabbing the damn thing in further. Then dosing me up with wine, poppy syrup and henbane juice until my wits were wandering. Worse than simply being drunk, I can promise you, and the headache later was considerably worse too. But of course they still had to hold me down. I had black bruises up my arms for a month. And being what he supposed was careful, poor wretch, trying to stretch the opening far enough but not to rip my face apart. The apothecary cauterized the wound afterwards, and I think that was even more vile than all the rest. Only time I ever fainted until that damned fire after our wedding.” He paused, as though blinking away memories, then smiled cautiously. “The doctors used great slabs of honey to keep the wound clean. A few times I woke in the night with ants crawling over my face. I had two ant stings on my tongue. That stopped me licking up the honey when it started to drip down my chin.”

  For a moment Emeline sat in horrified silence, summoning breath. Then she said, very quietly, “I am surprised you are alive at all, and that the scar isn’t deeper.” She paused again, looking at him and then away, her fingers hesitating across his cheek. “You don’t like it, do you?” she whispered.

  “Like it?” He laughed. “Why in God’s good name should I?”

  “I suppose,” she mumbled, “you were terribly handsome before, and you resented it spoiling – well – you are still handsome, Nicholas. Terribly handsome if you don’t look at the scar. And terribly interesting if you do.”

  “Silly puss,” It sounded amused and affectionate, and he cupped her own cheek, smoothing back the loose curls of her hair behind her ears. “Do you think me so vain? It’s the memories, and the lessons it taught me that I dislike. I found out a lot at that time. I suppose I grew up.”

  “I don’t think you’ve grown up yet – all that talk of adventure.” She paused again, then said suddenly, “Peter did it on purpose, didn’t he? It wasn’t the accident Sissy and your father think it was.”

  He shook his head. “Sissy believes what Peter told her. My father knows the truth but won’t admit it.”

  Emeline said, “Peter did it because he was angry? Or jealous?”

  “Both. We’d been sent to practise archery at the butts. Does this matter after all this time? Well, conceit apart, I was the better shot. I had double his skill. Just the luck of birth I suppose, and probably he was better at other things, though I can’t remember what. He watched me loose my arrows at the target. I centred them all, and then all his missed. He turned and shot me in the face. Well, he didn’t miss the target that time. I was too close.”

  “Did he want to kill you? Had you jeered, and laughed at him?”

  “Strangely enough, no.” Nicholas shrugged, draining his cup. “I’d known him a poor archer for a long time, and found the subject irrelevant. I rarely sought his company anyway, and just wanted the practise over, looking for my chance to get away.”

  “And so I don’t blame you for never wanting to go to war after that.” Emeline shuddered. “That would have put you off fighting forever.”

  “My renowned cowardice?” Nicholas swung his legs over and stretched out on the bed next to her, gathering her to his shoulder and lightly kissing her forehead. “Nothing is ever quite so simple, my love. I worked for the Duke of Gloucester throughout the Scottish campaigns, and have worked for him since. But it’s easier to keep it quiet, and I achieve far more without my father’s nose in my business. The duke – king now, of course – sent me to Berwick during the great siege. Pretending to be a smuggler of Scottish liquor, I infiltrated the castle there, and helped to break the standoff from the inside. And naturally managed to smuggle back Scottish liquors while I was at it. Then when the old king died two years ago and Edward Woodville sailed off with near half the royal treasure and all the fleet, I sailed with Brampton to help bring the fleet back. Later that year I had some small hand in squashing the Buckingham rebellion almost before it started. Oh – nothing grand – but I go where I’m sent and do whatever the king asks of me. I’m not alone, naturally. There’s Brampton, Tyrell, the amazing Lovell, and plenty of others do the same, but it’s not shouted by the town crier. Sometimes it’s secret, sometimes not. Adventure, of course. But telling any of my family would ruin my work and displease the king. So don’t whisper to anyone, my love, and if you prove a silent tongue, then I’m prepared to tell you what I do when I do it. Within reason.”

  Emeline proved her tongue was silent for some time, curled there against his shoulder with her arm around his waist and his fingers in her hair. Finally she said, “Now I know why I love you.”

  He laughed again. “And you couldn’t love an apathetic coward? What a conditional and judgemental love, little one.”

  “Better than just loving you for that,” and she pointed. “It’s all you want me for, isn’t
it?”

  “But I am apathetic sometimes, drink too much, and am a heinous coward when faced with my father’s lunatic blunders, and a marriage I thought to be a tedious insult. Forgive me for that at least, my dear, for I was wrong. You are delightful, and I can speak with more than my prick, I promise.”

  “I don’t trust your promises.” She couldn’t see his grin, but she knew it was there.

  “Do you trust my prick more?”

  “I like knowing you think me delightful.”

  “I must say it more often.”

  “Apple codlings are delightful, and a summer day can be delightfully delightful. Oh – a warm fire – a well aired bed – and a hundred other things. Delightful isn’t outstanding. But if that’s what you think me, I’m happy with it for now.”

  They were still entwined when she woke. Although the shutters closed both windows in planked shadow, a tiny line of brightness eased through one slit and Emeline knew the sun had risen. She wriggled free of her husband’s embrace, but stayed a moment snuggled to his breast. She could feel the warm rhythm of his breathing and the steady soft pound of his heartbeat. There was a blush of damp at his shoulder where her cheek had lain, and the gleam of sweat stayed where they had been pressed close together. Even sitting now, and looking down on him, Emeline felt the same little warm dampness on her cheek. She leaned and kissed the place on his body, but he did not move.

  She clambered down from the high mattress and went to the smaller window. The larger looked out to the river and the back of the house, but the smaller looked to the side where the herb garden led directly to the stables. She could hear someone crying, a harsh and guttural sound, then a man’s voice shouting and another sound, perhaps of a slap.

  When she looked back into the bedchamber, she saw Nicholas watching her. Bright blue eyes, like the glass in church windows. He was naked, unconcerned, stretched on the bedcover and warm enough not to delve below the feathers. “Seems I didn’t exhaust you sufficiently last night. You’re awake too early.”