The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “It’s past dawn – look.” The knife cut of light through the shutters was beginning to dazzle. “The storm has all blown away and the sun is shining. But someone is crying in your stables.”

  “Disaster follows me, it seems. I will ask later. For now I want my wife. Then my breakfast. Finally my squire, and last of all my next adventure.”

  “I’m used to being up early.” She came to sit on the edge of the bed, pulling the ties of her bedrobe tightly about her. “Papa always insisted we attend morning mass immediately after Prime, and then we had wafers and a little ale for breakfast. No more. He said eating would make us complacent and we’d forget our duties.”

  “Which I suppose is why you wake early and eat excessively. I have never known anyone else so fond of apple codlings.”

  “Never? And so surprising? Don’t you usually feed your women, then?”

  “You are an urchin,” Nicholas remarked, then frowned. “Which reminds me, I suppose I know who is probably crying in the stables.”

  “More secrets?”

  “I imagine this is going to be a busy day.”

  “Then I must dress too. But I have no dresser, no lady’s maid, no nurse and no idea where to find one. Can I have servants now if we’re going to live here for a while longer?”

  “No doubt there’s a parcel of women wandering this house somewhere,” Nicholas said with vague disinterest. “Normally there’d be some poor wretch sleeping on the truckle bed from beneath this mattress, ready to defend me from thieves in the night, get me ale if I wake parched, comfort me if I have nightmares, and generally disturb me with his snoring. There might also be a scruffy page or two waiting to obey all my irascible demands and clean up the dog shit if those inexhaustible puppies disgrace themselves. There should also be someone else lurking in the annexe beyond the garderobe, ready to leap from his bed to warm my shirt as soon as I wish to get dressed, though I’ve no desire to have our lovemaking witnessed, even from beyond the bed curtains. You make far too many little gasps and squeals, and at the happy end you groan loudly as though in terrible pain. Small boys giggling from beyond the arras might put us both off.”

  An hour later Nicholas had entered the stable courtyard. Fully dressed but with his hair still uncombed, he strode past the assortment of busy grooms and fretting horses, and demanded the whereabouts of the new stable boy he had brought with him yesterday. Someone said, “Right there, m’lord. Got kicked up the arse. First by your lordship’s hoby, and then by me.”

  “Ah,” said Nicholas, running his hands through his hair, a form of grooming less effective than the horses’, and peered down into the rummage of straw in the corner. “Boy? Hurt, are you? If you and my liard don’t get on, I’d better get you some work in the kitchens instead.”

  “I’s used to being beat,” snuffled the boy. “But not whupped by them big horses. They got nasty hard feet, an’ a lot harder than my Ma’s.” Nicholas conceded this probability while Wolt continued. “But I don’t wanna turn no spits in no kitchens neither. I had a friend once, went to be a spit boy for the bishop. Burned all his fingers till they was just little sticky stumps.”

  Nicholas sighed. “When you decide what degree of discomfort you might manage to suffer in comparative silence, do let me know and I shall attempt to organise a suitable place for you.”

  But he was interrupted. A small clattering of hooves was entering the courtyard behind him, and a voice called, “Is that you, Nicholas? There’s remarkably little organisation here, whatever else you’re planning. The last time I stayed here the stables were fairly well staffed. You seem to bring chaos in tow, cousin. Is it intentional?”

  Adrian dismounted, and signalled for his small retinue to do the same. He then waved the three men off to arrange their own quarters, and turned back to Nicholas. “Oh bloody Bedlam,” exclaimed Nicholas. “I only moved in yesterday because you weren’t here.”

  “Then I have come in perfect time.” Adrian refrained from smiling. “I’ve come to talk of duty to you, cousin. There is a good deal to talk about.”

  “Then you can talk to my wife,” said Nicholas. “She’s been fretting for company for days.”

  “Ah, then your wife is here with you, Nicholas?” Adrian followed his cousin towards the house. “It was her I wished to talk about. She was worrying about you. So was I. I hear you had some slight contagion from the pestilence after all. Entirely finished now, I presume?”

  “Well, of course it is,” said Nicolas with some irritation. “Am I covered in black swellings and about to drop to the ground? That was weeks and weeks ago. If you must stay here, at least talk some sense. Now come and gossip with my wife. I have other things to do.”

  It was over a pleasant dinner served in the main hall that Emeline began to summarise her last few days on the road and in the hostelry by the docks. Nicholas was not present, and had politely absented himself with promises of an immediate return, which his wife did not believe. Chattering and animated with Adrian, apple codlings having magically appeared on a huge platter at her right hand, she was describing her first view of the Bridge with the massive beauty of The Tower’s stone fortress beyond. She was, however, also interrupted, and it seemed far more alarming than Adrian’s earlier arrival had been.

  Baroness Wrotham swept into the hall, a bright scarlet coat over her arm, a tasselled turban swinging dangerously around her ears, and her vivid green skirts swirling with a determined silken rustle. She swooped on her daughter and the laden table, and threw her coat to an empty stool. “My dear girl,” announced her mother, “you have had me chasing across the countryside, and near dead with the wind in my hair. I always thought those wretched litters your Papa insisted upon were too horrid to contemplate, but believe me, riding is worse. I am sore in places I cannot mention, and I never wish to see another horse. Now,” she looked around, frowning. “Where is your sister?”

  Emeline, mouth already open in astonishment, hiccupped. “Avice?”

  “You have another?”

  “Avice is at home with you,” mumbled Emeline, “At least, you aren’t at home, which you should be. But you shouldn’t even know where I am. And I haven’t the faintest notion where Avice is.”

  “If,” warned her ladyship, “you are hiding her, Emeline, I shall – well, I shall think of something.” She promptly sank to the stool where she had previously thrown her coat, and even in her new finery, began to look forlorn. “I have lost her, Emma. She ran away. But then I was told she was with you.”

  “And Sissy too?” gasped Emeline.

  Adrian, who had remained in politely quiet disapproval until now, said loudly, “My sister? What has this to do with her? I ordered her to stay at home in Nottingham and learn her manners while reorganising the household after the devastation of that foul disease.”

  “Well, she didn’t,” said the baroness with considerable impatience. “The dear girl came to visit us, and I was most pleased to have her. Until she and Avice ran away, that is.”

  Adrian went as white as the tablecloth. “My sister would never act so reprehensibly, so irresponsibly –”

  “Clearly she did,” said the baroness curtly, “and my daughter left a silly note about going off to discover who murdered Peter.” She turned back to Emeline. “Then two days later, while I was nearly dead with fear and worry, two of her little maids came riding back to say they had gone some way south east, but had been sent home as it cost too much to put them up at inns along the way. Sysabel’s maid is still with them I gather, and that silly old groom Bill, who I kept meaning to retire since he is of no use to anyone. But he’s evidently gone with them as a guide and protector.”

  Emeline clutched her mother’s hand. “They are both babies. Avice could be anywhere. Lost in the hills. Attacked by animals. Abducted.”

  The baroness shook her daughter off. “Emma, don’t frighten me. I’m already at my wit’s end. Where is Nicholas? He has to ride out and find her immediately.”

  “I shall r
ide out and find them both,” declared Adrian, standing quickly and throwing down his napkin. “I’ll order my horse saddled this instant.”

  “And where will you go?” demanded Emeline.

  Adrian paused, then waved a hand in the direction of the stables. “Why, out there – out beyond. I shall search the whole country.”

  “Send us a message when you get to Scotland,” sniffed the baroness. “But I’m sure we can be a little more focused than that. I followed the road from Wrotham to Westminster, and I took several side roads and asked at every hostelry. No sign of course. So if they did not head for London, where on earth might they have gone? To search for James’ killer. But who could they suspect?”

  Adrian heaved back down into his chair and waved the other hand vaguely in a sweeping motion. “A madman. Some thief, perhaps? A jealous husband in Gloucester? Or some trader who held a grudge.”

  “The girls are definitely not still in Gloucester,” insisted the baroness. “I not only sent half my household scouring every street, but I also informed the sheriff who sent out his constables. The girls had not been seen.”

  “Then back to Leicestershire,” said Emeline at once. “To where Peter was killed, and clues might be traced. Perhaps a madman killed Papa and Peter both, but is madness so consistent? Yet if Avice and Sissy never took the road from Wrotham to here, then they must have gone in the opposite direction.”

  “Where will they stay?” wailed the baroness, reaching for her new embroidered kerchief.

  “At my house in Nottingham,” Adrian decided at once. “Sissy would have the good sense to take your daughter there, my lady, and that might have been her intention all along. To keep the proprieties, of course, in face of your daughter’s impulsive whims.”

  The baroness looked up sharply and lowered her kerchief. “My daughter’s irresponsible impulses, sir? Does your sister have none?”

  “None, my lady. I have brought her up myself since she was quite young. Aunt Elizabeth being, let us say, a less reliable chaperone.”

  “Then a fourteen years child being passionately in love with her worthless cousin does not count as a whim, sir?”

  A sudden voice behind the baroness said softly, “Which worthless cousin did you have in mind, my lady, since there are a number of us?”

  “Oh, Nicholas,” squeaked Emeline. “Thank goodness you’re back. Look who has arrived. And there is the most dreadful news.”

  “That Avice and Sissy have scampered off into the wilds, and are now lost to us forever,” smiled Nicholas, coming behind his wife and placing his hands somewhat protectively on her shoulders. “I was alerted to your mother’s arrival by my squire, and came to discover the reason. I then questioned the woman Martha, who is my wife’s childhood nurse I believe. She tells me your daughter left a note claiming she intended coming after me, and expected to catch me up quite soon. So she’d hardly be heading towards Nottingham, unless she lied purposefully to avoid capture.”

  “Oh,” breathed Emeline in relief, “she wouldn’t lie. At least, she would, but not over something like that. They must have got lost on the way, since old Bill wouldn’t recognise a road from a puddle. And I’m so pleased you’ve brought Martha with you, Maman. So Avice can’t be far off.”

  “When exactly did they leave?” demanded Nicholas.

  The baroness thought a moment. “It has been so long – such a trying journey, I cannot be sure. Five days, perhaps? Six? A week?”

  “Martha’ll know to the hour,” interrupted Emeline. “I’ll go and talk to her at once.” She hurriedly left the table, dropped her napkin, grabbed at her skirts and headed for the staircase. Her husband watched her departure with amusement.

  He again turned to his mother-in-law. “Forgive me, my lady, you’re naturally most welcome and I’ll order the steward to arrange your quarters. I’ll also organise two separate search parties and my squire David will head immediately for London. and alert the sheriff of the necessity for a more extensive alarm. I myself have been summoned to – and by – being a matter I cannot easily ignore. However, on my return I shall, depending on whatever has been discovered in the meantime, set out myself to find my cousin and my sister-n-law.” He looked quickly to Adrian. “You’ll want to ride at once, coz,” he said, “but take some of my men if you’ve a mind to send out additional search parties.”

  But when he left the house shortly afterwards, only Emeline knew where he was going.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  His highness the king regarded the young man kneeling before him, and smiled. “Get up, Nicholas. I have business to discuss, and little time for discussion. Kendall will finalise the necessary details of course, and afterwards you’ll see Tyrell. He will answer any remaining questions.”

  His grace sat at ease at the other side of the great table. Quill, ink, wax seals, papers and parchment scrolls were lined neatly at his right elbow. A cup of wine stood untouched by his left hand and a single beeswax candle was lit, the flame rising unchallenged and vertical, etching one side of the king’s face in gold. His secretary, John Kendall, sat quietly at the table’s far end, his hands clasped before him, remaining respectfully silent until otherwise requested. Nicholas said, “Sire, my apologies for arriving some moments late. I had family problems. I am, as always, at your disposal, your grace. Is this the continuing business of his lordship, the Marquess of Dorset?”

  “Your delay is of no consequence,” said his grace, “since my time is limited and I could not have seen you earlier. However, this matter is of some importance and must now be concluded, even with urgency. Now, as always, there is more than one single thread to follow. Henry Tudor himself is of little interest to me, and I would be tempted to overlook his impudence were it not for his mother, a lady not to be underestimated. Now I have news of escalation, and conspiracies. France is always dangerous. While Tudor remained in Brittany, he was kept under some semblance of control. But now that France is involved, control shifts.”

  “Will you have me travel to France, your grace?” Nicholas spoke quietly, disguising his reluctance.

  The king looked up, smiling gently. “No man willingly travels into French territory and into danger,” he replied. “But it may be necessary, in the end. There is also the usual business in Burgundy, which you are aware of. Tyrell sails to Burgundy soon, and I may ask you to accompany him. You understand the situation there with my nephews, and afterwards can more easily enter France through her mainland borders. But first there are matters I want you to discover here.”

  “Tudor’s last claim from France was treated here with utter ridicule, sire.” Nicholas stood at ease before his king, hands behind his back. “Does your grace suspect anyone of having acted on such absurdities?”

  King Richard nodded. “The French instigated and invented that claim, a nonsense even Tudor must have been embarrassed to sign. Calling himself a son of the late Henry VI, and so the direct Lancastrian heir? Our people laughed, of course. In this country we have full knowledge of our ancestors, their rightful children and their less rightful children. But the French kings keep their people in ignorance, with a country still beggared, peasants and serfs bare able to read and ready to accept whatever they are told. We English are not such fools to accept wild and impossible claims. As usual, knowing only their own standards, the French misunderstand us.”

  “The same has happened again, your grace?”

  “Not entirely,” said the king, and smiled. “What has happened is a little different this time.” He leaned back in his chair, tenting his fingers and watching Nicholas over their tips. “You are already aware that Dorset is once again attempting escape from France, and following his mother’s instructions, intends to desert Tudor and return to safe haven back at home. His first attempt last year was intercepted and the French dragged him back and held him hostage. I believe his second attempt will prove no more successful, but if he succeeds in reaching our shores, someone must be waiting, ready to help should help be needed. Lov
ell has taken the eastern shore. You will go south.”

  Nicholas bowed. “I will leave at first light tomorrow, your highness. On your grace’s previous orders, I have already begun investigating the situation, and have been given to understand that Dorset, should he avoid recapture at all, with take ship for the port of Weymouth, or for some more secluded beach in that vicinity.”

  “I have been informed of another visitor to our green land,” the king continued. “Christopher Urswick has been involved more than once in conspiracies and errands involving Tudor, and is once again expected. He brings a letter of uncertain information, directed, so I believe, to Northumberland. He will land on the south shore sometime over the next four or five days. If my information is correct, which I believe it is, this letter must be intercepted at once. The king nodded, without pausing. “Others have been alerted, but since you will recognise Urswick from past occasions, I consider your cooperation of particular importance. I expect you to intercept Urswick and take this letter from him. You will then deliver it to me, or to Kendall if I am not at court when you return.”

  “I am, as always, at your service, your grace.”

  “You need not depart so soon, Chatwyn,” continued his grace, “Another two days, I think, and then head south. Detailed instructions will be explained by Kendall directly. For now foreign travel to Burgundy and to France must wait. It is the English countryside which demands your presence, my friend, and two separate missions, both of considerable importance, which I believe can be combined.”

  Not far distant at the Chatwyn House in the Strand, David Witton was, from memory, mapping the route from Southwark to Weymouth and England’s southern coast, then listing those villages, towns and any smaller hostelries along the way which seemed of relevance to him. When a shadow slanted across the study’s doorway, David looked up quickly, turning the parchment over so that what was written there was no longer visible. He could deal with the smudging later.