The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Emeline stiffened. “Peter told you he’d bedded me?”

  “He told me everything – always,” Sysabel murmured. “He felt so terribly guilty about such unfaithfulness, but he said – well, I’ll say no more.”

  “Perhaps,” suggested Emeline with controlled fury, “he told you I had encouraged him and he couldn’t resist or it would have been rude? In fact, he probably told you I undressed and then jumped on top of him?”

  “I’m glad you don’t mind admitting it,” Sysabel said shyly. “We shouldn’t have secrets between us, you and me and Avice. We need to support each other in such terrible times.”

  “I’ll go and see if Avice is ready yet,” Emeline said in a hurry. “It’s too – well, we’ll talk about this again later.”

  It was back in the bedchamber and the sun glazed window looked out on the paths where Emeline had recently walked and talked with Sysabel. Now gazing crossly at her sister, Emeline said. “Aren’t you even properly dressed yet? I need to get out. I need to walk, very fast, and I hope it rains.”

  “I’m not ready because it’s still early,” complained Avice. “So what did the silly girl say to upset you?”

  “She admitted what she’d done. Then she told me what Peter told her about me – and it’s disgusting. So I told the stupid girl that Peter was a liar and a cheat. She didn’t believe me.”

  “You should have slapped her.”

  “I wish I could have slapped Peter.”

  Avice giggled. “Then she’d think you probably killed him.”

  “I’m beginning to wish I had.” Emeline, arms crossed tight, was hugging herself and feeling more than self-protective. “Nicholas hinted – told me a few things – about Peter and the lies he used to tell. And you know his awful scar. That was an arrow at really close range, and Peter did it on purpose.”

  “No point getting all upset with Peter now,” sniffed Avice. “After all, at the time you did think you were in love with him, and you used to talk on and on about him as if he ought to be sainted, just like silly Sissy does. If Nicholas had told you about the arrow back then, you’d have believed Peter too, and thought it was Nicholas who was lying. And when Peter died – well –”

  Emeline slumped, dejected. “And now I despise myself so much. But I was young and horribly ignorant, and flattered by his attention. I believed every stupid word he said, and he said lots.”

  “But presumably,” Avice, having already dismissed Petronella’s dutiful attentions, was attempting to do her own hair, “he never told you he got his baby cousin pregnant and had to arrange to get rid of the baby in secret in some horrid back street? But you should find out if Sissy told Adrian.”

  “Because if Adrian knew, then he’d have killed Peter?” Emeline pushed Avice onto the little stool in front of the garderobe mirror, and helped with the hairpins. “For that and the inheritance too? And then perhaps – so disgusted with Peter’s immorality – and then discovering Papa – but isn’t it all very, very farfetched?”

  “Adrian didn’t come back last night. His precious sister he cares so much about is here, but he’s disappeared.”

  “So of course he’s off murdering four or five other people?”

  “You’d better hope not,” said Avice. “Since your Nicholas is certainly next on his list.”

  St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Eastminster, was only a short walk from the city gate and could hardly be missed even by those who were not familiar with London’s interweaving streets. The massive wooden steeple brushed the clouds and its echoing bell called the city’s faithful to their morning prayers. Martha walked ahead beside Emeline, Avice and Sysabel followed through the crowds. Petronella, awed, crept behind, curtsying reverentially to the alabaster saints within and the shadow of the high altar beyond. The noise increased. As the priest spoke, so did a multitude of others. A young lawyer was conducting business below a mural of the banishing of the moneylenders from the temple, and a young woman to the left of the great nave was selling stitched crosses for the vastly exaggerated price of a penny each. Two beggars wearing their Tom o’ Bedlam badges sat in a side chapel, hands outstretched.

  They stayed only for Mass, then tumbled out into Watling Street and the pale sunshine, giggling and catching at each other’s ribbons as they chased down the great stone steps. Martha smiled attempting to restore only a semblance of order. “Young ladies,” she murmured, “need fresh air and a brisk walk before the temptations of a well laden table. Petronella, you will keep up, and carry the basket. Stop looking behind towards the Ludgate for we are not leaving the city yet.”

  Avice passed the empty basket to her maid. “Are we keeping you from young Edmund Harris, Nell, or is there something else you want to rush home for?”

  Petronella blushed. “Forgive me, mistress. But it’s London, and all the wickedness my mother warned me about. Never go to the big city, she always said, for there’s more wicked blasphemy and sin in every street than you’ll see in the rest of England.”

  Martha patted the maid’s hand. “Stuff and nonsense, girl. This is a city of kings, of wealth, of justice and government, of piety, and of the best shopping in the world. I have not been here since I was a young girl, and their ladyships have never been here at all. You we will therefore set off for a pleasantly informative stroll.”

  But it was in the gloom of the back alleys that Sysabel suddenly stopped and refused to go any further.

  A light drizzle hovered between roofs and cobbles but the sun sparkled on the wet tiles and the rows of little windows reflecting rainbow prisms. But one small alley led off the other street, and just visible from where Sysabel stood, a ragged opening gaped between the neighbouring buildings. Beams stood blackened and stark amongst the uncleared rubble.

  Emeline had seen such destruction before, though over an even greater and more devastating area, and she stopped behind Sysabel, also staring. Martha stepped forwards, nodding, and reaching for Emeline’s hand. “No dear, no need to walk here. There are often fires, they say, with cooking in cramped quarters and no proper kitchens in the smaller houses. And all fire spreads quickly.”

  “There’s no smell here anymore,” whispered Emeline. “It was the smell of the fire I hated most of all.”

  Martha looked suddenly towards Sysabel. “No smell here, my dear, since I imagine this fire was put out – a year ago. Folk here are poor and cannot afford to rebuild. But the fire is old. Perhaps – ten months gone?”

  But Sysabel clenched her small hands and said, “You brought me here on purpose.”

  “Who? Why?” insisted Avice, pushing at Emeline from behind. “Oh, do come on. There is not a shop in sight. It’s silk and velvet and gold I want to see. This place is quite horrid and if there was a fire, then it’s just as well.”

  “It was there,” Sysabel said, her voice louder and more desperate. “I won’t go there. I won’t walk past.”

  Martha pulled Petronella aside, and waited a moment as if expecting something. Then she said, “The fire was long ago, and the house is now quite gone. We don’t need to go past.”

  Avice mumbled, “What’s the matter with you Sissy? What’s where?”

  But Emeline said suddenly, “So near to St. Paul’s?”

  Sysabel was crying. “I remember that horrid little hovel on the corner there, with the church across the other side and the graveyard spread just behind. It was because – knowing what was going to happen – and seeing the gravestones – it has stayed so strongly in my memory. Then I had to walk past and I was crying so hard I didn’t see much more.” She didn’t seem to realise she was crying again now.

  “Lord have mercy,” whispered Emeline. She reached out but Sysabel suddenly turned and ran. Martha stepped between as the sun sprang through the clouds, lighting the alleyway as if sudden torchlight blazed between the houses.

  Sysabel stopped and flung herself into Martha’s arms. She wailed, “It’s there, it’s there,” and buried her face against Martha’s shoulder, crying uncontr
ollably.

  Emeline mumbled in desperation, “We can’t appear in public like this. What shall we do?”

  “We go home, my dear,” Martha said. “And as quickly as possible.”

  Having doubled back into Carter’s Lane and from there to St. Andrew’s Hill, they now stood a little west of the great cathedral. It was a narrow alley divided by a central gulley with sour water overflowing in sloppy leaking trickles. On both sides the houses stood uncertain, as though tentatively upright and held in place only by their neighbours. Here, against London ordinance, most of the roofs were still thin thatched, and the water butts standing at the doorways were mostly broken, their copper rings fallen away. It was a place of rank smells and dismal darkness for the sky seemed little more than a pale streak between leaning rooftops and jutting buttresses. The black charred threat of old fire hung unrepaired and barely disturbed where a row of six houses had been gutted, leaving little more than stark timbers without plaster and a tumble of sticks fallen from unsupported beams.

  No longer trying to run, Sysabel was cowering, refusing to move in any direction and pointed one quivering finger. Avice understood, glared, and said, “Here? Peter brought you here himself?”

  “Oh, no.” Sysabel twisted from Martha’s embrace, reaching tentatively for Emeline. “It was a young man in his employ, but I don’t remember his name and I never saw him again.”

  “Peter sent you with a servant?”

  “Poor Peter, he could hardly have brought me himself. What if someone had seen us? He was so sad, and so contrite. And I was – terrified.”

  “But is it the same house that has gone in the fire? Five – no six houses ruined.” Now Emeline held Sysabel tight. “Sissy dear, those dreadful memories must be forgotten, for half the street has burned with them.”

  Sysabel remained white faced, trembling within Emeline’s embrace. “I shall never forget,” she said. “It is not a thing anyone – could – forget.”

  They took her home. The streets had emptied, and the Ludgate was quiet. There were no raucous groups staggering off to the taverns, no dismal plodding sheep down from St; John’s pastures heading towards their slaughter in the Shambles, no more bustling housewives off to the cheaps and markets. A desultory stream were returning from St. Paul’s, clutching their prayer books, and a few young men were out courting in the sunshine, hailing wherries for a pleasant river crossing and an inexpensive way to impress a girl on her one morning away from her mistress’s watchful criticisms. The Strand was dozing and even the birds were quiet. They entered the Chatwyn House through the back way past the stable block and Martha, nodding quickly to Emeline, whispered to Petronella to take Sysabel straight to her bedchamber.

  They were interrupted. “Well now,” roared his lordship, into the echoing silence, “a fine time it is for dinner and a little pleasant company.” Suddenly aware that his niece was looking less spritely than usual, he reached out to pat her arm. “What is it, miss, with the long face on such a fine day? Is no one ready to keep me company at the table?”

  Sysabel stood very still, pink faced and red eyes, and attempted a mumbled apology. Emeline said quickly, “Your niece is not feeling very well, my lord. I think it best if I take her up to her bedchamber. She needs to rest.”

  “Sick?” demanded the earl, disappointed. “Not that I’m sure what she’s doing here in the first place. First Nicholas disappears like the pesky dunce he is, then young Adrian takes himself off without a by your leave, and now this silly chit gets herself into a miff. What is it then? One of those ridiculous feminine complaints?” His voice swelled as though fuelled by the silence.

  “Very sick,” Sysabel muttered, hurrying for the stairs.

  “Better call your Maman,” sighed the earl, shaking his head at Emeline. “Wretched women and their wretched problems. I can’t deal with such nonsense.”

  Sysabel gazed up at her uncle. Quite suddenly her expression of tremulous misery solidified into cold contempt. Then fury flushed, and she clenched both hands, stamped both feet, squeezed her eyes shut, opened her mouth, and began to wail. She was still clutching her little book of hours and a blue ribbon sewn into a cross which she had bought in the aisle of the cathedral. Both these she now flung to the floorboards. Breathing fast, her cry reached a pitch and then sank. The small primrose bosom of her gown filled and shrank as she tried, and failed, to catch her breath.

  Martha had already hurried upstairs to prepare a warm posset for her charges, and Petronella had hurried behind her. Petronella now returned to the stairwell, peering down from the upper corridor. Behind her peeped Hilda, Sysabel’s own maid. The earl was outraged, immovable and wordless. A small group of servants also stopped momentarily and stared. A page had been bringing a brimming jug of spiced hippocras, which he now dropped. Steam spiralled up from the Turkey rug. Hilda came stumbling down the stairs, and behind her appeared the baroness, having heard the commotion from her bedchamber.

  “It’s her nerves, m’lady,” Hilda mumbled as she rushed to her mistress.

  Petronella burst into tears. The baroness thrust her out of her path and took Sysabel by both shoulders, forcibly leading her up the stairs. She briefly looked behind. “I shall be down directly for dinner,” she announced. “But Mistress Sysabel will not. Emeline, please instruct the servants accordingly. Hilda, you will come with me. And Avice, tell Martha, I will see her afterwards. My lord, I hope you will excuse us.”

  “Tragedy and agony,” said Avice with wide eyed admiration.

  “More female upsets,” muttered the earl with vague distraction.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  A vibration of hooves and the first streaks of dawn slipped like warning fingers from behind the trees. Then suddenly the whole horizon flooded with light as Nicholas, leaning low to his horse’s neck, concentrated only ahead. He could smell the dust rising, and now he could see it. Three echoes in the night, ever closer across the heath; David behind, the feeing messenger ahead. Nicholas, knees tight to his mount’s flanks, thundered from the mist and into the light’s glowing haze. The diamond splash of hooves through the stream, the parting of the scrub and heather, and Nicholas leapt.

  The messenger tumbled, unsaddled and hurtling, two men rolling together onto the wet grass.

  David spun his mount and caught the reins of Nicholas’s panicking horse. The other reared, flung up its head and bolted.

  Nicholas grappled, holding his bruised assailant flat, his body heavy across the other, quickly used the hilt of his short sword and clubbed the messenger, one quick strike to the head. The man sank unconscious. Nicholas immediately examined, exploring through the rough clothing, and found the package at once. A leather pouch tucked deep inside the opening of the shirt and strapped from shoulder to waist. Nicholas cut it free and pushed the soft leather through his own belt.

  “It’s the right letter indeed, sir?” David called.

  Nicholas nodded, strode over and retrieved the reins of his horse, mounting quickly. He turned, swerving back the way they had come. “It’s right indeed, my friend.” An amiable canter with two tired horses, they headed back to the coast as the clouds turned lemon and the horizon glowed iridescent. “The first task completed,” Nicholas grinned, leaning back in the saddle and stretching his back. “An easier success than I expected. I thank you, my friend. I thank my much beloved uncle and I thank those two energetic brothers. But most of all, I have the undoubted pleasure of thanking my wife.”

  David turned, momentarily puzzled, expecting a sudden appearance. “Your lady, my lord?”

  “I missed her,” Nicholas murmured, though more to himself than his companion. “She troubled my sleep and I woke to hear four men creeping out at night, talking of tides.”

  “That one won’t be catching any more tides, my lord.”

  “I didn’t kill him,” Nicholas pointed out. “There seemed no need. But he has lost his message and his horse and faces a very long walk if he still aims for Northumberland.”

&
nbsp; It was not quite as far, but certainly a considerable distance to the Chatwyn House on the Strand, where his much appreciated wife was more than usually troubled.

  Sysabel said, “I just want to get away. I want to run and run and run, and jump in rivers and climb hills and smell the flowers in the fields, just as we did, Avice and me, when we ran away before.” She shook the pleats from her shift, laying it across the garderobe chest ready for Hilda to take down to the laundry girls the next morning. “So I’m going to do it again. Run away, I mean.”

  Emeline said, “It didn’t work out so successfully last time.

  “Your Nurse Martha must have known,” glowered Sysabel. “She took me there on purpose.”

  “How could she know such a thing?”

  Sysabel flopped back onto the bed. “Aunt Elizabeth knows, you see, I mean about what happened. She was the only one who knew, because she saw me in my shift and guessed about the baby. So even though she’s half loony and asleep most of the day, she tries to tell me what to do, which annoys me.”

  “She’s supposed to. She’s your chaperone.”

  “She’s just a silly old woman. Either she told on me or Hilda snitched. So I’m going to run away. And if everyone’s worried, then I’m glad.” Expecting argument, Sysabel hurried on, “I won’t face my uncle again after today. He’ll poke and probe and tell me I’m stupid, and I refuse to be all obedient and sit there meek and mild like a little baby while he enjoys himself being a bully. Adrian says that’s what ladies do, but he’s wrong because real ladies tell everyone else what to do.” She paused, biting her lip. Then continued, suddenly subdued. “And today – seeing that place again – it was horrible. So I’m running away tonight.”

  Emeline stood at the window, watching as the enclosing darkness turned the brown river waters charcoal and stifled the last of the breezes. “So you can tell,” she said, her voice drifting a little like the day waning into twilight, “when a woman is with child? The body changes? The mind changes?”