The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  The baroness set off to the Lady Elizabeth’s chamber. She did not stay long, returned to her own bedchamber to change her clothes, then descended to the stables. “There will be a delay,” she sighed, “for the Lady Elizabeth intends to accompany us in the litter.” She nodded to Martha, saying quietly, “She will not be an easy companion, I imagine, and will slow our pace. But the poor dear decided anything was preferable than being abandoned alone with her brother.”

  “His lordship does not intend returning to court, my lady?”

  “I have an idea he’s out of favour there. He blames Nicholas and the scandal of James’s violent death, but I doubt it’s that. It’s far more likely that his highness saw the earl drunk once too often, and has simply stopped offering him commissions. I doubt there will ever be another seat on the Royal Council.”

  “I shall attempt to keep her ladyship entertained as we travel, my lady,” said Martha with little conviction.

  “She’ll be bringing her own maid.” The baroness shaded her eyes, looking over the cobbles to where the leather hooded litter was being hitched to the sumpter. “Joan, I believe, and fat as that barnyard cat we called Joan back in Wrotham.”

  “Then at least should her ladyship feel crushed and faint, I can help revive her.”

  The baroness turned away. “I shall personally murder both my daughters when we catch up to them,” she said. “And you need not bother to try and revive them.”

  By nightfall, Emeline and her small party was already heading into southern England. It was the solitary outride, Alan Venter, who had forced the pace. Avice, Sysabel and their maids were quickly wearied. Old Bill had objected. Emeline had not.

  “I was tired when I left home,” moaned Avice. “Now I am exhausted.”

  Emeline said, “The journey is a nightmare. Arrival is the only goal, after all.”

  “That new man Alan is the one who keeps making us hurry. But he’s no friend of Bill’s. They quarrel all the time.”

  The small wayside tavern was their second stop, and they had managed a reasonable supper. The bedchamber contained one large palliasse which they would share, and pallets for the maids. “The roads are full of holes and the drizzle has soaked through to my bones,” Sysabel mumbled, pulling down her stockings and shaking the drops from their toes, proving her case. “I hate your Alan and silly old Bill both.”

  “These pillows are flat,” Avice pointed out. “The mattress is lumpy. There’s no garderobe and the chamber pot isn’t even clean.”

  “What complainers.” Emeline stood by the little window, looking out on the stable block below. “Wasn’t it originally you two who wanted this so called adventure? I only agreed to come because of Nicholas, and now I’m the only one not complaining.”

  “That’s because you’ve got Nicholas to look forwards to. Sissy only has her brother, and me – no one.”

  Petronella was collecting hot bricks from the kitchen to bring up and warm the bed. Hilda was helping her mistress to undress. Emeline already in her bedrobe, remained by the window. She said softly, “I wonder what he’s doing now. Where he’s sleeping. If he’s thinking of me.”

  The baroness’s party was falling behind. Their pace became tedious as the litter lumbered through potholes and stuck in the mud. There was the necessity of stopping for dinner, then supper, and finding hostelries of superior quality for food and finally for bed. One of the outriders caught a bad cold and had to be sent home. Bess spilled hot spiced hippocras on the baroness’s riding gown, and the bright sunny morning had turned to torrential rain once they passed Reading.

  It was through the rain that Jerrid stared at the long misted coastline and the disappearing streak of horizon beyond, and said, “It’s time we were leaving.”

  “Two more days.”

  “He’s not coming,” Jerrid said. “The poor bastard is hostage to the French again in Paris, and they’ll not let him out of their sight, not even to piss. We have the letter to Northumberland, and we know Urswick is beyond reach. Why delay?”

  “Because I gave the king my word.”

  “Nicholas, his highness has more sense than most. He’d be the first to tell you to leave.” Jerrid sighed, turning back and taking up the reins again. “There’s Tyrell heading off for Burgundy any day, and his highness will be organising that, not bothering about Dorset.”

  “Burgundy again? Yes, of course, I’d forgotten.” Nicholas grinned at his uncle. “Richard originally intended sending me, but decided to be kind and permit my new bride sufficient time to get to know her husband before he was whisked away again.”

  “So forget the whisking, my boy. We’ve wasted enough time here. It’s time we headed back to Westminster.”

  “I’m tempted. Indeed, more than tempted.”

  “The new bride again?”

  “That’s the temptation.”

  “Then we head north tomorrow at dawn. At least as far as Southampton and the Fox and Pheasant, decent ale and the best inn for miles around. I’ll inform the others.”

  Nicholas paused. Finally he said, “But I’m missing something, uncle.” Remounting, he turning his horse back towards the road. “Something obvious to do with the boy Wolt’s murder, and I’ll kick myself afterwards for having missed it. I simply hope we won’t all suffer for the mistake.”

  The small hostelry just two miles north of Southampton had proved more than usually comfortable. Emeline’s store of coins was running out, but now being so close to Weymouth, she had ordered apple codlings for supper and had gone to bed more cheerfully than usual. But through the night the wind took force, whipping through the treetops, turning rain to squall and squall to storm. Branches smashed against the bedchamber windows and the shutters shook and rattled. The moon blinked out behind the rush of tumbling clouds, and the world turned black. Then light returned in one vivid slash of white. The skies exploded, then closed tight again with rolling thunderous vibration.

  The five occupants of the hostelry’s large attic bedchamber awoke startled. Petronella whispered, “My lady, water’s pouring in through the window. We’ll be drowned in our beds.”

  Avice sat up and poked her sister. “You can’t sleep through something like this, Emma. Try and stop the shutters leaking. Can we stuff the gaps with blankets?”

  Emeline yawned and rolled over. “It’s just a storm. I can’t stop the rain raining and we need the blanket ourselves. Leave me alone, I ache all over and I never want to see another inn, and especially never another horse.”

  “It must be nearly dawn anyway,” Avice declared, hopping out of bed and running over bare foot to bang on the rattling shutters. Puddled had formed beneath, trickling across the floor. “I’m hungry. Let’s get some bread and cheese and start the day.”

  “We can’t ride out in this weather,” Sysabel objected. “Where are we anyway?”

  “Nearly Southampton.”

  Emeline frowned. “Wasn’t that yesterday? But we can’t just stay here. I’m nearly out of money. How about you two?”

  Sysabel sniffed and shook her head. “I have a shilling tucked in my garter. But I was saving that in case I have to go off alone to find Adrian.”

  “Don’t bother looking at me,” sighed Avice. “Where has the money gone?”

  “Down your throat. Ale and food. And even hovels cost something. So we need to keep moving on. Once I find Nicholas, everything will be alright.”

  “Ride through this storm?”

  “We’ll have to leave as soon as it passes. I can’t afford another night here, in case we have to wait days in Weymouth.”

  “I have a tiny gold cross I can sell,” Avice said with a small hiccup of reluctance. “Though it was a gift from Papa, and now he’s gone – even if I’m glad he’s gone –”

  “You won’t have to sell anything,” said Emeline firmly. “And nor will I. But we do have to face a very muddy ride later this morning. Our guides won’t complain, at least Alan won’t. He’s always in such a hurry. He’d ride through
the apocalypse.”

  Once the rain had stopped, although a mist of sporadic showers drifted, spangling the air while the new risen sun sparkled like candlelit crystals along the hedgerows, the party left and headed south once again. But the roads were awash and in places were flooded. Roads of beaten earth had churned into ruts and ridges between dank boggy pools and great slides of slime heaved down the little slopes and hillsides. The ravens were cawing from the treetops, with a great flap of wet wings spread wide to dry, and a straggly black strut as they challenged each other for the best dripping perch.

  The five women and their two guides left the tiny hostelry shortly after midday and a light dinner. The horses were fractious, frightened by the storm and a night of panic. Alan Venter was tired. He had been up with the horses. Bill was sullen.

  “The land will be boggy after last night,” Alan had warned, “Then we’ve the Wey to cross and the ford could be underwater. I may have to find another path.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” called Sysabel, stretching her aching back and sighing. “Hurry then. And promise me this is the last day I’ll be stuck to saddle and stirrups. I shall smell like a horse myself by the time I see my brother.”

  “I shall look like one,” sniffed Avice.

  “Ladies, we’ve just one day left, but the horses are ill rested, so I beg you, keep close and don’t trail off behind.”

  “A real bath tonight,” Emeline called to the others. “I promise, a hot bath for everyone, even if I have to sell my boots.”

  “I’ll sell this horrid horse.”

  The storm’s dreary echo of misty drizzle damped shoulders and coated the horses, soaking their manes. Then a pallid peeping sunshine turned every sparkle golden and a great sweeping rainbow blinked, reformed, took courage and claimed the open path within its arch. The light turned turquoise and lemon. The lanes were bordered by fields, neat ploughed after spring sowing, and ditches filled with the night’s water and the little swimming beetles, crickets and long legged spiders which had escaped the storm but not the marshy drains. Puddles the size of monastery ponds kept the horses wading up to their fetlocks, snorting, or stooping to drink. The sun was high when Avice called, “Mister Venter, it must be time for dinner, and not an inn in sight. Will there be one do you think?”

  Alan turned, saying, “I’ve been told of the Fox and Pheasant not far from here, mistress. Though it’s likely to be expensive.”

  But Alan Venter stopped abruptly. Before them the lane opened into a crossroads, and onwards from their own roadway, three more choices of path led off from a tall post topped with a wooden cross and a thin rope noose dangling in the swirl of mist. At ground level the open square was trampled mud, purpled and thick with a reflected sheen under the strengthening sunshine. The cross flung its shadow, and the shadow of the knotted noose encircled a smear of ripples, as of warning and of threat.

  And on the other side, crouched on his haunches, a thick built man stared, his eyes hidden beneath the sweep of his hat. He was armed, and his sword lay unsheathed across his knees. One hand held to the reins of his horse, a bandy legged and mottled grey, an old sumpter past its prime which chewed, bent, and chewed again with a gummy drip of saliva. To his other side stood a dog, an Alaunt mastiff, yellow and ridge backed, wide muzzle and tired eyes, its lower lids hanging red. It shook its head, slime flying. But the man barely moved.

  Alan’s horse refused the muddy pools and backed, bracing its front legs and snorting. Alan pulled on the reins and called out, “You’ll doubtless know the way to Weymouth, my good man. Will you tell me which path to take from here?”

  The man smiled, still sitting back on his heels. “Aye, I’ll tell you, but it’ll cost. And it’s worth a penny or two, seeing as the wrong way will take you straight to my brothers, and there’s six of them and all hungry.”

  “Shit,” said Alan very softly. Then aloud, “And your price? You’ll see I lead a party of defenceless females, and want no trouble nor mean to make any. I ask only a pointer to the right road, and don’t find that a task worth too demanding for a local.”

  “Ten shillings, nor a farthing less,” called the man, still grinning. “It’s the cost of knowing the road and a deal more, for the wrong road sees you dead in a field and all your pretty mistresses on their backs with their skirts up to their necks, for me and my brothers ain’t had nor a decent meal nor a decent fuck in a week or more.”

  Alan braced his shoulders and reached for the hilt of his sword. “No need for that language, since we’ve not threatened you, nor refused to pay.” His feet were out of the stirrups, but his hands remained tight on the reins.

  Old Bill followed the lead and tumbled from the saddle, but he kept well back. Close behind and her voice trembling, Emeline whispered, “Mister Venter, I don’t have ten shillings. I have barely two. But we have a little jewellery between us, and though I’d hate the loss, I will gladly pay rather than risk such danger.”

  Alan dug in his spurs and forcibly edged his horse one step nearer to the cross’s shadow. “We’re not rich travellers,” he called to the man. “Will you accept what we can pay? We’ll cause no trouble, I promise you.”

  “But it’s trouble I want, seeing as it amuses me,” chuckled the man, “and I’ve no objection to a good fight, and welcome a brawl. You, my friend, I can kill in an instant, between me and my hound here, and I’ll soon have you swinging dead from the rope. Then I’ll do what I like with the women, and take from them whatever I wants. So you’ve nothing to bargain with, man. Pay, or fight.”

  Bill heaved, exhaled, summoning courage, and called, “Two of us to one o’you, and though looking old maybe I does, but I fought in battles afore you was born, and can still wield a knife and throw a good aim.” But the dog sprang forwards, pulling against his leash, and started to bark.

  Petronella was crying, her ungloved fingers fidgeting at the reins, ready to turn and gallop for her life. But the man laughed and stood, short, square shouldered, large hands still holding to his horse. He had pulled the dog back and now held to its collar, his sword now thrust through his belt and his eyes hidden beneath the old straw hat. Alan frowned. “Since your brothers aren’t here, it’s you against me and my friend here. Maybe your hound’s a mauler, but these ladies have husbands not far off, who will hear any call.”

  “You’ve asked the way to Weymouth, being plenty far enough away for no folks to hear no girl’s screams.” The man shrugged, as if tired of the argument. “But my brothers, well they’d hear my whistle if I cared to make it, and would come running before Varmint here had you by the throat, mister. So make your choice, and if you means to pay, then make it quick before you tries my patience.”

  The horses snorted and the wind shuffled in the trees beyond the clearing. The threadbare noose swung a little in the wind, then settled. Emeline whispered, “I’m not frightened, Mister Venter. He’s alone and we could be long gone before his brothers come running. If you judge that unwise, then offer the jewellery. My little broach is worth far more than ten shillings.”

  Alan said, “My lady,” but paused. One of the horses, urged forwards with two small feet to its flanks and a screech that startled them all, pushed past then stopped suddenly and reared, panicked, hooves to the edges of the muddy pools. The halt was so abrupt that its rider, unseated, hurtled into the air, skirts flying, and landed heavily in the dirt. So Sysabel sat up in the slush, her little headdress of gauze netting toppled over, half blinding her, and her gown spread around. She scrambled to sit upright, gazing back then forwards. Twice she tried to rise to her feet but the weight of mud stuck to her skirts and she lost balance and fell more heavily into the boggy swill. The man on the opposite side was laughing loudly. His dog growled, but was held back.

  Old Bill groaned and stumbled forwards as Alan Venter leapt from his saddle and stood, boots to the slime, reaching out, both hands stretching towards Sysabel. Too far out of reach, she tugged at her skirts, lost footing and slipped. The mud was more bo
g than pool. “Mistress,” Alan called, “it’s a quagmire. You struggle, you’ll be held ever tighter. Stay calm if you can, mistress, and reach out to me.”

  Emeline gasped and dismounted, cautiously feeling her steps. Old Bill took her elbow. “Careful mistress, ‘tis marsh, it is, and more dangerous than it looks.” Avice was silent, staring ahead, and Petronella and Hilda clung to their mounts, crying and terrified.

  Sysabel turned, frantic, grabbing at nothing, sucked ever deeper. She kicked and the bog sucked again, great gulping dark mouths of slime embracing her. She began to scream, pummelling at the surface mud as the wet earth splashed back, coating her face and arms in filth. The thief continued to laugh. Alan stepped further into the swamp, each step cautious. He nearly touched her. Sysabel stared, mouth wide and screeching.

  Emeline led her mare forwards. “Mister Venter,” she called, breathless, “if you hold to me and I hold to my horse, then we are braced. Can you go a little further then, even into the muck, and grab her? Then we can haul you both back.”

  Avice jumped down beside her. “I’ll help. I’ll hold the horse and lead it backwards.”

  The stranger beneath the cross called, “No, little mistress, come to me, for now I’m nearer. And ready I am, for my little house stands close, and there I’ll have you naked as a babe and wash your flesh clean enough for bedding. One little push more, and come to Varmint and your friend Reggie, seeing as both of us is hungry.” The dog was barking, straining against its master’s hold. It snapped and snarled, dripping saliva. Sysabel’s screams broke as her breath deserted her.

  “The murderous thief can no more come to you through this bog, than we can, or be caught as the bastard he is,” Alan shouted. “Take no more account of the fool, and do as I say ladies. It’s calm will save us all.” He turned to Emeline. “Yours is the best solution, mistress, but rather than your hand, I’d sooner take Bill’s in case I pull you in.”

  Bill stepped forwards, holding tight to his reins and reaching for Alan’s hand. Sysabel’s screams wheezed, her face white, and she heard nothing but the sucking squelch. She managed to find her knees, attempted the crawl, hands flat, one knees forwards, and with a gurgle of turgid water fell flat on her face. “Heaven help us,” cried Emeline, “she’ll drown in mud.”