The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Alan took Bill’s clammy grasp and inched into the mud, each step a slow laborious struggle against the weight of deep wet marsh. The watching stranger stood, legs braced to grab, one hand outstretched. But Sysabel was unreachable by either, her screams silenced, though her hands scrabbled to wipe the thick paste from her nose and mouth. The dog pulled against restraint. “Mindful of the bog I is all right,” chuckled the man, “but not my Varmint. Light enough, he is, to take a good bite from them fair plump tits. My pup to them puppies.”

  Alan had almost reached Sysabel, but was now sinking, his ankles deep in the slurping muck around him. Then, to Emeline’s right, there was a moving shadow, a call, and the sound of hooves. She yelled, “Who is it? Help us.” The two other paths, unreachable but open beyond hedge and bog, stood pale in the sun and one now echoed with arrival.

  Alan turned. “No, my lady, for if it’s this creature’s brothers as he promised –”

  “There are no brothers,” Emeline shouted back. “I’d swear to it. That pig thief is a bumpkin and a liar. Just get Sissy safe, then throw the bastard into the bog to drown.” Avice struggled to take her sister’s hand but Sysabel, managing no more than a grunt and squeak, was still trapped and flailing.

  Then from the right hand path the galloping shadows grew huge and the first horseman appeared, shouting, “Hold still,” and dismounted, boots heavy to the mud, one hand tight on the reins, the other to the woman half swallowed in mire, unrecognisable for filth. The western roadway had brought him far closer. The man reached Sysabel’s waving wrist. “Hold still, my dearest girl, I have you.” And caught, his grasp firm and tight, then calling to the two men behind, “Here, take control. I have the reins, Lead the horse back and you’ll pull us both free.”

  The second rider took the horse’s bridle and calming the beast, led it steadily backwards. Sysabel held tight now, safely within an embrace she welcomed. The slick streaming mire gulped and released, losing suction. The man led Sysabel to dry land.

  Alan Venter, trampling his own way out to dry land again, called out, “We’ll find a way to reach you, sir, and thank you for the rescue. But we may need to double back in order to reclaim the lady to our party.”

  The new arrival bent his head, looking at the girl in his arms. He ignored Mister Venter. “My dear girl,” he said softly, “this is both miracle and hell hole. What, in the good Lord’s name, are you doing here?”

  And Sysabel laid her head on her brother’s shoulder and whispered, “Oh Adrian, only looking for you. And you’ve found me. God is kind after all.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  As Adrian carried his sister to the waiting horse, his two companions trotted forwards. One leaned down over his horse’s neck and threw a rope, spinning it to land directly at Alan’s feet. Alan caught the rope, wrapped it three times around his forearm, clutched tight and was pulled slowly and carefully to the western path. He stepped from the mud beside Adrian and Sysabel, breathed deep and thanked his saviour.

  The rider retrieved and rewound his rope, nodding to Alan. “Surely only a brigand,” he said, staring at the great cross in the square and the man still hovering uncertainly beneath it, “watches a man facing death and leaves him to his fate.”

  “May I know who to thank, sir?” Alan asked. “And to bless for saving my life?”

  The man smiled. “My name’s Christopher Urswick,” he said, “and I might need that blessing, for I’m leaving the country on the morrow, and if there are more storm like that last night, I’ll be using this rope to lash myself to the mast.”

  The lout, his horse and his dog, had now quickly disappeared into the long shadows of the southern path. “Look,” Emeline pointed, “If you’ve a liking to be a hero, then catch that thief, for it’s all his fault that Sissy nearly died, and our guide too. He was going to rob us and rape us and now he’s getting away, no doubt to do the same to others”

  It was Urswick’s silent companion who turned his horse and leapt the high bramble hedge between the paths, galloping south. Adrian still held Sysabel, cleaning her face and hands with his cloak until both of them seemed creatures of the earth, thick with black slime. Sysabel was now weeping, great heaving sobs as she clung to her brother.

  There were noises coming from the southern roadway, the howling of a dog, a thud and a man’s howl, more desperate than his dog’s.

  Emeline sat down very suddenly on the path, buried her head in her hands and began to cry very quietly to herself. Avice came to sit beside her, both arms around her sister. Petronella sat shivering and terrified behind them, still clutching to her horse’s reins, but Hilda dismounted and came to kneel beside Avice, saying hesitantly, “You’ll be ruining your gowns in the mud, my ladies. Let me help, if I may.”

  The third man, his sword bright stained, returned at a gallop and began to cut a great wedge into the bramble thorn hedges that separated the western lane from the northern, making a way for the horses to pass without again approaching the turgid and hungry swamp. Mister Urswick strode in to help, chopping down with both sword and knife to widen the space sufficiently for a horse to pass without scratches and welts. Coming together one by one the group thanked each other, exhausted but deeply relieved. Avice whispered, “I have never fainted, not ever. But I think any moment now –”

  Mister Urswick said, “Mistress, you’re safe with us. And since Sir Adrian has found his sister, you know to trust us. The Fox and Pheasant is just a short ride from here. We stayed there last night, and will be glad to escort you there now.”

  Emeline sighed. “What bliss, sir. Food. Bed. Bath. I thank you all, and with all my heart.”

  It was three hours later when Sysabel slumped back in the bath tub, the barrel well-worn and smooth within its planks and copper hoops. Her face appeared pink scrubbed above the rim, eyes blinking in the day’s shimmer through the small window. “It is,” she decided, raising the sponge so that scented water poured over her hair, trickling in hot ripples down her cheeks, “the most terrible – and then the most wonderful – of all things. No nightmare could ever compare. But I am the most blessed – just when I thought myself the most cursed.”

  Petronella and Hilda were bustling between upstairs and downstairs, trying to brush the dried mud from their mistresses’ gowns. Small sighs and sniffs came in regular measure from the one huge bed where Emeline and Avice were curled, wearing only their shifts. The fire was lit and the bath stood before it. Avice squinted through the steam. “It was most peculiar. Did you know Adrian would be just there and just today?”

  Sysabel pulled a face. “Of course I had no idea. But when he went away, he said he had business in Weymouth. He had to meet someone there, that Mister Urswick I suppose, and said he might have to wait so he didn’t know how long he’d be away.” She slumped a little lower into the water, her shoulders sliding deeper under steamy lavender swirls. “But I always told you my brother was a hero.”

  Dolefully, “I know Nicholas is around here somewhere too, and I do wish he’d just appear like Adrian did.”

  “Nicholas,” sniffed Sysabel with a splash, “if he ever made it this far in the first place – and why would he – is probably lying drunk in an alehouse with Uncle Jerrid beside him. But Adrian isn’t hurt, and that’s all that matters to me. I was so worried in case – I mean Nicholas – and Uncle Jerrid – and the awful things that could have happened.”

  Emeline paused and the silence lengthened. Then she said very softly, “You really thought my husband only came down here to murder your brother, didn’t you? You really did. Probably you still do, even though Adrian is obviously quite safe. It does seem odd that they both separately came to the same area. But Sissy, tell the truth. Why in heaven’s name makes you think such villainy of Nicholas? He is such a – kind man.”

  Avice suddenly rolled from the bed and marched to the bathtub as Sysabel sank lower, soapy swirls and the day’s debris floating around her chin. Avice said, “Adrian was good today. Really good. But then
he was hardly going to ride by and see his sister drown in mud, was he? Maybe he’s a hero after all, but that doesn’t make Nicholas a murderer.”

  As Sysabel spoke, she blew bubbles on the water’s surface. “I never said Nicholas,” she mumbled. “I only said Jerrid. But if you suspect Adrian again, especially after today, then I shall never – ever – absolutely not speak to you again.”

  “Mister Urswick and his friend were heroes too,” Emeline interrupted. “Are they Adrian’s friends?” Sysabel shook her head, water droplets spinning. “But do you think that thief’s corpse has been left on the road for anyone to fall over?”

  “I don’t care,” said Sysabel. She waved a soapy arm towards the garderobe, calling, “Hilda, I’ve finished. Come here and dry me. Then,” smiling, “I want a long, long rest. A good supper. Then sleep all night. Adrian has given me money so we are rich and can do what we like. Then Adrian will take us home.”

  “I don’t want to go home,” Avice declared. “I’m hunting for murderers.”

  “Then stay here,” glared Sysabel. “But not me. Your silly Alan Venter proved quite stupid, didn’t he, leading us to swamps and robbers! Well, I’ve had enough of all of it.”

  “You go home if you want to,” Emeline said firmly. “But it was that dreadful storm made the marsh and Alan risked his own life trying to rescue you. And why you ever went flying into the mud in the first place, I have no idea. What did you think you were going to do, screaming and riding headlong? You get very overwrought sometimes, Sissy – and that doesn’t help anyone. So you can have your rest, but I need fresh air and I want to think. Avice, will you come with me?”

  Avice sniffed. “I wanted a bath. I need a bath.”

  “That bathwater is far too dirty now,” Emeline scowled. “Perhaps we can both have a fresh one later this evening after supper.”

  It was a small private parlour where they met for supper. Emeline, having discussed her own personal preferences with the landlord’s wife, ate her apple codlings and kept her head down. Avice and Sysabel, enjoying a far better meal than they had lately been accustomed to eating, filled their platters with roast pork, tripe stuffed with sardines and raisins, and drank the best wine. Adrian refrained from scolding his sister and her companions for riding across the countryside unchaperoned by any respectable retinue yet again, and instead seemed content to act the gallant hero, with constant glances at his own companions. The Fox and Pheasant was a large hostelry, with a half dozen ostlers, three well equipped stable blocks and even better equipped kitchens. But when there was a commotion outside and the sounds of other guests arriving, Urswick pushed away his platter of braised tripe and looked up, distracted.

  “It’s late,” Urswick said. “Remember, Frye, I’ve a boat to catch – other duties and another master waiting, though it’s the wrong news and not what he’s hoping for.”

  “The boat’s due tonight at Southampton?”

  Urswick lowered his voice, “I’ll not discuss my business here. Finish your wine, sir, and we must be off.”

  Sysabel looked up in distress. Waving a lavender scented arm, fingers wafting good Spanish soap. “Going? Again? Already?”

  “Only for a day or two, Sissy.” Adrian sighed. “You’ll all stay here in comfort until I get back. It’s urgent, or I’d not leave. But you need a rest I imagine, and will barely notice the time passing until I’m here again to escort you home.”

  Emeline was using the same soap with clean hot water when Petronella peeped in to the bedchamber and whispered, “My lady, it’s Bill, poor mite, and as sick as can be.”

  “Not surprising,” said Avice, looking up from her stool beside the bathtub.

  “Oh, Lord have mercy. Another disaster?” Emeline emerged from the soap scum. “I’ll finish here and be out directly.”

  Alan Venter and Bill were sleeping in the loft above the stables. Petronella climbed the ladder, clutching her skirts above the scattered straw, and peered, though keeping her distance, at the large spread figure. She turned and frowned at Emeline whose head popped up at the top of the ladder. “He’s all hot and red and shivering, my lady. He has a horribly snotty nose and he’s dripping like a conduit. He says Alan has gone for the doctor.”

  Bill, aware of the bright eyes staring from the shadows, attempted to speak. Instead, he sneezed. “Is it only a cold?” hoped Emeline.

  “Alan Venter thinks it may be the influenza, my lady, being as we were caught in the rain and the mud almost all day.

  “Alan Venter,” glared old Bill from his sweaty straw pallet, “ain’t no proper guide, nor a proper groom. You wait a bit and I’ll be right as pottage. I only brung Alan ‘cos he kept on and wouldn’t take no gainsaying. But he’s a city lad and don’t know ort but London streets.”

  “It’s just as well he came,” frowned Emeline, “and he has led us well.”

  “Said he had to look after the lady or his lordship’d come back and behead the lot of us,” Bill muttered, wiping his nose on his shirt sleeve. “But I reckon there’s sommit sticky about him.”

  There was considerable bustle and noise from below, more horses brought in by the ostlers, the shaking of rain from tails and manes, the grooms shouting for oats and hot bran, blankets and brushes. Emeline shook her head and hurried back down the ladder. Halfway across to the shadowed peace of the trees beyond the courtyard, she bumped into Alan Venter himself.

  “I’ve called, and hope the local medick’s on his way,” Alan said. “But forgive me, lady, you shouldn’t be out here alone. There’s much afoot as I know too well.”

  Emeline regarded him with confused suspicion. “It’s a respectable hostelry, Mister Venter. And since I’m the senior within this group I consider it my responsibility = but I’m also desperate need of peace and fresh air. And now,” she moved a little deeper beneath the trees, “you can tell me why you are actually here, Mister Venter. I’ve been told you actually insisted on accompanying me on this journey, through loyalty, perhaps to his lordship. But my husband had no idea I ever meant to travel anywhere or leave home at all.”

  “M’lady,” he told her. “I’m under orders. It’s many years I’ve been with his lordship and often journeyed with him, but this time I was told to stay put and look after his lady, being as how he’s well used to danger, and always ready for the worst.”

  She was pleased. “So you’ve travelled with him in the past. Do you know where he is now?”

  “I can’t say, my lady, though he’s gone south, as you know. May not be far from here right now. Though last time I travelled with his lordship, t’were north to York and Berwick and beyond.”

  “Berwick? The siege? My husband told me a little – but I didn’t know he had his own men with him.”

  “Not many of us, my lady. Just David Witton, and me. But this time he left me behind to watch for his lady. Which is what I’ve been doing, and will do. And now, with your permission, I’ll be off to see to your groom and whatever he’s sickening from, lest it’s a contagion. And don’t you go near him, m’lady, for influenza can kill.”

  “I shall go for a walk,” Emeline said firmly, “whether you approve or not, Mister Venter. My head is spinning. My sister is still in the bath, Hilda and Mistress Frye are discussing conspiracies and intrigues in private, and I feel quite nauseas myself.”

  “But it’s late, and if you’re not feeling well, my lady –”

  “I shall be perfectly well if left alone for an hour to think,” she declared and walked off into the crisp moonlit path beneath the trees and away from the hostelry.

  Swept into a private parlour by the obsequious landlord, Nicholas sank down onto the cushioned settle and regarded his uncle. He had retrieved his sword and other belongings from his saddle bag, and now slung them to the table. He was far better dressed than had lately been his habit, having now decided his mission was virtually complete, and it was again possible to lodge at the best inn in the area. “David, book us a late supper as well as a bedchamber, and make su
re it’s the best bed they have. I’ve a backache worse than any wretch spending the day in the stocks, and a hunger fair wicked to swing on the gallows.”

  “You may smell like a felon, m’boy, but I see no reason for you to think like one,” Jerrid said. “We’ve spent enough time on the road to break a man’s back, but you’re young. It’s me should be complaining.”

  “You do,” Nicholas said. “I simply need a wide bed, an aired mattress, and a very hot bath without sprigs of stinking dried lavender.”

  “My lord,” the landlord bowed, “The bath is at present set up in another chamber, but as soon as it is free I will arrange for it to be emptied and set up in your lordship’s chamber.”

  “The best chamber you have, and the softest beds.”

  “Alas, my lord,” the landlord backed apologetically, “the best bedchamber has already been taken. But there is another of excellent quality, and I shall have the finest linen laid, and warm the mattress.”

  “Then three of us will share the room,” Jerrid nodded, “and we’ve two out at the stables can sleep in the straw.”

  “And supper will be served here shortly, my lords.”

  Nicholas smiled with surprise at the apple codlings in warm honey, finished his tripe and roast pork, drained his cup, and followed the landlord upstairs to the chamber prepared on the second floor. It was a warm evening after a wet morning and outside a plover was calling before sundown, a shrill clarion disappearing into echoes as a hazy twilight shimmered across the fields beyond. One great oak just outside the hostelry’s courtyard spread it shadow across the cobbles, slowly turning to silhouette as the shadows faded into the gloom. Within the chamber, Jerrid threw himself full length on the bed without removing his boots, and David tested the truckle bed, announcing it softer than most.