The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Nicholas looked across at his uncle. “Get your boots off, you’ll have mud on the blankets.”

  Jerrid stretched, two hands to his back. “I doubt I could bend sufficiently to reach my feet. You’ll have to put up with a little more mud, boy.”

  Steam spiralled in a thick mist up to the beams as Nicholas quickly undressed, waving away David’s willing attention. The heat from the tub spun webs of dewy droplets vaporising against the window shutters. Nicholas tossed his well scuffed boots to the warmth beside the hearth, unlaced his doublet and pulled it off, hauled his sweat stained shirt off over his head, loosened codpiece, braies and hose, rolled them all off, throwing them atop the increasing heap, and climbed immediately into the bath tub. The half barrel stood tall enough for a good immersion but was unlined and Nicholas sat carefully, cautious of splinters. As the scalding water enveloped him, he sighed deeply, rested his head back against the brim, and closed his eyes. “The Fox and Pheasant, is it? Well it has my blessing.”

  “My lord,” David’s voice, “shall I take the clothes for brushing down? Or shall I stay and help wash your back?”

  “The clothes probably need delousing.” Nicholas shook his head but did not open his eyes. “Everything from my groin to my toes scratches or itches – and from my neck to my groin I’m encased in flea bites from every slum tavern we’ve stayed in. At least I’m dressing in my own comfortable clothes from now. But much as I’m eager for home, I’ll not desert the last chance for Dorset to make the crossing.”

  Jerrid voice, muffled by pillows, sounded half asleep. “Dorset’s not coming, I’m convinced of it. The good marquess was never the brightest of the Woodville brood, and no doubt the French king and his wretched sister have Dorset wrapped safe like a moth in a cocoon, and I swear he’ll not be opening his wings again for a long, long time. Now I’m for home.”

  “We saw a small ship far out through the rain this morning.”

  David nodded as he scooped up his master’s discarded clothes. “But it was out of sight once we climbed down the cliffs, and his lordship never turned up at the arranged point. Unless perhaps he was cutting across country. He’ll be a frightened man.”

  “If we desert him, he’ll be a dead one.” Nicholas sighed and sat up, emerging again from the water and steam. He was, strangely enough, suddenly thinking of apple codlings. “So I’ll stay here one more day, since the hostelry is comfortable enough, but only one. Tomorrow I’ll start one last search from here to coast, and dig around the local area to make damned sure we’ve not missed the poor bugger.”

  Jerrid yawned. “You want yet another day here? You admire their bathtubs so deeply?”

  Nicholas stretched an arm, pouring soap on the sponge. “It was something else came to mind.” His feet sprang suddenly visible above the water’s murky surface, to be washed one by one. “That sad little child’s death. It still makes no sense. Why knife the boy and leave the men alive?”

  “But since then it’s been quiet as the grave.”

  “It was the grave I was thinking of,” Nicholas stared back at his uncle. “There’s something going on along this coast, and it’s French inspired for it’s French they speak. The groom said Wolt’s killers spoke a foreign language. Amongst the rigmarole he couldn’t understand, he twice heard them speak of murder.”

  “So not foreign – but English.”

  Nicholas shook his head. “Merde. It’s French for shit. These were French assassins – but were they sent for us? Or for someone a deal more important?”

  “Dorset?”

  “Maybe just French pirates. They raid this damned coast at will.”

  “I have no idea. But I’d like to find out. I owe it to the king. And I owe it to the dead child.”

  “Then enjoy your bath, m’boy, and prepare for tomorrow,” his uncle said. “But I don’t see how you’ll discover much in one more day. I’m as tired as hunted hare, and I’ve a suspicion one more day will turn into another, and then four or five.”

  “If my bathwater doesn’t disgust you uncle, you’d best make use of it. I’m finished.” Nicholas stood, climbing naked from the steam. He left wet footprints across the floorboards, retrieved the thin linen towel from the stool, and proceeded to dry himself. “But I promise not to delay past common sense. Just time enough to satisfy my sense of justice.”

  “You’ll catch cold, not justice, boy,” Jerrid said. “Get into bed. Is the water still hot? Then I’ll certainly make use of it, and will leave it warm enough for David if he wants.”

  Nicholas grinned at David. “He smells of wet leather and horse sweat. So the bath’s obligatory, even if it’s near cold by then.”

  “I’m more than willing, my lord, especially in preparation for a ride back to the Strand.” David looked up, clasping the clothes Nicholas had thrown in a heap. “And to face his lordship the earl.”

  “My father?” Nicholas pulled on a clean shirt from his pack. “Hopefully he’s back at court. I certainly wish it, for my wife’s sake as well as my own.”

  “I look forward to being back at court myself,” Jerrid said, quickly undressing and leaving his clothes neatly folded on the stool. “Come on, boy. You think too much. Get yourself into bed.”

  “Should I think less? It’s like a continuous mutter I can’t be free of. I want home – sweet Jesus, I want home – but I don’t like mysteries I can’t solve.” Nicholas had walked across to the window, but now turned, wandering instead to the bed. “But you’re right, uncle,” he said. “And you’re right about something else. I’ll not delay past tomorrow, Dorset, French assassins and storms in the night be damned. And that’s also for my wife’s sake as well as my own.”

  But had he gone to the window and looked past the half closed shutters, he would have seen his wife, her cape clasped tight around her, walk resolutely past the spreading oak tree outside, and disappear into the moon dappled shadows beneath.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Emeline walked on, wandering into the little copse of beeches beyond the courtyard and away from the road. The Fox and Pheasant had been built on a rise where the Dorset countryside undulated, looking from its ridge down to shallow slopes, then sweeping into equally shallow valleys. The previous night’s deluge had eventually dried under the sun, though the thicker undergrowth remained sodden and the grass where the trees shaded the ground was still springy with damp.

  As usual she was thinking of Nicholas.

  Beyond the clustered beeches the land dipped suddenly and a small stream ran through the grass below. Emeline walked to the higher edge, looking down. The stream was still running high, partially overflowing its banks, though the buttercupped grass sloped, so escaping waterlog. A man, small and very thin, was filling his bucket at the stream, bending over, one knee to the flowers. Too late in the evening to wish being seen by strangers, Emeline remained under cover, wondering if the flashing dancing spring was fresh enough to drink. She had rarely drunk water unless first boiled, but the stream looked cold and clean enough to drink. Then she realised something.

  The man below her appeared unable to rise. He had filled his bucket, not too heavy since it was not so large, yet could no longer lift it nor get to his feet. He rose once, stumbled, and fell again to his knees. He knocked the bucket and it began to spill, then rolled. He reached and caught it, hugging it to his lap, and began to sob. From where she stood, Emeline could hear the guttural misery and for a moment thought of her own retainer Bill, sick above the stables. The world, so full of sorrow and murder, seemed suddenly a sad and lonely place, worthy of a man’s tears.

  She began to climb down, slipping a little on the damp slope. Although the man might be embarrassed to be seen so helpless, it was help she thought he needed. The moon, half full and sprinkling pearly reflections across the stream’s weedy reeds, showed a young man acting as an old one, stumbling, his back bent and his strength feeble. Remembering the thief at the swamp, she was nervous of tricks and of trusting those who might lead her into g
reater danger. Yet as she watched, the man again leaned forwards to fill his bucket but toppled, almost falling into the water. Emeline paused, then made her decision.

  As she arrived beside him, he looked up and stared, eyes wide as if alarmed. Emeline mumbled, “I’m alone, sir, and only wish to help. To carry perhaps –” though her voice faded out.

  He appeared more frightened than reassured. “Get away,” he wheezed. “I need no help.” He was very young, even handsome, but his hands were wrinkled and he could barely rise from his knees though he steadied himself, both hands to the ground.

  Emeline said, “Should a woman not help a man? I thought perhaps you were ill. I simply wanted to help.” He didn’t answer so she continued, “The water looks good enough to drink. I could carry it for you. A companion of mine has recently been taken ill. Influenza, perhaps. Are you also – unwell?”

  He peered around as though watching or wondering, then his voice sank to whispers. “It’s my poor wife needs help, lady, and thank you. If you’ve no fear of infection, we’d welcome that help.”

  Frowning, she said, “No one welcomes infection, sir. Is a doctor in attendance?”

  He managed a small smile. “In attendance? No, lady. There’s no doctor in our village.”

  “A doctor was called for my companion, so one must be nearby.” She shook her head. “Though it’s very late, sir. I’ll carry the bucket willingly, but not too far, and forgive me but I’d prefer not to come too close. Then I’ll return to where I’m staying and send the doctor after you.”

  He lived in a village nearby, he said, and his own home was on the outskirts. His wife would be so thankful. A man with a wife then, and since he had not asked for help, and had at first refused it, Emeline felt no threat. She filled the bucket from the stream and did not find it so heavy. The man walked very slowly and a little behind her, hobbling across the grass to the pathway, and dragging his feet. He was dressed in an unbleached shirt long over baggy felted hose and wooden clogs. He seemed poor, but she had no purse on her to give him. She could at least, she thought, pay the doctor before she sent him on to visit the man’s wife. But now she felt she had gone far enough. She stopped and set down the bucket.

  The footsteps were already close before she heard them. The man heard, again seemed frightened and fell suddenly to his knees. Footsteps along the pathway out of the shadows, and within a heartbeat they were surrounded, five men brandishing sticks. The sick man bowed his head and began to cry. Emeline stared around her, now equally frightened. “If,” she said loudly, “you are thieves, then you’re remarkably stupid ones. You can see this poor man is ill and hasn’t anything to steal, and I carry nothing but water in a bucket.”

  The men scowled. “You’ll not accuse us of thieving, mistress,” one said, “nor act grand when tis only our duty we’re doing, and risking our lives at that.”

  “Bring your water,” said another, pointing with his stick. “and follow us, but no running, mind, for I’ve authority to stop anyone – even females – from running off.”

  Emeline did not understand. “How foolish. Why should I run off? And this man is incapable of it, for he’s sick.”

  “Sick – indeed he is,” said a third man, “and if you’re not a fool yourself, lady, then you’ll know how and what of, and should guess our orders, and the need for them.”

  Now more confused than frightened and more angry than confused, Emeline refused to move. The man she had gone to help remained on his knees. The ties of his shirt had fallen open. She looked down. She saw the rash, its dark bruises rising up the muscles of his neck and covering the pulse at his throat. She felt suddenly very cold, as if packed in ice. Emeline whispered, “Is it – the pestilence?” The man continued to cry and did not look up. She asked him, “But if it is, even if you needed help, how could you want to infect a stranger, someone who was kind and so deserved kindness in return?”

  The man spoke between sobs, and did not look at her. “Did I deserve this?” he gasped. “Did my wife? I took our baby son from her body just four days ago, for no other soul would enter our home, and yesterday morning our little boy was dead. My Maud is dying too, but in an agony of thirst. There is nothing left in the house so I came only to get water for her. But I cannot carry the bucket. At least let her drink before she dies in my arms.” His voice weakened but he continued in a rush, as if he had to explain what he had suffered. “At dawn today I buried our pretty baby Dickon,” he said, “though he never had the benefit of a Christening for our priest is dead, nor has a consecrated grave, for I’m forbidden to leave the house.” His voice was lost in tears. “Will the merciful God refuse him heaven, when he had no time to sin, but only time for pain?”

  The five men grunted, shaking their heads and pushing at him with their sticks, refusing to touch him with their hands. “Get you home, Ralph Cole, and take your bucket. Let your wife drink while you say your prayers, but don’t you leave your house again.”

  Emeline took one deep breath. “I’m sorry for you, and for your wife,” she said softly, “but you should have warned me. I’ll say my own prayers for you and your wife and son. But now I must get back to my own family.”

  There were five sticks, two at her back, one each side and one at her face. The tallest of the men shook his head again. “Tis the abbot’s orders, and the only way, he says, to stop the Great Mortality in its fury. God sends what punishment He will, and tis up to us to do the penance. Without us, there’s fathers will run off and leave their sons dying. There’s daughters will scream and hide, with no care for the mother left writhing in pain. Deadly fear it is, and must be controlled. All the folk of our village will stay where they belong, and that’s our orders. So you’ll come with us.”

  They wouldn’t touch her, keeping their distance, nor stand close enough to breathe her breath, but they herded her with their long sticks as though she was a wayward goose wandering from the flock. Emeline felt the panic rise into her chest like great black wings. She stared, shrugging away the sticks, trying to step back. “You’ve no right. I’m not one of your villagers and I have no sickness. I met this man just moments ago, and barely touched him.”

  “Barely touched?” one man answered. “Isn’t it enough to stand side by side? In our village there’s those as has touched no one, but only stood close in church. Father John, he took confession, nothing more, and on the other side of the screen, but was caught like a flea trapped in an armpit. We buried him two days gone, poor priest, and since then it’s the whole village is dying. We’ve bare one cottage or two without the wailing and the pain.”

  “My brother died three days ago,” mumbled the fat one, “and now his son’s sick as a field mouse under the plough.”

  One of the men glowered. “At first there was six of us told to keep the village shut up tight, with no one in and no one out. Then Blackie got sick. We buried him yesterday and now we’s only five. Me – I’m strong as an ox. But from us five, we’ll go, one by one. A merry dance, I reckon, waiting for Mister Death to come slipping under the door.”

  Emeline started to speak but found she was crying so hard that none of her words made sense. She remembered what had happened to Nicholas and the haunting memory of his family’s tragedy, then how he had feared having caught the pestilence himself, what his decision had been, what he had insisted upon, and how finally it had been all right. With a freeze of ice down her back, finally she managed to ask, “How will I know – if I’m sick?”

  “It’s the rash first,” said another, and pointed with his stick at the man crying, guttural and distraught at her side.

  “First I have to explain to my family.” She wondered if she could escape, or if they would stop her and beat her, and if she could risk carrying possible death to Avice. Perhaps even to Nicholas. “At least if I can write a letter.”

  The fat man sniggered. “And who gets to deliver it then, and where to, and who finds the paper and the pen?”

  “But my mother is Baroness Wrotha
m and my husband – his father is the Earl of Chatwyn. I can’t just – disappear.”

  They didn’t believe her. “And dressed like the queen herself as you are, mistress, with sweat and stains on your gown, and holes in your shoes.”

  She was pushed forwards, three sticks hard to her back. “I’m simply travel worn – and was at the Fox and Pheasant –,” but her voice trailed off. She whispered. “If I come with you, where will you put me?”

  “With him.” The first man nodded, pointing again with his stick. “Or you sleeps in the monastery if they lets you. They won’t let none of the rest of us in, but with you not from our village – well, maybe the monks will take pity.”

  The fifth man was frowning. “She ain’t from around here,” he said, scratching his head. “Her clothes says she’s no lady, but there’s no laundry maid wears a gown like that neither. If she ain’t touched no one, I reckon we let her go.”

  “But if we let her go, she’ll tell all around and have half the countryside running in panic. I’m doing as the abbot says, and there’s no one will spread not sickness nor tales with me to stop them.”

  Emeline could feel the chilly trickle of tears down her cheeks, and the tremble in her knees. She would not let herself fall and whispered, though only to herself, “I only wanted to help.”

  “Which is what we’s doing the same,” the last man nodded, slow and apologetic. “’Tis a terrible death, mistress, and can have a whole county in their graves in a week. So we keep it close, we keep it quiet, we keep it in the village, and we keep the other folk safe.”

  “I’ll carry the bucket and take water to the sick. But I don’t understand.” Emeline looked up, facing the first man. “How long have your people been dying? Have you sent for a doctor? How long is there between touching someone, and getting sick? I’m staying at the Fox and Pheasant and no one there knows anything of this.” And then she thought of Old Bill lying sick and feverish, and once again her voice trailed off.