The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  The man nodded. “The landlord and his missus, they knows. But they won’t say. They’d have no business left, with folk running for their lives. Best say nothing – and there’s not one soul yet has died there. It’s close as close all right, but close don’t mean touching. Like Restlebury Village not one mile away, yet not one man, woman nor child lies sick there. Which is why we’s keeping tight shut away – the sick stays at home and no spit nor snot spreads beyond our lanes. Nor doctor will come, for they knows there’s nort they can do ‘cept sicken their selves.”

  Another interrupted. “Old man Hammond went for the doctor when his daughter got sick. No one knew it were the pestilence. But the doctor never come. Was scared, he was, and right to be when he heard what the sickness sounded like.”

  “Little Lizzy Hammond, she were the first, five days back, and dead not long after. Five days of shitting bloody hell.”

  Emeline slapped his stick away. “They’ll have paper and ink to spare at the monastery. I have to write to my sister. And in the meantime, I’ll walk willingly, but not with your cudgels in my back or your threats in my face.”

  The last man, still wavering and apologetic, muttered, “Then give us your name, lady, and I’ll take a message to the inn. If I tells the landlord, he’ll tell your sister. Can’t do no better than that. But first I must ask the abbot’s permission.”

  Pallid and hesitant, the moon dipped behind clouds, and darkness shrouded the land. But they did not walk far. The first houses clustered around a green, but no window showed candlelight and no soul moved or opened their doors. Even the church bell remained silent. Across the square and beyond the thatched roofs and little brick chimneys, she could see the stretch of the monastery and its grounds. Nothing moved except the flutter of leaves.

  The man beside her mumbled, “My house is here, lady. Will you come with me, even sick as we are, and help my wife as you said you would?”

  “Dear God,” whispered Emeline, “must I invite my own end?”

  The tall man following her, still keeping what distance he could between them, said, “It ain’t no choice, lady, for you’ll not carry the pestilence back to the Fox, nor spread death beyond our village. Maybe we’ll make sure a quiet message is took to the inn, but it’s here you’ll stay, and I reckon a roof over your head is better than just the wind and the stars above. At dawn, if you wants, we’ll move you to the monastery.”

  It was little more than a croft, with a narrow flight of creaking steps leading from the one room below to the one room above. It was below where the woman lay on a straw pallet, tucked all around with two thin blankets, and the open fire flickering in sinking ashes close by her toes. The hearth was a stone slab with no chimney, so smoke filled the space and all the room seemed to swirl in a thick and dirty haze. There were shelves and stools and a small table with crooked legs, but they merged into the smoke like little shadows, barely real.

  The woman lay silent but her eyes were open. They were bleeding. Her husband knelt beside her. “I’ve brought water,” he whispered, “and will get your drinking cup. No ale, for there’s no stalls on the green no more and Daisy Green won’t be brewing, for the lass is sick as you. But this is water from the stream, and safe to drink.” The woman spoke, but Emeline could not hear or understand her. “Her name’s Maud, and mine’s Ralph,” the man said, dipping the cup in the water bucket and then holding it to his wife’s lips. “Drink my sweet.” He lifted her head, but the liquid ran from her mouth and she could hardly swallow.

  Emeline found a stool and sat heavily. The smoke was noxious and she could breathe only with effort. “It was like this for him,” she whispered into the fumes of soot and misery. “Now I understand. He went through this. The black agony and the black terror.” The weight of her own mounting fear was even thicker than the smoke. “He could have died too.” She was whispering to herself, not caring if the others heard. “He was trapped, just as I’ve been trapped. And I’ll face it with courage, just as he did.”

  The man frowned, looking up. “You’re coughing from the smoke, lady. But my Maudie mustn’t catch a chill. Doctors always say to stop draughts, and any sick chamber must be kept hot.” He shook his head. “And we’re used to the smoke, lady. All autumn, all winter, mostly all spring.” Maud had managed to drink a little, and Ralph refilled the cup. He spoke over his shoulder. “Our beautiful little babe got it first, then my poor girl here. I got it two days later. But she’s worse today. I reckon she’ll go tonight. And once she’s gone, I’ll want to go too.”

  Through the sallow sepia swirl, Emeline stared at him. The rash was hidden beneath his shirt, his eyes and nostrils were clear. But his wife’s suffering was visible. If she had once been as pretty as her husband was handsome, it was no longer evident. Her face was swollen and marked as though beaten and trickles of blood seeped from her eyes, her nose and her ears. Her hair was matted where blood stuck and as she drank, gulping as if it hurt her even though she gasped for water, her gums bled and her lips cracked, breaking into bright bloody beads. Her small pointed nose was crusted black in dried blood, softening as new blood joined the old. As she tried to grasp the cup, her hands trembling, her fingertips oozed blood from beneath her nails, and all her skin was patchy and dark.

  Emeline wondered if Nicholas had looked like that. Then she imagined him as a child watching his mother and tiny siblings die. Finally she imagined herself covered in the rash of bruises, the huge black abscesses, and the taste of blood in her mouth. She imagined never seeing Nicholas again. She felt bilious and began to cry.

  Ralph Cole looked up. “Mistress?”

  She shook her head, gasping back tears. “Give me something to do. Can I build up the fire? Are there more sticks outside?”

  “I’ve had this fire constant for days,” he said, “and they wouldn’t let me out to collect wood. I meant to get some today, but couldn’t even carry the water.”

  They watched Ralph’s wife die. The moon slipped shy into the clouds behind the silent church steeple and a slow dawn peeped through. After a while Ralph hurried out to grab small twigs and handfuls of leaves from the grassy square nearby, and scrambled back before he might be seen, trembling and panting, bare able to walk himself. So the fire burned and smoke filled the cottage and the woman on the pallet began to moan. Her cry was so faint and so mournful that Emeline cried too, sitting on a stool near the fire with nothing she could do to help but warm her own helpless hands.

  Ralph said, “Will the Lord God have mercy, do you think, lady? My wife is a good woman, and never did wrong to no one. We’ve been wed only a year, and was happy when she fell quick, being with child. Our little boy. She were so happy, and made pretty clothes all ready before he were born, with soft colours for the bonnet, and stockings for the little feet, a big fluffy blanket and best linen for the swaddling. And then, as my beautiful girl grew large and the birth was near, and we kissed and prayed the birth would be easy – then it all changed. He had no time to wear them pretty clothes, our sweet lad. Why did the Lord send the pestilence, when we done nothing but love each to the other, doing our work best as we could?”

  “I don’t understand either,” Emeline whispered through her tears. “I wish I did.”

  “But you says you’s a lady,” said the man, squatting back on his heels beside his wife. “Being a lady, you should know more than simple folks.” He sighed, disappointed, and took his wife’s hand, holding it gently as she moaned, her eyes closed. “Every bit hurts, she told me before, like knives to her knees, and a flogging to her back. Like her insides was all screaming and falling apart. We had a potion of willow bark ready for the birthing, and juniper berries for the pain of the pushing. I bought wine too, to give hot with a little spice for I got a pinch of cinnamon though it cost my last pennies, but I wanted my girl and my new child safe. But she’s drunk it all, my sweet Maudie, and there’s no more to give.”

  Emeline came to sit on the ground beside the makeshift bed. She wiped away the tears a
nd blinked back her own wretchedness. “Poor Maud. Poor Ralph I’m so sorry. If only I could get out, I could buy such things tomorrow, and come back to help.”

  “They patrols,” Ralph said. “Night and day both. But now at least she has water to drink,” he sniffed, clasping Maud’s hand a little tighter, “She hasn’t long, I reckon, then she’ll be with our little Dickon. She were so sad, my poor wife, to lose her babe bare four days old. To carry a little one for all them months, and feel its squirming and its little toes kicking and that lovely big warmth inside, and then to bring him into the big bright world only to lose him forever. She told me often how it was. All for nothing. It isn’t right. She wanted a little girl, and me, I wanted a son. But all we got were the pestilence and pain enough to die thankful in the end. Is there more pain, d’you think, in Purgatory? She’s had enough, my dear girl, and don’t deserve no more.”

  “I’m sure,” Emeline said softly, “she will find only comfort, and her baby waiting, and no more pain forever and ever.”

  “That’s good, then,” Ralph said, his frowns softening. “I’ll let her go, and be happy for her, and I’ll pray for her all the day until I goes to join her.” Emeline started crying again and Ralph hung his head “’Tis my fault,” he muttered. “You should kill me for it, though I’m dying anyways. I just wanted the water, for my Maud cried so pitiful for thirst. But when I couldn’t carry the bucket, so I thought of my dear heart and cared nothing for you, lady. I shouldn’t have let you near me, and told the truth to you from the start. It were wrong, and I’m so sorry. But there’s nort now I can do for it.”

  Maud Cole began to wail. Her moans turned to howls, and she opened her eyes. Her lower lids ran with blood. Ralph had a cloth, already badly soiled, and he wiped away the trails and trickles and the bloody tears, and whispered to her that he was near, and would hold her if she wished. But she tried to shake her head, choking on her own pain. Ralph licked a corner of the cloth and started to clear the crusts from her nostrils, helping her to breathe. He looked over at Emeline. “She has two great black lumps in her armpits, you see,” he said. “And when she moves, they hurts so bad, ‘tis like the devil’s pinch. And there’s another down in the soft part of her leg, and it pains more than all the rest. I tried to touch it once, to put on a slave I thought might help. But she screamed, for just the touch of a finger. When she gave birth to our little Dickon, she grunted and no more, for she’s always been a brave lass. But with this, it’s different. The pain’s too strong.”

  The first pink flush of dawn had risen over the thatches and was shining full on the doorway when Maud died.

  Chapter Forty

  The swell of briny tide was ebbing and the sand sparkled with salt. A jellyfish, like a small blob of melting wax, leaked its separate strands, washed up, its wilted arms reaching across the pebbled shallows. Gulls picked over the stones, snatching up the dead and dying. Clouds hid the sun.

  “Back to the inn then,” Jerrid said. “They say the Fox and Pheasant serves a plentiful dinner, but since the inn is full, if we’re late we’ll only get the left overs.”

  “We’re already too late,” Nicholas said. “We might as well finish the day out here, and head back for an early supper. Then it’s one more night in this wretched place before heading home tomorrow at first light.”

  “For pity’s sake,” his uncle said, “you’ve searched every cove and every inlet. There’s nothing to find here. I’m as hungry as a fox myself, and pheasant sounds like a good choice for dinner.”

  “The Fox will no doubt serve an excellent supper too.”

  The Fox and Pheasant did indeed serve an excellent supper, with a wide choice of platters. They were first at the table, and Nicholas chose corns of salt beef in a wine sauce with boiled onions, roast goose stuffed with peas, a small custard tart in lemon cream, duck livers with sage and garlic, a pattie of herbs, bread fried in beef dripping, and finally a dish of spiced leeks. There were no apple codlings.

  David had joined them and was once again discussing with Jerrid the possibilities and probabilities concerning the attacks some days past, when Nicholas tossed his napkin to his platter and stood, stretching his back. “I’m for bed,” he said abruptly. “Don’t wake me when you come up.”

  Jerrid grinned. “Outdone by an old man, eh, boy? It’s barely supper time and the sun isn’t yet in bed, yet you’re eager for yours?”

  “I’ve better things to dream of than you have, uncle,” Nicholas told him, “so have more reason to sleep.”

  With the light still finding some passage through the windows, he had no need of a candle as he headed for the stairs. But it was heavily shadowed and at first he did not recognise the woman walking down towards him. Then he recognised the squeal.

  “Mercy,” squeaked Sysabel, “It’s Nicholas. What are you doing here? What have you done with my brother, you villain? And what have you done with poor Emma?”

  Hearing the noise, Hilda had hurried down to her mistress, and it was her feet that Sysabel sat down on as she collapsed backwards onto the step behind her. Nicholas stared in bewildered alarm. He took the steps in two strides and took his cousin by her shoulders, shaking her. “Idiot girl, what are you talking about? Why in heaven’s name are you here? And I’ve certainly not seen Emma. Where is she?”

  Hilda burst into tears, Sysabel began to howl and Avice appeared at the top landing, shouting, “Oh, thank the Lord, it’s really you, Nicholas. Oh, Nicholas, you have to save her.”

  Nicholas grunted, “What the devil?” and Jerrid and David rushed from the parlour as Avice ran down to where Nicholas was still holding Sysabel.

  She pushed past Hilda and said urgently, “Somewhere private, quick, I have to explain everything.”

  They sat back at the table, platters pushed aside and food ignored. Avice hurried past the explanations of how and why they had all decided to leave the house in the Strand, abandoning her mother to his father’s inevitable irritation, and added briefly how Emeline had been eager to find Nicholas and warn him of possible danger. With one eye to Sysabel, she did not dare say what they had thought the danger might be, but instead began to describe how, once settled in the Fox and Pheasant, Emeline had gone outside to see to their sick groom. Certainly Bill had seen her, but she had not returned to the inn and by ten of the clock both Avice and Petronella had gone to look for her. They had discovered nothing, and still with no sign of her, had been out all that day searching.

  Once Avice had tumbled through her story, Sysabel said, “Of course it was Adrian who rescued us all yesterday. But then he went away with his friends and hasn’t returned either. Now I know he’s in terrible danger.”

  “What from? Magpies?” demanded Jerrid.

  “From you,” wept Sysabel, “and from Nicholas, and I know you’ve done something horrid to Emma.”

  “Emma,” said Avice, her voice suddenly low, “has been taken hostage. It’s only minutes past that I got a message from some village bumpkin, saying he had permission from some monastery or other. He said there’s a village not far from here, and there’s an outbreak of the pestilence with half the folk dead or dying. I have no idea why Emma is there, or why she would ever visit such a place, but the messenger said she can’t leave the village, or she’ll spread the contagion and must stay where she is. He left in a hurry. I just grabbed my cloak and was about to follow him when I heard Sysabel screaming at you.”

  Nicholas stood so suddenly his chair fell backwards, He turned to Avice as David leapt up beside him. “Avice, watch over this fool of a girl and don’t let her leave. I’m going to get my wife.”

  “The pestilence? Don’t bring her here,” moaned Sysabel.

  “Quiet,” Nicholas ordered her, “or I’ll have you silenced. Not one word of this must be spread to others. No hint to any one, remember, not to your groom, to the tavern staff, or anyone else. Now, which village?”

  Avice shook her head. “He wouldn’t say where. That’s why I wanted to follow the man.”<
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  “I’ll find her.”

  “But the pestilence. And Bill, our guide, is sick above the stables. Alan went for the doctor but the doctor refused to come.”

  “Alan Venter’s here? Good. Jerrid, get my fool of a cousin into her bed, and keep her there. And what’s this about Adrian?”

  “He was here and he’s coming back.” Sysabel had stopped crying and was trembling with fury. “He’ll – defend himself. With his life. And me too.”

  Nicholas nodded to his uncle. “I have no idea what the child is raving about, but no doubt you can deal with her, uncle. If Adrian returns soon, tell him to wait for me, as I may need his help. In the meantime, it’s only Emma I’m concerned with.”

  He strode from the parlour and headed out towards the stables. Jerrid called to David. “You’re going with him? Excellent. But you’d best get up to the bedchamber first and grab the boy’s sword and cloak. I’ll cope with everything here. You look after Nicholas.”

  “I always do, sir,” David said, and left at once.

  Without hope of escape, Emeline had remained at the cottage for most of the day. For two hours she had slept, but no more, her fear and her misery keeping her beyond tiredness. When she woke, she gazed past the guttering ashes, and saw the dead woman now held tight in Ralph’s embrace. He had taken her in his arms as she died, the last pitiful gurgle of her breath all spent. Then he had leaned forward and clasped her, and rocked her, and began very softly to sing.

  He looked once at Emeline. “It’s our little lullaby,” he explained. “We sang it to our baby when he cried, poor mite, though Maudie were losing her voice, and just croaked the words. Then she got the delirium, and I comforted our Dickon alone in the day, though gived him to her for feeding and then to hold all warm at night.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Emeline whispered. “I’m so – terribly sorry.”