The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Avice snorted, and one of the candles blew out. “The only thing any of us should be worried about is Emma.”

  “If young Nicholas has deserted –”

  The baroness shook her head. “My elder daughter is upstairs in one of the smaller guest chambers, my lord. But she is – unwell. A slight chill, no doubt. Nicholas is looking after her, and has forbidden anyone else from becoming involved. A risk of – infection, no doubt. At present he has gone to procure medicines but is expected back at any moment.”

  “Ah.” The earl looked around the party of females, and frowned. “A chill?”

  “A chill, my lord. But since the aged groom my daughters originally took with them as guide and protector has also gone down with some form of cold and is at present incapacitated, we are taking no chances as to infection and Nicholas has dear Emeline close closeted upstairs.”

  “And my wayward younger brother?”

  “Uncle Jerrid,” sniffed Sysabel, “is upstairs snoozing. I have no idea what he’s doing here in the first place.”

  “Travelling with Nicholas,” the baroness reminded her.

  “Which,” said Sysabel softly, avoiding all accusatory glances, “I find highly suspicious. They were up to no good, I’m sure of it. And my poor Adrian –”

  The earl refilled his wine cup. “At the first sneeze,” he declared, “I’m off. Can’t afford to be getting sick, no profit in it, and besides, the king needs me. Hopefully it’s just feminine sniffles. No harm done. But I need a decent chamber, and if there’s none to be had then I suppose I shall have to share with Jerrid.”

  “He’ll be delighted, I’m sure,” muttered Avice.

  “I believe,” said the baroness, “I shall have another cup of wine.” The earl released the jug, which he had once again taken up.

  “I think,” decided the Lady Elizabeth suddenly rousing herself, “I need a little fortification as well. Life is no longer as peacefully predictable as it once was.”

  “Was it?” sighed the baroness. “I don’t remember.”

  Some miles south west, the drizzle was more welcome. There was the scorching, smoky stench of burning straw and plaster, and the combination of fire doused in low cloud and a mist of damp. Distant sounds, voices and alarm escalated. David remounted, watching the five men of the patrol race back along the pathway towards the village. He reached out, retraining his master, “Not back there, my lord. Now we need to get away.”

  Nicholas frowned. “You started this fire?”

  “By no means, my lord. You know my dislike of fire, and you know why.”

  The simmering flames broke their confines and gusted, plumes of dirty smoke caught in the breezes. Whatever burned, burned soot and reeds, old planks, old thatch, and the bodies in each house lying dead or dying. The rotting remains of the pestilence and their sad empty houses were lit with new light. The breeze became a wind. The drizzle was a swirling silvery haze but the fire was stronger. The drizzle turned scarlet. Another thatch caught, two houses in from the Coles’ cottage. Flames crackled, spitting their sparks high like dancing rubies, each fragmented, a game of tiny escaping explosions high against a dull grey sky. The next house, roofs attached, began to blaze and the flames ran along the thatches in little seeking tongues.

  Nicholas shouted, “Damnation. Get here, David, quickly, before this spreads to the trees.”

  “We should leave at once, my lord. We have other duties and far more important. Your lady and then his highness –”

  Nicholas frowned. “These poor miserable wretches have faced the pestilence. Must the survivors burn alive? If there’s water, I’ll help put out the fire. I’ve experience enough.” He had already turned his horse. The mare snorted, her nostrils flared, smelling fire. But Nicholas urged her back towards the village.

  David, again in the saddle, followed, heels to the reluctant horse’s flanks. “My lord, is the aim worth the risk?”

  “Come with me or not, my friend,” Nicholas called back. “Your hatred of fire is something I well understand, so give your help, or not. But don’t argue, when it’s action we need.” He was now well ahead, as suddenly the sky turned orange. Above the haze of gathering smoke obscured the leering virulence which varnished all the clouds as though they too were aflame. Only moments down the lane, Nicholas halted. “The horses are terrified,” he shouted. “Stop here, David, and keep hold of my reins.” He dismounted and ran.

  Where the cottages huddled the fire spread unhindered, gaining strength and swallowing everything both within and without. First to Ralph Cole’s, kicking open the cracked wooden door. One wall was already crumbling into soot, and showed the single chamber in a swirl of yellow smoke. Nicholas turned on his heel and strode back outside.

  Around him there was noise and fear as hot and nauseas as the fire. There were screams, people running, a woman, her gown all in scorched tatters, crawling from the collapse of her home. A young man ran, his hair in flames. People, hugging, helping, shouting and panicking, racing or struggling to the open grass. David tied both horses’ reins to an overhanging branch and followed his master. He marched among the scurry and chaos, offering help. Nicholas called for buckets, organising a line from butts to thatches and eventually a hope of salvation.

  Within only moments those ten or more cottages grouped around the church and the grassy square were destroyed, lost in piled rubble, ashes, shattered beams, scattered iron pots and those few precious possessions now ruined. A bedstead, its strings all gone, stood broken legged in a mess of blackened fustian and feathers, its owner fallen through the burned base and now lying on the ground, a shrivelled memory of a life now cooked flesh, no knowing if this had been man or woman, or had died first of the pestilence, or later killed by fire. Eerie and echoing silences were shattered by falling walls and ceilings, the thunderous tumbling of timbers. Faint, distant and smothered, the moaning of someone left alive. Nicholas pulled the dead, dying and living from the rubble which had once housed them. Beside him the frantic patrol fought desperately to save who and what they could, five men working alongside Nicholas and David, checking each house as the wind swept up the flames and threw them like sheets into the rain.

  The water butts were half full with wet leaves and insect larvae, little more than dirty puddles but water all the same. Buckets filled, trudged from scalding door to step. So the fire, slow pace by pace, was doused. Step by step and one by one some were saved. One man gasped, “God bless you, sir,” and died, tongue out to taste the cool liquid as he heaved one last breath.

  Then dark figures, a single line of black frocked monks from the monastery, alerted by the smell of fire, doggedly trudging the trail from their quiet haven. Nicholas beckoned to David, who was still checking the ruins of an adjacent house. “We’ll leave,” he said. “The monks and their patrol will finish what they can. We’re no longer needed.” David sank down a moment, gasping for breath. His hair was singed, his clothes blackened. Nicholas nodded, and helped him rise. “You’re a brave man, my friend,” he murmured, “to march into the flames you hate and fear.” He supported his squire as they staggered back down the lane to where the horses had been tethered. A hazy twilight had turned the trees to silhouettes, the sky just grey pockets between the leaves. They had not even noticed the passing of time.

  The Fox and Pheasant was quiet. The fragile drifting drizzle still blanketed the roof and its eaves, the tucked windows obscured in silver shimmer, and the sun was setting behind the clouds.

  Avoiding all other sounds and all other chambers, Nicholas took the back stairs and climbed to the attic. He found his wife half drowsing, the long wait for him having turned to apathetic slumber. When she heard the door close, she blinked and sat up in a hurry.

  “Forgive the delay,” he sat beside her and took her hand. “There was more to do than we’d expected. Fire, and half the village destroyed. Unkind to you, little one, but I saved other lives; something I felt I had to do.” He smoothed his thumb across her cheeks. “You’ve been
crying.”

  She shook her head. “I thought perhaps that you couldn’t get away. I thought you’d – never – get away.”

  “Foolish mistrust, my sweet. And before you ask, your friend was dead already, and is now at peace. I saw him before the fire and gave the medicines. I gave him poppy juice, and explained what would happen if he took a stronger dose. I hope that’s what he did. We saved a few others, and some were saved by the men of the patrol. They were courageous, and did what they could, as David did, carrying out both the sick and the healthy from houses aflame and falling. I’ve a squire to be proud of.” But he leaned down and kissed her smut marked cheeks, both arms still very tight around her. “And I’ve a remarkably brave wife too, and I’m proud to call her mine.”

  Emeline winced, whispering, “You’re not cross with me for having left home before – for coming here – for bringing danger to everyone – so that you had to rescue me?”

  “You imagine I’d be angry because you’ve not obeyed me? But you so rarely do, my love, I no longer expect it.”

  “And you said you’re – truly – proud – of me?”

  He kissed the tip of her nose which was fiercely pink. “I am exceedingly proud of my exceedingly courageous wife. I’m learning a great deal more about you, my love. And now we eat, we talk, we kiss, and finally we sleep.”

  She had decided not to warn him yet, but then she thought better of it. “Are you going down to order supper? Then I had better tell you who is here.”

  “A parcel of women, and most of them my wretched relatives.”

  “Not all of them women.” She took a deep breath, and said, “Your father is here.”

  “Impossible. If you’ve heard his voice, then it’s delirium or dreams.”

  Emeline shook her head. “He was tired of waiting alone in the Strand House, so he followed my mother’s trail. The inn is full indeed. My mother tiptoed in to tell me all about it a few hours back.”

  “Oh, Lord.” Nicholas sighed and stood. “Then I’d better face him. But he’ll leave us alone once I whisper the word pestilence in his ear. I shall be back with food, wine, and ready to plump up the pillows for the night’s deep and conscious free sleep.”

  “I shall dream of sickness and fire.”

  Nicholas smiled, turning at the door as he was about to leave the room. “I shall dream of you,” he said.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  They lay on the bed, half clothed, the dish of food between them, their wine cups on the small chest and their eyes on each other. Nicholas broke off a wedge of crumbled goat’s cheese, and popped it into Emeline’s mouth. She had been about to speak, but with cheeks suddenly full, she grinned at him, trying not to spit crumbs.

  Nicholas laughed. “My poor sick and suffering wife. Clearly ailing. Will more wine help, do you think?”

  “I’m probably tipsy already.”

  “Not nearly tipsy enough.”

  She wore only her shift, its fine linen clinging across her breasts. The neck was low, and where her nipples protruded soft and dark, it barely covered. As Nicholas moved his hand to her shoulder, he brushed over the swell of her body and smiled. As her nipples tightened, she whispered, “Is that not response enough?”

  “Should I make love to my sick wife, then? Would that be selfish? Uncaring?”

  “It would be kind.” Emeline pushed the supper dish away and reached for her cup. “So must I be drunk, before you want me?”

  “My dearest but foolish wife, there is never a moment when I don’t want you.” He took her cup and refilled it. “Drink. Enjoy our quiet moments for just a little longer. It’s been a long time on the road, with cold winds and dirty taverns, straw beds and long hours in the saddle. And for you, my sweetest, it has proved even more challenging. Once this absurd scare is past, I’m taking you home. I plan a peaceful future, with children in the nursery and only rare visits to court.”

  He wore his shirt loose over his hose, boots kicked to the hearth and doublet thrown to the settle. Two candles were lit in a single stand but there was no fire in the grate, and the light was just a small golden flicker at their side. It reflected dancing fingers in the wine, the colour of flame. David and Petronella had been banished to other quarters, the room too small for servants, and the risk too great.

  “And I’ve added to your exhaustion,” Emeline whispered, “just when you thought you’d already done enough.” She sipped her wine. “Did you do enough?”

  “The young lord I was meant to meet never arrived. His escape was foiled, and the poor wretch is still held hostage in France.” Nicholas sighed, his fingers now wandering inside Emeline’s shift, encircling the firm warmth of her breast. “The other task proved more successful. An English traitor bringing a letter from the exile Henry Tudor, meant for delivery in the north. I met up with the messenger, stole the letter, and will take it to the king. The traitor lives and remains free, but that’s no shame for he’s well known to his highness, and is not a man easily taken.”

  “The king will be pleased then? Not disappointed?”

  “He will be both. But complete success was not expected, and Dorset’s failure was well nigh inevitable, being his second attempt. As for Urswick – the letter was more important than the arrest.”

  Emeline did not think it important at first. Her body tingled, warm tucked into the first stages of seduction. For many nights she had dreamed of caresses, as he had, and she had little interest in understanding the problems of security with France. So lying back a little against the pillows, she smiled, saying, “Another Urswick? But he has gone, and you are here, my love.”

  “Another Urswick?” His fingers slowed, pausing their exploration.

  “The traitor you were looking for who brought the letter,” She shook her head. “And then, of course, the other one is Adrian’s friend.”

  Frowning, “Adrian was not alone? How many friends?”

  “Just two, and no servants. If he had a groom or squire with him, then they were already back at the inn. But Adrian’s friends were brave, and rescued us.” Nicholas’s fingers had now retreated, and she sat up, suddenly cold. “What’s the matter? I told you about Sissy being stuck in that horrid marsh and Adrian riding by at that perfect moment. There was Adrian, and Mister Urswick, and the other was the brave Mister Browne who rode down the thief who tried to trap us.”

  “Urswick.” The short silence seemed strained. Finally, very softly, he said, “Urswick? Are you sure?” Emeline nodded. Nicholas said, “Describe him.”

  She was worried now. “Tall, but not as tall as you, brown hair, lighter than yours and a little shorter than fashion. An ordinary man with very little to describe. Plain clothes. A kind smile.”

  “Did anyone,” Nicholas asked carefully, “speak this Urswick’s first name?”

  “Adrian called him Christopher. He was nice.”

  Nicholas leaned back beside her, taking her hard into his arms, and speaking to the curls around her ears. “Dear sweet Lord have mercy,” he murmured. “Must I challenge Adrian as well, then? Is it him I’ve been chasing without knowing? Have I been blind?” He paused, as she listened in horrified silence. Then he asked abruptly, “Where did Adrian and his friends say they were going? And how long past?”

  “Two days gone,” she gulped. “Urswick and Browne had a boat to meet and a journey across the water to make that next morning. Adrian was to see them safely off. He should be back soon, probably tomorrow.”

  “Then it’s far too late to chase Urswick down.” Nicholas said. He thought a moment, then smiled, though the smile remained cold. “I had no idea it might be my own cousin involved. But then, I warrant he has no idea it is me.”

  He turned, holding Emeline by her shoulders, facing her as if considering something. Then he released her and stood, abruptly pulling his shirt off over his head. He stood a moment, holding the shirt before he tossed it, his dark hair now tousled. The silk of black across his chest narrow striped the muscles of his breast and belly
. The laces of his hose hung loose around his hips, the codpiece still in place, his legs tightly enclosed in the hugging soft knit of deep rustic green. Then he turned, wandering over to the candles standing on the stool beside the bed. He blew them out and the chamber blinked into shade. Nicholas became a shadow, half visible, half lost in suggestion.

  “Come here,” he said.

  Emeline whispered, “There? Now?”

  His voice was quiet, husky, almost too soft to hear. He said, “Yes, now. Here.”

  She heard the hint of menace in his voice. He had made love to her many times but this time, somehow, he had changed. The room was small; four steps and she was standing close so the heat of his body touched the tips of her breasts and her toes were against his. She mumbled, “You’re angry.”

  “Yes. Do you mind?” He looked down at her. “But not with you. With Adrian. With myself.” He grasped the shoulders of her shift and wrenched it down over her arms. The thin seams pulled apart, and the white tumbled linen floated to the ground at their feet. His gaze followed her nakedness, watching, not touching. His voice sank even lower. “If I hurt you,” he murmured, “then you must hurt me back. Punch me and I’ll understand.”

  She slipped her arms around his waist, her fingers clinging to the back of his hips. Still whispering, “It has to be love. Not anger.”

  “Then make me forget the anger,” he said. “And make love to me.” He stood very still, looking down at her, and his intensity had narrowed. The brilliance of his eyes was now heavy hooded, the muscles of his face tense, and the long scar down his left cheek seemed deeper, tighter, sinister, catching the flicker of the one remaining candle across the room. He said nothing more, but waited, watching.

  With one hesitant fingertip she reached up and touched the tiny scars across his body where on their wedding night the flames had pricked and spat and marked him forever. Up his forearms, where the dark hair was sparse, there were a hundred memories of old fire. “So many wounds,” she said. “Did the fire hurt you again today? I see no new marks.”