The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “Escaping? Or looking for adventure?”

  “It was the same thing.” The grin had reappeared. “Climbing out of windows. Dressing in disguise. Looking the part. Playing the game. The irresponsible younger son, with no prospects except those he forges for himself.”

  She sighed. “I won’t ever stand in your way, my love, though I hope you’ll never want to escape from me. But adventure – working for the king – and if you find it sadly dull at home just sitting with me by the fire –”

  “You are my adventure, little one.”

  “So sometimes you’ll take me with you?”

  “That’s something we can discuss over that domestic fireside of yours.” He swung his legs up onto the wide mattress, half across her snuggled billows. “Tomorrow will still be busy. Adrian has admitted dealings with Urswick. How deep he is with the exiles themselves I’ve no idea, but something must be done. Oh – not arrest I hope, nor official accusations, but he must be warned off, or made to face the king and ask for pardon. As for accusations of murder – that’s another matter and he denies it. He would of course, whether innocent or guilty, but we’ve neither proof nor evidence. Sissy – well, that’s something he must deal with himself.”

  Emeline wrapped her arm around her husband’s naked waist. “Aren’t you cold?”

  He grinned again. “Perhaps. So keep me warm.”

  “No more fears of infection?”

  “Tomorrow once matters are sorted with Adrian, I’ll take you back downstairs,” he told her. “But it’s been sweet, having you here to myself. The pestilence – it’s the curse every Englishman has to face at times, and we’ve been luckier than most. So we’ll travel back to Westminster. I still have that wretched letter to deliver to the king. Adrian – I’ll leave him to my father if I can, once the initial decision is made.” He leaned back a moment, Emeline nestled to his side as he stared up at the ceiling beams and the bed’s limp tester. “Strange,” he said, more to himself than to her, “I never considered Adrian much in the past. Too busy avoiding the family and making choices for myself. But now – there’s more to Adrian than I’d thought. And most of it I don’t like.”

  Emeline was interested. “Well, he seems pompous and boring and bossy but nice to Sissy. Yet – if he’s a traitor and a murderer – he’s someone else!”

  Nicholas smiled, his wandering hands discovering the rise of her breasts beneath the eiderdown. “Knowing him since I was a child clearly meant nothing, for I never knew him at all. Yet the bastard claims to have always thought me guilty – not only of killing my own brother – but also of raping his sister.”

  Emeline sat in a hurry. “He what?” she demanded. “How dare he?” She wriggled around, staring down at her husband. “Raping Sissy? How could he think such a thing? And if he really did believe that, why did he do nothing about it?”

  “Just what I said.” Nicholas pulled her back down and scrambled beneath the covers with her, their legs entwined. “Which is why I don’t believe a word of it. There’s something more to this.” But he shook his head. “So have mercy now, my beloved, and give me leave to forget the dark memories and the sins of my family. I want to make love to my wife.”

  She gazed up at him as he moved over her, bright blue eyes shadowed. “You called me ‘your beloved’, she whispered.

  “Do you not yet believe that I’ve fallen in love with you?” His hands pushed down against her belly, pressing into the soft curls at her groin. His fingers probed.

  She caught her breath on a sudden gulp. “Not just – that – part of me?”

  “Every part of you.”

  “I don’t even know – what it’s called.” She was losing her breath entirely.

  “Oh there are names, my love, plenty of names, none of which I’ll tell you. But it’s a place I treasure.” He leaned heavily over her, crushing her beneath him, and his eyes glittered just an inch from hers. “But it wasn’t only this I missed while I was away, as I’ve sworn to you already. It was the soft slip of your fingers around me, the sweet warmth of your breath. The worried murmurs and mumbles you make in your sleep, and the bright dazzling joy of you when I see you wake in the morning.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  David Witton straightened his shirt collar, pulled up his boots, tightened the lacings of his doublet and checked that both knife hilts were easy to hand and would be quick to draw. He took one deep breath and entered the stables. The horses, still snorting and kicking at the straw, were not yet settled, and one of the men, recently arrived, was filling buckets, while others unbuckled and heaved off the saddles and horse blankets. Five men, six horses. David watched a moment, leaning back against one of the stalls. He stuck his thumbs through his belt, and waited.

  Alan Venter was already watching, waiting in the shadows at the stable’s far doorway by the upturned barrows. Seemingly a casual wakefulness, he nodded, barely discernible. David smiled and raised one hand, four fingers spread. Again Alan nodded. There were four. So Rob and Harry were somewhere, hidden, alert, also waiting.

  The horses gradually settled. The men continued to fold the blankets, hoisting sacks of oats and filling the trough. The water buckets were once again empty. One of the new arrivals called for an ostler. “Boy. Where’s the boy?”

  No one answered. The inn’s stable boys had already been ordered to their pallets and were silent if not asleep. Alan sauntered from the shadows into the pooling moonlight through the open sided doorway. “You’ll be the late arrivals, then,” he said, kicking at the empty buckets. “I hear the Fox is overflowing with grand lords and their ladies these days. A couple of you look mighty familiar. So who do you serve, my friend?”

  The other man stared, then shook his head. “My master’s my business, and I’m no man’s friend,” he growled. “I’m pissing tired, and there’s no bugger at this miserable inn to refill buckets nor help scrub down the bloody horses. What sort of place is this, then – to charge but not supply?”

  “But I reckon I know some of you, and your master too.” Alan shook his head. “You’ve been at the Chatwyn House stables, back outside London. So how come you’re suddenly too grand to carry a bucket out to the well? Or perhaps you’ve an arm too weak to carry it back once filled?”

  One of the other men grinned with a low chuckle as he settled the last horse into its stall. The first man scowled, flexing a fist. “Yes, I’ve seen you before. So you should know I’m no groom, nor bloody scullion to muck out some bandy old mare stinking of sweat.”

  Alan braced himself for attack before speaking. “Tis you stinking of sweat, my friend, and bandy as the mare, far as I can see. Fill your own bucket, for I’m no groom neither, and don’t work for you nor your master.”

  It was one of the other men who immediately stepped forwards, both fists raised. “Making friends again, Francis? Give the word and I’ll knock the bastard from one stall into the next.” But David was already behind him, and had grabbed the man’s arm before he could swing it, forcing his wrist up hard behind his back.

  “More complaints?” David murmured. “What an unfriendly band of brethren it seems we have here, Alan, to disturb our righteous rest.” He stared through the gloom. “And I know you too. You work for Sir Adrian Frye, if I recognise you correctly. Strange for a knight of the realm to employ such bad tempered servants.” The three other men looked around. David abruptly released the man he held who tumbled to his knees, rubbing his wrist and glowering. David shrugged.

  There was shuffling, indrawn breath, tempers rising. The horses, now abandoned half groomed, kicked, snorting and stamping, sensing unrest. One reared, knocking over the last full bucket. Water seeped into the straw. All five of the newcomers faced Alan and David. One also bunched his fists. “We ain’t no brainless horse scrubbers, not that it bothers me for I’ll do what’s needed in times of needing. Maybe you remembers our faces from the Chatwyn stables, but we’re fighting men, have been on important business and fighting were part of it, so watch you
r backs. One more word and I’ll surely take offence. You stupid buggers, be warned.”

  “Watch my back?” Alan snorted. “That’s the way of brave fighters now, is it? Too cautious to approach the front, then?”

  Which is when the first man swung his arm, full force from his shoulder, and aimed for Alan’s face.

  It was Harry who grabbed the arm from behind, twisting the man into a headlong tumble. Harry promptly banged the snarling man’s head hard to the ground, punched him once to the jaw and again to the belly, sat on him, and wound the stout rope he was carrying around the other’s flailing wrists, pinning them to his torso. “Louts and brawlers, is you then?” decided Harry with evident glee, pulling the rope tight. The prone man winced and grunted. “A lickle uncomfy, is it? Dear, dear, how awful sad. But then, tis proper unwise to go labelling yerselves as fighters, when yous no more than scufflers.”

  Alan already faced the others. “Come on then, my friends. Who’s first? And which one of you bastards knifed our little lad, then? A child who did no harm to you nor no one else, but ended up dead for the pleasure of seeing one of your ugly faces.”

  “I also recognise two of you,” David said, standing wide legged and ready beside Alan. “And you’ll recognise me from the same place, for I know exactly who your master is, and what you’ve been up to. So which of you was so brave to slaughter an innocent child?”

  The horses were now stamping and fretful, kicking hard, nostrils flared. Not only those six newly arrived, but those already settled into the hostelry stables now panicked. The earl’s horse, a huge destrier of uneven temper, had been standing placid, asleep, his head bowed. He woke with a grumble and a hiss, memories of battle training remembered as he heard men shouting. The beast reared with two thundering front hooves crashing against the side of his stall.

  Adrian’s four remaining henchmen rushed Alan and David, but Harry was back and in seconds had another man down with a hard boot point to his knees and another to his groin. David, his knife now pressed to his adversary’s throat, called to the descrier. “Calm yourself, Pallis. You know me. There’s no trouble. Go back to sleep.”

  Above the stalls the hay loft was stocked with bales, sacks of oats and turnips, and the pallets of the hostelry’s grooms. None now slept, but all covered their heads and kept flat down in the straw. The floor was half planked, then open to the stalls below. Rob jumped from above directly onto two of the newcomers. One hit his head on a rolling bucket, and, eyes glazed, slumped. The other fought back. Rob fisted him straight to the nose, his other fist to the eye. “Pit yerselves agin a backstreet fighter from London, would you?” Rob chuckled. “There’s no Nottingham bumpkin will get his knee to my cods.” The second man staggered and fell, eyes shut, mouth gaping, and was quiet.

  Within a few moments of energetic concentration, there were five heavyset men lying prone on the ground, straw in their ears, horse dung in their hair, arms and legs thick roped and quite unable to rise. One was unconscious, another bleeding from a broken nose, but the horses gradually quietened, returning to an amiable supper.

  David, Alan, Harry and Rob looked cheerfully down at their handiwork. David smiled slightly. “Though I seem to remember,” he said softly, “his lordship saying something about subtle questioning.”

  “Oh well,” Rob scratched his head. “No harm done. Least – maybe some harm to that bugger with the broken nose. But serves him right. The bastard tried to knife me. None too subtle, p’raps. But effective.”

  “His lordship won’t mind,” grinned Alan. “He’ll just be sorry he weren’t here to lend a hand.”

  His lordship was kissing his wife. The window shutters, raised and solid, kept the chamber enclosed in blackness and a whisper of warmth. But the bedcovers were thrown back and Emeline lay naked in the darkness, her arms wrapped tight around her husband’s waist. As he entered her hard, her hands clasped lower. Nicholas chuckled softly, tickling her ear. “You’ve an arse as soft and round as rolled velvet,” he told her. “I doubt mine gives the same satisfaction.”

  He was nuzzling the side of her face, the short evening pickles across his jaw scraping against her chin. She whispered, “I love your body, Nicholas. Long and lean and hard in some places and silky soft in others.”

  Wedging himself up a moment, he gazed down at her. “You surprise me, my love. I thought you still too timid to notice me one way or the other. Nor admit it if you did.”

  “I didn’t. But now I do.” The snuggled dark made the room feel smaller, more intimate, hiding the blushes and the shyness. “When you’re dressed all grand, I’m proud to walk beside you. When you’re undressed, it’s an even greater pride I feel.”

  He grinned. “So? Better dressed? Or undressed?”

  “I see other women looking at you, admiring, but that’s just when you’re dressed of course.” She felt her toes curl, and smiled at herself, daring to say what she had long thought. “And I like thinking I’m the only one who sees you undressed,” she whispered. “I am, aren’t I, my love? And when you make love to me, your eyes glitter. I love looking at you.”

  “Only looking?”

  “And touching.” Her fingers, tentative but explorative, traced over his buttocks and down to the back of his thighs. “So much muscle,” she murmured. “So much strength. I can feel the force and power of you, even here, where your skin is smooth. Rolled velvet wouldn’t look right on you at all.” She giggled, half smothered. “There’s the long slight swell, dipping in at the sides,” and her fingertips slid down across his back. “I like it because the muscles aren’t all knotty. Some men look as though their muscles are stuck on afterwards and don’t really belong to them. Yours are all lean under the skin. Almost glossy. You feel – polished.”

  He laughed, but it was husky as if his breath caught in his throat. “You have muscles I love too, little one, here, inside, where you close around me.” He rocked gently against her, easing himself deeper within. “You squeeze, and those muscles take me straight to paradise.”

  She was losing her own breath. “That’s just flattery. You exaggerate.”

  “No. Paradise indeed. Probably the only way I’ll ever get there.”

  “You take me places too – places I never imagined. And I like feeling all that strength, when you’re so gentle with me.”

  “If you only knew, my love, how tempted I am not to be gentle. Not gentle at all.” His own fingers edged between their swear damp bodies, pushing down to his own place of entry, teasing and probing. One fingertip pushed inside, forcing deeper, and she gulped. “Too much?” He smiled, removing his hand, caressing between her legs, up and behind to her own buttocks and the dividing crease. “But I promise to go on being gentle, little one. At least until we know each other a good deal better.”

  “And you like me touching you – here?”

  “Clasp my arse as tight as you like my sweetest and that pulls me tighter inside you,” he whispered, his voice now softer, sultry as he pressed both from behind and in front. “But talking of arses, it’s certainly yours I prefer. Round, pliable and dimpled. Now,” and he pushed once more and climaxed at once, sinking down against her with a groan. She sighed, arms tight around his back, squeezing once more as she felt him grow and pulse within her, and surrendered to her own mounting delight.

  After slow moments of gradually reclaiming breath, he rolled over, keeping her pressed against him, releasing her only from his weight as they then lay side by side. Then finally, slowly, he eased himself out from her and leaned over, resting her head against his shoulder as he kissed the top of her head. “Sleepy?”

  “Umm.”

  His fingers smoothed down from her neck to her breasts, across and around, embracing her in warmth. “Not cold, little one?”

  She paused, then whispered back, “I’m not cold. You feel like a furnace. I could forge horseshoes.” Another pause, then, “I couldn’t be – feverish, could I, Nicholas?”

  He said, “No more than I am, my love.” Then
paused, before speaking slow and soft. “There’s many thing bring pain in this sweet fresh world of ours. There’s a thousand diseases, and a thousand tortures from the bitter punishments of the law to the pangs of childbirth. But I’d choose all of them sooner than face the pestilence. That pustulating growth of bleeding agony that eats the body whole, and leaves only a breathing hell in an empty rotting carcass. After four days of that, death is the reward, not the punishment.” He turned to look down at her, although in the darkness he could see only the faint sheen of her eyes. Then he bent, pulling up the blankets which he wrapped around them both, tucking her in, swaddling her nakedness. “This sickness is not a thing you can mistake, little one, or be unsure. You have no contagion, no pestilence, no disease.” He kissed her cheek, and then, lightly, her mouth. “Now my sweet and healthy beloved, sleep with me and we’ll wake in ruddy welcome health tomorrow morning, ready to return downstairs together, and face my wretched cousin, my equally wretched father, my uncle, your mother, both sisters, and all the new day’s adventure, whatever that may be.” He chuckled softly. “And that may seem a pestilence of another kind.”

  She kissed his neck, which was where she was snuggled tight. “I like it when you call me beloved.”

  “Then sleep sweet, beloved,” he murmured. “And forget the fears of the past.”

  Chapter Fifty

  The Fox and Pheasant served a cold breakfast. The private parlour and its table were overcrowded, each squashed tight to his neighbour, and Avice sat, carefully quiet while her mother’s eyes, colder than those of the mackerel on her plate, warned her not to speak a word, even with Mistress Sysabel Frye’s right elbow digging hard into her ribs. Sysabel was equally subdued. She ate nothing, sipped her light ale, and kept her eyes on her empty platter. The baroness was wearing a new gown of rose pink sarcenet, trailing sleeves trimmed in crimson velvet, and the neckline, also trimmed, deeper than a respectable lady of her age was normally expected to wear.