The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “I see,” noticed Lady Wrotham, “that young Nicholas is absent.”

  “I expect, madam,” nodded the earl, “the boy is tending to his lady upstairs. I have no idea why a few chills and sniffles are keeping her apart from us for so long, but no doubt she’s better off avoiding the embarrassments of our recent sordid family affairs.”

  Adrian was not seated with the others. He stood in front of the empty hearth, his back to the table and its occupants, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared down at the cold shifting ashes. He spoke under his breath. “My dearly beloved cousin is no doubt once again pretending the hero by protecting his wife from murderous traitors.”

  “Actually,” grinned Jerrid, “he’s out at the stables, releasing your parcel of foolhardy henchmen, Adrian, since last night our men trussed yours up like piglets ready for the pot.”

  Adrian turned abruptly. “What? Attacked my men? How dare he?”

  “So far, never noticed much he wouldn’t dare,” smiled his uncle. As Adrian strode from the parlour, and just before he slammed the door behind him, Jerrid called, “But not so innocent, your men, Adrian. Since one of yours killed one of ours back on the road some days ago.”

  The earl looked up in surprise. “What’s this? More murder and mayhem?”

  “A long story, Symond.” Jerrid shook his head. “And a mean spirited one. Having taken that cursed letter from Urswick’s henchman, we were waiting around to finish the other half of our orders from the king, when the servant boy travelling with us was knifed and left dead in the tavern courtyard. As far as we can guess, it was because he’d recognised one of Adrian’s men from the Strand stables, and the bastard wouldn’t risk his identity passed on to others.”

  “Since the man was also involved in the treachery at hand?”

  “I believe so, my lady.” Jerrid answered the baroness, frowning. “The boy was simply a child and innocent of everything except recognising his attacker. It’s more than possible Adrian’s companions are working not for Adrian himself, but directly for the exile Tudor.”

  The earl stood, throwing his napkin to the table. “Then I shall investigate this business myself,” he announced. “I’ve my own outriders bedded in the long barn, six fine Leicestershire fellows ready to lay down their lives for me if needed.” He bowed slightly to the baroness. “If you’ll excuse me, my lady, I mean to get to the bottom of this.” He took a deep and laborious breath, and his stomach swelled. “Never,” he informed the table, “– never since my great grandfather’s time – has there been a traitor to the crown amongst the Chatwyns – and there won’t be now if I have to wring his scrawny neck to ensure it.”

  The Lady Elizabeth watched her brother leave, winced as the door slammed a second time, and sighed. “I never,” she decided faintly, “thought of young Adrian as having a scrawny neck.” She took a small slice of cold roast beef and began to cut it into tiny squares with her penknife. “I believe he has rather a thick and stubby neck. Don’t you think so, my dear?” Sysabel declined to answer and kept her glare rigid on her powder blue lap. Her aunt sighed. “As for bad temper and brawling, my maid Joan is upstairs darning the hem of my best cloak, but if I called her I imagine she could sort them all out in an instant. A very fierce young woman, is my Joan, when roused.” Once again she turned to Sysabel. “Isn’t she, my dear. Has a fine thwack when required.”

  Sysabel had begun to bite her finger where she had previously burned the nail, holding it within the candle flame. Now she was gnawing on the tip so it appeared raw and red. Avice turned and slapped her hand away. “You’ll make it bleed,” she hissed. “Chew something else.”

  Sysabel immediately burst into tears. “You’re all so – horrible,” she sobbed. “To me and my poor brother. I wish I’d never come.”

  “It’s nice to know we agree on something,” said Avice.

  “Quiet, both of you,” ordered Lady Wrotham. “There may be matters of some importance to deal with today, and I’ve not the slightest intention of missing any of it. You two children will be sent to bed if you don’t behave.”

  “I’m not a child,” Avice objected. “I’m old enough for – for being married.”

  Her mother sighed. “What a tempting thought.”

  “And I might be,” Avice retaliated, “if you arranged something honourable and bought me some nice new gowns so I’d look more – eligible.”

  “I’d marry you tomorrow, my dear,” Jerrid said, pushing back his stool and bowing low with impressive elegance. “With new clothes – or without them, my dear.”

  Avice seemed a little unsure as how to react to this, and the baroness quickly interrupted whatever she might have been about to say. “It is thoroughly improper to speak of marriage and such matters – especially at breakfast. You will keep silent from now on, Avice.”

  “Just not at breakfast? It would have been all right to say it at dinner?”

  Aunt Elizabeth nodded. “We are all family to be sure, and will take no offence. However,” she looked around, “the principal difficulty is that of young Adrian. What a bothersome letter that must have been. Though why Adrian should wish to wed with the Earl of Northumberland, I have no idea.”

  Sysabel was still crying into her napkin. Avice glowered. Jerrid was grinning for motives uncertain to anyone else. The baroness folded her napkin neatly, replaced it on the table, and stood. “I am going upstairs,” she said. “If anyone makes a sensible decision on any matter whatsoever during the next few hours, I should appreciate being informed. Otherwise, I shall remain in my chamber with Martha, who at least speaks some sense.” She glanced briefly at her daughter. “Marriage,” she said, “would do you a great deal of good, my girl. I shall begin negotiations immediately on my return home. Probably with a family of Scottish reivers, or perhaps a kindly warden from Newgate.”

  The stables were once again in uproar, and this time a group of sniggering grooms and the harassed hostelry landlord were looking on. Two other groups of men, intrigued by the noise and commotion, were watching from the cobbled courtyard, for both the Earl of Chatwyn’s six outriders and Baroness Wrotham’s four household guards had awoken to an eager awareness of the day’s probable entertainment. Old Bill, still nursing his aches and sneezes, was keeping well hidden in the straw of the stable’s half floored loft, peeping down without being seen, but several kitchen boys and the companions of an irate trader and his wife sent to arrange their immediate departure, were all hoping for a little drama before being ordered back to work. David, Alan, Harry and Rob grinned widely at their appreciative audience, having slept very well indeed, then waking to a pastel dawn of sweet balmy warmth and the anticipation of a promising rout.

  One by one, Adrian’s henchmen were untied. They had not spent a comfortable night.

  “So which one of you delightful gentlemen was it did the killing?” inquired Nicholas, leaning back against the main doorway, cup of beer in hand. “Is anyone courageous enough to confess? Or wise enough to implicate one of his fellows?”

  There was a great deal of general noise, groaning, cursing, complaints and threats, but no noticeable answer to his question. Finally Alan said, “So we should execute the lot of them, then, my lord? To be sure to get the right one?”

  “Or call in the law,” suggested David. “And have them all arrested? Hanged, castrated and quartered for high treason?”

  “I’m more for the do it ourselves execution idea, meself,” said Harry with jovial anticipation. “We could do it proper. There’s the stable block for mounting over there. Make a good rest for five pretty heads, it would, while I find the local woodcutter’s axe.”

  There was renewed spluttering and swearing. The hostelry landlord seemed as agitated as the men under threat. “My lord, I beg you. You’ll ruin me.”

  “Which would certainly be a shame,” Nicholas admitted, “since you serve excellent apple codlings. But the dead boy was under my protection, and his death isn’t something I intend overlooking.”
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br />   The landlord sighed and turned back to his staff, clapping his hands and ordering the kitchen boys to the kitchens and the grooms to their duties. The grooms, although reluctant to leave the discussion and miss its conclusion, began leading out the horses, some for exercise, some for grooming, two for the departure of their masters. Once the stables stood comparatively empty, David said, “It appears Sir Adrian is coming to watch his men’s ignominious destinies, my lord.”

  Nicholas turned, and smiled. Adrian marched towards him.

  “This is neither the place nor the moment,” Adrian said quietly, “to tell you what I think of you, sir. But you’ll release my men this instant. I’m leaving. We’ll talk in private back at the Strand.”

  Nicholas shook his head. “Might as well insult me here as there, cousin. I’m used to my family’s insults and since I know them all based on ignorance and coming from the ignorant, they matter not one shit. We’ve less privacy here, it’s true, but these good people already have a fair idea of what’s afoot, and deserve to know the consequences. So tell me what you think of me by all means. But you’re not leaving yet, cousin, and I might point out, you’re somewhat outnumbered.”

  “Outnumbered? Four bullies and your own brave self, Nicholas?”

  The earl spoke suddenly and loudly from behind him. “And my six men, lad, watching on now, just waiting for my word.”

  Adrian did not raise his voice. The fury in his face remained cold and the muscles around his eyes and mouth tensed, white knotted. His pale blue eyes turned black. He addressed only Nicholas. “Buffoon and coward that you are, spoiled and petted, born rich as a king without so much as a spit in the porridge to earn all that wealth! While I’ve had to struggle from birth with not a penny to my name, both parents dead and leaving me with a half brained sister to protect into the bargain. Yet I was the one knighted while you skulked behind your brother, a creature even more loathsome than yourself.” His words slid like seething, bubbling slime, long contained and now released. “I’ve held my temper for many long years,” he spat, “waiting to tell you the truth. Yet still you hide behind your henchmen and your father’s power. And you dare threaten me?” He raised his voice at last, speaking also to his uncle who stood at Nicholas’s back. “You’ve not one breath of proof against me – not one hint. As you’ve told me yourselves, you took the letter from Urswick long before I arrived to join his company. I’ll say I had no knowledge of it. Christopher Urswick was previously chaplain to Henry Tudor’s lady mother, and a man of distinction and respect and I’ve every right to speak to a man I’ve known some years as a man of God.” Adrian looked around then, speaking to all those who crammed close, attentive and listening. “There’s no treachery in knowing a man and as for the letter you’ve stolen, I’ve never seen it nor touched it. As for murder,” he turned back to Nicholas, “it was you who vilely slaughtered your own brother. I had no hand in it. You’re the cowardly killer, cousin, and you know it even if you’ve not the courage to admit it.”

  Even the crowd was silent, though with a shuffling of feet and indrawn breath. Nicholas spoke first. He had come armed, and his hand now rested on the hilt of his sword. But he was smiling. “Long held hatreds long disguised, it seems, cousin,” he said softly. “So your endless complacent pomposity hid bubbling envy, and the well nurtured jealousy of the inept. A bitter destiny perhaps, as son of the youngest son, your father a drunken sot who left his children penniless and bare educated. But the fault’s not mine, Adrian, for you to nurse such seething jealousies. Killing Peter – a coward’s act from someone who likes to shout that word at others. As for treason, I know the truth whether or not I can prove it. So fight me, cousin, and prove your talents and your courage now.”

  Adrian threw out both arms. He was clearly unarmed. “You rape my sister. Murder your brother. So now kill me too, Nicholas.”

  Nicholas spoke over his shoulder. “Give him your sword, Father.”

  “My boy, this is hardly the way –.” But the earl unbuckled the scabbard from his baldric and with two steps towards Adrian, presented the sword’s hilt. “Your choice, nephew,” he told him. “But don’t be a fool and leave the matter to the law.” He nodded to Nicholas. “You’ve a deal of right on your side, boy, and I don’t doubt your motives. But don’t kill him.”

  Adrian took the sword from his uncle’s clasp and held it, point high so the steel caught the wavering sunbeams. He scoffed, “Kill him? Who? Your idiot son kill a man knighted on the battlefield for his courage and his skills?”

  “Not such a bad swordsman, my Nicholas,” muttered the earl, looking around him. “Maybe not always said it myself, and maybe should have. But young Nick’s always been the best archer and the best swordsman in the family. But beware, both of you, for we’ll have the sheriff, and half the countryside down on us within minutes. ‘Tis not the place, boy.”

  “I’ll avenge my king, my own reputation, and my brother’s life,” Nicholas said, drawing his own sword. “And to hell with the law and the countryside both.” He looked back briefly at his father and his cluster of henchmen. “No interruptions, no interference, no defending heroics. Leave this to me.

  Some of the horses, led out for grooming, were coming back. The young grooms halted, watching, not willing to pass. The landlord, shepherding the scullions, had already hurried from the courtyard. A horse neighed, another snorted. Then Adrian stepped forwards. ‘Beware – fool. You’ve never yet seen my unbridled temper.”

  Nicholas’s voice remained even but the smile had faded. “Surprisingly, perhaps, since you claim to believe so much against me,” he said, “But now I am more than a little angry myself.”

  There were other footsteps, somebody pushing through the crowd. Jerrod called out, “He’s not worth it, boy. Leave it be, or you’ll end up taking the blame yourself.”

  “I invariably do,” said Nicholas, and sidestepped with sudden speed. Adrian’s sword swung straight, aiming into unexpected empty air. Nicholas, now behind, took him at once around the neck with one arm, muscles straining through the fine linen of his shirt sleeve. His sword countered Adrian’s, clash to clash and flashing sparks of reflected sunlight. Nicholas forced his cousins head back and hissed directly into Adrian’s ear, his spit on Adrian’s cheek. “I could kill you now. Just one little thrust. But I want a better fight than this. Show me what you can do, cousin.” And he released him at once, hurling him sideways.

  Adrian stumbled, righted himself, and tightened his clasp on the hilt of his uncle’s sword. He turned, spinning back to face Nicholas. “Bastard. Trickster.”

  Nicholas laughed. “Come show your cowardly cousin how to fight with honour, then.” He bowed, then danced backwards. “Though if you want a straightforward face to face slash and batter, you’ll be dead at my first blow. And remember, I’m also the younger son, or was until you murdered my brother. And I’d have had a little sister to protect, if the plagues of hell hadn’t stolen her from me. Few men grow old without some share of misery. So show me your pathetic grievances, and play the hero, sir knight.”

  Adrian rushed him. He grappled Nicholas one handed, bringing the point of his sword straight to his cousin’s chest. But Nicholas forced it down with his own steel, relentlessly inch by inch down across his thigh. Then he twisted his leg behind Adrian’s unbalancing him, so Adrian’s sword sliced first down his own leg, then rebounded. The blade scraped Nicholas’s thigh, springing loose threads down his hose and a light graze against the flesh. Adrian’s leg was deeply wounded and when he righted himself again, he found Nicholas’s sword point pressed to his throat, and a long knife point to his groin. Adrian yelled, “Killer. Tell your father this is what you did to your brother.”

  “So easily infuriated, cousin?” Nicholas laughed, again releasing him with a quick shove backwards. “A few children’s insults, and you lose all control and fight like a blacksmith’s apprentice. So now face me square, and prove your skills.”

  Wide legged, sword raised, Nicholas waited.
Adrian limped, adjusted, and stood four steps off, watching carefully. He raised his sword. Nicholas began to turn his blade, twisting it to swing in the sparkling sunlight. It thrummed faintly, cutting the breezes. Adrian’s hand was trembling, the palm badly sliced. His leg poured blood, his throat bleeding from one small round cut. Nicholas’s thigh was bleeding also, a thin trickle soaking into the wool of his hose. As he swung his sword right handed, he kept a grip on the knife in his left.

  Then one of the horses bolted. Flinging up its head, ripping the reins from the small groom’s loosened clutch, it snickered in alarm and made straight for the fence. The crowd parted, the groom squeaked and ran after. The other beasts began to mill, champing and fretting, twisting, turning, unsure. Two grooms grabbed, two horses reared, one kicked out and David moved aside, catching it by the tail. The horse pulled back and kicked, teeth bared. The earl yelled, “Watch out, Nick m’boy.” Another horse reared and a stable boy fell, half trampled. The noise mounted, whinnying and spitting, shouting and frightened cries from the boys. The crowd half dispersed, some running forwards, yelling advice and pulling the boys from harm. A stall’s planks cracked and split with splinters and another squealing horse.

  Nicholas dodged. One heaving belly, black and bulging, wedged between himself and Adrian. Adrian looked around, desperate. “Run, then,” Nicholas called, “It’s your best chance.” He raised his sword again, point it towards the oak tree and the path leading back into the hills. “Run,” he laughed again. “As all traitors and murderers do.”

  The horses were frantic, avoiding capture. The stable boys were grabbing at manes, flying reins and the panicked flick of plaited tails. Nicholas ran past one, again facing Adrian. He grinned, and brought his sword hard down, its edge to a fallen and rolling wooden bucket. The bucket split immediately in two shuddering parts. Nicholas laughed. “Your skull next time, cousin? This sword can split a body in two, or cut through both legs with one stroke. What part would you choose, I wonder? Knees? Shoulder? Head? Shall I make two of you, cousin?”