The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Adrian shouted back, “Madman. Mad as your mad father.” But he was panting, the words disjointed and breathless.

  Harry was flat on his back, kicked by a horse, blood pouring from his chin and nose. Rob dragged him into one of the stalls, away from flying hooves. Alan and David were rounding up as many of the beasts as they could, dodging, advising, ordering the stable boys into moving lines to block the horses’ escape. Jerrid, back amongst the crowd, was reassuring the landlord and two of the patrons. “Just a little misunderstanding,” he said, wide and earnest blue eyed. “Conflicting loyalties, you know. Nobles of the land – never easy to talk out of some crusade or another.”

  The earl stood central, staring, red faced. He seemed stunned. Gradually the horses calmed, one by one led back to their stalls. David filled two buckets at the well and hauled them back to the trembling, thirsty animals, speaking softly, soothing them.

  Adrian’s five men had entirely disappeared along with their horses. Nicholas watched the last shadow streak beneath the low branches of the distant oak tree. When he looked back, Adrian had gone as well.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Petronella combed her mistress’s hair. “Very tangled, m’lady,” she said with a sniff of disapproval.

  “Honestly Nellie,” Emeline objected, “sometimes you’re worse than my mother. There’s been nothing but sweaty travel and horrid little taverns for weeks and then the most awful danger. My husband’s badly wounded, I’ve been terrified that I might have caught the pestilence and I’ve been shut away up here for four days without a bath, and you just think I should have done nothing but comb my hair?”

  Petronella apologised with a faintly martyred sigh, and Martha looked up. She was brushing down Emeline’s best gown with Fuller’s Earth, and a small damp brush to the mud around the hem. Martha frowned. “The proper care of a young lady’s appearance is never of minor importance, as I’ve taught you for years, Emeline. And his lordship has no more than a slight graze to the thigh. I doubt he’d be pleased to hear you call him badly wounded.”

  Nicholas was, in fact, thoroughly enjoying the compensations of the wounded, with best Burgundy and hot baked honey cakes served in the parlour downstairs. His father regarded him with unusual hesitancy. “You did well, my boy. Showed some skill – at least – bested that foolish cousin of yours, but luckily didn’t kill him.”

  “I’d no intention of killing him,” Nicholas waved an impatient hand. “I expected him to run. It’s the easiest solution for all of us. Dragging him off to the sheriff and seeing him manacled in the Tower dungeons would be a huge exaggeration at this stage. High treason? Well, perhaps. Tudor’s letter puts both him and Northumberland under suspicion, but it was no battle cry. It’s Peter’s murder which concerns me more.”

  A pause. “Did he? Can we be sure?” The earl drank quickly, choosing his words with unexpected care. “I’ve learned a good deal about you in these past two days, my boy, and I admit I’ve misjudged you. But I’ll listen to no criticism of Peter. I didn’t when he lived and I surely won’t now he’s gone. Now, as for his murderer?”

  “I believe it was Adrian. But believing isn’t knowing. I don’t know. I can’t know. Adrian denied it adamantly enough.”

  “And blamed you instead.”

  Nicholas shrugged. “An easy accusation for a guilty man. Perhaps even a genuine belief from an innocent one. But the sheriffs have been involved in both Peter’s and my father-in-law’s killings for some time now, and have no better answers than we do.”

  The earl sighed. “Adrian then.”

  Nicholas sat up, drained his cup and refilled it. “He can’t run far. But even if he eventually returns home, what can we do? What can we prove?” He slumped again, lounging back against the rough plastered wall behind the bench. “But he’s a man I never puzzled over, never understood, barely even saw before. I was never much interested and thought him dull.” Nicholas smiled. “He’s not dull after all. He’s a mess of tidal rages, seething fury and bitter envy. All that disguised hatred bubbling beneath a dull veneer. Has he been working against us in secret for years, perhaps?”

  “Turned traitor against the king, purely to spite us profligate and idle relatives, you mean?” Jerrid had wandered into the parlour, having smelled out the best Burgundy. “Where’s the cups, Symond? I’ve been out talking to the men, and I’m parched.”

  The earl snorted and passed his brother a cup. “We were discussing young Adrian. Motives. But no proof.”

  Jerrid shook his head. “I’ll not be killing my own nephew – but someone should. The boy’s a menace. His father was a lout, for all he was my brother. And the mother was an ice cold wind. She cried three times a day every day – though perhaps with a husband like Edmund, she had good cause. As for the boy and all this well-nourished envy, well, we’re a wealthy family yet Adrian remains damn near penniless. Not that I consider myself a rich man, but I’ve more than he has. Did he hope to kill off Peter and then young Nick, and end up as the Chatwyn heir?”

  “That’s one of the possibilities.”

  “So where does that miscreant Tudor come into the picture? Trying to call himself the Lancastrian claimant to the throne, when he’s as much royal blood as the hedgehog I used to play with as a boy in the castle grounds.”

  “Quiet little thing. But prickly.”

  Nicholas regarded his father and uncle with slight confusion. “Henry Tudor? Or the hedgehog?”

  “Well, probably both,” decided Jerrid. “But what has any of it to do with Adrian?”

  “I imagine,” Nicholas said, “that Adrian started taking an interest in the Tudor claims for the same reason a few others have. Adrian’s a nobody with no hope. But bring in a new regime and new pathways might open, a new king, a usurper with small backing, needs new allies. Adrian could set himself up as a Beaufort loyalist and look for advancement, a title and a position at court.”

  “And spit in the face of the loyal York Chatwyns, whom he’s loathed in secret for long gloomy years. A new royal line would likely frown at past loyalists who’d supported the previous dynasty. So Adrian could advance himself and stab us in the back at the same time. What better ambition?” Nicholas frowned. “Says he suspected me of ravishing his sister but never accused me. Well, it was safer to keep quiet of course since he couldn’t be sure and didn’t want to risk shaming Sissy if he turned out to be wrong. But by turning traitor and ushering in a Tudor dynasty, he’d revenge himself on all of us, whatever our guilt.”

  “Or he knew it was Peter which is why he killed him. Now he accuses you for simple spite.”

  The earl finished the last of the wine jug. “So we do nothing. With this threat, this treachery looming? We wait?”

  “I don’t mind waiting, but not here. I’ve had enough of this tavern,” Nicholas shrugged. “Now Emma’s over her – chill. So I’m back to Westminster and then to Leicestershire. I don’t expect any of you to accompany me. That’s your choice. I’ve backers and men of my own.”

  “Seems true enough, Nick, my boy. A trusty handful of men, as long as you do trust them of course.”

  Nicholas nodded. “To the death, Father. David’s my squire of course, been with me half my life and has saved it for me more than once. You know him anyway, since he’s been at the castle for years. So has Alan – nearly as long – nearly as bright – just as trustworthy. They’ve both accompanied me on various jobs for the king. Harry and Rob are later recruits, brawlers from the London tenements, both with the courage of a badger and the determination of a kestrel.” His left thigh, heavily bandaged beneath torn woollen hose, was stretched below the table. The pain was minor and he ignored it. “And tomorrow I intend taking my men and my wife back to the Strand, and this absurd injury won’t stop me riding.” He looked to his father. “Apart from anything else, I’ve a letter to deliver to his highness. So will you travel with us, sir?”

  They left on the morrow at dawn, a cavalcade including his lordship the Earl of Chatwyn and his
clinking and dazzling entourage. The earl, his great destrier brightly caparisoned, rode at the head of the central body. A few paces behind, Nicholas rode beside his wife. Her ladyship Baroness Wrotham and her younger daughter Avice rode a little further in the rear, both in silence having decided that conversation was useless while reconsidering their particular grievances. The Lady Elizabeth Chatwyn travelled in the large covered litter, accompanied by her maid Joan, and the Wrotham nurse Martha. This lumbered and swayed, flanked by two men at arms and followed by the cart carrying a good deal of the ladies’ personal baggage and also the other maids, driven by old Bill who disguised his sneezes on the sleeve of his tunic. Three other carts were piled with luggage and travelled slow. Trunks, coffers and parcels bounced at each rut in the road. Mistress Sysabel Frye, silent and subdued, rode directly behind the baroness, keeping pace while avoiding bringing her mount alongside. Leading the cavalcade and ensuring free passage and a clear way ahead, were the Wrotham guards and two of the Chatwyn beaters, bright liveried and well-armed. Behind, with jangling grandeur, rode the remaining Chatwyn outriders, Harry and Rob Bambrigg who were arguing loudly with each other, Jerrid Chatwyn who was in conversation with the squire David Witton, and Alan Venter who kept back, but had one eye constantly on his master.

  Streaming feathers, veils, and banners, the rattle of wheels and the squeak of leather, the splash of plumes and metal harness, the procession trailed for near on a quarter mile along the narrow country lanes with no pretence at speed and far more for comfort. It was a warm and sunny day with bright leafy trees sporting their spring growth above and to either side, and dewy spangles catching the sunshine from every cobweb and busily filled birds’ nest. The breeze was gentle and just enough to lift the litter’s canopy and flutter the ladies’ little white headdresses and the gentlemen’s proud feathers.

  With the fine weather and the approach to summer, the roads were dry, the ruts worn deep and solid, the crossings of streams little more than a splash through a pebbled trickle, and even the rivers were easily forded. The carts lost no wheels, the horses kept their shoes, and the riders, little concerned for proprieties and status, stopped at the easiest reached of the wayside inns, and made no effort to save time. It was therefore quite some days before they arrived at their destination. The Lady Elizabeth stated that she would never again travel by litter or indeed by any other means but the rest of the party felt that the journey had been easier than most.

  Sir Adrian Frye was not present and nor was he seen. His sister took care not to mention him and kept her conversation at all times polite and without substance. She said, “Yes please, aunt.” Or “No, thank you, Uncle.” She took bread, beef and dumplings on her platter at mealtimes and no one, therefore, noticed that she had entirely stopped eating.

  The Strand House was accustomed to bustle and grand guests arriving with little warning, but they were unprepared for the family procession which arrived on the first day of June, announced only one day previously by two galloping household outriders. Uproar followed.

  By the time their lordships arrived, it was calm again, beds were tucked, clean linen laid, and the kitchens were steaming with every spit turning and every cauldron set to simmer. But Nicholas only strayed long enough to change his clothes, order his hunter brought out from the stables, and then, accompanied by his uncle and three of his henchmen, rode straight for the palace at Westminster. The precious letter he carried was safe in a leather pouch strapped inside his doublet.

  He was back within the hour.

  Emeline said, “A month’s travel, a child killed, discovering the treason of your own cousin, endless danger, fighting, disease, and a mire of expense – and what for? A ten minute audience with the king.”

  Nicholas grinned. “I didn’t see the king. This is the eve of Corpus Christi and his highness is now on his way to Kenilworth. I saw Kendall.”

  “Well,” she smiled, “you look good enough – for kings. It’s a long time since I’ve seen you so grand.” His sleeves swept the floorboards in great folds of cerise damask fully lined in black velvet, the edges trimmed in marten. The under sleeves, cut in three places with black silk, were saffron and the tight wrists then flared into cerise damask cuffs. His doublet, saffron brocade and laced in gold over a fine white linen shirt, was tight belted and stopped with a peplum so short it displayed the full length of his legs. Since Emeline was wearing her oldest gown and a posset stained apron, she felt a little out classed, and sighed. “I suppose,” she said, “you have turned every female head in Westminster.”

  “I wouldn’t have noticed.” He was still grinning. “Actually, I was thinking of taking it all off. I want a bath.”

  “Two baths? In one day?”

  “This one,” he said, stripping off his riding gloves, “I intend taking with you.”

  “I don’t remember you having a tub big enough for both of us.”

  “So I wash you first, and you wash me afterwards.”

  Half stripped, he bathed her with great intimacy, standing beside the well filled tub with his shirt sleeves rolled up, the suds frothing around his fingers and the steam turning to condensation against his forehead. He used a large sea sponge and perfumed Spanish soap. Briar rose, not lavender, as he pointed out. She laughed, lifting each foot as he commanded her. The bath was custom made instead of the half barrels she was accustomed to, and lined in softest linen with a padded cushion for her head. “Lean back,” he told her, “and move as I tell you, lift as I tell you, and obey me as I direct you.”

  She stretched one leg clear of the heat, flexing her ankle and pointing her toes as ordered. “In everything?”

  “In everything. Naturally.”

  She smiled and closed her eyes, soap bubbles on her eyelashes. The heat was sensuous and the fingertip caresses delicious, and she giggled as he massaged, pretending to wash. But his hands were firm as he scrubbed, dissolving the tiredness of difficult days past.

  As she climbed from the tub, he lifted her and wrapped her in heated towels, drying her briskly between her toes, her thighs, between her legs, her belly, her breasts and beneath, then finally her hair, now a damp tousle around warm pink cheeks and sparkling brown eyes.

  “And now,” he told her, “you wash me.”

  The water still steamed, the soapy bubbles floating like lilies on a pond. Nicholas pulled his shirt off over his head, tugged down his hose and stepped naked into the bath. “So, obedient still, my love?” He sat and presented her with the sponge. “Or shall I obey you?”

  Emeline washed slowly across his belly where the dark hair lay in a central line towards the groin. Over the strong bones of his hips to his thighs, and down to the muscles of his calves, then back again to his groin. When she brushed the sponge upwards once more to his ribs, he clasped her hands, and brought them back.

  “Will you not wash me there?” he murmured. She bit her lip. So he brought her hand between his legs, the water pouring over him. He cupped her fingers beneath his scrotum, whispering, “Is this so strange to you, little one? We’ve made love often enough. You know how I’m made.” Blushing, she used her fingers as he instructed, and explored, touching more firmly and washing each secret place, feeling how he grew larger and harder beneath her explorations. Then finally he climbed from the water and pulled her down onto the rug, both naked, both damp, and lay there a moment, staring at each other with the sinking light from the window catching the bright blue of his eyes and the softer brown of hers.

  He kissed her nipples and stroked the swell of her breasts. She clung to his upper arms where she could feel every discovery of his hands, his fingers teasing between her legs as her hands sensing every twist and pull of his muscles. She smiled and said, “You still have streams of water and soap suds on your face. It’s as if you’ve painted yourself, like children do sometimes, pretending to be demons or dragons.”

  Nicholas laughed and wiped across his own forehead, taking a thick smear of soap foam on his fingertip. He began to pa
int a thin warm line around each of her nipples so they seemed huge, and erect, and dark. Then, fingertip to her belly and downwards, he painted an arrow, leading deep between her legs. Playing, fingering and discovering, and smiling as she gasped and clung to him. Then, quite suddenly he rolled on top of her and pushed inside. As he entered her, hard and fast and deep, their wet bodies together like a slap, and stuck tight as he moved even further into her. She kissed him, pushing her tongue between his teeth, surprising him, tasting the smooth width of his tongue and the heat of his throat. Then she had no breath remaining for anything, and simply clung, panting fast.

  “When we get back to the castle,” he whispered to her, “I’ll make love to you on the battlements. There’ll just be the sky above us and the rolling clouds.” He kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, and both her eyes. “Once during the day, with the sun making your body gleam,” he said, “and then at night in moonlight, with the stars reflecting across your breasts.”

  She whispered back, “Will the castle be repaired, then, Nicholas my love? Can we live there?”

  He nodded, his words muffled now against her belly where he laid his head, murmuring to the curls at her groin. “Then,” he said, “I’m going to make love to you in the forests beyond the moat, with the smells of good green summer growth, and the damp loam and the dry bark and the seeds all pushing up to search for the sunshine and the rain. I’m going to make love to you all day amongst the daisies until the moon comes up, and on through the night until you’re too tired even to beg me to carry you back to bed. I shall roll you naked on the grass, and watch you gasp. And finally I’ll carry you home and make love to you all over again.”