The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

“I hadn’t realised before just how much your Aunt Elizabeth secretly dislikes the poor little thing.” Emeline took a deep breath. “Should we bring Sissy to live at the castle, Nicholas?”

  “She’d not thank us.” Nicholas sighed. “She blames me for Adrian’s death. A little unjust, but understandable for all that. And she can’t look us in the eye now we know about Peter and the abortion. Besides,” he shook his head, “she’s still convinced I murdered the sainted Peter and ruined her life.”

  “Find her a husband then. Avice is hoping for romance too.”

  Nicholas grinned again. “Is a husband such a tempting prospect? And I hear Elizabeth, the eldest of the old king’s girls, is near to tears fearing the negotiations for her alliance with the Portuguese prince will be put on hold while there’s the risk of that miserable traitor Tudor about to cause trouble. The girl wants out of England and into sunnier palaces.”

  “You mean Edward IV’s daughter? But she was declared illegitimate. And I didn’t know you knew her.”

  “I don’t.” Nicholas stretched, half yawning. “But I know one of her sisters. When I was at court delivering that damned letter, Cecily assured me that Elizabeth wants both a man in her bed and an escape from England’s miserable strictures. The Portuguese don’t care she’s illegitimate for she’s a king’s daughter, as pretty as a swan, and comes with a huge dower. More importantly, she means a powerful alliance between the two countries, since our king will marry their princess Joanna at the same time. It’s a done deal once peace is ensured.”

  “We all dream of romance.”

  Nicholas leaned back again against the propped pillows. “You and I, we’ve been lucky, my dear, for we originally thought ourselves cursed. Most men are simply after a rich wife. They spend all their time away from home and when they’re forced into their wife’s company, they either tumble her into bed or beat her for being a fool.”

  “So she must be a fool to believe in romance?”

  Nicholas grinned. “Our king was a good husband, I believe, before Queen Anne died. He was devastated, you know, especially after losing his son the year before. But before Richard, King Edward spent no more than a faithful month in his entire life.” Nicholas shook his head and laughed. “So much for romance.”

  “For a man who tells me he loves me,” Emeline mumbled, looking down at her toes, “You’re very pessimistic, my love. But you’ll find a nice man, won’t you, for Avice? She’s such a sweet and trusting little thing, and is so hopeful.”

  She had seated herself on the side of the bed where the rumpled covers were thrown back a little in acknowledgement of the warm afternoon. Nicholas reached out and clasped her hand. “I’ve a couple of decent men in mind. Avice has a dower to attract half the kingdom, making her suddenly as beautiful as a princess.”

  “Maman will want to supervise the final choice. But,” Emeline remembered, “Avice has some very odd ideas about Maman.”

  “Avice has some odd ideas about everything. I shall buy her a blue velvet cloak lined in sable and trimmed in gold thread. She’ll be happy for evermore.”

  Emeline shook her head. “But poor Sissy says she’ll never be happy again.”

  The sun through the half closed shutters was in his eyes. “I’ll find her a good man, and eventually she’ll love her children. In the meantime, my sweet, we’ll be back at Chatwyn, and awaiting our own first child.”

  Emeline whispered, “And will you truly love me after that then, Nicholas.”

  He looked down at her, leant, and kissed her forehead. “Oh, my love. Listen to me.” She peeped up, his breath warm across her eyes. His face was creased into pale lines of pain, tiredness and concern, but his bright blue eyes were earnest with care and sincerity. Then he smiled, and much of the pain seemed to fade. “I can’t kiss you properly,” he murmured, “or my bandages will blind you and I’ll drip blood onto your very small nose. I can’t caress you, for I have two fingers less for the task, and those that remain are as numb as a frozen trout. I certainly cannot make love to you, for I’ve a knee that won’t bend or hold me up, I can’t walk and I’m as dizzy as an impotent drunkard. So sadly I just lie here like a useless slug, bemoaning my fate.” But he grinned, belying his own words. Then he gave the lie further, leaned down and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “But I swear to this, my beloved. I have learned to adore you, to treasure you, respect and admire you. You have saved my life both with your kindness, and with your courage. But more importantly, you’ve saved my life by being my wife, and by loving me when few others do.”

  Emeline blinked away sudden tears. “Oh, Nicholas.”

  “You’ve no idea,” he continued softly, “how much I missed you on that last mad ride down to the south coast.”

  “Oh, Nicholas my love,” Emeline repeated, clutching at his unbandaged hand and entwining her fingers with his. “It is wonderful – just glorious – to hear you say such things. But however much you missed me, my dearest, can have no comparison – none whatsoever – to how much I missed you.”

  “There is a poker, I believe,” he told her, the smile lighting his eyes, “over there by the hearth, for I remember one of the pages poking at the fire before you turned up and I sent them all away. And I certainly remember how dangerous you can be with a poker in your hand. So arm yourself, my sweet, and we can battle over who missed who the most.”

  “I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep,” she insisted.

  “A lie.” Nicholas shook his head and the bandage slipped. “I have never known your appetite to diminish for any reason, and you sleep like a child in its crib, muttering in your dreams every might. I refuse to believe that even total misery could make any difference.”

  “Oh Nicholas,” Emeline smiled through her tears. “I always dream of you.”

  Mistress Sysabel Frye lay very straight on the bed, her back flat to the feather mattress, her arms crossed over her breasts, her eyes closed. It was how she had last seen her brother. Gazing at him in the open lead lined coffin, she had wanted to lean over and kiss his cheek, but had been afraid, and done nothing. She had been crying for a long time.

  Sysabel wondered if Adrian had ever known what she truly thought of him, and how she had never admired him as much as he surely deserved. She then wondered about her parents, whom she could barely remember, but hoped had loved her. She wondered about her own unborn and massacred baby, a little girl she had secretly called Sara, but which had never been baptised, nor had lived to know that her mother missed her. She wondered whether an unbaptised child would wander forever in Purgatory, as the priests had once told her. She wondered if she would ever have other children, and be free to love them as a mother should. But, since it would be the hated Nicholas and Uncle Symond who would find her a husband, she wondered if they would purposefully find her a vile man who would beat her and bring her more misery and no joy.

  Most of all she wondered about Peter, and what life would have been like had they married, brought up little Sara as a Chatwyn beauty, inherited the grand castle and shared the joy that she now knew she would never know.

  The tears which she had wept for many days continued to streak across her face, dampening her pillows and making her nauseas. So she wondered whether, once she was able to stop weeping, she might have the courage to murder Nicholas, and send him unshriven to join the brother he had wronged, and the cousin he had deserted.

  But she knew, as she lay very still and stared into the back of her eyelids, that she would never have the courage. Not even to kill herself.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  The castle’s stark granite, aged plaster, old oak and wide moat welcomed home its masters. No stench of fire, smoke or ashes hung in its winding passages or spoiled the new clean lime wash. Repairs blended, though less invisible perhaps where bright brick now jutted against the original grandeur of limestone, buttresses were pristine hewn, glass shone sunshine bright as new oriel windows jutted far larger than the tiny unglazed insets of before, and doors were fre
sh built and brass hinged. The household was waiting beneath the portcullis, excited, giggling and nudging one to the other, watching Lord Nicholas and his young wife come riding home, their entourage dazzling behind them.

  Half a mile of baggage, servants and mounted guards with trumpets and banners trailed through the Leicestershire villages to the cheerful interest of the villagers. Sunbeams sought out the glint of bridle and spurs. Harry, Rob and Alan rode in the train, not as part of the armed guard but as retainers, their weapons tucked beneath their capes.

  David Witton had remained behind, taken into Jerrid’s service, although only while his lordship completed his recovery. “It will only be for a week or two,” Nicholas told him. “But for now my uncle has need of a man he can trust.”

  “And you do not, my lord? Forgive me, but you still cannot walk unaided, and they say there may soon be war. There’s talk of a French invasion, and I’ve heard that his highness already expects it.”

  “Expects it and has denounced Tudor as the traitor that he is,” Alan Venter interjected. “Though most folk dismiss the danger as too small to worry over.”

  Harry, heel out of his hose, was hopping from stable to stall, collecting his belongings for the journey. Rob, seated on an upturned barrel, regarded his brother. “War? Who’s worrying? We’s ready. I never fought in them battles at Tewkesbury and thereabouts. I’ll be keen to show my metal, my lord, and so will Harry.”

  Nicholas leaned on the crutch he still used. “There’ll be fighting of some sort if the French have anything to do with it. They’re holding Dorset hostage and there’s clearly a reason for that.”

  “Payment will be the satisfaction of seeing England in disarray,” muttered David.

  “Who fears the flagging hopes of a few miserable traitors? Alan insisted. “And how many will follow? Five Welsh dreamers? Six vengeful reivers from the Scottish borders? Seven fools who’ve angered our king, so think they’ll do better under another?”

  Nicholas said quietly, “Northumberland perhaps, since it’s to him that Tudor writes and asks to marry one of his wife’s wealthy sisters?”

  “And how about my Lord Stanley,” muttered David, “who is wed already to Tudor’s mother? And Stanley’s wretched brother, who has never kept to the same side in any battle as he began it, lest he changes twice.”

  Nicholas began to limp back to the house, and even with the use of the crutch, dragged one leg and was unable to stand on the other. The bandage over his forehead had been finally discarded but the scar remained livid while his hand was still thickly protected. “I’ve no desire for war,” he said. “And doubt I could even prove my loyalty if an invasion came. It will be months before I could ride to battle. Any call to arms before winter, and I’d be forced to sit at home like an old woman. With one hand cocooned and a damned great hole in my knee? I can hardly ride, let alone fight. Jerrid too. He’s worse wounded than I am and has been ordered back to bed rest for the third time with enough fever to stew pottage. At least I can hobble around and make my wishes known.”

  “So I shall stay with his lordship, as you ask me,” David nodded. “But if war comes indeed, sir, I ask to join it, and to answer the call in your place. Aiming to earn your pride if you cannot join the battle yourself, my lord.”

  “Enough battle talk.” Nicholas turned again and, leaning on the stout wooden crutch, continued to limp back to the house. He called over his shoulder. “Only a week or two, David, then I’ll send for you. In the meantime, tell my uncle he’s lucky I’ve not sent him Hectic Harry instead.”

  Emeline was waiting for him outside the principal doorway beyond the stable courtyard. “Sissy is sitting upstairs clutching her parcels. She’s sulking because she doesn’t want to make the first half of her journey in our company. But Aunt Elizabeth seems happy to get back to Nottingham, and has started dreaming of weddings.”

  “For herself?” Nicholas laughed.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me. I think my mother is secretly wondering about a second marriage too. Though she also says the best chance any woman has to make her own decisions and rule her own destiny, is when she’s a widow,”

  “A rich widow. Though I cannot imagine your mother ever allowing anyone else ruling her fortunes from now on, married or otherwise” His smile widened. “And you know, I presume, my love, that you take after your mother. And that’s no bad thing at all.”

  “I shall miss her. And Avice too. I hope they’ll visit often though Wrotham is so far away. But,” admitted Emeline, “I hope Sissy doesn’t. I feel terribly sorry for her, and she’ll be lonely without Adrian. But much as I love you, Nicholas, your family is rather a difficult matter. And I know it’s shocking of me to say so, but I also hope your father doesn’t come home too often either.”

  “He won’t.” Nicholas put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and led her inside. “He’s no reason to leave court now, especially since he’s discovered what he thought was scandal against the Chatwyn name is actually Chatwyn pride and royal favour. Besides,” Nicholas added softly, “he’ll never learn to like me, you know. It no longer concerns me since I’m well accustomed to it. Peter will always remain the grand favourite, and now cannot ever grow to disappoint. So just poor Nick, scarred and foolish, is left to carry the name.”

  “I think I hate your father.”

  He leaned down and kissed her. “He’s a poor sad creature, my love, pickled in wine and with all hope of a proud future lost. You should pity him.”

  The journey had been slow with tiring days in the saddle but wayside inns bright lit each night, relieved calls for the ostlers, easing aching backs with hot spiced hippocras and laughing at chickens underfoot in the straw strewn courtyards, boys rushing to stable the horses, the landlord hurrying out with smiles, trays of raisin cakes and steaming jugs of wine, Nicholas taking his wife in his arms and hustling her across the cobbles, late evenings talking and drinking over the supper table and then warm beds shared in comfort until the next morning dawned rosy, cockerels crowing outside the windows and the whole procedure starting all over again.

  Now at last the castle beckoned. There were new born fluff ball ducklings on the moat, and a pair of scrubby cygnets keeping a watery pace behind their elegant parents. The herb gardens were flushed in emerald and the clambering briar roses were a fresh scramble of thorny perfumes. The gaping mouths of the stone gargoyles were toasted warm in the sunshine and polished glass spun green tinged promises across cushioned settles. Huge iron chandeliers again swung in the grand hall, its walls repainted with scenes of myth and chivalry, and the great feasting table was new carved with chairs and benches high backed and fit for royalty. The great Keep housed new decorated bedchambers with downy pillows, silken bed curtains and canopied posts. Most importantly the quarters for his lordship were newly positioned very close to those of her ladyship.

  Summer settled across the farmlands and forests, with rolling clouds and the shrill whistle of the falcons. Crops ripened and fields turned golden. Pasture spread dry and green. Late June and the year of our Lord, 1485, and England was at peace, serene beneath the sun.

  Emeline discovered the little stone steps she had run to on her wedding night when fire had ravaged the castle. She stood leaning against the solid newel, gazing up into the narrow shadows. The fire was only a memory now, and the misery of her marriage bed not even remembered. But some memories renewed others. It had been assumed that the earl, drunken sprawled at the table after the rest of the guests had retired, had knocked over some candles. His lordship had surely started the fire that had well near killed him.

  But she wondered. For Adrian’s carnage had always been accompanied by fire. Peter’s murder was discovered when his body was half charred, extinguished only by the spillage of wine from the table. And her own father’s murder had been half hidden within a mighty blaze. Even the home of the old woman responsible for Sysabel’s abortion had been burned, and almost all the lane ruined beside. Coincidence was not always a coincidenc
e. And Emeline knew that Adrian, before taking his sister home, had certainly been present at her wedding feast.

  Her thoughts were interrupted. One strong arm slipped around her waist, breath hot against her cheek, and a half teasing whisper. “Does a faithful husband deserve some special manner of welcome when he brings his wife safe home?” His left hand was no longer bandaged, but the stumps of the two middle fingers remained swollen, angry and inflamed. Emeline knew the pain remained.

  “It’s not long since you told me you were an impotent drunkard.” She smiled. “So are you drunk, my love? Perhaps just a little?”

  “What ignominious distrust!” She heard his low laugh echoing up the chilly staircase. “I’m investigating the joys of sobriety, my sweetling. Come and test me.” So he led her up the steps and she held his hand. Very slowly Nicholas dragged one leg, with a grip of the other hand tight to the balustrade, then up again without pause. Suddenly there was a gust of bright fresh breeze in their faces as they stood together on the battlements.

  The evening sun hung low, edging the treetops into silhouettes as the frogs began to call from the moat. Nicholas smiled and the slanting shadow stripes crept into the deep scar down his face, playing along the new shallow scar across his forehead. Emeline reached up, caressing the scars as she often did.

  His right hand was tight over her breast. The neckline of her gown was deep, her cleavage covered by white gauze. Nicholas pushed his fingers past the velvet and the gauze, tracing her nipple. He nuzzled her ear. “Not cold, my love?”

  It was a warm evening. She shook her head. “Am I ever cold in your arms?”

  She felt the curve of his smile against her cheek, and his sudden pinch around her breast. The tight silk of her gown imprisoned his fingers, and limited his explorations, forcing his clasp ever deeper. His left arm was around her waist, her back hard against the stone wall. The breeze was no more insistent than his fingers. She closed her eyes and held her breath as she felt his hand push further inside the neck of her gown.