The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Nicholas bundled his wife up onto the saddle of her part bridled palfrey. The four guards who had accompanied them from the castle were already waiting in silence, and the two outriders, bridles in hand, stood at the main gates, holding them open. David Witton was still absent. Nicholas said, “One moment only, my love, while I chase the last of our people.”

  The house was dark and no candles had been left alight downstairs. Nicholas called, quickly mounting the main staircase. His squire had been housed in the small closet room next to the bed chamber, and Nicholas went there first, striding down the corridor, calling as his own echoes followed him. The principal chamber lay in dishevelled gloom. Nicholas pushed open the door to the annexe beyond. “My lord?” David Witton was leaning over the narrow pallet but looked up, startled.

  “Without speed,” Nicholas said quickly, “escape becomes pointless. We are waiting.” He stared at the shadows moving in the bed. “Who is that?” he demanded.

  “My lord, forgive me.” David shook his head. “Her ladyship’s women took the back stairs some minutes past and will already be at the stables. I was at the moment of leaving – but forgive me – against orders, my lord, I stayed only to see these children – two kitchen boys who came searching for help. It was Martha, her ladyship’s nursemaid, brought them here. They are – very sick, my lord.”

  “Sweet heaven,” Nicholas muttered, “do you choose infection, man?” He stepped forwards and crouched over the pallet, peering at the two children curled there. One did not move but moaned very quietly like the distant wail of a water bird. The other was flushed, tossing violently. Over his shoulder Nicholas said, “Light candles then, for pity’s sake. I cannot help if I cannot see.”

  David said, “My lord, this is dangerous work. I would never have stayed had I not believed myself safe and my death not yet destined.” But he lit two candles, and brought them to his master’s side.

  The children lay half entwined on the narrow mattress, the sheet in disarray, the straw dishevelled and tossed to the floor. One boy now lay still. The other flung off his covers, his body contorted as he cried out. They wore only their shirts, skinny legs bare grimed beneath. Nicholas sighed, and lifted the quiet child’s shirt, uncovering him up to his waist. The buboes were visible both sides of the groin. Great dark uneven swellings shone glossy in the candlelight, and one pulsed as if living, more alive than the child whose scrotum it devoured. Nicholas whispered, “It is the pestilence without doubt, and I have no means of easing it. I am no doctor, but I’ve seen this before. David, get wine. There’s a jug in the chamber next door, for I left it there myself.”

  The man returned immediately with the jug and two cups. “Is this for yourself, my lord, or for medicine?”

  “Neither.” Nicholas poured a cup and held it to the boy’s lips, supporting and soothing him. “Hush child, drink and trust God.” He turned back to David, saying softly, “Insensible with drink, pain eases and death slips in unnoticed. The church would not agree, but I’m no good with prayers and understand wine better. But this second child is burning. There must be a bowl or jug of water in the garderobe. Get it, and cloths if you can.”

  The child wailed again, and Nicholas leaned over him, bringing the cup of wine to his lips. His limp and sweat soiled shirt was open at the neck, and across the little shrunken chest the rash of the Great Death had already spread in purple bruises and flat blackened stains. The wine spilled a little, oozing from the cracked and bleeding lips, but the boy swallowed and fell silent. There was dried blood around his nose, and more on his legs, leaking from beneath the hem of the shirt. The other child was also bleeding now, from nostrils, gums and anus.

  David returned with water and rags. “My lord, you must not touch the children, nor think to wash them, if that is what the water is for. If someone must – then let it be me.”

  “And if you catch the disease, what difference will that make?” Nicholas said. “For then you’ll surely pass it to me just the same.” He took the cloths, and cooled the boys’ faces, necks, and small bodies. “I’ve long respected your desire to help and do good, as you know, David. Though sometimes – as now – it’s a conviction that brings as much trouble as benefit.” As he touched the quiet boy, he drew away, sitting back on his heels. “This little one is now dead,” he whispered. “We brought no relief after all.” He looked up, then stood abruptly. “Is there no one else left alive in the house?”

  David shook his head. “I think not, my lord, unless some other poor soul lingers on in the attic, or in the kitchens where the scullions sleep.”

  “Dear God,” muttered Nicholas. “How can I risk infecting my wife, simply to bring a last moment’s comfort to a child I do not know? You’re a damned fool, David. We should have left at once.”

  “It was my own intention, lord, but it’s hard to ignore children sobbing in pain.”

  The older boy squinted painfully into the candlelight. As he spoke, he spat blood, and more trickled from his eyes. “My brother is cold, my lord. He needs the blankets more than me. And can you spare him more wine?”

  Nicholas said softly, “Your brother is now asleep. Leave him be, child. Here, finish the wine yourself.” He knelt again, offering the refilled cup. He asked, “When were you first ill, since you are now so – very sick? Do you remember?”

  The boy was drinking, gulping as though desperately thirsty, and when he answered, his voice was slow, guttural and slurred. “A day or two. Maybe three. Alan was sicker. I never told no one, and hid in my bed. Was that wrong, my lord? I didn’t want to be thrown out to the gutter.”

  “You’ve done nothing wrong, child,” Nicholas told him softly. “Close your eyes now, lie back and dream sweet dreams. When you wake, you will be better and the pain will be gone. You will be safe with your brother.”

  He stood again, speaking under his breath, ordering his body squire to leave at once, to get to the stables and lead everyone waiting there out onto the highroad, heading south. “Reassure them, but travel slow. Tell her ladyship I’ll catch her up before she reaches the county borders.”

  “My lord, you’ll stay?” David stuttered. “Even now, when you know the danger, and one child is already gone? You must know I cannot leave you, my lord.”

  “Quiet,” Nicholas said, “and do as I say. I won’t desert a child so near to death. He has as much right to comfort as any other, and I can give him that.”

  It was some time later when Nicholas returned to the stables. All the stable boys had run, taking the other horses with them, but Nicholas’s great bay remained fully saddled and kicking at the straw. Nicholas mounted and, heels to the horse’s flanks, immediately galloped out through the manor’s gates and down the wide hedged road beyond.

  A fine drizzle misted the night, drifting in a silver haze beneath the stars. The moonlight was fading as he caught up with his own party a mile further south. Hearing the galloping hooves, they stopped and waited. The sumpter, head down beneath the rain, slowed as the rattling wooden wheeled cart swerved to a halt with a bounce of baggage, bundles and frightened women.

  Emeline turned and rode back towards her husband. Nicholas held out both hands. “Don’t touch me,” he ordered. “You must not come too close. The fault was mine, but I will make amends.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The line cut thin, the great blackness divided by a new born horizon. The slice widened. A pale grey slipped through, leaking daylight into the pitch of night.

  The inn sheltered beneath the trees, a rambling assortment of buildings banking the road at its junction with the southern route towards London. As the dawn stretched into rose petal pink, the inn’s stables were a yawning bustle of waking ostlers, and the tavern doors were pushed open, brooms busy to the threshold. Nicholas dismounted and signalled his men to make sure the horses were fed, watered and scrubbed down. Within half an hour Emeline took a breakfast of bread, cheese and ale in their bedchamber overlooking the fields at the back of the first floor. Nicholas stoo
d watching her.

  He said, “I’ll sleep on the pallet. You won’t touch me or come close to me until I’m sure. In six days or a week’s time I’ll know if I’ve escaped. Or not.”

  She stared gloomily at him. “What can you do? And how will you know?”

  “It starts with a fever, as almost everything does. But if it’s the worst, then within an hour I’ll be burning up. The rash comes fast, livid spots spreading like decomposing flesh under the skin. First red and sepia. Then purple. Then black. Everything bleeds. Nose, teeth, tongue, eyes, ears. And lower down. Then finally the buboes start swelling up, great dark lumps at the neck or the groin.” Nicholas sighed, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall. “But long before that happens, you’ll be gone. I’ll have sent you back west to your father.”

  “It must be terrifying.”

  “It is,” he said simply. “The lucky ones fall unconscious and stay that way until the body rots and they die.”

  “Then,” she flung down her napkin and pushed her platter away, “I must stay and nurse you. How could I leave? Does anyone ever recover? Are there medicines?”

  “Listen.” He shook his head. “Nursing doesn’t help. Enough wine to send me insensible is the best idea, as long as I don’t just vomit it back. I know doctors who treat it with tansy and willow bark but I also know that doesn’t work. Bursting the buboes simply causes more pain. People can die of pain alone. So death can take hours – or days. Some of the lucky souls recover, but most die. And you won’t have any choice about leaving. I’ll order Witton to chain you to your horse and gallop off with you. Either that or I’ll ride out into the night on my own to die in peace by some roadside.”

  “You couldn’t.” Emeline glared at him, eyes glistening. “I’d – I’d –”

  “What? Kill me?” He smiled, cold eyed and still keeping his distance. “There’s no surety about this, my dear. I’ve not given up hope. There’s always the possibility of a reprieve – just perhaps – since I spent so little time with the children. And there are stories – many stories – of families who are stricken and die, yet where one or two, even staying close, keep their sanity and survive. But until I’m sure, I won’t risk you touching me.”

  Emeline knotted her fingers, staring down into her lap. “Why, Nicholas, when you knew exactly what it might mean? You should never have risked staying – or touching. And especially if you knew you couldn’t really help.”

  “It was stupid,” he said. “But it’s not the first time I’ve done something I’ve regretted later. This time I had reasons – stupid reasons – memories I should have ignored. Saving my father’s miserable hide from the fire came close to killing me instead of him. And I’ve come closer other times too. Indeed, I’ve led a charmed life of close escapes. Perhaps it’s time to pay the price.”

  Emeline shivered. “I pray there’s no such charge.” She looked up at him suddenly. “But how do you know so much about this vile illness? You told me you visited some village after the pestilence had passed. But you stayed? And saw what had happened when there might still have been risk? And now – to do exactly the same again?”

  “I lied.” Nicholas slumped down onto the window seat, abruptly turning his face to stare through the old polished horn and out to the new day. He scratched absently at his wrist, as if he had been bitten, but barely heeded it. “There was no village,” he said. “I have a clearer memory than that of the pestilence and how it kills. I was a child, but I’m unlikely to forget. It was how my mother died, and my little sister, and my baby brother with them.”

  “Dear God.”

  “God is not always so dear.” Nicholas turned back to her. “Now, no more talking. I’ll send Martha in to get you to bed while I go downstairs for a jug or two of wine. Once I’m a good deal less sober than I am now, I’ll come back and sleep on the pallet by the hearth. Meanwhile you should sleep until dinner time. Maybe I’ll join you for that, though I’ll not be sitting beside you.”

  “I can’t sleep. And I won’t be able to eat.”

  “I don’t believe it.” He stood and stared across at his wife hunched small on the edge of the bed. The curtained shadows half enclosed her. “I’ve watched you eat a good few times,” he said, “and your appetite never wavers. And you sleep sound too, while you mutter through your dreams. So climb into bed, my love, and dream of salmon poached in ewe’s milk. Apple codlings in syrup. Roast capon stuffed with raisins and spices. Onions broiled in honeyed mead. And jellies of course, with custards and stewed rhubarb. I’ll order a late dinner served after midday.”

  She paused a moment, feeling suddenly cold. “Get tipsy if you want, Nicholas,” she whispered. “And then come back up to me. But if you slip off alone and leave your wretched squire with orders to get me back to Gloucestershire, I swear I’ll not go. I’ll scream the tavern down and search every hedgerow on my knees until I find you.”

  He stopped at the doorway, staring back at her. “And this from a reluctant bride who hated her husband?” But then his voice shrank, until she could barely hear him. He murmured, “I must do what I think best, and always will, my dear.”

  She stood in a flurry and took a step towards him but he held out his hand, stopping her. She demanded, “Promise me, Nicholas. I won’t sleep until you promise. Tell me you won’t leave, and promise I’ll see you at dinner.”

  “I’ll promise anything you like.” Nicholas sighed, leaning back exhausted against the doorframe. “Now go to sleep, Emma.” He watched her a moment, opened the door and slipped immediately out into the passage shadows.

  He took the stairs quickly and strode into the small back tap chamber where he ordered not a jug or two of wine, but a single cup, which he drank at once. He then ordered quill, ink and paper, wrote carefully, covering both sides of the paper and afterwards covering one side again, crossing the lines. Then he spoke at some length with his body squire, passing him the folded paper he had written, before sending David back up to bed. Finally he took his hat, cote, and cape, and strode out to the stables. His earlier orders had already been obeyed and a fresh horse was waiting for him ready saddled, its panniers laden full. Nicholas mounted, gazed back once to the first floor windows of the inn, then rode across the cobbles and back onto the road, heading south. It was still raining.

  Emeline awoke late. She knew she had been crying in her dreams, for her eyelashes were stuck together and her head ached. She was shivering, although the bed had been well aired before she climbed into it. Now she sat up, looking around. She did not know what time it was but a steady trickle of sallow light leaked through the splintered boards of the window shutters. The chill was persistent. The small fire had gone out and the narrow pallet bed, set beside the hearth for a servant or companion, was empty. The blankets had not been disturbed and no one had slept there since it had been prepared.

  At the small dining table set in the private chamber below, a cloth, spoons and napkins had been laid. No one sat at the table and no one waited for her there. The innkeeper poked his head around the door, bowed, and said he would serve dinner immediately as instructed. “As instructed?” demanded Emeline. “By whom? And where is he? Has he eaten already?” But the innkeeper was gone and she sat, knotting her fingers and twisting around at each twitch of noise.

  Finally serving boys brought in five wooden dishes holding salmon poached in ewe’s milk, honeyed codlings, roast capon stuffed with raisins and spices, broiled onions, jellies, custards, and stewed rhubarb. Emeline burst into tears and pushed her platter away.

  His lordship’s squire knocked quietly and entered, bowing to the young woman sobbing into her napkin. Carefully keeping his distance, he cleared his throat. Emeline looked up and stared at him. “Your master is a liar and a cheat,” she declared through gulps. “He promised. He lied, didn’t he? He’s gone away.”

  David Witton bowed once more and still keeping his distance, handed her the folded and unsealed paper which Nicholas had given him. As she read, he replied,
“My lady, his lordship was most apologetic and has ordered me to beg for your forgiveness on his behalf. I have known him many years, my lady, and if you will pardon me for speaking without permission, I know his lordship as a man of exceptional honour, great courage and undoubted kindness. I would give my life for his. Most willingly. He has experienced at close quarters the pain and misery the Great Mortality brings. He was adamant not to bring any risk of infection, not to you nor to those others of our people, even to the visitors at this inn and to any who may pass. He would not have – given false assurances – without good reason, my lady. And the fault is mine, not his. Two dying children were brought to where I was and I could not resist – could not deny them help. His lordship found me there, and – but you know the rest, my lady. The good Lord grant his lordship has taken no contamination and will be restored to us without delay.”

  “Here he writes of London.” Emeline looked up at the squire. “How long ago did he leave? Well, we’ll follow him there. Get everyone ready, Mister Witton, we depart in an hour.”

  Witton shook his head and bowed once more. “Forgive me, my lady, his lordship guessed you would say as much. I am forbidden to permit it and I have never disobeyed his lordship, nor mean to. He asks for a dignified privacy in which to consider and make his own decisions. If he had stayed, the risk would not only be to yourself, but to a hundred others. I am therefore instructed to lead our remaining party west to Gloucestershire.”

  “I also intend making my own decisions,” Emeline said, biting her lip. “So, if not to London, we go back to Nottingham, to the Cock Robin, and Adrian and Sysabel. At least with them I can hear as soon as – and have company who understands – and be my own mistress.”