Then he took both her hands in his, and brought them down to his groin. “Today I helped save others, and suffered nothing. Now it’s myself I intend to save, but you must help me, my love, as I’ve taught you before, until the anger is all forgotten.”
He brought her fingers to the closing of his codpiece, pulling at the hidden tie through its tiny eyelets which held the stiffened cup to the opening of the hose. Emeline took a deep breath and began very slowly and carefully to pull out the thin ribbon. Then she untied the band of his braies from around his waist, and even more slowly pulled his hose down over his belly and hips, smoothing downwards over the muscled curves of his thighs, the knees, the long slim swell of his calves, and finally, bending almost to the floorboards, she took them off over his feet. The braies and the hose and the codpiece fell away together, leaving him naked in his own shadows.
He stood easy, waiting a moment. But as she hesitated, he shook his head and pulled her close, lifting her a little, his hands beneath her arms, and pushed her back against the wall. She felt the hard cold planks behind her and shivered. “Cold?” He pressed against her and instead of the cold behind her, she felt the strength of him and the urgency. “Open to me then. I’ll warm you.”
She whispered, “I can’t move.”
“I move. Not you. Now open your legs.”
He held her firm, her toes not touching the floor. “Don’t let me fall.”
“Fall?” he smiled, but all she saw was the sudden glitter of blue sparkle in his eyes. “Tonight you’ll go where I put you and do what I tell you. I won’t let you fall, and in a moment I’ll carry you to bed. But first do as I say. Now open your thighs.” She leaned her head against his shoulder, and did as he told her. He nodded. “Now reach down, take me, and put me inside you.”
He had made love to her like this before. Their unions had been few enough and she remembered each one. Now once again she felt the tingle thread through her body, like the ties of his codpiece through its eyelets. She shivered again, though no longer from the cold, as her fingers crawled down across the taut muscles of his belly to the thick hair at his groin. “Further,” he demanded. “You can hardly miss me, my love.”
She did not miss, wrapping her fingers around him and guiding him between her legs. As she brought him close, he pushed immediately, battering his entrance. She squeaked, and he grinned, pushing again. Then balancing her against the wall, he hoisted her higher and with both hands beneath her buttocks, lifted and carried her, still inside as if speared, and brought her to the bed. Without releasing her, he laid her down on the mattress, his own weight on top. He quickly forced deeper within and she grunted, catching her breath.
“I said I wouldn’t hurt you. Tell me if I do.”
She whispered, “Not hurting. But unexpected.”
He chuckled and pushed again. “Then squeeze tighter. Push up against me.”
“I can’t. I’m crushed.”
“Poor love,” he laughed at her, wedging himself up on his elbows. “Now push.”
As she raised her hips, he forced in deeper, his hands beneath her and keeping her tight. When he stopped suddenly, unable to wait, she felt the pulse of him growing inside, the shuddering climax, and the explosion of silent energy. He made no sound except the hoarse release of breath, but it seemed a long time before his hands relaxed, his body calmed and he lay still against her.
Eventually he lay back, rolled her over away from him and tucked himself behind her, her buttocks to his groin and his knees beneath hers. Then he wrapped his arms around her, one hand to her breasts, and spoke softly into the back of her ear. She had thought to sleep, warm snuggled and feeling loved, and his sudden words surprised and alarmed her. “So, my Emma,” he murmured, his voice sounding drowsy but his words were somehow harsh. “What did you do – ever – with Peter? Tell me.”
Now she opened her eyes with a jolt. “So you’re still really angry.”
He still held her tight back against him. “No, not angry. If I was angry, I’d not dare to ask you. I’d not risk your answer. I’m merely curious. He told me, you see, being a bastard and a liar, what you were like. What he taught you to do, and what you wanted him to do. What you said. How you moved. He was wrong in almost everything. But I have wondered, sometimes, because of your passion for him back then, if something occurred between you after all.”
“He never even kissed me.” She pulled away, with the first tinge of her own anger only just controlled. “He played the gentleman. Oh, I thought myself in love. I was a fool. But I wouldn’t ever have let him touch me. How could you – ever – think it?”
He tugged her back, almost roughly, one arm again across her breasts, the other around her hips. “Sometimes,” he said softly, “when I make love to you, Peter’s words echo in my head. Thoughts slip sweat fuelled between us. It’s as if he’s still fucking as both.”
“That’s horrible.” She wriggled around to face him but he held here firm, keeping her in his embrace.
His voice buzzed against the back of her neck. “Yes, absurd, and the absurdity is mine. Nor should I tell you, but it’s tiresome, keeping those goading whispers out of my head. They come back when I least need interruption.”
She bent down and kissed his hand, still clasped tight on her breast. “I hate even the memory of Peter. Why think of him now?”
His voice had grown softer, kinder, as his fingers traced between her breasts. “I missed you, little one, while I was away. More than I’d expected. Then the race to find you and the danger of the pestilence. Threat and loss are good lessons. But what I’ve now found in loving you, I don’t intend to lose. Especially not to Peter.”
“I thought it was Adrian you were angry with?”
“I let my father think the best of Peter. My cousins too. Other family friends, I didn’t care. It even served my purpose at the time. But you, little one, I’d like to keep free of him.” Nicholas kissed the back of her ear, and she felt the warmth of his breath. “Adrian doesn’t know me, and that was my intention. I learned as a child to keep my thoughts to myself. But now I find that perhaps Adrian has done the same. I know nothing of his secrets.”
“Like poor Sissy. Her secrets were the worst of all. And she still forgives Peter.” Emeline sighed. “It makes me angry, thinking what he might have done to me, just as he did to her.”
There was a pause. “Sissy?”
“Perhaps you don’t know.”
“I don’t know.” He sat up abruptly, pulling Emeline up with him so they both sat back against the pillows, his arm around her shoulder, her face nestled to the curve of his neck. “She was an infant, and still is. She thought herself in love with him. What more?”
Emeline paused, wondering who deserved her loyalty. Then briskly and quickly she decided. “I don’t know who else knows. Obviously your father doesn’t. I don’t think Adrian does. But your Aunt Elizabeth knows, and of course Peter did. Now Avice and Maman do.” She drew a deep breath and spoke fast. “So you should know as well. That Sissy was carting his child, and he arranged for her to have an abortion in some squalid little alley in London away from prying eyes.”
“Dear God.”
“You really didn’t know?”
“I’d have killed him. Adrian would have killed him.”
“Perhaps Adrian did.” She sat up a little more, twisting to face him.
“Adrian was my principal suspect, even before this.”, Nicholas nodded, and reached out again, searching for the wine cups. The room lay shadowed and warm with its billowing bed and the tiny window, the polished horn rattling in the wind behind its wooden shutters. Through the shadows, Nicholas found the cups and the jug, and poured the last of the wine. “Here, my sweet. It seems we’ve more to talk about than I realised.”
She took the cup. “You’ve stopped being angry?”
“Curiosity kills anger. And this is important. Tell me about Sissy. Tell me about Adrian.” He smiled as she drained her cup, then drained his own. “Now w
e’re out of wine, my love, and must talk a little sober sense. You’ve proved surprisingly informative this evening; which I admit I’d not expected. I’ve been working for the king for three years of more – certainly since before he was king – and thought myself well aware of the subtle changes, the political necessities, the need for security after the ’83 turmoil. And yet I’ve been blind to both my cousins, and even partially to my own brother.”
The shadows receded as their eyes accustomed. “You think Adrian’s a traitor? And a killer too?”
“You know I’d taken on the boy Wolt, the child left motherless after your father’s murder. The boy was killed while under my protection, and I’ve not forgiven myself for that. The killers were looking, I believe, to take back the letter Urswick had brought. But why kill a grubby boy working in the stables?”
“Gracious, my love, what has that to do with Adrian?”
“Because it finally makes sense. Because if the men worked for Adrian, then Wolt would have recognised one or more of them from the Strand stables, and so had to be killed before he could carry tales and stand witness. But I was told the men were French. That distracted me. Merde, a French word. I was wrong. Murder is an English word true enough, and with Nottingham accents which would have sounded foreign to those from the far south.”
“If Adrian killed Peter, could he have killed my father?” The blankets lay around their waists but she was no longer cold. “You said it was the same man. But Adrian had no reason to murder my father. And fire, always fire. Why is there always fire, Nicholas?”
“It’s the English plague, with every house a tumbled pile of rotting beams, insects rummaging in thatch, logs burning on unattended hearths and barely a decent kitchen beyond the palaces and castles.”
Emeline shook her head. “It was the castle that burned on our wedding night.”
“My father’s fault, drunk at the table and the candles falling, no doubt. But it’s usually the little places, and the folk with nowhere to run to that burn. Half of London is haunted by fire. A law was brought in, banning thatch and ordering new roofs on old buildings, but it’s rarely been enforced. David’s father was killed by fire. His mother was never sane after that, and neglected the boy. He still fears the flames.”
“Oh, too many nightmares, too much misery. Is there nothing to cherish anymore?” She shuddered, sliding her arm around her husband’s waist beneath the blankets. “And what if I’m the next nightmare, and you wake up to find me sick and bleeding? And I’ll know I have just three days to live before I die in agony.”
Nicholas leaned over her at once, his thumb wiping away her sudden tears. He caressed her cheeks and kissed her as he pulled the blankets gently back around her body. “That won’t happen,” he whispered. “None of that – not the pestilence nor any other sickness. Not now that I’ve fallen in love with you.”
Chapter Forty-Four
They woke hungry, with morning seeping beneath the door. Nicholas yawned, stood, shook the sleep from his shoulders, stretched, then strode across and lifted down the window shutters, welcoming the fresh new sunshine. A diffused but blinking daylight already sat well above the horizon.
Then he sat on the edge of the bed, and regarded his wife. “You look sparkling, my love. No pains? No fears?”
Her voice was muffled by pillows. “Only about murder and murderers, and if we already live with someone who wants to kill us.”
He tugged on his shirt and hunted under the settle for his hose. “I’m going down to get us something for breakfast. I can take yesterday’s supper dishes down with me, you can’t leave the room. But I can.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t.”
“Cheese, manchet, bacon? Ale or wine?” He was pulling on his hose and retying the codpiece as he shoved his feet into his riding boots. “Damnable inconvenience, with half my clothes downstairs in the other chamber. I’ll get David to sort the rest of them for me.”
“If everyone knew it was the pestilence, and not just a chill, they wouldn’t let you out of the room either.”
“They would indeed.” He grinned. “They’d be throwing the whole lot of us out on the cobbles. Now – cheese or bacon?”
“Both.”
It was some time before he returned. He did not immediately explain the delay. Finally, she said, “So who was questioning you? Your father or my mother? Or were you questioning Sissy?”
“I’m hardly likely to accuse my baby cousin of flagrant immorality in the middle of a crowded hostelry while I’m more concerned with looking after my wife.” Nicholas cut a slice of cold bacon and handed it to Emeline, then returned to the beer jug. “Besides, I simply feel sorry for the poor child. But she’ll never talk to me about it, nor thank you for spreading the news. No, it was my father. He’s in the way as usual.” He looked up suddenly, frowning. “I wonder if I should one day ruin his complacence and tell him the truth about Peter.” He shook his head, returning to the platter of cold food. “But he’d not believe me. And I’d gain nothing except his spite.”
“So what,” she swallowed and took another wedge of cheese, “are they all doing downstairs?”
“Haven’t killed each other yet. Close, perhaps.”
Emeline swung her legs from the bed and walked to the window, gazing out on the world she could not yet join. “So perhaps it’s just as well I’m stuck in here.” She smiled suddenly. “We’re safe from our families, and the gossip, and the arguments. And even the fear and meeting Ralph taught me so much about what you went through and what you suffered.” Then she sat down again, picking scraps of food from the eiderdown and hiding her face. “So I know you much better now. And I understand so much more.”
He waved an accusatory arm. “Using the bed as a table as usual, crumbs between the sheets, and everything needing to be carried up four flights of stairs. But I see the advantages too, my love, having you to myself. And as you learn about me, so I learn about you. From now on I’ll only go back downstairs when I’ve a purpose.”
She sat, looking intently at him. “You said something last night. I wasn’t sure what you meant.”
He came beside her, winding his arms around her waist and burying his face in her hair. “I said a lot of things last night. And I treated you badly. Satisfied myself, probably at your expense. But I was angry about Adrian. Then I was tired, and had Peter muttering in my head. Angry about Sissy. And thinking of how I face Adrian once he reappears.”
“What did your father want this morning?”
“Recriminations. The usual.” Nicholas was laughing. “Me to shoulder my responsibilities and stop hiding in the attic. Bring my wife back to Westminster, and behave like a mature Chatwyn.”
“What is a mature Chatwyn?”
Nicholas leaned back to where the remains of their breakfast now lay strewn. “Nothing unusual,” he told her. “Wealthy, respected, ambitious, greedy, conceited, arrogant. Most of us drink too much, and that’s largely due to boredom and a need not to think too deeply. Think too hard, and along come the doubts, conscience and uncomfortable memories. So my father drinks. I drink too. But I also discovered other opiates.”
Emeline frowned. “What opiates?”
“What I once called adventure. Working for the king. Berwick during the siege, helping break the stand off from the inside. I acted as a casual tutor to the young Princess Cecily. Working undercover to negotiate with the dowager and get her and her daughters out of sanctuary. To explain what had happened to her sons, tell her Tyrell and Brampton were the occasional and financial custodians while her boys stayed safe abroad. The king uses many of his more able courtiers for such work. A common practise. Fulfilled my need for adventure. Keeping old memories at a safe distance.”
“And Peter’s opiates?”
Nicholas laughed, lying flat on his back on the mattress, the covers dishevelled beneath him, his hands clasped behind his head. “Peter?” He was smiling up at the beams and the bed’s small faded tester. “Seductions and rapes. Secret vio
lence and the spoils of story mongering and tale spreading. Watching the ensuing misery of others.”
Emeline sighed. “There’s so much to tell each other, but so little of it is pleasant.”
He turned his head, looking at her. “I’ll take you back to the castle later this month, once I’ve seen the king. My father will stay at court. Then I’ll teach you pleasure, my love.”
“But you don’t know if we’ll ever get there. Perhaps you have some special charm so you don’t get sick. But that won’t work for me.”
Nicholas paused, frowning. “You’ll live, because I need you,” he said quietly. “What point in my survival, if it has to be alone?”
“You mean it?” Emeline sat up, staring back wide eyed. “That’s what you said last night and I was hoping you’d say it again. But you don’t mean it, do you! You’re saying what you think I want to hear, because you’re sure I’ll die.”
“When I’m telling you the opposite?”
“You’re lying.”
He smiled, sinking back against the pillows “Then clearly I must speak of the mundane, and of subjects where I shall be believed. There is, for instance, some small leggy creature up there, busy with its web and no doubt a hoard of spider children bursting from their eggs. Or whatever else spiders do to pass the time. Eat flies. There’s flies and beetles enough up there to choose from.”
Emeline laughed. “All right. You don’t want to tell me to my face that I might be dying. And the hints about caring – about some growing affection – that’s best not discussed either.”
“Shall I tell you what I’ve been doing for the past few weeks?” He closed his eyes, slumped on his back, hands again behind his head. His voice softened. “Shall I describe all the wretched days of creeping in the shadows, wearing clothes that itch with fleas, and not caring to comb the lice from my hair? Attack, defence, knives from the mist. Days in shadows and nights in the dark. The boy was killed. I should have protected him, but it never occurred to me the boy would be a target, and I was too busy protecting myself. So, the bastard guilt and knowing he died for me.” Nicholas opened his eyes suddenly and gazed up at Emeline who was staring down at him helplessly. “Oh, don’t feel sorry for me, my sweet,” he said, smiling. “It was one of the easier jobs I’ve taken on. I took no wound, and one part of the task was achieved successfully enough. Adventure after all, and I’ll not complain about the life I chose myself. But this time the pleasure faded. Most of it seemed simply tedious.” His smile widened. “And through it all, I kept thinking of you. I didn’t ask to. It didn’t help. But your face slipped constantly into my thoughts, your voice whispered into every silence. Your face pushed out Peter’s whispers. Your smile stayed always at the back of my eyes. I missed you.”
The Flame Eater Page 44
