Barbara Denvil - The Flame Eater

Adrian remained where he had fallen. He was propped, quite silent, against the low stone wall of the herb garden attached to the storehouse behind. He gazed up at his cousin, his pale blue eyes colourless in the night’s shadows. Nicholas stared back.

Eventually Nicholas said, “Are you hurt, cousin?”

Adrian roused himself, as if he had been half asleep. “Not much. Your brawlers did little damage.”

“Whereas your brawlers did a great deal.”

The rain had almost ceased. It dripped from the overhang of the buildings along the lane, and hung faint like a silver sheen within the darkness. The clouds were separating and a first glimmer of stars peeped between. The faint pearly light pricked out the raindrops on Adrian’s cheeks, spangling along his eyelashes. He sighed. “It would be easier if you killed me.”

The horse was prancing, impatient. Nicholas soothed it, stroking its neck although his own hands were trembling. He remained watching his cousin. “I do not kill in cold blood. And I do not kill within my own family.”

“Except for your leech of a brother.”

“I’m tired of that repeated taunt. If you slaughtered Peter yourself, then you know the truth. If you didn’t, though that seems unlikely, then my protestations of innocence are of no concern to you.” He paused, then leaned down, saying quietly, “Get yourself out of here, Adrian. Find passage across the ocean to join Tudor’s precious court of traitors if that’s your wish. I’ll not stop you. Or go back to Sissy, and try to reform your life. I’ll not inform on you to the crown.” His voice sank even lower. “But tell me this. What was this bitter battle for? Simply following your desire to eliminate the Chatwyns?”

Adrian croaked, half laugh, half sob. “Urswick came with letters. I went to collect them, and then deliver them as I’d been instructed.”

“Just one simple request for Tudor to find a rich wife and align himself with Northumberland?”

Adrian shook his bedraggled hat and its torn feathers. “Other letters as well, which you never found. A whole walletful of them. Rallying support, demanding allegiance, declaring himself the rightful monarch, reminding some of favours long owed and Lancastrian loyalties long overlooked. Tudor’s coming, Nicholas. He’ll be king of England before the year is out.”

“So the men who fought for you were Tudor’s men. That means Frenchmen and English traitors.”

“Men who appreciate and care for me. For me, Nicholas, not because of wealth or title, but because of loyalty. True friends. Unlike my own uncaring family. But they weren’t under my orders, nor I under theirs.” Adrian looked away, wincing as he touched his shoulder. “I’ve no funds to pay for that many henchmen. They protected me because we fight for the same cause. And because they respect me.”

Nicholas nodded, and began to turn the horse. He looked back once. “Then let these respectable and respecting friends come back to collect you,” he said, “otherwise the Watch will find you. That, or in the morning the dairymaids and swineherds will discover your remains dead from the cold. So best get yourself down to the docks and find a carvel heading southeast.” He paused, holding the horse still. “Can you walk?”

Adrian looked away. “Why should you care?”

“Self pity again, Adrian?” Nicholas nodded to David to walk on, saying only, half to himself, “It is so often those who cannot summon pity for others who wallow in pity for themselves.”

The horse walked slowly, keeping to David’s careful pace. Emeline, with a lot to say and questions bubbling in her head, said nothing. It was not the moment. She sat sideways, one arm around her husband’s back, the other tucked into his belt. He slumped a little, half supporting her, half allowing the horse its own choices. It was David who led.

They were some distance away when they heard the noises. The night had grown quiet and a slant of moonlight reflected in the puddles, lighting the wet cobbled silver. Stars peeped between the clouds. The storm had passed entirely. But clear in the new washed air were the sudden shouts, then the rattled gurgle of pain.

For a moment Nicholas frowned. Then he yelled, “Get back,” and wheeled the horse back the way they had come.

Adrian lay where he had been before, but now, instead of being propped again the little garden wall, he sprawled flat upon the wet earth. The seeping mud squelched into his ears. His hat had fallen off and his hair was thick with filth. His eyes were closed. Nicholas tumbled from the saddle, half collapsing. One knee bent, standing only on one leg, he leaned down towards his cousin. Adrian’s throat was sliced across so deeply that above the stiffened laces of his shirt, the gullet, sinews, flesh and blood oozed clear. A butcher’s chop, impatient to kill and be gone. Nicholas whispered, “Adrian?” But Adrian was already dead. There was no longer any sign of the killer. “Finished, then,” murmured Nicholas, “by those friends of honour and respect. By those he thought cared.” He looked up at David. “We must arrange the funeral. But nothing can put right what has been done.”

With her shift a dazzling bleached white and the skirts over it a flutter of embroidered primrose, Avice sat, studiously draped in taffeta glory upon the settle. There was sunlight from the long mullioned window slanting across her russet ringlets, her little toes were well shod in pale blue kid, and the long curls of ribbons lacing her neckline, waist and cuffs were pretty pink satin. Her smile echoed the brilliance of her new clothes. She had rarely been more content.

“I am,” she said, “not sorry in the least.”

“I think Nicholas is,” decided Emeline. “He shouldn’t be. But he truly is.”

“Of course he shouldn’t be sorry. He should be jumping happily up and down just like me. After all, the horrid man sent a dozen armed traitors to get rid of him. Adrian killed his brother Peter, not to mention Papa, and then tried to murder Nicholas himself.”

“Well,” pondered Emeline, “we feel that way of course. But Nicholas knew Adrian from birth. He was his cousin, for goodness’ sake. And after all, Peter was a vile creature who deserved to be slaughtered. As for Papa – well, I’d prefer not to think about it.”

“Someone should kill Nicholas’s own father; mean nasty man he is.”

“It’s a bit later for that now. And neither of us need see much more of the earl, even though he’s my father-in-law so I suppose I ought not to say it. Meanwhile Nicholas is taking me back to Chatwyn Castle.” Emeline regarded her sister with a widening smile. “And you have three new gowns and practically a dozen new shoes and shifts and bedrobes and enough ribbons to strangle yourself. What more can you ask for?”

“A husband. Maman says she’ll start to arrange it after we get back to Wrotham, and she says Nicholas will help find me someone rich and handsome. After all, I’m an heiress. Not as much as you are, though second best is still quite cosy. But,” Avice screwed up her nose, “I want someone nice who will like me. To think I once thought myself in love with Adrian. Ugh.”

“And that silly secretary Edmund Harris, and the goose boy before that.” Emeline smiled into her sister’s scowl. “Don’t worry. None of that is as bad as me, thinking myself in love with Peter. I should thank Adrian for having killed the wretch, otherwise I’d now be married to him.”

There was a moment’s pause. “Which is what made me wonder – you know,” Avice switched to a sudden whisper, “if it wasn’t Adrian after all. If perhaps it was Maman. Or Nurse Martha. Or both of them together. There’s no one else had more cause to get rid of Papa and Peter too. And they’re both so – well, determined. Capable!”