Barbara Denvil - The Flame Eater

“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.