Barbara Denvil - The Flame Eater

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 fresh 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.