Barbara Denvil - The Flame Eater

“Peter loathed his brother. He said Nicholas was deformed and mean spirited and lewd. He said Nicholas was sour as a quince and coarse as a bramble weed.”

The wind was rattling the casements and the little flames across the hearth flared and sank. The baroness had to raise her voice. “What has any of that to do with it? If you do not like the man once you marry him, you will allow a suitable period to pass, produce the obligatory two sons, and then refuse to admit him to your bed just as every other good woman in the land chooses to do with a husband she dislikes. I will hear no more, Emeline. The matter is settled.”

“He’s probably the sort of man who would try to force me.”

“Then good luck to him,” sighed her Maman. “If he ever manages to force you to do anything at all, I must ask him how he achieves it.”

“I liked Peter.”

“Then Peter should not have got himself killed. You may consider yourself remarkably fortunate to have been almost affianced to one man you imagined you liked, which is certainly more than ever happened to me. But since you were never wed to Peter, and the settlement was not even finalised, there is no difficulty in arranging your union with the brother. Not even a dispensation will be required.”

The sun had faded and now the wind was whistling outside. “Peter was murdered.”

The countess gathered up her short velvet train and tossed her small stiff headdress, preparing to march from the room “Peter – Peter – I am tired of hearing of a matter now quite inconsequential. His death was no doubt sheer carelessness. And if it wasn’t, then I am entirely uninterested. Your Papa would be very cross with you for questioning God’s will. And you know quite well how your Papa reacts when cross.”

“How can he know it’s God’s will for me to marry the wrong brother?”

“Your Papa knows everything,” murmured her mother. “The priest has never dared argue with him, and nor will you.”

Upstairs, Emeline recounted the conversation. She folded her arms across the warm window sill, rested her chin on her wrists and gazed out across the hedged garden, the windblown meadows and the Wolds beyond. Her sigh was heavy with regret at being both misunderstood and mistreated.

“I suppose I sympathise,” said Avice from the shadows of the bed curtains, “but if I were not your sister, I would say it was a very good match and you should be grateful. A castle, no less. His papa once sat on the Royal Council, so you’ll go to court with new gowns and drink from real gold and silver. I doubt Papa will ever find me an earl’s son. I shall probably get the seventeenth son of an alderman.”

“You can have my earl’s son.”

“Don’t be pouty, Emma. One day you’ll be a countess. And he’s rich. Richer even than Papa.” She cuddled up against her sister’s side of the bed, enjoying the softer, larger and grander pillows. “You’re not thinking of – disobeying – are you?”

“Don’t be silly. I just thought Maman would consider my feelings for once. Take my preferences – at least into account – and perhaps speak to Papa on my behalf.”

“What good would that do? Papa has never changed his mind about anything – at least, not since I was born. And anyway, you really liked Peter. You were so happy to marry him. The brother can’t be so different. And you’ll get a new gown for the wedding feast.”

Emeline sighed again. “You know exactly how it happened, Avice. Once Maman told me a match was being arranged for me with the heir to the Chatwyn title, I was honoured. Of course I was. Then I was introduced to Peter, and he was so handsome and charming. I just knew, right from the beginning, I was going to love my husband. So tall, and gallant and kind. But Peter talked a lot about his brother. He despised him.”

“Well,” said Avice, testing the bouncability of the mattress, “we shall meet this horrid creature next month and find out just what he’s like at last. Since we’re all invited to the castle, it will be six whole days and nights of incredible luxury and roast venison and new gowns and beeswax candles and real foreign wines and huge sugar subtleties and fur lined eiderdowns and all the things Papa won’t let us have.”

“With the wretched Nicholas paying court to me, and me having to be polite.”

“You can pull your fingers away, and simper. I always wanted an excuse to simper. But simpering at the swineherd’s son just somehow wouldn’t be worth it.”

“I’m more likely to spit,” said Emeline. She returned her gaze to the heather pale hills on the horizon. “I wonder if Papa will make the horrid man accept a smaller dowry. Peter was hanging out for everything he could get. He admitted it. We used to laugh about it. I hope Papa makes Nicholas take a pittance.”

“It will be our Papa and his Papa,” Avice shook her head, “and nothing to do with anyone else.”

“I know.” Emeline slumped lower on the window seat. “But how can you bargain top price for a husband who is ugly and rude with a horrid temper and sinful habits?”

“And horns and a forked tongue? Wake up, Emma. His father’s an earl. Nicholas will be an earl. Earl’s always get what they want. Goodness knows if Nicholas actually wants you, but he’s going to get you anyway. And maybe a few sinful habits might be fun.”

The sleet angled sharply through the trees, turning the paths first to churned mud and then to ice, the ruts solidifying. The horses slipped and danced, pulled into snorting single file. Their breath steamed, their riders swore. The cart wheels leapt, axles groaning, hurtling Lady Wrotham from one cushion to another as she held onto her headdress and bit her tongue and wished she had chosen to ride. The litter’s low hooped confines swayed as the base planks rolled, the rain outside pelting against the waxed canvas and drowning out the neighing, the cursing and the sullen stamp and plod of hooves beyond.

Epiphany not long past, the January weather already smelled of snow. The small cavalcade was soaked, tabards and surcoats sodden, hats wilting over slumped shoulders, the horses’ bridles jingling and the wet reins squeaking between gloved fingers. Overhanging leaves collected the unrelenting torrents, then surrendered them, dumping sudden rivulets upon those riding below. The five men at arms had trotted a little ahead, clearing the way. Baron Wrotham, very stiff in the saddle, was followed closely by his two daughters and their ladies, braving the winter weather, flush faced and squint eyed in the cold. The clatter and slosh of the household trundled behind.

Four long days’ journey, two aching nights in small wayside taverns, and the main family stayed over for the third night at the Ragged Staff Inn on the road from Dorridge, buried their noses in hippocras and hot possets, were too wet, bad tempered and tired even to complain, then bundled their aching limbs between well warmed sheets and slept on past dawn the next day.

During the long night, the rain stopped. A brittle white sparkle tipped each scrubby blade of grass along the hedgerows for a bright frost and a clear sky lit the morning.

Six hours later they rode from the forest’s edge down into the wide valley’s cradle where the castle walls soared golden from their waters. The portcullis was raised, and the drawbridge lowered. A buzzard sat like a lone gargoyle on the battlements, peering below, picking her target.

A different day, a different place, but the curve of his thigh skimmed the deep stone window ledge, the elongated muscles enclosed in coarse brown wool, the swing of both legs out and over. Then the drop. Eight foot to the ground, landing light and lithe in the cobbled courtyard, adjusting, balancing, and pivoting for escape. A long fingered hand grasped a bundle of skirts – a man’s wrist pushing from the frilled cuff, the shift emerging half torn from the gown’s too tight neckline, the apron adrift, a man’s boots beneath the bedraggled hems. Masculine body, wide shouldered, long legged. Feminine clothes; the soft pink of a servant’s well-worn livery.