Barbara Denvil - The Flame Eater

More candles, the blaze from the hearth brighter still, a dancing liturgy of flame and shadow, and Emeline hunched in her finery, golden as the swaying lights. She ate only a slice of venison with prunes, for the food was highly spiced and her stomach refused the smell, the weight, the heat and the taste of it. But she drank as bid, while the minstrels played and some of the guests pushed back their benches and rose to dance. Nicholas did not invite his wife to dance. Behind his seat, standing neat in a livery far grander than the usual, stood the young lord’s squire, who helped serve him. They spoke often though it was beyond Emeline’s hearing. His father sat on his left side, but he spoke little to him, and more regularly to a solid gentleman sitting beyond the earl’s bulging shadow. The earl bellowed for the wine jugs to brim again and again and buried his nose within the rim of his cup.

Emeline heard little of any conversation. “Adrian? You here?” from Nicholas.

“I am certainly here, cousin, as you would remember if you stopped drinking long enough to do so.”

“Stop drinking? As a permanent reminder of exhausting boredom, perhaps? Bad advice, Adrian, and far too late.”

“Then be assured I am here and shall remain here,” replied the solid young man. “And will no doubt help drag you to bed at the appropriate hour.”

“Never needed your help, not with that nor with much else,” Emeline’s new husband grinned, consonants not yet noticeably slurred, “and never with anything as interesting as tonight is likely to be.”

“Impolite and unnecessary, coz. At least remember your bride, Nicholas.”

“Not likely to forget her,” Nicholas was laughing. “Would rather spoil the fun if I did, don’t you think?”

It seemed interminably late when her mother came to Emeline’s elbow, signalling to take her upstairs. She then led her, suddenly deep in quiet shadow, along narrow stone corridors and steep steps and finally into the young lord’s bedchamber. Emeline was dizzy, barely stumbling as she tripped on her saffron velvets. Then the servants waiting at the doorway threw open the great creaking oak, and Emeline stood and blinked. A small fire deep within the hearth flared with a rush of scattered reflections, but there were also candles, everywhere candles, in sconces, on tables, a chandelier of ten small flamelettes and a huge silver candlestick beside the bed. She sank down onto the settle by the fire and wondered if anyone would pity her if she cried.

Her mother hauled her up. “Remember you are a Wrotham, my girl. Dignity, always dignity. Your husband will show you what to do, and you will obey him utterly.”

“What,” sniffed Emeline, “if he doesn’t know what to do either?”

The baroness said, “Don’t be ridiculous, Emma,” and began to unlace her stomacher.

“But with that – face,” Emeline whispered, “he will not have had – no girl would have – so perhaps he has never – either.”

Her mother scowled and pinched her wrist. “Enough, Emma,” and her bustle of maids hurried around, carefully removing all the sumptuous beauty they had heaped upon her just a few hours previously.

The bride grabbed her mother’s hand. “Maman, tell me the truth. Is it so bad?”

“Nothing is ever as bad as the anticipation of it,” mumbled the baroness. “And remember, child, you will be respected for your courage and your obedience, however frightened you may secretly be. And the young gentleman has drunk a great deal, for I was watching him, which may help him quickly to sleep. Doubtless he has no great experience of treating women with respect, for sadly his mother died when he was very young and he has no sisters. But I believe he is kindly natured for he ordered that you be allowed to prepare quietly, without parades or the snooping attention of the feasters. No brawlers are to be permitted into the chamber here, and no winking, sniggering revellers eager to watch the preparations for your wedding night.”

“Perhaps it’s himself he doesn’t want being watched,” muttered Emeline. She could hear her voice wavering with the odd distortion of her own vowels. “And I’m – well, I drank more than – that is, more than I ever have in my life before. So I shall try and go to sleep before he comes in. Indeed, I am very, very tired.”

“You are very, very stupid,” sighed her mother, “though I cannot blame you for drinking too much wine on such a day. But I can certainly blame you if you try and avoid your duty. Besides, you look very pretty in your shift, my dear, and your hair shines quite wonderfully in all this candlelight. If only your dear Papa would permit the burning of so many candles on these cold nights. But that is quite another matter – so clamber into bed now, my love, and see what a great high mattress it is too, and well warmed I am sure.”

Needing a little help, and not only because she was quite tipsy, Emeline climbed onto the bed. It was wide, heaped and richly curtained, four great oaken posts carved and scrolled, hidden within a swirl of painted damask. A welter of pillows and bolsters wedged her straight, and she sat, staring into the exaggerated wealth of lights. Her mother rearranged the pillows. Emeline mumbled, “Maman, please snuff some of those candles. I feel as though – as though I am on display.”

“As you are meant to be, my love,” the baroness pointed out, and began to shoo the other women from the chamber. “He will be here very soon, for I can hear voices in the far dressing room. Remember pride, dignity, duty and modesty.” And she bent, kissed her daughter’s cold cheek, and hurried out.

Emeline had time only to breathe deep, whisper one short prayer, and hope for courage. She was not even aware that he had entered from another door until he spoke.

He said, “You look cold, my lady. Has the bed not been warmed? Shall I build up the fire?” Making her turn in a flurry, staring at him. She had been sitting huddled, her arms wrapped defensively around her. Then he smiled, saying, “Or perhaps you are simply preparing for the inevitable attack?”

She swallowed hard. “Is it attack you intend then, my lord?”

He wandered over to the hearth, kicked the flames from glow to spark, leaned one elbow to the great wooden slab of the lintel, and regarded the shivering woman within his bed. His voice was no louder than the crackle of the logs. “Attack? No, attack is not my style, my lady.” He paused, as if considering either his words or his behaviour, and to what extent he wished to be polite. The candlelight above and beside him accentuated the scar cutting across his face. Finally he sighed, and said, “You look – delightful, madam. And you were beautiful – in the chapel. I found –” and his voice trailed off as if further diplomatic effort was beyond him.

“Truly gallant, my lord, but unconvincing.” Emeline sniffed, increasingly uncomfortable. Her head hurt. Her stomach hurt. She said in a hurry, “Perhaps you’d like to borrow the dress yourself one day.”

He laughed and walked over, sitting to face her on the edge of the bed. He appeared relieved, as if her words had suddenly released him from some burden. But Emeline froze, expecting contact. He did not attempt to touch her, and instead, after a moment said, “Are you so frightened of me?”

She said, “I’m never frightened of anything.”

“Really?” He smiled again, but the warmth no longer reached his eyes. His left eye was part clouded, spotting the bright blue with cream. Emeline wondered if his vision was blurred, or even entirely lost. “How – admirable,” he continued softly. “I, on the other hand, have been frightened of many things over the years. Indeed, fear has more than once saved my life.”