Barbara Denvil - The Flame Eater

The figure in the bed was no longer immovable. Nicholas was propped up against a mass of pillows, and was awake although he appeared fractious and uncomfortable. His legs were hidden beneath the bedcovers, but his arms and torso, heavily bandaged, were visible and it appeared he was still unclothed. He was speaking as she entered. “If,” he said, “you think I will agree to swallow that vile smelling sludge, Hawkins, you are even more addle brained than I am at present. Bring me some decent wine, and then I might have the strength to leave this gaol and stagger to the garderobe instead of pissing my bed again.” He turned to his squire and body servant, who was hovering diplomatically silent in the shadows. “David,” Nicholas called. “is there no solid food to be had?”

The apothecary interrupted in a hurry. “My lord, it is on strict orders from the doctor. A goat’s milk junket with white bread is the only diet to be followed for some days, with small ale permitted on the second morning. Indeed, Doctor Ingram has prescribed the very same for himself. Your constitution must not be over taxed, and no wine can be served.”

“I am already,” Nicholas said softly with an edge of menace, “broiled like a lobster, yet you encase me in greased linen armour, turn the bedchamber into an oven, and poison me with slop.”

Emeline thought he looked extremely pale. Apart from the vivid cut of the scar across his face, his visible skin had faded to an icy pallor. She stepped forwards with a confidence she did not feel, and said, “It would seem you’re already feeling better, my lord.”

“Ah.” Her husband looked her over, seemingly disappointed. “Not the doctor from Leicester, then? Therefore not the man I can threaten with disembowelment unless he prescribes me wine and an edible supper.”

“I’m amazed you have any appetite, my lord,” Emeline said, keeping her distance. “Earlier today I thought you near to death.”

The patient smiled faintly. “Hoped to be a widow before the day was out, I suppose?” He leaned back against his pillows and momentarily closed his eyes. “My apologies for my recovery. But if I am repeatedly denied food, no doubt I shall oblige you soon enough.”

Emeline mumbled, “I suppose you have some excuse for being bad tempered, my lord, but there’s very little point being cross with me. I did try to help earlier on, but your Mister Potts said I made matters worse. I hope your mattress is not still – damp?”

“It is,” her husband replied without compunction, “because I can’t get out of bed to piss. But whatever you did to me earlier, I doubt it made anything noticeably worse unless you strapped burning logs to my body. No doubt the doctor will think of doing just that tomorrow. He has already turned this chamber into a cauldron fit for frying bacon. And,” he turned back to the surgeon, “he left instructions for me to be doused with goose grease from the farm and alum earth straight from the Vatican lands, so I’m likely to slip bodily from my charming wet mattress at any moment. And if the wretched man dares come armed with his fleam, I shall personally set the dogs on him.”

“Choleric,” announced the surgeon in a voice of pessimistic prediction as he bent again to mix his milky potion.

Nicholas managed to raise his voice. “If,” he announced, “you have the effrontery to be alluding to my bad temper, Hawkins, I can tell you this is nothing compared to how I intend behaving once I have the strength. Ask my squire David over there lurking in the corner pretending to be deaf. He’ll inform you how good natured I invariably am. But assuredly my choleric disposition will worsen at the earliest opportunity.”

“I think,” Emeline said, “I should leave you to your rest, my lord. At least the chamber smells – most pleasant. Rosemary needles perhaps? And lavender?”

His glare returned in her direction. “It is only the Turkey rug which benefits from the strewn rosemary, my lady, and does me no good at all except, perhaps, cover the stink of piss and boiled flesh. And I must inform you I have always loathed the smell of lavender.”

Emeline hung her head, feeling almost culpable. “Then I wish you a good night’s sleep, my lord,” she managed, and backed hurriedly from the chamber.

There was nothing else to do but return reluctantly to her parent’s quarters.

Three endlessly tedious days later, Baron Wrotham regarded his daughter. “You will sit immediately, Emeline. You have been raised with a strict adherence to duty and a clear knowledge of your place in society. You are therefore not a picklebrained country simpleton and I will not have you fluttering before me in this inconsequential manner. In truth, you should be on your knees in the chapel, praying for your husband’s full recovery.”

“The chapel is burned to the ground, Papa.” Emeline reminded him, sitting quickly on the small stool at some distance from the hearth. She clasped her hands in her lap and attempted to look meek. “And so, of course, is my lord’s bedchamber, and my own temporary apartments which were also in the Keep. Which is why I have been staying in the guest quarters with you and sharing a bed with Avice. I now intend approaching his lordship – if you do not object, Papa – regarding the possibility of establishing my own chambers somewhere else, as surely I would eventually have done in any case. Separately, that is, if such a space exists – well, unless –”

“I have passed some hours in discussion with his grace this afternoon,” her father informed her. “His lordship still suffers from the results of the accident and expects to be bedridden for some days further, but he is a little recovered. Between us we came to the conclusion that, under these unexpected circumstances, you will return to Gloucestershire with me as soon as the journey may be arranged. Your husband will be unable to undertake any semblance of normal married life for some time to come, possibly months. Suitable accommodation can no longer be supplied at the castle. You will travel home with us at the earliest opportunity.”

She stared at him. “But I’m a married woman now, Papa,” she objected. “Surely I should stay with my husband? You are usually very strict about – duty, Papa, as you’ve just pointed out. Isn’t my duty here now?”

He shook his head, dismissing her. “Yes, you are legally wed, Emeline, and having passed the first night fulfilling your conjugal vows, you may rightly consider that you belong at your husband’s side. I commend you for your sensitivity. However, the earl and I are in accord. There is too much to do here, and once his lordship is able, he will return to Westminster where his presence is demanded at court.”

“I don’t see why that should affect me,” she mumbled. “Nor why he would leave when his son is so ill.”

“Your opinion is of no consequence whatsoever,” her father pointed out. “But I must tell you that the country is under a great cloud for her gracious highness Queen Anne is seriously unwell. This is of considerably greater moment than your husband’s condition or your own discomfort. Indeed, it is said the queen is gravely sick and is like to die. With no children now living to secure a peaceful continuance to the monarchy, parliament urges the king to look towards prospective alliances with the royal houses of Portugal and Spain, where marriages might be arranged with the heirs of Lancaster.” The baron sighed, as though feeling the weight of these political decisions. He continued, “Your father-in-law has evidently taken on some responsibility for these negotiations, and must therefore return to parliament as soon as possible.”