“Practical business?” she mumbled, sinking lower beneath the flush of sable bedcover.
“Is that the way you wish to see it?”
Nervous and miserable, Emeline hiccupped and did not answer. Nicholas turned at once and, striding quickly across the chamber, attended to the various sconced candles and the smaller stubs remaining lit. He snuffed each one, then loosened the chain to lower the chandelier, and killed all the little flames until the shadows loomed in deeper and deeper, swallowing every detail into darkness. Only the hearth remained bright with a scatter of simmering crimson and a sudden shooting brilliance, slanting intermittent illuminations to the painted ceiling beams, then shrinking again into black. Through the prancing spasmodic firelight, he returned to the bedside and stood looking down despondently at his new young wife. “Which,” he said, inhaling, “if we are to be ruthlessly practical, brings practical although undiplomatic questions. Without wishing to be – ungallant – I should ask you, my lady, whether in fact you are a virgin.”
Emeline squeaked, flushed, and bit her tongue. Her scowl turned to glare. She managed to say, “How – dare you!” and dragged the bed cover up to her chin.
Nicholas shrugged. “I have no objection, either way,” he said, studiously careless. “It would simply make a difference to how I take you.”
Horror became confusion and she said, “Take me? Take me where, for goodness sake? The only place I want to go is to my own bedchamber, wherever that is.”
“I was referring –” and he shrugged again, and sat once more on the edge of the bed, facing the quivering shadows within it. “I know you wanted Peter,” he continued softly. “I am sorry. In some ways, I miss him too. But now we are wed, and must make the best of it, I am ready to try – not to make you happy if that is to be impossible – but to protect you, and hopefully to make you comfortable.” He reached out one hand, but she shrank back, and he let his hand drop. “Very well,” he decided. “Perhaps, all things considered, we should leave this – business – for another day.” Then he stood slowly again, and crossed to the other side of the bed. He still wore his shirt, elaborately pleated linen long and loose over his hose. He sat beyond her sight, pulled his shirt off over his head, unlaced and tugged off his hose, swung his legs up and climbed beneath the covers. Emeline did not watch him, but felt the mattress sink, and wriggled further to the other edge. Finally, his breath warm on the back of her neck, he murmured, “I won’t disturb you. No doubt you are tired, as I am. Have they shown you where the garderobe is situated, should you need it?” She remained silent, so he continued, “I expect to be gone in the morning before you rise, so will not see you until dinner. Sleep well.” And the hushed quiet again absorbed the shadows.
She did not know she had slept until she woke much later, accepting that the headache must be a hangover, but also knowing the foul smell, and the sense of accompanying dread, were something else entirely.
Chapter Three
The grate was dark and cold, the window shutters enclosing the chamber in night. But it was fire she could smell, not the little smoky ashes remaining, but something raging and blazing beyond her sight.
Emeline sat up slowly, shifting herself carefully and trying not to disturb the unfamiliar bulk at her side. The body, visible only as a darker shadow within the shadows, reverberated gently as it breathed. There was no other movement. Emeline slipped from the bed, adjusted her crumpled shift, and stood. She tiptoed to the hearth but saw no glimmer of life, yet the stench of burning was insistent. She could not remember which door led out to the castle corridors, so leaned her cheek against the one she thought correct. The smell seemed stronger. She pulled on the handle and opened the door.
She stood there a moment, turning once, then twice. No flaming danger shattered the darkness. Wide awake now, and too alert for further sleep, she followed the winding stone walls, feeling for discovery. Her bare feet were frozen on the cold hard stone, and she could hear the little flap, slap of her hurried footsteps on the slabs. For a moment there was no other sound, and then she heard something quite different. A distant roar disturbed the silence, as of waves on a beach, very far off but of an incoming tide. Emeline stopped, listening. The echoes were louder; the stink was rank. She took one pace more and stood at the top of a stairwell, dark curved walls and steps winding down into invisible black. Then, as she peered past the newel, the black below was splashed with light and a glazed vermillion shone virulent in the depths.
Emeline turned and ran. She had left the door to the bedchamber open for easy recognition, and now raced in. Her flurry woke him and Nicholas sat up, bewildered.
“There’s a fire,” Emeline croaked, “and huge flames down the stairs.”
“I can smell it,” Nicholas said, and was already out of bed. He did not stop to dress and hurtled from the room, shouting over his shoulder, “Stay here, shut the door, and I’ll be back for you. Listen out for whatever happens.”
She promptly disobeyed. The window gave access to possible escape, but would surely be too high. Frightened of being trapped, instead she grabbed the bedrobe her maid had left for her at the foot of the bed, tugged it on, tied the sash tight and hurried back into the corridor. Still dark, still cold, the passage whispered with a wisp of invisible fumes smelling of filth and destruction. She did not go towards the narrow stairway of before, but turned left, searching for other stairs and a different escape to the ground level. The darkness remained impenetrable, but she was glad of it. Light might mean flames.
Endless doorways, doors locked, passageways lost in gloom, Emeline held to the walls for guidance but discovered no way down. She called fire, knocking on closed doors, but no one came and she ran on, losing breath, losing direction. She had no idea where Nicholas might be, and saw neither him nor anyone else. Eventually she found more steps, steep, narrow and winding, but they led only upwards.
Emeline leaned back against the wall, panting, knowing panic would only cloud her judgement and obscure her choices. But it was panic she felt and could not control. The castle was huge and as yet she had seen little of it, but knew this was the Keep, the soaring central block. Below was the grand hall, directly beneath the earl’s quarters and those of his son where she had been sleeping. This was backed by the kitchens and down again to the cellars of storage, wine and grain. The women’s and guests’ quarters where she had stayed the month before were spread throughout the castle’s vast western wing, and there her parents and sister would be housed. She knew no path to reach it, nor if the way would be open.
She was running again when she heard the screams. Emeline stopped, felt a great heave of nausea and the weakening tremble of her knees, steadied herself against the stone behind her, and listened again. She did not think herself braver than any other, or more capable, nor the best person to come if others could not help themselves. But she returned to the steps leading up, raised her hems, and raced upwards. She met flames half way up. The billows of sudden heat exploded in her face and she fell flat, her feet scrabbling for traction while slipping ever backwards.