He certainly fired her passions as she never thought possible, and she loved every minute he spent in her bed, but she still did not know him, she still did not understand him or why so many people feared him. He had shown her nothing but kindness and affection and whatever happened, Felice was determined she would not to be one of those who feared him. She did not want to live with a man she was afraid of and she had no intention of doing so.
"What are you doing today?" She asked him one morning at breakfast.
"Estate business," he replied with a frown.
"May I accompany you?"
He looked puzzled for a moment, then nodded slowly.
"Providing you can ride, My Lady," he answered. "I have no time to wait for a slow rider."
So she rode with him, all over his estate, to the tenant farms which he owned, to check on the livestock and to oversee the work of his bailiffs.
"I trust you are happy in your new home, My Lady," he said. "If there is anything more you need, you have only to ask."
"I am indeed, My Lord," she replied. "You have restored my father to his old self, and for that I thank you."
He turned to look at her and a brief smile touched his lips.
“I have to say, it is very rewarding to see a father and daughter so close.”
Their approach elicited many curtseys and bows, but no smiles. She turned to look at her husband and found he wore a stern expression, not displeased exactly but one that invited no familiarity. The eyes of the people followed him warily, as though afraid he would turn on them at any minute, and perhaps he would.
On their way to the village, Felice caught her breath at the sight of a man bent over and locked into a pillory. She reined her pony a little, not meaning to stop but reluctant to ride past the scene. Christopher slowed his horse and turned to her.
“What is wrong, My Lady?”
She shook her head then her glance caught the expression on the face of the pilloried man, hatred mingled with fear. For the first time since her marriage, she was afraid to speak, but she was not of a disposition to meekly hold her tongue.
“That man, My Lord,” she answered. “What is his crime?”
“Theft.”
“Theft of what?”
She thought perhaps he had stolen something really valuable to deserve such a harsh punishment, but Christopher seemed displeased at her questions.
“Food, My Lady,” he replied.
“Food? He must have been hungry.”
“Possibly,” he replied coldly. “But that did not give him the right to condemn his victim to hunger in his stead. He will be punished and punished so that all who see will know what happens to thieves.”
As she turned her gaze back to the condemned man, she gasped to see one of the estate bailiffs raising a whip to the captive’s back. Her heart hammered painfully and she shook her head. The man stopped with the whip raised and she turned to her husband to see him holding his hand up in a gesture which told the bailiff to halt, but she knew it was only a temporary reprieve, only to appease a squeamish young woman.
He leaned across and caught the reins of her pony, then led her away, nodding his head to the bailiff to continue once they had gone past.
“I am sorry you found that unpleasant, My Lady,” he said sternly. “But I cannot have you riding with me if you are going to show your distress in such a blatant manner. People will believe they have nothing to fear from me if my wife is present. The choice is yours.”
She cast down her eyes and turned her face away.
“Forgive me, My Lord,” she replied. “Perhaps I had best stay in the castle in the future.”
“I am at a loss to understand your reaction. You must have led a sheltered life. On many estates the penalty for theft would be for the thief to have his hand cut off, often even both hands. A whipping is lenient in comparison.”
Felice stared at him, wondering if he spoke the truth or if he was trying to frighten her for some reason of his own. His expression gave nothing away.
“Do you speak the truth, My Lord?” She asked.
He nodded.
“Why would I lie about such a thing?”
“Then why do you not do that here? I heard you were harsher than most.”
He laughed then, a cynical sort of laugh.
“The man works my land, he lines my purse with his work. He would be of little use to me disabled in such a way. I have never understood why any man would want to incapacitate his own workers.”
*** .
At last they came to the village and as they rode through the centre among the little wattle and daub cottages, a woman stopped her work to stare after them, that same woman who watched as they emerged from the church on their wedding day. She stood and stared at them, a bitter line on her mouth. Felice turned to look at her husband, to see his reaction, but he was looking straight ahead and seemed not to have noticed. He was still angry about her reaction to the man condemned as a thief, that was obvious.
"Who is that woman, My Lord?" Felice asked him impulsively, knowing she probably should not. She had a good idea of who she was, but she wanted the rumour either confirmed or denied.
Christopher glanced across the village square and as soon as he did so, the woman picked up her basket and scurried back inside her cottage. Christopher scowled.
"Just a peasant woman who lives in the village," he replied. "Why do you ask?"
She knew he was lying and, given his mood, she feared an argument, so she merely shrugged.
"No reason," she replied and was relieved that he took the conversation no further.
After supper that evening, he saddled his horse and rode to the village, no doubt to see his peasant family and tell his peasant mistress to be more careful.
***
Felice made no further requests to ride with her husband. She was afraid of what horrors she might encounter and she did not expect him to grant her request. She saw his anger that day for the first time and had no wish to see it again. She had little to do save embroidery and exploring the castle and grounds. She would have liked to be more help to her husband, prove to him that she was capable of being a companion as well as a wife, but she was given little chance to do so. She saw him at breakfast, at supper and in bed, but he never stayed. She wanted to change that, but she did not quite know how. Was it normal for a man to sleep apart from his wife? As her father had been a widower since Felice was a child, she had no real way of knowing and she was a little afraid of saying anything that might make him think her too forward. Yet he made no objection to her passion, did he? In fact, he liked it, enjoyed it. He said so. It was so complicated and for the first time she realised how useful a mother would be. She certainly could not ask her father these things.
Felice looked hopefully for signs of conception, but she could not be sure. After that first time he had gone into the village in the evening, it became a regular thing, although he did not go every night. She was sure he was visiting the peasant family that Thomas told her of, and she wanted very much to ask him about it, but she did not dare. There was something about him, about his demeanour, that she found intimidating, even though he had shown her nothing but kindness. Perhaps it was the way everyone else looked at him, with fear in their eyes, that made her feel this way, but whatever it was, she did not want to cause his temper to flare.
She felt a little jealous when she thought of him going to be with another woman, peasant though she was. She had no idea if he went only to visit his children, which was a natural thing for a father to do, or if he also went to spend time with their mother. If the relationship had born fruit and was still going on, the woman must mean something to him. He had a wife now, a wife who would willingly do anything he wanted, a wife whose passion matched his own. There could be only two explanations as far as Felice could see: he did something with his peasant he had no wish to inflict upon his wife, or he went to see his children. The first made her hate this unknown woman; the second made her une
asy as she had not yet conceived herself and she feared his reaction if it did not happen. Her mind could not forget a rough, wooden cross in the paupers' section of the churchyard.
There was always a chill in the castle; the stone trapped the cold and damp from outside where the rain splattered against the walls and the wind howled around the turrets. In this new part there was some shelter from the elements once the wooden shutters were closed, but Felice had still retired early to bed to bury herself beneath fur covers and keep warm. What she really wanted was Christopher to have retired early with her, if only to share his warmth, but he was away in the village with his Saxon peasant woman and her children and she would not lower herself to ask him to forsake her company for her own. She wanted him to choose for himself, and she wanted him to choose his wife.
The year was moving on and it was getting close to the Feast days leading up to Christmas. She had settled into a comfortable routine with Christopher, perhaps because she had so far meekly accepted everything he did, had not even asked questions. She thought it best to get to know him a little better first, although she saw so little of him that was proving to be a difficult task.
He was obviously a man who expected his wife to obey him and not to question any decision he might make. That was the normal way of things, she supposed, and she had no objection to that. But was it right that he kept another woman and shared her bed, while his wife had nothing to say about it? Once more she wished for a mother to ask about these things.
Once she followed him, slowly and at a distance and terrified he might see her. She wondered what he would do if he did; how furious would he be if she was caught following him, spying on him? She watched him go into the little cottage where he would spend an hour or so before returning to the castle and to her bed.
The few weeks since her marriage had flown past. She had everything she could possibly want, new clothes, a beautiful home and a husband who so far had treated her only kindly, except that one time she showed her dislike of his method of punishment. She should not have questioned his decisions; how he treated criminals was his own affair, even minor criminals, and there were worse punishments.
That was the only time she saw a reason for his diabolic reputation and it was really no different from most men in his position.
She had no idea if her husband would join her that night, whether he would want to bed her when he returned before retiring to his own chamber. He always did. Since their marriage, he had not missed a night of making love to her and it was something she began to look forward to.
She knew he had likely found satisfaction with his peasant already that night, but that had never stopped him before. She wanted to sleep but it was yet early and she did not want to be woken only to be used. Far better to stay awake and pretend he came for her sake, not for his own selfish reasons.
The rustling in the vines beneath the balcony made little impression on her, as the wind had caused such rustling many times that evening, but the sound of someone landing on the balcony floor made her sit up and look toward the window. She stared at the closed shutters nervously, wondering how well they would hold against an intruder determined to break through and what? Rob her? Rape her? But he would have to be a very brave man to break into Waterford Castle, surely.
The voice which followed the sound was familiar and made her heart race, but not with the anticipation her visitor would have liked. Her heart raced with fear, fear of being discovered by the lord of this place.
She swung her legs out of the bed and hurried to the balcony, shivering as the chill of the night crept inside her silk chemise. She opened the shutter just a crack, just enough to peer through and see her former betrothed shivering outside.
"Thomas, what are you doing here?" She demanded angrily.
He was the last person she wanted to see; indeed, if she never saw him again it would be too soon.
"I had to see you," he whispered urgently, as he pulled the wooden shutter fully open. "I have missed you. Have you missed me?”
“No.”
He grinned as though he did not believe her, and in his conceit he likely did not.
“I have a plan,” he went on. “Your father is free of debt now. Lord Christopher has rescued him, has given him funds with which to live as he is accustomed. He can hardly take it all back, can he? There is no longer a reason for you to stay with him."
She could scarcely believe what she was hearing. Would he never go away, never understand what loyalty meant? The idea of betraying the man who had rescued them was detestable to her and she was disgusted that Thomas would think it an acceptable plan. Even disregarding what she owed him, Felice would have chosen Christopher over Thomas without a second thought.
"No reason at all," she agreed cynically, "except he is my husband and I vowed before God to be loyal to him."
"We can run away," he persisted. "I have enough funds for that. No one will ever know who we are."
"Please leave me, Thomas. I will not even discuss such a proposal. I am Lord Christopher's wife. I made vows and I shall keep them. Now go, and please do not return. You are putting us both in danger yet you will not accept that I have no wish to be with you."
"Are you happy then with him?"
She had to give that question some thought before she answered. Happiness was such an elusive emotion and no, she was not happy, but neither was she unhappy. She was content with her lot. She did not think she loved Lord Christopher, but then she never expected to. He did know how to satisfy her needs, how to make her feel special even when she knew well she was no such thing. He treated her with respect and she could ask for nothing more.
"I am content," she replied. "He is a volatile man and I would not wish to rouse his anger, but I am more satisfied than I would be with you."
"You are only saying that so I will leave," he replied sulkily.
She sighed impatiently.
"No, that is not the case," she assured him. "I have grown fond of him. I am content with him and I do not want to spoil that, so please go, before he returns."
That is when she heard the sound of a cantering horse and moved onto the balcony to look across the fields and see her husband's huge bay stallion getting closer. She turned worriedly, realising that the candles which lit up the chamber behind her would show her clearly from the outside, show them both clearly from the outside. But when she turned back to urge Thomas once more to leave, she found the balcony empty. He had gone, fled into the night like the coward he was, leaving her to face her husband alone. And he thought she loved him? She was disgusted with him.
CHAPTER FOUR
A Reputation Well Earned
The time Christopher spent with his peasant mistress was becoming shorter and shorter since his marriage. When he was with her, all he could think of was his wife and how quickly he could get back to her. He had always been content with Immeth, always enjoyed his evenings in her bed, but since he had known Felice, he could no longer relax with her and he realised his wife gave him something his peasant never could. She gave him her whole self, body, soul and mind and held nothing back. Her desire for him was something he never thought a woman to be capable of and he could not wait to be in her arms.
He felt uncomfortable with these feelings. He did not trust women and never had, which is one reason he chose a peasant as his mistress. She was not going to betray him; she would not dare. He had no desire to put his trust in any woman, particularly not one of Felice's background, the noble daughter of an earl with her own pride and standards, a woman as free with her opinions as any woman was entitled to be.
He had not yet decided to give up his peasant, but he was certainly considering it. As he rode back to his castle that evening, his mind filled with the disappointment of the past hour and anticipation of his wife's warm bed, he saw the figure climbing down the vine which grew against the castle wall. He saw the light in the window and recognised Felice, emerging from the chamber and looking down towards the figure as he fled
into the night. As Christopher drew closer, he recognised the intruder as the man to whom his wife was once betrothed.
He had always had a fragile and murderous temper, yet during the weeks since his marriage, he had seen little of it. Now he felt the familiar rage growing inside, made worse by his wounded pride. He had been looking forward to spending time with Felice, to feeling her warmth and her passion, and now he found another had been there before him this night, she had already given that warmth and passion to another man. He recalled his brief conversation with his servant, Howard, on his wedding day when he had told him he would make quite sure his wife was faithful.
He was enraged enough to kill, first her, then her lover. He would have no hesitation in going after the Viscount and putting an end to his miserable existence, but Felice was his and he did not want to kill her. He married her for an heir and now he would have to wonder, should she conceive, if she carried his child or this other man's. He could not live with that doubt, that betrayal; it only proved his opinion of women in general.
Felice would be confined to the castle until he knew for certain she was not yet with child. He would not be made a fool of and his wife needed to learn that particular lesson. He would make quite sure she never betrayed him again.
He kicked his horse on faster and rode toward the drawbridge just as he saw from the corner of his eye, his wife closing the shutters. No doubt she believed she had not been seen; she was wrong, as she would soon learn. She would also learn that her husband did not earn his violent reputation by being merciful.
***
Felice watched for a few more minutes, saw her husband ride across the drawbridge below and into the castle and felt what was becoming an accustomed thrill of anticipation. But tonight, because of Thomas, she would have to first explain what he was doing here, had to convince Christopher she had done nothing to encourage him. She was certain he had seen and she could only hope he would believe her. She shuddered to think what he would do if he did not.
PESTILENCE: The Scent of Roses Page 4