PESTILENCE: The Scent of Roses

by Margaret Brazear

  "I love you," she whispered softly.

  Her words delighted him, made him feel he was the luckiest man alive, and she had said them spontaneously, without prompting. They had come from her heart and he was more than grateful. He folded her up in his arms and kissed her passionately, wanting to bury himself in her warm, smooth flesh, wanting so much to echo her beautiful words, but unable to say them while his mind was filled with Immeth and her stricken face when he said goodbye.

  ***

  Felice gave her little son his first feed whilst waiting for Christopher to choose a wet nurse. She would have been happy to carry on doing so, but it was not seemly for a countess and her husband was anxious to return to a more intimate relationship. She could not deny that gave her pleasure; she half expected him to neglect his duty in that direction once he had a son. After all, he still had his peasant to satisfy his needs.

  Felice wanted more than anything for him to give the woman up. She thought a lot about asking him to do so, but she remembered his reaction the last time she asked him about her, and she wanted no further proof that he loved the woman. All that was achieved by that was more heartache.

  He returned to her bed a few weeks after the birth and she was relieved to know that her feelings for him had not changed. She still wanted him, still ached for him, still needed the fulfilment only he could give her.

  The summer began to die and she watched for any sign that the birth of their son, of an heir, might separate him from his Saxon peasant woman. He did not go to her every night, but still he went to her, although Felice had noticed he went earlier and was never gone for long. It was as though he went only to check on her wellbeing, and perhaps he did. But if that was the case, why not tell her? Was he really so proud and self centred he could not guess what that would mean to her? She did not believe he was, so she had to conclude he was still intimate with Immeth and Felice was fooling herself to think anything else. She knew well she would have to learn to live with it and hope not to be jealous.

  Her baby son took up a lot of her time now. Despite employing two nurses as well as the wet nurse, Felice liked to tend to the child herself even if it was not seemly for a countess. He fascinated her; he was a complete and perfect little person, a little man who already resembled his father and she was sure he would grow to be just as handsome, just as strong and just as irresistible. She harboured a secret hope that he would not grow to be quite as fearsome.

  Christopher seemed pleased his wife wanted to be a full time mother to their son, and she was surprised by that.

  “I rather expected you to object,” she told him hesitantly.

  “Really? Why on earth should I?”

  “I thought you might feel it beneath your countess to care for her baby full time.”

  They sat in their bedchamber on the settle and he reached across to kiss her gently.

  “I find it enchanting that you want to be a mother to our son,” he told her. “I find everything about you enchanting.”

  His assurance pleased her, but if he spoke the truth, why did he not give up the peasant woman? Why was it enchanting for her to be a full time mother, but not for him to be a full time husband?

  She was still curious about the woman. As a Norman noblewoman she naturally felt herself superior to Immeth, and she sometimes thought a mistress of his own class might be easier for her to accept. She would always wonder just what her husband saw in the woman, that he had committed to her for so many years and refused to give her up, even now. It was demeaning to Felice to be unable to compete for his affections with a peasant who had little to commend her as far as she could see.

  Despite having seen her, learned what she looked like and what her children looked like, she perilously began to let her curiosity eat away at her until one night she decided to do what she had promised him she would never do again: she would spy on him. She knew where the woman lived but this night she wanted to see how she greeted him, how they greeted each other. She wanted to see how tightly he held her in his arms, how passionately he kissed her. She even wanted to see if she gave him as much satisfaction as Felice did, if she could peep through the window opening without being seen. She also wanted to see how long he spent with Immeth, as it seemed his visits were getting shorter.

  Was Immeth in love with him too? Or did she allow him to use her because of his position? Perhaps she would rather he left her alone and if she would, if she could persuade her to admit that to him, Felice would be prepared to ask him to give her up. She questioned how he would react to such a request, whether he would do that much for her, for his wife, for the mother of his legitimate heir. It would be worth risking his anger if it meant she would have her husband to herself and perhaps he would fall in love with her, as she had with him.

  These thoughts ran through her mind as she watched him ride away, then donned her cloak and boots and set out on foot towards the village.

  She gave little thought as to what she would do when she reached the cottage. She could not risk showing herself whilst Lord Christopher was with his mistress, even if they were only talking. He would be furious with her and she shuddered at the very idea of what he might do. He had been angry enough when she only asked about the woman, God knew what he would do if she interrupted their meeting.

  She just wanted to observe, to watch their interaction and see for herself how he treated his Saxon, whether he treated her with more tenderness than he did Felice. She was treading on dangerous ground to follow him, and she knew it, but she could not spend another evening at home, alone and hurt, and wondering what he was doing with her while his wife waited for him in her bed.

  It was growing dark, but there was still enough moonlight to see. She walked slowly all the way to the village, as she did not want to be heard. Lord Christopher rode at a walking pace too, far ahead of her, and that was unusual in itself. Usually he cantered or at least trotted, but this night he seemed reluctant to get there.

  Felice was also reluctant to get there. She cursed herself for starting out on this journey, for what good would it do? Why did she feel the need to torment herself by seeing them together, seeing the love her lord had for his peasant, love which should be hers? And why could she not find the will to turn round and return to the castle?

  ***

  It had been some three weeks since Lord Christopher told Immeth their relationship was over, but still he came back two or three times a week, just to be sure she was keeping herself well and fed. He was arrogant enough to believe the shock of the relationship ending might prove too much for her, though she had never said so, but her words that night resounded in his mind. The fact that she believed him callous had distressed him, much to his surprise, and he wanted to keep a watch over her welfare to prove her wrong.

  He believed Immeth loved him, yet it never occurred to him that his continuing visits might distress her, might give her hope that he would return to her. He thought only of himself, of his own needs, of what would ease his own conscience and make him feel better. It never occurred to him that she would find it easier to get over him if he left her alone.

  During those weeks Felice would watch him as he left the castle, that same hurt look in her eyes, and he secretly longed for her to try to stop him. She had only to ask him not to go, and he would have told her his physical relationship with Immeth had ended, that he had ended it when their son was conceived. But she said nothing, just kissed him goodbye and watched him leave with that same resignation in her beautiful eyes, in her whole demeanour.

  His wife was afraid of him, afraid to tell him what he really wanted to hear lest his temper flared. Each night during those weeks, he made love to Felice and they found such pleasure in each other it was almost painful.

  That night he did not want to visit Immeth, but he knew he must. He did not seek out Felice to kiss her goodbye because he was afraid the gesture would keep him from his goal. It was going to be the last night, the last time he would see her. He made up his mind whil
e he watched with wonder the way his wife cared for their baby son, the joy she gleaned from caring for him, and he wondered if his own mother had ever done this for him. And his wife, his Felice, told him she loved him. Those words had echoed in his mind for all of these three weeks, and now he knew that he wanted more than anything to be able to say them back to her, those three little words he had been unable to return because of Immeth, because his mind was filled with the hurt in her eyes when he said goodbye to her.

  He was full of guilt about what Immeth told him, that he had been using her for years, that she did not know him at all. And she was right; he had used her, he had taken her whenever it suited him. He had told himself the choice was hers, that he had not forced her, and now for the first time he was realising that was not the case. Of course he had forced her. He owned her, she had no right to refuse her Lord anything he asked of her and he only wondered why he never realised that before. He had as good as raped her and had never realised it.

  He did not even look at her babies when they were born, neither did he care if they were male or female. They were her children, not his, nothing to do with him.

  It had to end, and it had to end now. She no longer kept a candle in the window opening for him, as she no longer expected to see him there and if she did, she did not welcome him. So it came as no surprise that night to find the cottage in darkness as he approached, the shutters closed, but he hesitated. He heard children's voices from within, which was odd. The children were always asleep by now, or he would not have come. As he dismounted and tied up his horse, he heard the boy's voice calling for his mother.

  Lord Christopher knew what a devoted mother Immeth was and he knew she would not have left them alone, so why was Joseph calling out for her? He approached the cottage and opened the door just enough to peep through. He did not want the children to see him, but there was no help for it when he saw the body of his mistress lying on the dirt floor, while her children tried in vain to wake her.

  He took a step inside the cottage, leaving the door open, and knelt beside Immeth. He felt at her wrist for a pulse but there was none and her flesh was cold. Her eyes held the lacklustre of death.

  "Sir?" Joseph said fearfully. "Is my mother dead?"

  Christopher could hear in his mind the child's unspoken plea: please tell me my mother is not dead. He could not comply. He nodded and the boy put his arms around his father's neck, not knowing who this man was but needing comfort from someone. Christopher gave him a quick hug then stood up. He took a cover from the bed and laid it over Immeth's dead face, before lighting a candle.

  His eyes moved from one child to the other, and he wondered how he could look at them, at their bereft little faces, and feel nothing. What the hell was wrong with him? Was he some sort of monster, that he could not even comfort his own children in the worst moment of their young lives? The little girl stood with her thumb in her mouth, sucking at it frantically, as if to stop might mean the end of her; the little boy stared at him expectantly, as though his life was in the hands of this tall stranger.

  Finally he took the hands of both children and led them outside and toward the next cottage along, where lived Immeth's sister, but half way there he glanced toward the castle and stopped to catch his breath in shock. In the light from the full moon he saw his wife, standing and watching him. She was too far away for him to see her expression, but not so far that he could fail to recognise her. After a few minutes, while his thoughts raced, he began to walk again, pulling the children along with him.

  He knocked on the rotting wooden door of Edith’s cottage and she opened it, looking so much like her sister he almost believed he had made a mistake, that his former mistress was not lying dead on the floor of her little home.

  "My Lord?" She said, her eyes moving quickly from him and down to the children.

  "Your sister is dead," he told her. "Please take her children. You are all they have now."

  Edith gave him a look of pure hatred as the children ran past her and into the waiting arms of their uncle. He knew what she was thinking. She was not all they had; they had a father, but he did not feel like their father and he wanted nothing to do with them.

  He slipped a purse of silver coins into Edith's hand.

  "To pay for the funeral," he said, "and the children's keep. I will send more for the children when that runs out."

  "My Lord," she protested nervously, turning quickly to be sure the children were not listening. They were safely tucked in the lap of her husband, sobbing their hearts out. "The children need you."

  A flash of anger crossed his face and she stepped back, her eyes round with fear.

  "They do not know who I am," he told her, "and I would like to keep it that way. It will do them no good to know their father is an earl."

  Then he turned away and returned to the cottage next door. Darkness was falling now and as he went, he turned his head to look at the silhouette of his wife, in time to see her turn and run back to the castle. His heart filled with despair but he hurried on his way to lift the cover from Immeth's face.

  Her complexion was slightly yellow, a fact he had not noticed before, and he began to wonder what sort of poison would turn a woman's skin to yellow. For he had no doubt she had been poisoned, neither had he any doubt as to who the poisoner might be.

  ***

  Lord Christopher scooped the body of his peasant mistress up into his arms and laid it gently on the bed. He spread a fur cover over her and as he did so, he caught at a sob that tried to escape his throat. That sob was not for Immeth; that sob was for himself, not for what he had lost, but for what he was about to lose.

  He did not need to convince himself that his wife had poisoned his mistress; he knew it to be true and he also knew that had he told Felice his relationship with his peasant had ended, it would never have happened. Those children would still have their mother, and Christopher would still have his hope of a future, would still have his wife. He had lost it all because he was too proud to tell Felice he had given up his mistress for her.

  Just when he had found love, just as he was putting everything in place to be able to tell her his feelings, to begin a life together, it was all about to collapse.

  ***

  Felice watched her husband go inside the dark cottage and leave the door open. She assumed Immeth had gone out somewhere, since the place was so dark, and she was pleased. At least he would not be able to bed the woman tonight; Felice would have his full attention when he returned to the castle and to her. But as she watched the candle was eventually lit, and her heart jumped as she saw through the open doorway a body lying on the floor. She thought the woman had fainted until Christopher moved away and she saw the cover over her face.

  She wanted desperately to turn and run away, but she was mesmerised, needing to know what Christopher would do now. Would he bring his children back to the castle? Would she be expected to share her home with them? She would do it, if it was what he wanted, if it would please him. She imagined comforting him as he mourned his loss in her arms.

  After a few moments, he came out, holding the hands of a small boy and a small girl, one either side, and began to walk to the cottage next door. Her heart leapt when he stopped and glanced her way but she breathed a sigh of relief as he carried on walking. The door was opened by a woman who looked remarkably like Immeth, and he pushed the children inside.

  Felice could not hear what was said, but she could see the woman was arguing with him, which seemed a brave thing to do. Then she watched as her husband went back into Immeth's cottage for a few minutes, the candle was snuffed out and he emerged, shutting the door firmly behind him.

  Of all the nights she could have chosen to follow him, why did it have to be this one? Was this some cruel joke on the part of the Almighty? Her instinct was to run to him, to comfort him, but she knew he would be furious with her for following him and even more furious that he had lost his peasant. He might even genuinely grieve for the woman; he certainl
y seemed to care for her.

  She almost ran up the stone stairs and across the walkway to the castle house, beginning to pant as she gasped for breath and feeling the perspiration gathering in her collar and under her arms.

  Inside her chamber, she poured wine and sat on the edge of the bed to calm herself while she listened for her husband's approach and prayed his grief at the loss of Immeth would swallow up his anger because she had followed him. The liquid splashed over her fingers as her hand shook and she had to hold it steady with her left one. She glanced down at her wrist, which still bore a thin scar from the damage done the last time he felt betrayed.

  He would be enraged that she had followed him, and her heart hammered painfully. She feared his rage, it was pointless to deny it. Last time she had escaped because she was innocent and she knew it well enough to sow seeds of doubt in his mind. This time she was guilty and she would not escape so easily.

  Genuine affection had stolen into their relationship since the birth of their son and she cursed herself for spoiling that. She wanted the woman out of his life and now it seemed she had her wish, but as she sat sipping the wine, she wondered what had happened to her. She had seen her once or twice as she rode about and she noticed her skin was somewhat yellow and she looked ill. She would have mentioned it to Christopher, had she not feared his reaction, that he might think she had been deliberately following her about.

  She was surprised to hear his footsteps plodding up the stairs, almost as though he was reluctant to reach the top. He did not throw open the door, as she had expected, but opened it quietly and stood and stared down at her, his eyes filled with so much dismay she wanted to reach out and comfort him.