PESTILENCE: The Scent of Roses

by Margaret Brazear

  "I have just discovered Immeth's children," he said, "clinging to their mother's dead body and trying to wake her."

  She knew she was no good at pretence, but she thought it safer to try.

  "Immeth?" She stood up quickly. "Immeth is dead? What happened?"

  He could easily tell her surprise was feigned. He frowned at her, disbelief clearly showing in his eyes.

  "Are you saying you do not know?"

  Why should he think she knew? She thought he had seen her watching him and now she was certain, but what made him think she might know what killed the woman?

  "Me? Why should I know? You surely do not think I had anything to do with her death?"

  "Why not? I saw you, watching to see what my reaction would be. I saw you running away after you poisoned her."

  Poisoned? She could only stare at him; this was the very last thing she was expecting. Her hand shook again and wine spilled out over her fingers. Whoever had poisoned Immeth, Felice knew it was not her but while no one else would likely have a motive, she felt the walls of her world disintegrating around her. She stood up, her legs shaking so much she could barely stand, and she took a few steps to stand before him.

  "No!" She cried. "Why would I do such a thing? She was no threat to me."

  He watched her quietly for a few moments, his eyes moving rapidly over her, taking in the dampness of her shoes, the little beads of perspiration that lingered about her forehead. His eyes scrutinised her, making her feel uncomfortable and wanting to leave, but she knew he would not allow it.

  "You told me you loved me,” he said. “You wanted to be the only woman in my life, I see that, but I ended my relationship with Immeth after the birth of our son. Indeed, I have not shared her bed since you told me you had conceived. I have continued to visit to be sure she was well and caring for herself and her children."

  He always referred to them as her children, never his or even theirs. He felt no sense of duty toward them; he was completely detached as though they were nothing to do with him. Felice had always been quite glad of that but now, for the first time, she realised how cold it was, how cold he was.

  "I did not know that, My Lord," she said. "I wish you had told me."

  "As do I,” he agreed in a mournful tone. “I was too proud; I thought it demeaning to have to explain my actions to anyone, even you. I take part of the responsibility. Had I told you, you would likely have spared her."

  She was afraid now, as she could see he was convinced of her guilt, but his words made her angry. How dare he think her capable of such a thing?

  "I wish you had told me,” she said, “to save me the utter humiliation, the desolation of watching my husband ride away at night to be with another woman. Is that such a strange thing to wish?"

  He paused and stared at her once more, his eyes moving over her, trying to decide her fate. At last he went on.

  "I went there tonight because you told me you loved me and I felt ashamed that I could not return your sentiments. I wanted to, I really did, but it felt wrong to tell you of my feelings while Immeth was still a part of my life. I went to tell her I would not be back, that she would never see me again, and that is what I found."

  "I am sorry, My Lord, but I know nothing. I swear it."

  "Then why were you there?" His voice rose at last.

  "I was curious, I confess. I wanted to know what the attraction was that you would still be seeing her after all this time, despite my having given you a legitimate son."

  He frowned at her for a few moments and when he spoke again, she knew he did not believe her, that she may as well have saved her pride and kept quiet.

  "She was a harmless peasant woman. She loved me and this is the thanks she got."

  Felice turned away as she felt those treacherous tears gathering. She had been afraid because she had followed him, and he knew she had followed him, but now she was offended that he thought she might have put an end to the life of that innocent woman. Her pride rose up to defend her, just as it had before when falsely accused and she could not help but antagonise him.

  "Loved you?" She said defiantly. "How can you be sure? As you say, she was a harmless peasant woman, uneducated and illiterate. She had nothing except the favours you chose to bestow on her when the mood took you. She was hardly going to refuse the great Lord Christopher, was she?"

  "You believe she did not love me?"

  "You will never know will you? You will never know if she gave herself to you because she had little choice, because she feared the consequences if she refused. She may have been relieved to know you had tired of her."

  She was only telling him what he had earlier suspected for himself, but hearing it spoken aloud made it more real. That fragile temper flared up and showed in his eyes, in his clenched fists and she thought for a moment that he might strike her.

  "You did not have to kill her," he shouted.

  She sighed deeply, wearily. Had he not listened to a single word she said? He had, as always, made up his mind that he was right and nothing she said would change that. It was pointless even trying, but she had more to say. She was hurt, yes, but she was also insulted that he thought so little of her.

  "If I were going to kill a woman," she told him wearily, "I would not leave her dead body to be discovered by her own innocent children. If you think me that callous then do as you wish. I cannot stop you."

  She stopped talking, trying to swallow the hurt, trying not to say too much. She had seen nothing of his famous temper since she told him he was to be a father, but his earlier treatment of her was vivid in her memory and made her fearful again. Still she could not hold her tongue; she would not be meek for him.

  "What will it be this time?" She demanded. "This is too serious for a mere flogging, I imagine. Will you have me hanged this time?"

  Her words were said in anger; she hoped they might make him think twice about what he accused her of. She had not thought for one moment there might be any truth in them.

  "As soon as I gather enough evidence," he answered sadly, "there will be a trial. If found guilty, you will hang."

  Her hands flew up to cover her mouth as her stomach quivered with fear. She felt she might be physically sick and tears sprang to her eyes, tears of fear and of betrayal. As the Earl and Lord, he was the law in his own territory. Any trial which took place, for any crime, was judged by him and it was his decision as to the penalty. There were many punishments from which he could choose, but he had chosen death and chosen it without a moment's hesitation. He had his son, his heir; he had no further need of a wife. He could find some other peasant to satisfy his needs. He would have her hanged, when only last night they had shared such tenderness, such love. She no longer felt defiant; now she felt defeated, that nothing mattered any more.

  "Why do you always think the worst of me?" She asked in a voice that quaked. "Have I not shown you I am faithful? Have I not shown you I am a good wife? I thought I could break through that barrier of yours, but I see I was wrong." Then she shrugged and took a deep breath of despair, swallowed the last of her wine and wished she had some poison for herself to mix with it. She had no words left with which to plead and she felt nothing was worth the effort any way. "Do what you like," she said wearily. "I am beyond caring."

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet; she flinched away, certain he intended to strike her, but he only looked sad.

  "What poison did you use?" He demanded.

  She shook her head and spoke through captured tears.

  "If you honestly believe I would kill an innocent mother, just to have you to myself, you overestimate your attraction."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  No More Roses

  That night Felice slept alone. She lay awake for hours, thinking about the love she had shared with Christopher, thinking about his gentleness, his passion, missing him and yearning for his touch. And feeling completely betrayed.

  She recalled every word of his accusation, every expression on h
is handsome features and wondered how it was possible he could think her capable of poisoning an innocent peasant woman. Did he not know her at all? Yes, she had been jealous, yes she had wanted her out of his life, but not like this.

  He told Felice he found her enchanting, found everything about her enchanting. Was that a lie? And for what purpose? She should never have told him she loved him; then he might not have found a motive in her.

  Surely he would think about what he accused her of, reconsider, realise he spoke out of grief and shock. Did he not know her well enough to know she could never have done such a thing? She cried herself to sleep eventually, feeling the injustice of being falsely accused once more, and feeling worse because both the crimes he accused her of were such that her conscience, her morality would never have allowed. Just what sort of Jezebel did he think she was? Perhaps, like Jezebel, he would set wild dogs to eat her.

  One of the servants came in the morning with her breakfast and helped her to dress. It was not usual to have breakfast in her bedchamber and Felice thought perhaps Christopher sent her meal by way of apology, as a peace offering. He realised his mistake and he missed her as she missed him. She smiled as she bit into the bread.

  These servants were strangers to her; she had never seen any of them before. That was unusual, as she had got used to having the same one help her each day. Perhaps she was ill or something.

  "Did His Lordship say he would come himself?" She asked the maidservant.

  "No, My Lady," she answered. "He was on his way out and said I was to bring your breakfast."

  Of course, he would not show his feelings to that extent, would never tell a servant his intentions; it was not his way. She finished her breakfast and sat while the maidservant began to brush her hair, but when she turned to choose a rose from the vase to crush into her hairbrush, she was surprised to find them nearly dead. She stood up and walked to the door, but the servant stepped in front of her, obviously embarrassed.

  "Forgive me, My Lady," she said nervously, lowering her eyes to look at the floor. "His Lordship left orders that you were not to leave your chamber."

  "Sorry?"

  "Please, My Lady," she replied. "I am but passing on the message."

  The door opened and Felice looked over the maid's shoulder, expecting and hoping to see her husband, but more servants entered, another woman and two men, one of them carrying a large, wooden travelling box.

  The woman opened the chest and began to take out her clothes and pack them into the box.

  "What are you doing?" She demanded.

  "His Lordship told us to pack your box, My Lady," the maidservant answered. "We are to go with you to his manor house near Colchester."

  Colchester? She did not know he had a manor house there. It was some ten miles away. She sank down on to the bed and bit her lips. She was not going to lower herself to ask more questions of the servants.

  When they had gone, she opened the door, intending to go downstairs and find Christopher, clear up this misunderstanding once and for all, but she was met with a fearsome looking manservant who stood guard outside the door.

  "Is His Lordship in the castle?" She asked him.

  "I am sorry, My Lady," he replied. "I believe he went out very early. I have no idea where he has gone or when he will return. I was only told to keep watch over you and be sure you got to Shepton safely."

  As she returned to her chamber she looked once more at the vases of dying roses; no new ones had been brought up to replace them. She felt sure the dying flowers were some sort of portent, a harbinger proclaiming her own dying future. It was over. The love they were just beginning to find for each other, the passion, the happiness; all gone, never to return.

  The girl had said they were to go with her to Colchester. She knew none of them, but she assumed each one had been selected because they had no family here in the village. They were free to stay away, to guard Lady Felice like a common prisoner, and servants she did not know at all would be less likely to help her escape.

  He was not even going to allow her to say goodbye to her baby son.

  The day was chilly as autumn drew in and Felice recalled last autumn when she had sat on her father's porch, listening to the tales of horror brought to her by Viscount Lindsay, tales she had tried to disregard. Her husband had never hurt her, although he had certainly threatened to, and although she feared him she still believed him to be a just man. When he found she had not killed his peasant, would he come and fetch her back? And if he did, would she want to come? But he did not look for evidence of her innocence, he searched only for proof of her guilt.

  As she stepped into the waiting carriage, she was well aware that these servants knew she was leaving in disgrace and that knowledge embarrassed her. She suddenly thought of her father and stopped.

  "I need to get a message to my father," she told the man who was handing her into the wooden carriage. "He will worry."

  "It has already been done, My Lady," he replied stiffly. "Lord Christopher sent a servant to Lord Sutton just a few minutes ago."

  Just a few minutes ago, so he would not have time to come and rescue her. That meant her husband had returned, he was in the castle or close by, and had no wish to see her. So be it; she would not beg.

  She drew herself up, straightened her back and tried to adopt the demeanour of the proud noblewoman she was, but she had the greatest difficulty in forming her words.

  "Do you know what he has been told?" She asked, wishing she did not have to.

  "I do not, My Lady."

  Her eyes met his and held his gaze until he looked away, uneasily. Was she to believe him? She would not ask again, not a servant. It was beneath her dignity and it was unfair to him. Eventually, she climbed into the carriage and tucked her skirts in around her as she sat down on the hard wooden seat. The memory drifted across her mind of a bouquet of white roses, wrapped in cloth of gold, waiting on this same carriage seat for Lord Christopher's bride.

  She turned her face away from the two maids who sat opposite her, neither speaking, not to their mistress nor to each other. It would be an uncomfortable journey, in more ways than one.

  ***

  Lord Christopher watched the carriage until it was no more than a black spot on the horizon, then he turned away from the window and closed the shutters, feeling like a coward for not wanting to oversee his wife's departure, for not having the courage to face her. He was afraid that she would beg him for mercy, she would persuade him not to prosecute her. He was afraid that the sight of her beauty would remind him too vividly of the many nights of passion he had spent in her arms, would make him yearn for her, make him forget his duty and responsibility to his underlings. And he was devastated by this turn of events.

  He had just begun to love her, just begun to trust her, and now he was hurt and angry that she had proven herself no better than any other woman. After the whore, his first wife whose name he never mentioned even in thought, he did not want to trust any woman, but he had broken his own rule and let his guard down for Felice. Now he felt both angry and humiliated and last night, lying alone in the bed he had not occupied for so long, he missed her. He missed her warmth, he missed her passion, and he missed her sweet smell. And each time he dozed off to sleep, he heard her voice clearly, as though she were speaking in his ear, as though she were still lying beside him: I love you.

  Had she lied? Or did she love him so much she killed Immeth out of jealousy? And if she did, was he partially to blame for that? He could have told his wife he had given up his peasant mistress, but he chose not to. Why? Was it because his own ego got in the way of doing the right thing, his own ego made him think he could do as he pleased and it was none of her affair? Or was he waiting for her to ask him to give her up? All he knew was that his brief glimpse into a world where he could be happy, a world where a woman told him she loved him with nothing to gain from it, was over. And now he must find evidence against his wife, just as he would any other criminal.

&n
bsp; He entered Felice’s bedchamber and began to search through what remained of her things. He pulled open the chest and took out each item of clothing that was left, shook it out, searching for the remains of whatever poison she had used. He looked among her pillows and beneath her mattress, in her jewellery box, sparse though the contents were. The sight of them made him stop sharply and remember when he had asked Lord Sutton what precious stone his daughter preferred.

  "She would prefer roses, My Lord," he had replied.

  Lord Christopher arched an eyebrow, not sure what the man was saying.

  "Roses?"

  "Yes. Roses," Lord Sutton repeated. "The flower? I used to send to Europe for them but I can no longer afford to do that. They are hard to find in winter."

  Christopher had been sceptical, had thought it was some kind of conciliation on the part of the man for all the money Christopher had spent on his behalf. He ordered the roses and he ordered some means to grow them, but he had also ordered a diamond ring, just in case Lord Sutton was being modest. He could not quite believe a woman would want a flower in preference to a diamond. He realised now that he that he still had that ring, he never gave it to her, and now he would never have a chance to.

  He looked about at the porcelain and silver vases full of dying roses and his anger flared. He lifted one and threw it against the wall, shattering the fine porcelain. A servant came running.

  "My Lord?" She asked fearfully. "Are you hurt?"

  Was he hurt? Not in the way she meant, no.

  "Get out!" He yelled, making her flee in terror.

  He picked up the other three vases, one by one and smashed them the same way, but he felt no better; the action did not relieve his pain, did not appease him or calm his fury. He vowed never to look upon another rose for the rest of his life.

  Flinging open the door he found the little maid still cowering in the hallway.

  "Get rid of that smell!" He shouted.

  "Smell, My Lord?"