PESTILENCE: The Scent of Roses

by Margaret Brazear

  The smile fled from Felice's lips and she recoiled. She had never known such disappointment as those words brought. Her father sent them, not her husband.

  “There is a note, My Lady,” Daisy said hesitantly, offering a small piece of parchment.

  She waited until Daisy had gone before she read the words.

  Felice, I have had to ask your husband to send these roses on my behalf as he refuses to tell me where you are. I am very concerned for your safety. I wanted to send money but he would not allow it. If you get the chance, run away, as far away as you can. Even if it means I never see you again, I will at least know you are safe.

  She was not pardoned, she was not welcome back at Waterford Castle. She threw herself on to the bed and sobbed.

  ***

  It was just a week later that Daisy came into the great hall holding a parchment in her hand. Her expression was one of confusion as she handed it to Felice.

  "I found it outside, My Lady," Daisy explained. "It was pinned to the front gate."

  Felice took the rolled up parchment and her eyes skimmed over it, half hoping she would recognise the handwriting, hoping it was from her husband. It was in fact from the Bishop giving his own wisdom on ways to prevent the pestilence, wisdom that was equal in ignorance to that of the village priest.

  "My Lady?" Daisy prodded her.

  "It is saying they now believe the disease is spread by bad air. People are to find strong smelling flowers and weeds and make a posy out of them to hold to their noses wherever they go." She paused and sighed impatiently. "I suppose the priest has received this and passed it on. Nobody is supposed to know we are here."

  "The priest has read it out to all the villagers, My Lady. The boy, Donald, disobeyed your orders and went to the village this morning. He heard."

  Felice looked stricken.

  "Where is he now?" She demanded.

  "He went back to the village, My Lady."

  "He must not be allowed back in the house," Felice said frantically. "Do you understand me? Tell Dennis; I do not want him here."

  At that moment the door opened and Donald entered, looking shamefaced when he saw his mistress.

  "No!" She ordered. "You will not come in here. I told you, I told all of you."

  "It is the air, My Lady. We must gather flowers."

  "And just where do you propose to gather flowers at this time of year?" Felice demanded. "Well, since you are already contaminated, Daisy will take the roses from my chamber and you can give them out among the villagers, much good it will do them."

  "My Lady," Daisy said. "What about us?"

  "Save some for us, if it makes you feel safer. You go and fetch them; Donald is not to enter this house. Remember that, anyone who thinks to disobey my orders again. He can sleep in the barn and eat there, too."

  ***

  It was almost Christmas before Lord Christopher visited Immeth's sister with a purse of coins for their feast. Edith now had the care of his children and he had been sending money to support them, as he promised Immeth he would do.

  His mistress was buried in a pauper's grave in the village churchyard, just a few plots along the same row as Sonia and her child. He did not want to draw attention to Immeth or to her children by giving a peasant a full and expensive burial, but unlike his late wife, she did at least have a stone with her name carved on to it.

  He went to the churchyard on his way to Edith's cottage, just to see, just to look at the rough stone with the words 'Immeth' and the date she died, nothing more. That was the date his world collapsed and he would never have a chance to forget it, now it was set in stone. His glance moved along the row to the rough, wooden cross of his first wife, of the woman who had thought to deceive him so badly, and he wondered for the first time if her crime was as bad as that of Felice. His wife had acted out of love for him, Sonia had acted out of love of another man. Although only one carried the death penalty, he knew which crime he thought the worst. Sonia escaped her punishment, first by being with child and then by leaving this world and it seemed likely that Felice would also escape her punishment.

  He had so far found no evidence of his wife's guilt, although he had searched her chamber personally for the remnants of poisons, for any sign of a book perhaps that would tell her what to use. She had been very clever and had managed to carry out this murder without leaving a clue. He cursed himself for not having the foresight to search straight away. She could well have taken the poison with her to Colchester, hidden among her gowns or in her purse. He had not been quick enough for a woman of her cunning. It was the shock, of course, the shock of finding his mistress dead and of knowing it was his own wife who had killed her. The shock of knowing he would be forced to sentence his countess to death and he would be forced to watch. It was his duty, as Lord of the manor, as judge, to witness every execution, to be sure each one was carried out according to the law. There was no escape from that duty, no matter how much he wanted to run away and hide.

  But without evidence, he could not go ahead with a trial. Part of him was relieved, the part that was Felice's husband, but the other part, the part that was Earl of Waterford, Lord of the manor, wanted to see justice served, wanted to get on with it so he could put it behind him and move on with what little she had left him.

  He decided to leave her at his manor house in Shepton, let her stay there indefinitely. He could not forgive her, and more than that, he could not forgive her for making him fall in love with her.

  His nights were restless. Once he thought to use her bed, thought perhaps it would make him feel better, but the scent of roses lingered there and made him want to weep. And her voice disturbed his every dream. Do what you like. I am beyond caring.

  Whenever he dozed, he would awake with a start, certain she was there, watching him, whispering in his ear. Once he opened his eyes in the night to see her standing in the corner, wearing her wedding clothes and holding the white roses he had sent to go with them, but she vanished as he came fully awake. His dreams found her in his arms with her breasts caressing his own, with her lips pressed against his neck, with her tender words I love you.

  He dismounted as he reached the outskirts of the village, not wanting to be seen by his children, and tied his horse to a tree. As he approached Edith's cottage on foot, the door opened and the woman emerged, bobbed a quick curtsy and hurried toward him.

  "My Lord," she said at once. "The children are well. There is no need for you to come closer."

  "What are you afraid of?"

  "I have heard of a terrible pestilence spreading throughout the countryside. I am trying to keep us all safe by not seeing anyone."

  "You think that will work?" His Lordship replied.

  "Who knows? I only know people are saying it is God's vengeance for our sins and it is Immeth's sin that will bring it here."

  Anger flared in Christopher's eyes and Edith shivered. She could not know that despite his anger he secretly admired the woman’s courage in standing up to him. Edith had always been quick to speak her mind, unlike her sister, and he had never wanted to punish her for it. Nevertheless, he preferred her to remain in ignorance of the fact.

  "You are a brave woman to tell me that," he said harshly.

  "I must protect Immeth's children, My Lord," she replied, "even if that should anger you. I promised her I would raise them as my own and keep them safe, and that is what I will do no matter what. It was the last thing she ever asked of me."

  He shoved the purse at her impatiently and turned to walk away, then stopped abruptly as he realised what she had said.

  "You promised her?" He demanded, turning back to stare at her. "How could you have promised her? Did you know she was going to be poisoned?"

  Edith frowned, puzzled.

  "Immeth was not poisoned, My Lord," she answered. "She knew she was dying. She had lumps on her breasts, the same lumps that killed our mother. She had been ill for months."

  Her eyes met his defiantly and he could see the con
tempt in them. He knew what she was thinking, what he was thinking himself. Why had he not noticed? He had held her breasts in his hands, but had felt nothing but his own gratification.

  "When?" He asked, not really wanting to know. "When did these lumps develop?"

  "Months before her death, but they got worse during the last weeks."

  It must have been after he finished with her; at least that is what he told himself.

  "She was definitely dying?" He asked.

  "Yes. She knew she did not have long. That night was to be the last the children spent with her. They were coming to live with me the following day, because she knew it would not be long." She paused and drew a deep breath to give her courage. "Whatever made you think she was poisoned?"

  He made no reply; his mind was full of his monstrous error, his heart aching as he recalled his accusations and Felice's resigned words of defeat, do what you like. I am beyond caring, the tears in her beautiful blue eyes. He heard her voice again: why do you always think the worst of me?

  He could not answer that. Why did he always think the worst of her, this beautiful creature who had told him she loved him, who had given him so much of herself, who had made such tender love to him? Because he did not trust women, because his own mother had abandoned him, because his wife had tried to foist another man's child on to him. Because of all the married women who were happy to share his bed when their husbands were looking elsewhere. Was Felice to blame for any of that?

  "My Lord?" Edith repeated. "What made you think my sister was poisoned?"

  He could only stare at her for a few minutes, cursing himself for not enquiring before this, for not asking Edith if she knew what had killed her sister. He recalled the night he discovered her body, how he had taken the children’s’ tiny hands in his own and led them to the cottage of their aunt. She showed no sign of shock, did she? When he told her Immeth was dead, she did not flinch. She was expecting it; it came as no surprise to her. Why the hell did he not notice that at the time?

  “My Lord?” She asked again. “Why did you think Immeth was poisoned?”

  "My own conceit," he answered at last.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Deserted Village

  Felice managed to convince her servants they were not safe from the pestilence because of their sin free lives. The disease was filthy and contagious and she told them all again that if they left the manor house and grounds for any reason, they would not be allowed back.

  "I know you were all sent here to guard me," she told them. "And I know that might give you leave to think you can ignore my authority. But I am telling you now you are wrong. Whatever has happened between His Lordship and I, and I know you must be curious, he will not be best pleased to know you are refusing my orders.

  “I have told Donald he is not allowed back in the house, and I believe he has found a family in the village to stay with. I am telling all of you, you will not bring the disease into this house. It is the only home any of us have now. Have you seen any let up of the bodies being buried? Any of you?"

  They all shook their heads.

  "No, My Lady," Daisy muttered.

  "Then it seems the latest remedy has not worked either, does it not? My roses have been wasted. You will stay here or you will not come back."

  Even the strong smelling roses she provided for them and the villagers made no difference to the amount of people who were dying on a daily basis. This was a small village, and very soon there would be nobody left to bury the dead. The priest managed to keep himself isolated in his church, managed to keep away from the diseased whilst giving his sermons from behind a screen. He was never seen at the gravesides of his flock, never seen at their death beds. Felice heard that he took their confessions and gave Last Rites from the other side of the room, with her flowers clutched to his nose. Sometimes she saw a villager, standing on the other side of their stone wall and yelling the gossip of the day to her servants. Otherwise, they would know nothing.

  The roses had been coming weekly since the first ones, sent by her father with a note, regretting he could not come himself. With every delivery her heart bounced in anticipation, hoping this time they were not from her father, that this time they came from her husband, but they never did. They came via Lord Christopher; he still would not tell her father where to find her.

  His last letter was clear in her mind: If there is to be a trial, I wish he would hurry up about it. I know you are innocent; he should know that too and I cannot wait to have you home again. I will never forgive myself, my dear, for making it so you were forced to marry such a man.

  The letters were always sealed with Lord Sutton’s seal, so she knew no one had read the contents. Christopher would never dream of reading her letter from her father; it would be against his principles. He would hang his own wife, but he would not breach her confidence by reading her letter. How ironic.

  That letter was two weeks ago and there had been no roses since. Felice was certain something had happened to her father; there was no other explanation for the sudden absence of the roses and she worried he had succumbed to the pestilence. The Sutton estate was no more than a few miles from Waterford Castle and if her father had taken ill, that meant it was moving closer to her husband and to her baby boy. She gave up hope of rescue, of Christopher realising his mistake and coming to take her home. It had been too long and there were but two reasons for this lengthy delay: he had found what he believed to be evidence against her and was putting a case together for her trial or he was dead of the pestilence himself. It was irrational that she was not sure which she would choose.

  She sat with her servants by candlelight around the massive stone fireplace in the hall, where the only heat was to be found. The men sat with them, to save on wood. There was not much left and His Lordship had no way of knowing they could not go to the forest and cut down more, for fear of meeting a sufferer of the disease. He had sent no word to enquire about his wife's welfare, although he must have heard about this pestilence by now. Even he was not so self absorbed as to remain ignorant of it. She was half convinced her earlier idea was the right one, that he sent her here deliberately, knowing the risk.

  The chanting that moved past the house made them all look up sharply. Each chant was followed by a loud whisk, as though someone was being whipped. Felice shuddered and pulled her fur lined cloak closer about her shoulders as she went to the window and opened the shutter a crack. What she saw made her gasp in horror.

  There were about ten monks, all with their habits torn down at the back and as they walked they flayed their own flesh with many tailed whips, flung over their shoulders in time to their footsteps. Blood poured from the cruel marks and the sight brought back a memory Felice would rather forget. Instinctively, she glanced down at the thin scar on her wrist.

  "They are flagellants, My Lady," Dennis said, coming up to stand behind her. "They believe if they inflict enough pain on their bodies, God will spare them and send the pestilence away."

  She shook her head impatiently, then closed the shutter and turned to make her way up to her bedchamber.

  "I am weary," she declared. "Dennis, please be sure the fire is out unless you and Gerald want to sleep beside it. Come help me, Daisy."

  Once upstairs she sat on the bed and looked thoughtfully at her maidservant. It was very nearly Christmas and instead of a twelve day celebration, with dancing and music, there would be just the five of them. Instead of feasting on rich meat dishes and sweetmeats, there would be the sparse fare sent from Colchester and cooked by the two maids as best they could. Christopher would not even come to see her for the Lord’s birth and there would be no midnight mass on Christmas Eve. The priest had fled, the village was empty and the servant, Donald, made no attempt to return to the manor house.

  "I am with child," she said quietly.

  "My Lady! You cannot stay here," Daisy replied quickly. "We must get you back to Waterford Castle. You will need midwives and a proper confinement chamber.
We must send word to Lord Christopher first thing."

  "No," Felice reached out and gripped her wrist tightly. "He has already stolen my son. I will not let him steal this child as well."

  She would never have believed she would be talking this way to a servant, confiding such intimate fears and secrets to one of her class. She had been reduced to this, she who had been born a noblewoman, who had willingly traded herself to save her noble family, her noble father's good name.

  "But, My Lady, how will you manage?"

  "We will manage, Daisy," she assured her. "You and Ruby can help me when the time comes. I do not want Lord Christopher to know of this."

  "Forgive me, My Lady," Daisy argued, "but you must not let your pride stand in the way of your safety."

  Pride? She wondered for the first time what the servants had actually been told, whether Christopher had told them the truth about her exile or whether he had left them to work it out for themselves. The latter seemed more like him. He was too proud to be telling the servants his private business, just as she had been only a short time ago.

  "Do you know why I am here?" Felice asked.

  "Not really," Daisy answered, blushing. "His Lordship only told us you were to come here and not leave the house. We just thought you had quarrelled and he thought to send you away to give you both some time to think. Is that not so?"

  Felice shook her head and gave a little, wistful smile.

  "My husband believes I poisoned his peasant mistress. I only await his readiness for my trial, then His Lordship will send for me.” She spoke through choked back tears; it still hurt, it was still as raw as the first time he said it: you will hang. “If I am found guilty, I will hang. Now do you think I should hurry to send for my husband?"

  Daisy just stood and stared at her, her eyes round with shock.

  "I have been watching the village," Felice went on. "It seems remarkably empty. I do not want to send anyone to look, but I really think they have all died. I saw a body beside the church porch this morning; it was still there when the sun went down and I believe there is no one left to bury it."