"My Lady, surely not."
"If I am right, then we have escaped the disease. I do not intend to survive God's wrath only to be hanged for a crime I did not commit."
***
Daisy was finishing the final plait in Her Ladyship's hair the following morning, when Dennis knocked on the door to her bedchamber, then opened it a crack without waiting for a reply.
"My Lady," he said urgently. "I have this minute seen Lord Christopher riding toward the house."
"No!" Felice cried, shaking her head violently and jumping to her feet, her hair half plaited. "No! Not now!"
Tears welled up in her eyes and she began to shake, but instinctively she cradled her womb protectively.
"We can escape through the back, My Lady," Daisy said quickly, as she gathered up Felice's cloak and draped it around her shoulders. "We will hide in one of the empty cottages."
"No. The disease could still be there. We will have to hide in the forest. Find as much warm clothing as you can. Tell the others."
While Dennis and Daisy relayed the word to the other two servants, Felice looked out to see her husband getting closer to the house. She frowned, puzzled to see him alone, but of course, he believed the servants here to be loyal to him. He needed no help to take his wife back to Waterford Castle for trial and she had no doubt at all that was his reason for being here. He had taken this time to collect evidence, and she wondered just what that consisted of, seeing as she knew there could be no such thing. But it was pointless telling him that; he had made up his mind of her guilt the night he found Immeth lying dead on the floor and seen his wife watching.
Her heart skipped at the sight of him and a bitter line formed on her mouth. A few days ago she was wondering what sort of sparse Christmas they would have; now she wondered if she would see Christmas at all, if he would spare her until after the Lord’s birth. She watched him coming closer and drew a deep breath before fleeing down the stairs, quickly checking that the fire was out. No one had yet lit it this morning, thank the Lord. Her eyes moved quickly around the hall to be sure they left no clue as to their recent occupation, then she called to the servants and they left by the back door and escaped into the forest, wishing there was more foliage to conceal their presence.
They found a spot not too far from the house behind a clump of evergreens where Dennis spread a cloak and they sat together on the frost covered ground, their arms linked together in the vague hope of a little more warmth, and tried to control their chattering teeth.
Felice could see the servants’ curiosity but left it to Daisy to explain just why they were hiding from Lord Christopher instead of welcoming him with open arms.
***
An eerie silence hung over the village as Lord Christopher rode through the centre among the cottages and past the well. Not a whiff of smoke issued from a single roof and as he approached the church, he saw the rotting corpse of a young man lying beside the porch. Without dismounting, he drew close enough to see that the man wore the Waterford livery and knew at once he was one of the younger men he had sent here to serve and guard his wife. His skin was covered in black marks, his eyes were staring and dull and the front of his tabard was covered in blood streaked vomit. Christopher’s heart sank and unfamiliar tears sprang to his eyes; he was too late.
He turned his head to look across the churchyard, to see the fresh mounds of earth filling the space. He frowned as he noticed an uneven ridge of earth in the distance and he rode toward it to investigate. The stench took him by surprise and he drew rein for a moment, then tentatively walked his horse closer, but the huge stallion balked and reared, refused to go forward. Lord Christopher dismounted and led the creature away to a tree branch, where he draped the reins and left him while he covered his mouth with his hands and walked forward to peer over the edge of a huge trench. It was filled with rotting corpses, and Christopher jumped back in horror when he saw movement among them. He crept forward hesitantly, relieved to see it was the heaving life of the rats that gorged on the dead which made them look as though they were moving. There were men, women, children, all in different states of decomposition. The stench was overpowering and he turned quickly away, mounted his horse and walked him slowly toward the house, dreading what he would find inside.
No smoke came from the chimney of his manor house, no sign of life showed itself to him. He caught his breath and his heart was heavy. He had heard about the pestilence, of course he had. It had wiped out half of England but it had left his own estate and village untouched and in his usual selfish way he had never once considered that Shepton, where he had sent his wife to await trial, might not be so fortunate. He rode here past many villages and not even noticed if they were deserted or not, his mind was too full of his own regrets. He was wrong; he accused his beautiful wife of the most heinous crime, and now he had come here to try to make it up to her, to bring her home, only to find it was too late. He had not only accused her, he had been absolutely certain of her guilt. How must that have felt?
It began to rain as he reached his manor house. He dismounted and approached the door with dread, afraid of what he would find inside and wanting nothing more than to turn around and ride away. Did the house contain sickness as well? Would he find more rotting corpses heaving with rats, and would he know which was his lovely wife? We are all equal in death, it seemed.
He opened the door and went inside, holding his breath lest the stench accost him as it had in the churchyard, but the air smelt clean enough. Looking about he noticed the stone walls and bare shelves. It had been many years since he had visited this place, and he did not realise how far it had fallen into disrepair. A splash of water on his shoulder made him look up at the holes in the roof. He heard the scuttling of rats coming from the walls and his heart sank once more. He had sent his countess to this? He would not have chosen this place had he known, not even believing her to be guilty he would not have done that. Or would he? Immeth called him callous, so perhaps he was callous enough to have done such a thing.
"Felice!" He called out with little hope of a reply.
There was no sound save the echo of his voice around the empty building and the scuttling of the rats. He squatted down beside the hearth and reached out to touch the charred wood. It was cold and damp. There was no sign of anyone in the house and he felt a choking pain form in his throat.
He had sent his beautiful Felice into a village full of disease and he had lost her. She was beneath one of those fresh mounds in the churchyard, or even among the rotting corpses in the trench.
Why do you always think the worst of me? Those words would haunt Christopher for the rest of his life, he was certain of it. When he lie down at night, when he reached out in his sleep to feel her soft flesh against his, he would hear them. Every time he caught the scent of a rose he would hear them. If only she were here now, he would be able to tell her how sorry he was, beg her forgiveness. He had never heard the words I love you from any other person in his entire life and he doubted he would ever hear them again.
***
From their place behind the trees, Felice and her servants watched as Lord Christopher mounted his horse and rode away.
"He has gone, My Lady," Dennis said unnecessarily.
Felice stopped him as he started to get to his feet.
"We will wait until he is out of sight," Felice replied. "He may change his mind and turn around. I cannot risk it."
But even as she hid from him, even as she prayed to God he did not venture into the woods and find them, the sight of him made her heart race. Yes, she still loved him, likely always would love him, but there was no going back. He came here to take her back to try her for a crime for which the penalty was death and she knew in her heart that he would not hesitate to carry out that penalty. How could he? And how could she still love him?
All the servants now knew why she was sent here and why Lord Christopher had come, which was almost as degrading as when they had to explain to her that she was their p
risoner. But when they knew he came to take their Lady back for trial, they knew the same as she did that he would not be ready for trial until he had what he believed to be proof. He would not want to be proven wrong.
"He believes you are dead now, My Lady," Daisy said.
"Which means we will have to look about the empty village to find food, money even. If Lord Christopher believes us all dead, there will be no more supplies sent from Colchester. I have no idea how we will manage, but I do so thank you all for staying, for believing me."
"There was never any doubt about that, My Lady," Dennis said. "Perhaps we could go to Lord Sutton?"
If only they could! But there had been no more roses, no word from her father. Either Christopher refused to send more or Lord Sutton was dead.
"I believe my father is either dead or has succumbed to the sickness. Why else would he have stopped sending my roses?"
"My Lady, I hope you are wrong."
"As do I, but I do not believe I am. If my father is dead, then my son is the Earl of Sutton now. Lord Christopher will take charge of Sutton Hall on his behalf, so we will not be safe there." She turned and looked at the worried faces. "At least, I will not be safe there."
CHAPTER NINE
A Fitting Memorial
Lord Christopher hardly slept at all that night. Indeed, he thought it doubtful he would ever sleep again, at least not peacefully. After searching the village and finding no sign of any living creature save the rats, he knew his beautiful wife was dead, that he had killed her as surely as if he had strangled her with his bare hands. He sent her there, he was not prepared to listen to her, was not prepared to consider that perhaps she was innocent. He had thrown away his one chance of happiness and he knew he would never forgive himself.
Every time he closed his eyes he saw her lovely face, saw her porcelain skin blackened and ravaged by this filthy sickness, saw her tongue rimmed with red and covered in white fur. Every time he managed to sleep her voice would creep into his dreams: why do you always think the worst of me?
He had not visited his manor at Shepton for many years but he did not even think to be sure it was fit to house his countess. He was conceited enough to believe that gentle creature would poison an innocent soul like Immeth for jealousy of him.
For the first time in his life he knew what real shame was and it was not a feeling he ever wanted to know again.
She was gone, the only woman who ever loved him, the mother of his son. How was he going to explain to him when he was older and asked how his mother died?
Thinking of that brought a memory of his own childhood without a mother, his own questions to his father about where she had gone. Christopher was told she ran away with a lover, and perhaps she did. He grew up hating her for abandoning him and only now did he think perhaps she might have wanted to take her son with her, that his father would not allow it. If she had a lover, he might even have banished her from the castle, away from her son, as Christopher had done to his wife. She might even have been innocent, the victim of another jealous man.
Christopher's wife did not have a lover, something else he had accused her of; his wife had loved him, despite his evil temper, despite the fear he had instilled in her. At least he would never have to tell his son his mother had abandoned him. He would be able to tell him she had died, even if he never found the courage to tell him his father had been the cause of her death.
The following day he set out for Sutton Hall to tell Felice's father that his daughter was dead. He had not spoken to Lord Sutton since telling him his daughter had been sent away to await trial for murder. On that occasion the man had stormed out of Waterford Castle declaring that if he knew Felice at all, he would not even suspect her. Christopher wished to God he had listened to him.
Now as he rode toward Felice’s childhood home, he knew the man would blame him, and quite rightly too. He had practically bought Felice, at a time when her father had little choice but to sell her. He had magnanimously spent a fortune to rescue him from his own recklessness, and he had made him a solemn promise that he would look after his precious daughter, his only child. He had failed miserably and he would never forgive himself, so he hardly expected her father to forgive him. If he grieved for the rest of his life, it would not be penance enough.
He summoned every ounce of courage he possessed to ride alone to Sutton Hall and as he rode up to the house, he felt that same, eerie silence he had felt at his own manor house in Shepton. It was deserted, the whole massive house. No smoke came from the chimneys, no warmth touched him as he opened the front doors and stepped inside.
"My Lord," a maidservant spoke as she saw him and bobbed a curtsey.
"Lord Sutton?"
“He keeps to his bed, My Lord,” she answered fearfully.
Lord Christopher could only stare at her; her words terrified him. Was the disease finding its way toward Waterford Castle?
"The pestilence?" He asked reluctantly.
"Oh, no, My Lord. It was his heart. It happened only a few weeks ago."
His heart. His heart that had no doubt been broken, had given out from worry over his daughter. Christopher had been the cause of his illness as well.
"Why was I not told?" Christopher demanded.
“His Lordship wanted no one to know, My Lord,” she answered hesitantly.
He said no more but mounted the stairs to confront his father-in-law, to pray his news did not make the man’s health even worse. Perhaps he should keep it to himself until he was stronger? Would that help, or would he be better knowing for certain?
“I will leave him to rest,” he said at last as he turned back to the front doors.
She nodded then took his gesture of dismissal as an excuse to flee, before the fearsome man lost his famous temper.
He left the hall and rode toward the Castle, asking himself if his motive for backing out were really for Lord Sutton’s sake or his own.
Lord Christopher rode the five miles back to Waterford Castle in a daze of memories and regrets. He could not have told anyone what he saw or whom he passed on that journey and had an outlaw shot an arrow into him, he would have welcomed a quick death.
On his arrival at the castle he passed the reins of his horse to a stable boy and went to the castle yard, where the remains of the shattered hot house still rested against the stonework. He saw his steward hurrying past and called out to the man.
"My Lord?"
"I want you to find the man who knows about flowers," Lord Christopher said. "Find me someone who can fill this place with roses, not just the hot house, the whole space."
"But My Lord, you said..."
Lord Christopher held up a hand to stop him.
"I said too many things," he said regretfully, "most of them wrong. I want this to be a rose garden; it will be a fitting memorial to Lady Felice."
"Her Ladyship is dead, My Lord?" The Steward asked nervously.
He knew why His Lordship sent his wife away, they all did, and finding no evidence he now wondered if perhaps his master had killed her himself. There was never any doubt that he was capable of such a deed.
"She is," Lord Christopher replied remorsefully. "She has succumbed to the pestilence and I have no idea where she lies. She never asked for anything, except this simple flower. It is all I can give her now."
He went into the castle house and up to his wife's bedchamber. Despite his earlier orders and despite the open windows, the smell of the flowers still lingered faintly in the wooden rafters and in the bedlinen. He lie down on her bed and buried his face in her pillow, breathing deeply of the familiar perfume. His eyes filled with the tears he could no longer suppress and he was grateful to be alone. He had always made a point of being sure all his servants and tenants feared him; what would be their opinion if they saw him now, broken and crying over a woman?
He had to drive these regrets out of his mind; he had to drive Felice out of his heart.
He got up and went downstairs and out to the stable
. It was getting late and was already dark as he saddled and mounted a fresh horse. He rode to the nearest town and went to the inn, where he ordered mead and looked around for the other commodity this place had to offer.
She was sitting in the corner, alone, a woman for hire who might help chase his wife out of his mind, blonde hair and faded blue eyes, and if he ignored the trail of dirt around her neck and squinted hard enough, he could half convince himself she was Felice. Except there was no way he would ever use Felice the way he wanted to use this woman. He had a purse full of silver coins and he intended to get his money's worth.
She was wearing a tattered green silk gown with a low cut neckline which showed her ample bosom to the best effect. She looked up to see his eyes on her and she flinched nervously, before swallowing hard and giving him a forced smile, then she got up and walked towards him. Her manner showed that she knew well who he was and she was afraid of him but that suited him. His wife had been afraid of him, his exquisite wife whom he had terrified with his temper, despite her love for him. Why should this creature not fear him too?
"You are in need of company, My Lord?" She asked, pushing herself against him.
Once more, he heard Felice's soft, musical voice: I would welcome your company. He was haunted; she was everywhere, mocking him, blaming him, and he wanted to banish her from his thoughts, if only for this one night.
"That sounds exactly what I am in need of," he answered, then took the velvet purse from his belt and pressed it into her grubby hand.
She took his arm and led him to the back room, where a well worn bed awaited them, its feather mattress almost flat from constant use. He noticed the innkeeper's frown as they past him. He was no doubt surprised to see His Lordship avail himself of this particular facility.
PESTILENCE: The Scent of Roses Page 13