PESTILENCE: The Scent of Roses

by Margaret Brazear

  His eyes wandered up to the ceiling and he was shocked to see the sky through the holes in the thatched roof. Felice was right; these dwellings for which he was responsible were not fit to live in and he should have noticed. He had a bailiff to report to him, but likely the man was as afraid as everyone else, everyone except Felice. She had been the only one with the courage to tell him.

  He glanced at the spot where Immeth’s body had lain, where he had felt for her pulse and known she was dead, where he held her little son in his arms for the first time ever and could not wait to push him away, unload him and his sister on to their aunt.

  And when he found Immeth's corpse, lying there on the mud floor, then seen Felice outside, watching in the moonlight, the very first thing he thought was that she had poisoned her. He did not hesitate, never once doubted his assumption, never considered for one second that he might be wrong. That was Felice’s reward for declaring her love for him, to make him think she must have got rid of Immeth to have him to herself. God, what a fool he was!

  He left the cottage and closed the rickety door behind him, then walked the few steps to the home of Immeth's sister. The short journey reminded him of that night, when he walked there, holding two little hands in his, when he glanced over at the little hill, saw his wife watching him and believed her presence there to be confirmation of his suspicion. That was the night he almost destroyed his own life as well as hers because of his arrogance and conceit.

  He did not want to be here, the place held too many shameful memories. He thought about lighting another torch and simply setting fire to the whole village; what was the point of looking further? Everyone was dead and all that remained were these paltry buildings, these hovels which Felice wanted repaired when he offered her a special gift of anything she wanted. Why had he never thought of that himself? These tiny buildings only served to remind Christopher of his own folly, of his own arrogance. But he had to be braver now than he had ever been; he had looked into all the other hovels and he could not leave it there. He had to look in the last one, and he was very relieved that he did.

  He entered Edith's cottage, where last he had seen Immeth's two children, sitting and crying in the arms of Edith's husband. As he opened the door he heard harsh and ragged breathing coming from the far corner of the room. He shook his head rapidly, sure the silence, the eeriness had finally made him imagine things.

  He looked toward the sound and saw a shape beneath the covers. He walked slowly to the far corner, afraid of what he might find, telling himself he would find nothing, perhaps an unmade bed, a pile of bedclothes. But there in the bed was a tiny body with sweat pouring from it, with vomit growing stiff over the fur which covered it, with the chest heaving up and down slowly.

  Christopher took the cover gingerly between his thumb and forefinger, not wanting to touch the contamination, and pulled it away. Beneath that stinking cover was a small boy, his own small boy, and he was still alive.

  ***

  Felice slept that night in Christopher's bed, wanting to soak up the smell of his body, and she relived every detail of the previous night, of what could easily be their last time together.

  She had not wanted him to go, and if there had been a way to stop him, she would have taken it. Even so, she admired him for taking such a risk, when he could easily have ordered one of his servants into the danger in his stead.

  During these few short weeks since the pestilence struck the village, she had come to understand her husband better than she had in all the time she had known him, and it had taken the threat of the end of the world for her to find the justice in him which she never guessed was there to find. But now she had the awful fear that it may be too late, that she might never see him again and she could not bear it.

  She watched as he set fire to the dead bodies, saw the flames shooting into the twilight sky as he poured pitch onto the church steps and threw a torch into the wooden building, and her eyes followed his every move as he entered each of the little cottages in turn. She noticed he lingered in the cottage that had been home to Immeth, to his children, for they were his children whether he wanted to claim them or not.

  The light finally died as he went into the cottage next door and she was forced reluctantly to leave her vigil and return to the main house. That night, she said a prayer for his safety. She was not given to saying prayers unless she was in church and had no choice, but if God were really there, perhaps he would watch over her lord for her that night; perhaps he would watch over them all.

  She slept fitfully and the following day, she ate hurriedly and returned to the roof of the castle, to the battlements where she could see the village. There was no sign of Lord Christopher, not a hint he had even been there.

  ***

  Christopher was afraid to wake the child, but he soon realised that would not happen, that the little boy was unconscious. He had gathered information about this pestilence, managed to sort out the superstition and religious mumbo-jumbo from the facts. He had heard about the swellings that grew in the groin and armpits of the victims and from what he had heard, the only survivors were the ones whose buboes had burst.

  He removed the shirt, soaked with sweat and stinking, from the little boy so that he was naked, then he examined him carefully until he finally found a hard, black ball beneath the boy's arm.

  Christopher went outside to where he had left his horse and took down the saddle bag he had brought with him, containing fresh water and cloths. He covered his mouth with one of the cloths, thinking the gesture a little late since he was already contaminated, then went back inside the cottage. He removed his own clothes and put them outside, then he soaked one of the cloths in the water and bathed the child's face and body to cool him down. He took his knife from its sheath and prepared to cut into the ugly, black lump. He had no idea if it was the right thing to do, but he had to do something and he knew nothing better.

  As the point of the knife touched the area of stretched and swollen flesh, the child moaned and squirmed away, making it clear that he felt it, that it hurt. Christopher returned the knife to its sheath, then tore a cloth into two strips. He tied the child's wrists and secured them to the bedposts, the action reminding him painfully of his treatment of his wife and making him flush with shame. He shuddered, thinking how easily he could have hurt her, killed her love before it had even begun.

  Once the child was secured, he stuffed his already contaminated shirt up beneath his arm, then he drew his knife once more and did not hesitate to cut into the ugly lump. Joseph screamed, a blood curdling scream that pierced Christopher's ears and echoed around the empty village. He wanted to cover his mouth, afraid he might be heard in the castle, that the noise might frighten Felice.

  The blood and pus that oozed from the wound made Christopher's stomach heave and he quickly mopped up the mess with the cloths. Next, he soaked more cloths and bathed the child's face and body, trying desperately to cool him down but also wanting to wash away some of the disgusting stench. Cooler now, the boy slept and Christopher went outside to untack his horse and lead him to a nearby meadow where he could graze and drink from the stream.

  Back inside Edith's little hovel, he gathered up some of the cloths, then lifted the boy into his arms and carried him through the fading light to the stream, where he took the boy into his arms, and submerged them both in the cool, clean water. He shivered as goose bumps erupted over his flesh, but he carried on and washed them both with the cloths, with no idea if what he did would do any good, but it certainly made him feel better, made him feel cleaner, and banished the stench from the child's wasted body.

  He collected his clothes from outside the cottage, put his breeches and boots back on then carried the child to the only place he knew the pestilence had not been; Immeth's empty cottage. It had stood deserted since the night she died, the night he found her body and used it against the gentlest woman alive. Nobody had been there since, so no sickness had permeated the atmosphere, contaminated the bedclo
thes, nor settled in the air. All that was there to harm them was dust and cobwebs, and the ghost of a much-wronged peasant woman whose only sin was in giving comfort to a selfish nobleman.

  ***

  Felice stood on the battlements and watched for an hour or more, wondering what had happened to Christopher. He could easily be inside one of the cottages, may have gone there to sleep for the night although she did not think that very safe, but what had happened to his horse? If she could have seen the horse, she would not have been so concerned, but it was gone and she could not fathom why. Could he have ridden off somewhere, hoping to find fresh food perhaps? Surely he would not risk it?

  She did not sleep well the night before, her mind too full of concern for his safety and she was not prepared to wait any longer. She could not bear to lose him now, not after everything that had happened between them. She had slept in his arms every night since she discovered the pestilence in the village, since she had spoken to Immeth's sister, seen the contempt in her eyes for Christopher. Who could blame her for that? Certainly not Felice.

  She hurried as fast as was safe down to the ground floor, made her way hurriedly to the kitchens and ordered food to be wrapped. Taking it from the kitchen maid, she grabbed a cloak and went out to the stables. Finding no one about, she saddled her little mare herself and led her out to order the drawbridge opened for her to leave the castle.

  "My Lady," the steward protested. "His Lordship gave orders that no one was to leave the castle."

  "I am aware of that," she answered. "But I can see no sign of him. He could have taken a fall, could be injured and lying helpless somewhere."

  "He could be lying sick of the pestilence," the steward argued.

  "He could. But I am not prepared to wait and wonder. I am leaving and unless you intend to stop me by force, which I would not advise, you should open the drawbridge."

  The steward looked at her for a few moments, wondering whether he should try to stop her. What would Lord Christopher say to his manhandling his countess? The steward shuddered at the very idea and gave the order.

  Felice rode across the meadow to the village and just as she dismounted, Christopher came out of Immeth's cottage and stood still, holding up a hand to stop her going closer.

  "Felice," he demanded. "What are you doing here? I told you to stay in the castle. Will you ever learn to obey me?"

  "No," she answered, shaking her head, but she could not hide the relieved smile which crept over her lips. "I could not bear to wait and watch, not knowing. I saw no sign of you; I was worried."

  "I would have shown myself had you given me time. I have just this moment woken up. Now you must go, in case the disease is still here."

  "Go where, My Lord?" She asked. "I cannot return to the castle. The Lord would not approve of that, would he?"

  He laughed.

  "I found a survivor," Christopher said. "Just one. I think he will recover, given time and sustenance."

  She tied her mare to a post and opened her saddle bag, thankful she had thought to bring food, then turned and began to approach him. Still he held up his hand.

  "You must not come closer," he said.

  "What of you?"

  "This cottage has been empty since Immeth died, so there has been no disease here. It is the best I can hope for."

  She started to walk toward him again, but stopped when she saw the alarm in his eyes.

  "Christopher, I am here now. I want to help."

  She continued on her way until she stood before him, and he gave a sigh of resignation before folding her into his arms while he kissed her. She glanced through the open door and inside the cottage, then pulled away from him in shock when she saw the thin, unconscious child in the bed. She recoiled at the sight of the thin trickle of blood which flowed from beneath his arm.

  "It is your son," she said, turning to look at Christopher.

  "It is Immeth's son," Christopher corrected her. "He seems to be the only survivor in the entire village, and I only just got to him in time."

  "And you helped him? You risked your life to save him?"

  "I would have done the same for any child left alone under these conditions, Felice. I would not have left him. Even I am not that callous, no matter what you may think of me."

  Her eyes met his, looking for any sign of a lie, but she saw none.

  "Once we are sure there is no further contamination, will we take him back to the castle?"

  "Until I can find a family to adopt him," he answered. "Preferably someone far away."

  "He is your son!" She cried in horror.

  "No. He is Immeth's son. I know you cannot understand it and perhaps, being a woman and a mother you never will, but I have to look to the future. Suppose he stays close by, even in the castle itself. What will happen when he grows up and someone finds out he is my son? Do you think he will meekly accept that his half brother is the Earl, while he, the elder son, has no claim to anything? I would not accept that, would you? The knowledge will only cause him grief, trust me. He is better off not knowing."

  "Christopher..."

  He put his fingers to her lips to silence her.

  "Think about it," he said. "What would you do with him if he were your son?"

  "If he were my son I would be dragged through the streets with a scarlet S painted on my shaved head," she answered tartly.

  She was surprised when he smiled, just a fleeting smile, but it was there just the same.

  "You think that is what should be done to me?"

  "No. I do not think it should be done to anyone, man or woman."

  He made no reply to that; obviously he did not agree with her and was not going to be persuaded.

  "My mind is made up, Felice," he said. "It will not be altered. If you cannot accept that, there is nothing I can do about it. I am making this decision for his sake, and for our son's, not mine."

  "You have never even held him, have you?" She asked.

  "Once. The night I found his mother dead on this floor, he put his arms around my neck and asked me if his mother was dead. I could hear in his words another question; he was asking me to tell him she was not dead, that she was only sleeping, but I could not. And that plea tore me apart, made me think it was you who had taken his mother away from him."

  She turned her face away, afraid of her own emotions. Was it really the innocent question of a small child that had started him off on his quest for vengeance? Or was this an excuse to make himself feel better, to ease his conscience.

  "Is that true?" She asked.

  "Partly. I suppose I wanted someone to blame for the anguish of the child. It was foolish and arrogant, and I am more sorry than I could ever say." He reached out and put his arm around her, drew her close to him and kissed her forehead. "I have been punished, believe me. Before I found you again, when I believed you were dead, that I had killed you, I wanted to die myself. I did not know I could feel so desperately unhappy."

  She put her arms around his neck and kissed his lips, feeling his warmth, feeling his heart hammering rapidly.

  The child stirred quietly in the bed and Felice went inside and sat beside him, smoothed his forehead. He opened his eyes.

  "Are you hungry?" She asked him.

  He nodded, his eyes wide and frightened, while she bent to the food that she had brought wrapped in muslin and Christopher poured fresh water and held it to his lips.

  When the light began to fade, Christopher carried Immeth's son up the stairs to his own bed, where he would sleep peacefully until the morning. When he came down he sat on the bed with his wife and took her in his arms.

  "We will have to stay here until we know it is safe," he told her. "I wish there was somewhere else."

  "I have slept on straw before, My Lord," she replied.

  "It is not the straw that bothers me," he answered.

  "What then?"

  "We will lie here tonight, we will sleep in each other's arms and for the first time there will be real love in thi
s bed, not just lust on my part and obligation on hers. I wish I had seen that before."

  She reached up and touched his face gently, wanting to soothe him but not quite sure how. She felt better though. Only a few weeks ago she would have been afraid of this conversation, afraid of being accused of interfering. Now he was trusting her with his innermost feelings and that gave her hope for the future.

  "I cannot make love to you in this bed," he went on. "I would feel she was watching."

  She nodded slowly. She would not have thought of it, but the fact that he had meant she had at last managed to break through that shell of his, and now she could begin to build him a new reputation.

  THE END

  http://www.historical-romance.com

  BOOK ONE – Pestilence: The Second Wife

  Author's Note:

  Thank you for reading Book 2 of Pestilence: The Scent of Roses. I hope you enjoyed it and if you did, please leave a review on the Amazon website.

  Please consider my other books:

  The Romany Princess

  Mirielle

  To Catch A Demon

  The Wronged Wife

  The Adulteress

  A Man in Mourning

  The Gorston Widow

  The Crusader’s Widow

  The first chapters of all my books can be read on my blog at: http://historical-fiction-on-kindle.blogspot.co.uk

  The Holy Poison Series:

  The Judas Pledge

  The Flawed Mistress

  The Viscount’s Birthright

  Betrayal

  The Heretics

  Consequences

  The Holy Poison series follows the lives of people who lived through the brutal and tyrannical reign of Queen Mary I, also known as Bloody Mary. Some survived, some didn’t, but all suffered.

  The Elizabethans Series