"I want to ask you something," she began hesitantly, "but I do not want you to be angry with me."
"What?" He asked with a frown.
"I want to ask you about Immeth."
He released her and pushed her away, making her wish she had kept quiet.
"How do you know about her?" He demanded.
"It is no secret, My Lord," she answered, trying to keep her voice steady. "I knew about her before we married, I just did not know her name."
"How do you know her name now? Have you been spying on me?"
"No!" She cried out, shaking her head. "I would never do such a thing."
She did not consider the one time she had followed him as spying on him, just curiosity, but still she doubted he would see it that way.
She put her arms around his neck again, but he reached up and pulled them down, pushed her away. She almost gave way to a sob; she felt so rejected. He did love this woman. Why else would he behave like this? She was not just a convenience, like his wife.
"Forgive me, My Lord," she said quickly. "I did not intend to anger you. If you do not want to talk about her, that is your choice."
She turned to the bed, wishing she had not spoken, wishing she had held her tongue, kept her curiosity to herself and not made him angry again. She was about to climb onto the bed when she felt his hand gripping her upper arm and making her tremble with fear. He turned her to face him.
"How do you know her name?" He demanded again.
"You told me," she said, holding back tears. Strange how quickly that afternoon's tears of joy had turned to tears of regret, tears of hurt. "You called out her name in your sleep."
He kept hold of her arm but loosened his grip and a shadow of regret flickered in his eyes. She was puzzled.
"Forgive me," he said. "That was inexcusable."
"No matter," she said, surprised. "You cannot help what you do in your sleep. She obviously means a lot to you."
"I thought she did," he murmured then he released her arm and started to walk toward the door.
He would go to her now, ride into the village to the woman he really loved, the woman he would have chosen to marry were it not for the vast difference in social status. He could not marry a peasant and make her son his heir; no one would accept a peasant’s son as earl, as Lord of the Manor. So she had her answer; she set out to learn his true feelings for Immeth and now she knew and wished she did not.
"You are not staying?" She asked and her heart sank with disappointment.
He stopped and turned to face her.
"You want me to?"
"I always want you to," she answered. "Do you not know that yet? Please. Do not go. I want you to stay with me, I want to feel your warmth, I want to feel you inside me."
She had not meant to say that, but it was true. It would mean the world to her if he stayed with her now, instead of going to his peasant, simply because she asked him to.
He returned to the bed and gathered her into his arms, kissing her mouth as he pulled at both her kirtle and chemise together, slipping them down and letting them fall to the floor. His hands held hers and he stepped back to look at her, his eyes sweeping her naked body as he smiled.
"So beautiful," he murmured. "So perfect."
She could not know that in his mind he was seeing Immeth, seeing her body and comparing it unfavourably with that of his wife. He was a fool to be still seeing his peasant and he knew it, but how to break away? How to commit himself to one woman when all his life he had distrusted all of them?
Then he pulled her to him and his lips travelled from her neck, along her shoulder and down to her breasts.
Felice gasped with pleasure. She no longer cared if she was a convenience who had to share him with another woman, there only to satisfy his lust. These times had come to mean so much to her, she would endure almost anything rather than lose this comfort.
***
It was a new year, the year of Our Lord one thousand, three hundred and forty eight, and Christmas had been the most extravagant affair Felice could remember since before her mother died. She always knew her mother's death was the cause of her father's recklessness, that he acted out of grief and a need to bury her memory in his own destruction. She did not blame him, but her first Christmas at Waterford Castle was a real, twelve day affair, with guests and dancing and holly, mistletoe and all the sweetmeats she could eat.
It seemed that people would always accept Lord Christopher's invitations, no matter what they might believe about him, and she could not help but feel a perverse sense of pride to be the wife of such a man.
"Why do you want to feed all these people who really do not like you very much," she asked him.
He gave one of his rare laughs.
"I enjoy the power," he admitted. "They would each be happy to see me dead, yet I have only to snap my fingers and they all come running. It is intoxicating. Besides, I wanted to show off my lovely countess; I want them all to see what a beautiful woman has done me the honour of becoming my wife."
She was pleased with his reply and she could well believe he enjoyed the power. She felt her father’s eyes on her, watching her and her husband and she knew he was still concerned about how she was faring in this marriage.
“I hope you are well, Father,” she said as she slipped into the seat beside him.
“I am, my dear, and I owe it all to you. Do not suppose I will ever forget your generosity and your sacrifice.”
“Please,” she said. “It is no sacrifice. Can you not see how content I am?”
“I can, but I am not convinced. I still do not trust the man.”
“Then you do him a disservice,” she insisted. “He is kind and loving to me. I believe he is fond of me as I am of him.”
Lord Sutton made no reply, but forced a smile and kissed her cheek.
As a gift, Lord Christopher gave her a gold brooch, a brooch wrought with clever craftsmanship to resemble a rose. He gave it to her in the early hours of Christmas morning, on their return from midnight mass and just as they retreated to what had become their bedchamber for the night.
"It is beautiful, My Lord," she said, feeling touched that he had taken the trouble.
Since their marriage she always found fresh roses in her chamber each week and she could not help but think of the cost of such a luxury. Now they were being grown here they would no doubt still be a luxury, if not such an expensive one. She had spent many years thinking about the cost of things, but she thought Lord Christopher would likely be angry if she mentioned it. He was wealthy, after all, and he did not seem the sort of man who would waste money he could ill afford on fripperies.
He fastened the brooch to her kirtle at the breast, then turned her face to look at him.
"Felice," he said softly, using her given name for the first time ever. "You are such a beautiful woman. It is not only the power I find intoxicating; it is you as well. I find you intoxicating, I could get drunk on your beauty, on the soft sweet touch of your flesh, on your love. I think I could spend my life making love to you and never grow tired."
She felt her cheeks grow hot and wondered fleetingly if he had perhaps drunk too much wine. He was not given to compliments or flights of fancy. She reached up and held the hand that stroked her cheek, turned his palm to her lips.
"Christopher," she murmured. "I am honoured."
He began to undress her, removing her gown and her kirtle and letting them fall to the floor, then he held her body against himself lovingly, until she felt the stirring of his desire, then she began to unfasten his clothing.
His lovemaking that night was more affectionate somehow, loving and passionate as always but Felice felt something more, as though he might be letting her through that barrier he had built around himself. Dare she hope he was choosing her over Immeth, after all? She would not ask. It might be some time before they did these things again and she wanted nothing to spoil it. She should tell him now he was going to be a father, but she did not want him t
o refuse her this last time. She would rather take the risk.
They slept together now each night, which may mean nothing to him, but to her it meant everything. Not only did it mean she had the comfort of his arms around her, the warmth of his body against hers and his comfort in the night when she had bad dreams; it also meant he cared about her wishes and needs.
It was almost dawn when they finished making love and lie together beneath the covers. The time had come for his joy or his doubt and accusations. She still did not know him well enough to know which it would be.
"Christopher," she said gently, "do you trust me now? I need to know that you no longer doubt my loyalty to you."
He looked down at her and frowned.
"I do," he said. "I was a fool to doubt you. Why do you ask?"
"I just want to be quite sure you will not doubt whose child it is I carry."
He sat up and looked down at her with a delighted smile, a smile of pure joy, then he laid back down and gathered her into his arms, kissing her face, her neck, her shoulders. He buried his head between her breasts and kissed them gently, then moved to kiss her lips.
"Thank you," he whispered softly. "Thank you so much."
***
As he rode toward the village and his peasant mistress, Lord Christopher struggled with a newly discovered conscience. When he married, he told Immeth their relationship would not be affected, that he married only for an heir, and at the time he could see no reason not to give her that assurance. He never expected to marry a woman who would make him doubt his words, make him want to be hers alone.
There would be nothing physical between him and his wife until after the child was born; it was considered dangerous and the church declared it to be unclean. Christopher was not certain he believed the latter, but he certainly believed the former. Nothing could risk the safety of this child.
Felice was everything a man could want in a woman, gentle, loving and passionate, as well as an intelligent companion. He did not expect any of that, especially that last; he had not even thought about it. He had begun to hurry home in the afternoons, just to see her. He missed her when he was away, anticipated their nights together. And he felt something new each time he rode towards the village and his peasant - disloyalty.
As he reached the cottage, he saw the candle in the window that Immeth always put there when the children were asleep, so he would know it was safe to visit. He decided when they were born that it would not be good for his son and daughter to know who their father was, and his habit was never to let them see him. He would always provide for them, that was something he felt duty bound to do, but he had no wish to know them. Had he the choice, they would never have been born at all, but children were a consequence of physical contact between a man and a woman and nothing to be done about it.
Out of habit, he looked about to be sure he was not seen, but if what Felice said was true, he had not been as discreet as he imagined. It seemed his peasant family was well known throughout the county, a fact he found embarrassing.
The village was fairly large as villages go, some twenty or so little cottages, all built with wattle and daub walls, thatched roofs and rickety wooden doors and shutters. The floors were all impacted mud, and the smells of stale food from earlier cooking pots still lingered in the air. He had never really noticed it before, but now as he drew in a breath, catching the full force of the stench, he was reminded of the sweetness of his wife's bedchamber, of the scent of fresh roses both in the room and on her. As he thought of Immeth and the many evenings he had spent in her bed, he could not help but compare her to the sweetness of his wife's body, of her passion and desire for him, and he felt ashamed to be here.
He tied his horse outside the cottage and went inside without knocking. Immeth waited for him, ready with ale, and her face lit up in a smile when she saw him. For the first time that smile made him uneasy.
"Immeth," he greeted her, giving her a quick hug. "You are well?"
"I am, My Lord," she answered, "and better for seeing you."
He kissed her briefly then took her hand.
"I have something to tell you," he began. "My wife has conceived. She is expecting my child."
Immeth caught her breath, then forced a smile. He could see it was forced, but he made no mention of the fact.
"That is good news, My Lord," she said. "I will pray for a healthy son."
She turned her head away and he could tell she was not as pleased by his news as she pretended to be. He hardly expected she would be, but he had seen her watching him as he left the village church with his bride and he had seen her staring after them as they rode through the village together. He never expected her to be jealous. He was honest with her about his marriage and his reasons for it and she knew as well as he did there could be nothing so formal between them. But he also knew if Immeth were not a peasant, he would never have told her about his impending fatherhood. That new found conscience pricked again.
There was but one room on the ground floor and in the middle was a circle of stones where a fire had been lit but it made little difference to the chill in the air. In the corner of the room was the bed with a straw mattress and fur covers which Christopher had provided for her. He took her hand and led her to the bed, and she turned her face away as he untied her rough linen kirtle and let it fall to the ground. She wore nothing else, no chemise, no gown.
His eyes swept her body and he was grateful she still had her face turned away, grateful she could not see the distaste in his expression. He knew it was wrong, yet he could not help but compare her to his wife, his Felice, who was so perfect, so beautiful, while Immeth had red skin and thick, angry white ridges about her stomach.
His eyes moved to her breast, a breast no longer firm as his wife's breast. He kissed her lips, rested his warm hands on her shoulders, while she stood still and he remembered their nights together, remembered how it was for them. She made no sound, no little murmurs of pleasure like Felice. She would let him do to her what he wanted but for the first time he could see she got little pleasure from the experience herself.
He knew he could summon no ardour for her any more. All the time he would be thinking of Felice, thinking how Felice would be holding him tightly, panting and kissing him and wanting him. Until his marriage he never knew such love as Felice gave him, never knew such passion from a woman.
Immeth may think she loved him, but she did not love him as his wife did. No, he would not betray Felice again, not while she carried his child, possibly his son. And he would not betray Immeth by bedding her while thinking of Felice.
He bent and picked up her kirtle, slipped it over her body and fastened the ties. She turned her head then, the eyes that met his puzzled.
"I shall likely be back tomorrow or the day after," he said.
He had promised Felice he would spend his nights with her and that seemed to mean a lot to her, everything in fact. He had come to enjoy sharing that warmth with her, but he was unsure if he could share that warmth without wanting her. Immeth could no longer satisfy him and Felice was out of bounds.
CHAPTER SIX
Sir, Is My Mother Dead?
It was not difficult to remember where Immeth lived. Felice could drive herself in the little cart, pulled by one small horse as it was only half a mile or so, and she wanted very much to see the woman her husband spent his evenings with, wanted to see if she were indeed the same woman who had watched them as their wedding party left the church.
She pulled up at the inn and waited for Immeth to emerge from her tiny cottage. The place was dilapidated and made of wattle and daub, with smoke coming out of the roof. The thatch was sparse and surely let in the rain. Felice wondered that Lord Christopher did not make repairs, make his mistress more comfortable. She was, after all, the mother of his children.
At last she climbed down from the cart, fearing that people would notice her and that word would get back to her husband. She did not want him knowing she was spying on his pe
asant; he would be furious. She went into the inn and all the people inside stood up, the men bowed, the women curtsied, and she ordered ale.
"You may all sit down," she said at once. "I came for the same reason as you."
She took her ale to the door so that she could watch the cottage more easily. There was a woman drawing water from the well, her clothing so thin Felice wondered she did not die of the cold. She looked around at all the cottages and felt a sharp rush of gratitude. Had Lord Christopher not come and rescued her and her father, she might be living like this herself.
As she stood in the doorway, she could almost feel the eyes of the villagers on her. It was very foolish to come here; it was not what was expected of the Lady of the Manor and her presence there was almost bound to be reported to Christopher. But while she carried his child, she felt safe, as he had been more than attentive and considerate since she broke the news.
She took a step outside to give the people leave to relax and her heart began to beat faster when she saw her. She had the irrational notion that Immeth would know she was there, would feel her watching and look over. And what would Felice say to her if she did? And why did she care what the woman thought? She was only a peasant, after all. But a peasant that Christopher cared for more than he did his wife.
She was slightly built and very fair, showing her Saxon origins, but her figure had seen better days. Felice could see little folds of fat around the woman's waist, see that her buttocks were no longer firm as she walked. Her clothes were rough linen, patched in many places. Trailing behind her were two small children, a boy and a girl, aged about four or five, and they too wore clothes that provided no warmth. Again Felice felt concerned that her husband was not providing properly for his family.
But she knew that Christopher would never notice if his family were poorly served, if they were cold or living beneath a leaking roof. He would expect his mistress to ask if she needed anything, as Felice had to ask about new clothing. He did not consider it his concern to notice these things.
PESTILENCE: The Scent of Roses Page 7
