It was an odd feeling. She should be jealous, and she had been. She had imagined a tall and slender Saxon beauty, with shiny blonde hair and beautiful blue eyes, the sort of woman who would turn the heads of men as she moved.
It was that jealousy that had brought her to watch the woman, but now she saw her close up, she only pitied her. She had not imagined the leaky roof, nor the patched up clothing, barely warm enough to keep out the harsh winter weather. She had not imagined the raw redness of the woman's face and hands from working in the cold and damp. Felice had believed her husband cared for his peasant, but her eyes were telling her she too was only a convenience.
She waited until Immeth had walked away from the cottage, taking her bucket to the well to fetch water, and was about to cross the small street and leave a purse of coins inside her door. But she changed her mind. She could see the woman and the children were well fed and that, surely, was the important thing. She was sure that had she wanted new thatch she had only to ask for it, but Christopher would never notice himself. He was too selfish for that, too wrapped up in his own desires. She was already attracting curious glances and she wanted no witnesses to an act of generosity.
Immeth would tell His Lordship of a mysterious purse appearing inside her cottage, he would make enquiries and soon discover their source. Then he would be enraged that she had chosen to interfere, would take it as a criticism of him, and that was precisely what it was.
What Felice really wanted to discover was a way to get rid of Immeth, and if giving her money would encourage her to leave the village and leave Felice's husband to her, she would have gladly done it. But Immeth was not free to just leave, was she? She belonged to the estate; all the people in the village did, belonged in fact to Lord Christopher, just as Felice did.
She was jealous of Immeth, jealous of his love for her, his loyalty to her. He might even have married her had it been allowed and now he had married only for an heir and to satisfy his lust as Immeth grew older.
Finally she turned the horse and made her way back to the castle, promising herself not to seek out the woman again. It did nothing but make her unhappy and discontented. She was going to be in torment until the child was born, not able to share that tender love with him that had come to mean so much. Did she really want to have to think about him sharing that love with someone else?
Felice wanted nothing to endanger this child; she hoped that if she could give her husband a healthy son, he might learn to love her a little. She still felt herself a convenience but she was not even that while she carried his child. He would get satisfaction from Immeth, of that she had no doubt, and if there was one wish she could have granted it would be for him to end his relationship with the peasant woman. But she had little hope of that ever happening. The angry way he greeted her question about her made her quite sure he loved the woman and always would. And while he loved Immeth, there was no hope at all he might love his wife.
"You will stay with me?" She asked him after telling him of his impending fatherhood. "I mean at night. You will stay with me, let me share your warmth?"
"I will if you want me to," he said. "Although it may be too difficult for me. I will try."
"Difficult?"
He smiled then held her close, kissed her cheek.
"To lie beside you with no hope of more might prove too much of a temptation."
She was pleased with his answer, but it seemed that to be sure he was not tempted, he rode out to the nearby village most evenings after supper, the village where lived his peasant woman and their two children.
He had mumbled her name in his sleep a few more times since that first time, and it had hurt, it had hurt a lot. Felice had taken her marriage vows to this enigmatic and powerful man, determined to be good and faithful, because he had saved her and her family from ruin. All she felt for him then was gratitude. Now things had changed and she knew she would not be so jealous of Immeth were she not in love with Lord Christopher.
She was very frightened of that volatile temperament of his. She trod carefully, always hoping nothing would happen to make him think she had betrayed him, like last time. Viscount Lindsay had not shown his face since that awful night when her husband had threatened her, and she thanked God for it. She could not know it was not God she had to thank.
The fresh roses still decorated her chamber each week, and even after a confinement chamber was organised and she retreated to it with her women, the roses still appeared. That meant a lot to Felice; it meant he cared a little, if only a little.
It was hot in the birthing chamber when the pains began. It was high summer, flies were buzzing around her and the midwife's face was dripping with sweat. She recalled the callous way her husband had spoken of his first wife dying in childbirth, as though she deserved it, and from his point of view she supposed she did. To try to foist someone else's child on to a proud and egotistical man like him was condemning herself. The woman had been fortunate to die in childbirth for heaven only knew what punishment His Lordship would have inflicted on her.
But now she might die herself and she did, her only hope was that her child should live to remind its father of the wife who had loved him.
As the new life emerged from her body, her first question was not if it were a son, but where her husband was. Was he waiting outside the door, hoping to hear good news, or was he away in the village with Immeth?
"It is a fine baby boy, My Lady," the midwife announced excitedly, as she laid the babe in the arms of his mother. "I best go break the good news to His Lordship. He has been pacing about out there for hours."
He had? He had not been with Immeth after all, but waiting outside the door, out of concern for his wife or just to see if he had the son he so desired? She examined the tiny fingers and toes of this perfect little boy, even unwrapped his coverings to be sure he was a boy and she had not dreamed it. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine Christopher’s joy when he saw his son. Surely he would love her now?
She felt the bed move, then his lips on hers. She opened her eyes to see that delighted smile that did not appear often, but was well worth the wait.
"We have a son, my love," he said, taking her hand. "A healthy little boy. Thank you so much."
***
Lord Christopher was delighted with his baby son, who was named for him, but he was much more reluctant to admit he was also delighted with his wife. He did not marry Felice for love, or even attraction; he married her to give him a healthy son, more than one if possible. He had to marry someone and Lord Sutton proved to be an easy target, since his own folly meant Christopher could name his terms.
He had no intention of developing any affection for her. He had never felt affection for anyone, woman or man, in his entire life and if there was a living creature he felt some fondness for, it was his mastiff. He cared nothing for Immeth, nor for her two children, although he always believed he did. He had even believed he loved her, until Felice showed him what love really was.
Christopher did not trust people, any people. He was raised by nurses who had no affection for him, his mother abandoned him when he was a small child to run away with a lover. His father he had hardly known. This feeling he had for Felice was completely new to him; this longing for her, this anticipation when he knew he would soon see her, this joy when he looked at her...these things were all completely alien to him. He had bedded many women in his lifetime, some married women who were not getting satisfaction from their lawful marriages, some he had paid for, but none made him feel that he was special, none made him feel as Felice made him feel. Her desire for him came as a delightful surprise. His jealousy when he thought she had a lover did not come as quite such a delightful surprise.
He would have been just as angry had he not been jealous, but it was not just a question of her being his wife and him being entitled to her loyalty. Try as he might to deny it, the fact remained he could not bear to think of her in the arms of another man and his encounter with Viscount Lindsay h
ad not been just an empty threat. Christopher did not acquire his reputation by making empty threats. He felt murderous, imagining him with Felice and he would have killed him then and there had the man not been so obviously terrified. At last he could honestly believe her words, that she hoped never to see him again. The Viscount was indeed a hollow coward who was certainly no threat to Christopher and was not worthy of Felice.
After the birth of their son, when he returned to her bed, he made up his mind that the only thing to do was to break off his relationship with Immeth. Although he visited her two or three times a week, he had not shared her bed since the day Felice told him she was with child. For years he had believed he loved her, at least as much as he was capable of loving anyone, but now he realised he was not even fond of her, that she was just a means of satisfying his lust. Now he wanted to be free of her, free to build a future with Felice.
He longed for her, he hungered for her as he had never hungered for a woman before, he could not wait to feel her in his arms. He felt he would do anything for her, anything she asked and had she asked him to give up Immeth, he would have done so without a second thought. But she had not; she asked nothing of him, seemed to accept his going to his Saxon mistress and he was uneasy about that.
He recalled the day she tried to ask him about Immeth, the day she thanked him for the roses. Could it be she had wanted then to ask him to give her up, to be faithful to her? It may have been her intention, it may have been that she wanted to find out his true feelings, to find out if he would be prepared to give her up. But he did not give her a chance, did he? As always he thought the worst, thought she had been spying on him, frightened her into keeping her request to herself.
He was sure she cared for him, despite his earlier treatment of her, and the hurt in her eyes when he left to go to Immeth did not go unnoticed, yet she made no argument. Was it because she wanted to please him, or was it because she was afraid of him? After his jealous rage, after the way he had threatened her, she had every right to be afraid of him. He knew a moment of shame when he remembered that night but now he wanted to do everything within his power to make it up to her, and he would begin by putting an end to his relationship with Immeth.
That night he rode slowly toward the village. He had no real desire to get there at all, as it would mean finding the courage to hurt this simple woman who had loved him for so long, but it was that or go on hurting his wife, and he did not wish to do that either.
As he rode into the village, he could see a candle in the window of Immeth's little cottage, the candle she always put there to welcome him. He felt his courage falter, but he dismounted and led his horse toward the door and tied him to the pole outside.
He opened the door slowly, hoping that somehow she would guess the reason for his visit.
"My Lord," she said at once, bobbing a curtsy.
His blue eyes met hers and moved over her slight body, taking in her blonde hair and ruddy complexion. He would regret not seeing her again, but it had to be. He could carry on, he could continue with their relationship, but what of Felice? He could not bear to go on hurting her; she deserved better.
"What can I get you?" She said quickly, perhaps seeing in his eyes this visit was different. "Ale, wine? There is still some left from the last you brought me."
"Nothing, no," he answered. "I only wanted to see you...to say goodbye."
She quickly dropped her eyes to look at the floor and her cheeks flushed.
"As you wish, My Lord," she answered shakily.
His heart melted and he took a step toward her, reached out and took her hand in his. It felt rough against his skin, not smooth and soft like his wife's. He had never noticed that before.
"I will, of course, continue to provide for your children," he assured her.
Her eyes met his meekly, but with no surprise in them. Obviously she expected nothing less.
"They are sleeping," she said, turning away. "Try not to wake them."
He climbed the unsteady wooden staircase slowly, trying not make the stairs creak, and looked into the space at the sleeping children. They slept together on a straw mattress on the floor, breathing evenly. He would not wake them, and he had no desire to say goodbye to them. He had come upstairs because their mother seemed to expect it and he felt he owed her that much, but although they were his own offspring and he would always provide for them, they meant nothing to him. He did not understand that before, before the birth of his legitimate son. He was different; he meant everything.
Downstairs once more he moved to stand behind Immeth and turned her around to face him, kissed her cheek.
"You will send word if you or the children need anything?"
"If I can do so without Her Ladyship learning of it," she answered with a note of bitterness in her voice.
She always meekly did as His Lordship wished, as that was her place in life. She was not entitled to an opinion and she was not entitled to ask anything of him. Still he had fathered two children on her and she could not help but be hurt that now he was going to simply discard her, simply walk away because he had a new wife and son. It likely had not occurred to him that no man would want her now His Lordship had spoilt her and had no further use for her. Why should it? She was just a peasant, part of his estate like the oxen and ploughs, like the draught horses and the dogs. She was no better than any other creature he owned and he had used her for years, just as he used them.
She should be grateful that he would provide for his children, as he was under no obligation to do so under the law.
"It will not matter if she does learn of it," he answered. "She knows about you. She knows I have been visiting you since our marriage.”
"In that case, My Lord," Immeth retorted quickly, before her courage failed her, "she either loves you very much or she does not care about you at all. If the first, then you are more callous than even I believed you. If the second, then you would not be saying goodbye to me."
She turned away from him, not wanting to face the anger she felt sure would be in his eyes. She flinched when she felt his hand on her arm, turning her back to look at him. He had never hurt her, never raised a hand to her, but still she feared him, feared what he might do to silence her rebellious tongue.
Her eyes met his and she was surprised to find that he only looked puzzled.
"You think me callous?" He asked.
Her eyes dropped to look at the floor.
"Please, tell me," he insisted. "You know me better than most."
"No, My Lord," she argued. "I do not know you at all. You come here, you use me, and you leave. How can I possibly know you?"
He thought about her words as he rode slowly back to Waterford Castle, back to the arms of the woman he had come to love. Was Immeth right? Was it callous to have allowed Felice to know about his other woman, to have blatantly ridden out to see her without a thought to hide his actions from his wife? He supposed it was, if she did indeed love him as Immeth suggested. And he realised all at once that it was precisely because his mistress was only a peasant that he had not thought it mattered. Had he a mistress of his own status, of his own class, he would have kept it from Felice. He knew that, but Immeth was nothing in his eyes, not really, and realising that, facing that truth made him more ashamed than ever.
He had always done precisely as he wanted with no one else to consider but himself. He had tried, and failed, to be discreet about his relationship with Immeth for his own sake, because he wanted no one to know he was intimately involved with a peasant. It never occurred to him to try to keep his dalliance with her from his wife. He saw no reason to do so. It never occurred to him that he might be hurting her, and he had no wish to do that.
But then he had no wish to hurt Immeth either and he could see she had been hurt. He wondered briefly if she had meant what she said about his use of her, or whether she had said those words in anger. If she meant them, then he was very much ashamed of himself.
She had not expected him to
break off their relationship, that was apparent. She had expected it to go on as usual and it would have. He had promised her that when he married, and it was only now he was remembering that promise. Would he have broken a promise to Felice that easily, or was it only because Immeth was a Saxon peasant, of no consequence?
Suddenly he felt disgusted with himself and vowed to return to the cottage the following night to explain more, to try to ease her pain, to ease his own conscience.
Felice lie in her bed at Waterford Castle, her chamber filled with roses, her flesh smelling sweetly of the flower. Beneath the covers, she wore nothing, and her shoulders were smooth and creamy white where they showed above the fur which covered her. He moved close to the bed to stand looking down at her and his body stirred at the very sight of her. He felt he had captured a rare and beautiful creature, a creature he must nurture and care for lest she die for lack of tenderness.
She had been lying awake, waiting for him, even knowing where he had been. Was she a complete fool, or a very wise woman who knew how to play a waiting game? Christopher wondered what she really felt about him. Her passion was no display, of that he was certain, but what she really felt was still a mystery.
He sat beside her on the bed and put his warm hand on her neck. She sighed, turned her head to kiss his palm. She lifted her soft, smooth hand to his face and stroked his cheek gently, running her fingers over his beard.
"Come and join me, My Lord," she murmured softly.
He removed his clothes and slipped into the bed beside her and she moved across to kiss his mouth. Her lips moved down to his neck, his chest, her arms wrapped themselves around him and she pressed her breasts against his. He breathed in the scent that lingered in her soft, fair hair and vowed to give her the love she deserved, vowed to take away the fear he had instilled into her.
He put his arms around her bare shoulders and pulled her close to him, his breathing coming in little gasps that matched hers. He wanted her so much, it was like a craving, an addiction, and he felt he could never get enough of her. Putting his hands under her arms, he pulled her up and took one smooth, white breast into his mouth while she murmured his name in little whispers and moved her body against his.
PESTILENCE: The Scent of Roses Page 8
