Infidelity

by Anna Markland

  I hated her.

  He had not loved his first wife. She had hurt him, broken his heart. It was the reason he had not trusted his new wife.

  De Villiers growled, thumping his chest with his stump. Sweat plastered his hair to his head. “She was an angel. I loved her. You murdered her, and my child.”

  Gallien’s gaze was still fixed on Peri. Love blazed in those tormented blue depths. Glancing quickly to make sure de Villiers’ eyes were not on her, she looked back at her husband and put her hands to her belly.

  Gallien nodded in understanding.

  The raving monster who strutted before her, threatening dire torture, was the cause of Gallien’s misery, and her own. Fury raged in her heart, turning her terror into icy calm. She would not allow him to hurt her husband any longer. She would protect their child.

  The befuddling fog of fear lifted. De Villiers had a dagger tucked in his belt. It was her one chance. Bracing her clammy hands against the wall, she launched her body at her husband’s tormentor, screaming like a demon newly loosed from hell.

  The bloodcurdling scream that issued from the throat of his dainty Peri stopped Gallien’s heart. At first sight of her, it had struck like a kick in the belly that it was his wife de Villiers intended to kill, not him. He would be left alive to grieve.

  The revelation of her condition had been a shock. Elation and abject fear for her threatened to render him witless. What was she thinking, risking her life and the babe’s? Had fear of rape and a gruesome death spurred her on? As she threw her fragile body at de Villiers, her green eyes glowed with rage, not fear.

  Caught off guard by the onslaught, de Villiers reached for his dagger, dropping the torch. It rolled towards the cauldron. Cursing, he struggled to dislodge her grip from his good arm.

  It was only a matter of time before de Villiers’ superior strength would win out. If Gallien did nothing, the madman might drag Peri to the boiling water and push her in. That or plunge his dagger into her heart.

  Fear for his wife twisted in his gut. Pain gnawed the tortured muscles of his arms. His lacerated back felt like the skin had been peeled from it inch by inch. With the last of his strength, he tightened his shoulders and pulled his battered body up, his biceps on fire. He lashed out with his feet to kick de Villiers in the face, fearing his racked arms might leave their sockets.

  The brute reeled at the impact, stumbling onto the fallen torch. He released Peri, reaching out blindly with his mutilated hand. The hot metal of the cauldron seared his stump. The air filled with the stench of burnt flesh and manic screeching as he clutched his arm to his chest.

  Gallien feared the torch would ignite Peri’s skirts. “Kick it away,” he urged.

  Yelling a hair-raising shriek, she nimbly sidestepped the flame, grabbed the dagger, and plunged it into the madman’s injured arm. He bellowed and shoved her away. She teetered, then shoved back. Disbelief clouded his eyes as he lost the fight to keep his balance and fell backwards into the boiling water, his arms and legs flailing. Howls of agony rent the air.

  In his panic, he latched on to Peri, still struggling to regain her footing. He dragged her arm into the roiling water. She screamed, trying to pull away. Gallien’s heart stopped. His wife would either be drawn into the water, or burned when her body touched the cauldron.

  Suddenly, de Villiers’ grip loosened as he slipped below the surface. The dagger slid from Peri’s hand and clattered onto the stone floor as she collapsed.

  Gallien twisted, straining against the rope that bound him, but it held fast. Was his beloved still alive? The dagger that could free him lay at his feet. Tears of agony and frustration flowed down his cheeks. “Peri,” he cried. “My jewel.”

  The thud of a battering ram penetrated the fog of his despair. The door burst open and men poured in. Relief made Gallien dizzy. He had never been happier to see his father and brother. Étienne rushed to Peri.

  “Don’t touch her,” Gallien shouted hoarsely. “She has been scalded. Cut me down. I will see to her.”

  Fury blazed on his father’s face as he came to Gallien’s side, clasping him around the thighs to bear some of the weight. “We’ll have you free in a moment,” he rasped.

  Men bearing the Marmion devise lifted Étienne and he hacked through the rope bonds with de Villiers’ dagger. Gallien would have fallen to the floor without his father’s support. Agony surged as the blood rushed back to his extremities. He stumbled to kneel by his wife.

  Steam still rose from the sleeve of her gown. Blisters were already swelling on her reddened wrist. He forced down the bile rising in his gullet. She had risked her life for him, and now she might die from her injuries. He searched his brain for some memory of lore his mother may have once imparted regarding the treatment of scalds. Why had he not paid more attention?

  She moaned. He feared for the agony that would rack her once she regained her wits. “Hand me the dagger,” he commanded his brother.

  Carefully, inch by painful inch, he slit the sleeve of her gown, casting it aside once he had the full length of her swollen arm exposed. The men from Tamworth doused the fire under the cauldron, then stood scratching their heads, doubtless contemplating how to get a boiled body out of the vessel.

  Cool air rushing through the open door had dissipated much of the steam, but sweat poured from Gallien’s brow. He breathed a sigh of relief that the fabric had not adhered to the gruesome blisters and thanked the saints the water had not scalded her breast.

  She moaned again, twitching on the floor. The specter of fever rose in his heart. “We must get her out of here, get her cooled down.”

  “Let me carry her,” Étienne offered.

  Gallien had failed his wife too often. He would not fail her now. “Non. She is my wife. I will carry her.”

  “But you’re injured—”

  Gallien ignored him, already lifting Peri into his arms, careful not to touch the blistered skin. Unmindful of his own pain, he carried her out of the undercroft and into the house, stepping over the bodies of men he recognized as his tormentors.

  Tandine de Villiers rushed forward. “Peri! Mon dieu! What happened? My wretched husband locked me in my chamber.”

  Étienne put his arm around her and took her aside. “Your husband is dead, milady de Villiers.”

  Tandine leaned into him, making the sign of the crucifix. “May God forgive me, but I am relieved,” she breathed, swallowing hard. “He was a monster.”

  Peri moaned loudly. Her eyes fluttered open, full of pain. Gallien’s heart plummeted to his feet. “Vite, milady, cool water. My wife has been scalded.”

  Tandine gasped. “To the kitchen.”

  Gallien followed in her wake, all the while reassuring his wife. “You have been injured, but I will take care of you, my love.”

  She closed her eyes tightly, and whispered his name through gritted teeth.

  The cook and several terrified servants cowered in the kitchen under the watchful eye of Marmion’s men.

  “Clear this table,” Gallien shouted to the cook, who sprang forward to do his bidding. Pans clattered to the floor. Dogs ran underfoot to scrounge scraps. A servant kicked them away.

  Étienne spread his cloak on the newly cleared surface and Gallien put down his precious burden. “Bring me cold water, and clean linens,” he bellowed to the Cook.

  Peri was sure the flesh of her arm had been burned through to the bone, yet she shivered uncontrollably. Her belly roiled. Soon she would retch.

  But Gallien was safe. He had carried her, his husky voice a soothing balm amid the agony that consumed her. He had called her his love.

  “Mayhap we should burst the blisters.”

  Étienne? How could he be here?

  “No, milord, many’s the time a lad or lass gets scalded in a kitchen. Best not to burst the blisters. ’Twill heal faster, and lessen the chance of fever.”

  It was a peasant’s voice. She was in a kitchen? Her eyelashes seemed to be stuck together, but she finally mana
ged to open her eyes. A bloated red face loomed over her—a cook.

  A warm hand smoothed hair off her face. She recognised her husband’s touch. She put her hand over his and narrowed her eyes to peer at his beloved face through the haze of pain that threatened to engulf her. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

  “Don’t cry,” she murmured.

  “Forgive me, Peri,” he rasped, dabbing her arm with something cool. “I am a fool. You are dearer to me than life itself.”

  She swallowed the knot of fear in her throat. It was important he know of her love. She reached up to wipe away his tears with her thumb. “I love you, Gallien. But I am not long for this world. Pray for me, and our baby.”

  His shout of denial was the last thing she heard.

  Nightmare

  The cook at de Villiers Hall proved to be something of a healer, which Gallien supposed was to be expected of a servant familiar with herbs and such. Her ministrations went a long way to soothing the fire in his back as he sat sponging the grime off his body in a few inches of hot water in a kitchen tub. The vessel was probably large enough for the scullery lads and maids, but he was forced to sit with his knees bent to his chest. He had to be clean before tending Peri. He recalled that much of his mother’s teachings.

  Anguished and in pain as he was, he could not help but be amused by the glint of appreciation in the old woman’s eyes when she set eyes on his manhood. He felt like a child being fussed over by a mother hen.

  He cinched the large drying linen she handed him around his waist as he stepped out of the tub. His clothes and boots were nowhere to be found, and he could not have borne anything on his back in any case.

  His father had gone off to search for the missing children, muttering about the indignity of Gallien’s flogging and calling for de Villiers to burn for all eternity in Hell.

  They had forced a few spoonfuls from the cook’s bottle of dwale between Peri’s lips to keep her drugged. The woman swore by its effectiveness, and Gallien was aware his mother used the drug, but he would have preferred to rely on her recipe. She had often warned her apprentices at Ellesmere that too much hemlock or henbane in the potion could prove fatal. However, the cook reported none had died from ingesting her dwale. He had to trust her.

  He hoped Peri would remain in oblivion, free from pain, until his mother arrived. Loath as he was to stay any longer in de Villiers’ home, it was clear Peri would not survive the journey to Ellesmere. He believed his mother’s healing skills were his wife’s only hope.

  He was grateful that, for the moment, Peri slept. Tandine insisted her friend be put in her bed, then helped him carefully remove the rest of his wife’s garments. She gasped at the sight of blood on Peri’s thighs. Anger gripped Gallien. De Villiers had destroyed their child. The loss of a babe would break Peri’s heart. Had she not suffered enough? He cleansed her, cooing soothing words while Tandine sobbed.

  They tucked a clean linen sheet around their patient, leaving only her blistered arm open to the air. Tandine left when word came her stepchildren had been found huddled together in their chamber. Surprisingly, Étienne offered to go with her. Gallien did not envy his wife’s friend. What would become of her and de Villiers’ children? But they were not his concern. He climbed on to the bed carefully and lay on his side, watching the fitful rise and fall of his wife’s breasts, willing her to live.

  Gallien’s mother arrived the next afternoon with her daughters and two apprentices, and quickly took charge. To his relief, along with his clothes, she had brought her own potel of dwale, ignoring the ruffled feathers of the cook.

  He pulled on leggings and boots while his mother examined Peri, but decided against the shirt. Better to be chilled than have the fabric chafe his lacerations.

  Dreading his mother’s opinion on Peri’s condition, he studied the floor when she came to him, afraid he would see pity in her eyes. His heart lifted when she seemed hopeful.

  “You have done the right things. Now we must be wary of fever.”

  Gallien held his breath, fighting to control the angry creature gripping his vitals. “She lost the babe she was carrying.”

  His mother put a hand on his shoulder. “I had suspected she was with child again. That may not help her recovery, though I suppose she does not yet know of the loss?”

  Gallien shook his head, weary to the bone. He had lain awake throughout the long night, as if his wakefulness might keep Peri alive.

  “And you, my son,” she said, turning him to look at his back, “the wretch tortured you and left these ignominious scars. I have a salve that will ease your pain, then you must rest. You too have suffered greatly. Wounds can fester and bring fever. If you die, Peri will never forgive me.”

  “But—”

  His mother raised her hand. “I am the healer. You will listen to my advice. I have brought the necessary herbs and medicinals—alder bark and leaves, barley seeds, eggs, comfrey, thyme. I have what she needs to ease the pain and heal her blisters.

  “But only you can mend the pain of losing her child. You must love her back to life, Gallien. No more of your selfish behavior. You have broken her heart too many times, yet she came here at great peril to herself for your sake. It’s time for you both to be free of Felicité’s spell.”

  Despite the difficulties they still faced, Gallien suddenly realized bitterness no longer haunted him. “I am free of her, maman. The woman you tend has enthralled my heart and my soul. Her courage saved me. Thanks be to God she is in your hands.”

  His mother cradled his face in her palms. “No, my son, she is in God’s hands.”

  Peri drifted in and out of different worlds.

  She dreamed of Gallien. He bathed her forehead, whispered words of love, held her hand, kissed her lips.

  In the nightmarish world of unbearable pain, she smelled strange and foul odors, tasted bitter tastes, knew hopelessness, and prayed for death.

  In a world somewhere between this one and the next, she grieved at the tomb of a dead child, sobbing loudly. She screamed silent screams at the specter of her husband hanging lifeless from a beam. She floated in steaming cauldrons, rode darkened roads.

  Someone rubbed salt into her cheeks. She smelled vinegar.

  She begged forgiveness for retching, shuddered as Gallien chopped off de Villiers’ head, then screamed again when a headless de Villiers raped her.

  Gallien made love to Felicité, but the woman was a corpse.

  She drowned in sweat, then shivered uncontrollably.

  She cried out in fear when she did not recognize her surroundings, but Gallien was there to whisper words of love and hold her hand.

  She marched in a coronation procession, honored to be chosen as the one to crown the new monarch. But excrement spilled from the pot she hoisted over Maud’s head.

  Ermintrude scolded and Peri tittered as the old woman scraped the vile stuff from her mistress’s hair.

  As punishment, her arm putrified and turned black.

  The boat carrying her across the Narrow Sea sank.

  Gallien whispered words of love, and kissed her.

  Geoffrey of Anjou flew overhead on a dragon that breathed fire.

  Gallien murmured words of love, and kissed her.

  Devlin de Villiers’ face twisted into a macabre mask of death.

  Gallien bathed her forehead, and kissed her.

  Peace came at last and she slept.

  Peri’s eyes blinked open. Gallien inhaled sharply. For the first time in ten days, she seemed aware of her surroundings.

  “Gallien,” she whispered. “You’re alive.”

  He came to his feet quickly and touched the backs of his fingers to her forehead. The fever was gone. He silently thanked God for her deliverance, his heart swelling with relief. “Peri,” he rasped, “I am here thanks to you. You saved my life.”

  He should call his mother to her bedside, but he had to be the one to speak of the child they had lost.

  She must have seen the sorrow in his eyes
. “The babe?”

  He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Our child is gone, my love.”

  She let out a long mournful wail.

  He lifted her to his embrace, careful not to touch the blistered arm. “It’s not your fault. We grieve now, but there will be more brothers and sisters for Rodrick and Grace.”

  She smiled wearily, then drifted back into sleep, intermittent sobs shuddering through her body. He stayed by her side for long hours. Each time she wakened, she wept, her tears subsiding after he soothed her with kisses and caresses.

  A fortnight after the terrible events at de Villiers Hall, Gallien carefully gathered his wife into his arms, and carried her to the carriage waiting to bear them home. His father and Étienne had returned to Ellesmere earlier with Tandine and her brood of stepchildren.

  The horrendous blisters that had sprouted like pigeon eggs the length of Peri’s arm had healed well, thanks to his mother’s ministrations. But she had warned that Peri would bear scars. It was a blessing her hand had not been scalded.

  It grieved him that his beautiful wife believed she was ugly because of the red, puckered skin. She insisted on wearing a gown with sleeves for the journey, though it was evident it caused her discomfort. She did not want the servants at Ellesmere to see what she called her deformity.

  Once Peri was nestled comfortably in the cushioned cocoon he had made for her in the carriage, he helped his mother settle in beside her.

  The fresh air had brought color back to his wife’s pale face, and she smiled, sending blood rushing to his groin.

  “This is more comfortable than the cart that carried me to the coast,” she said with a sigh.

  Gallien wanted to climb into the carriage and cuddle up beside her, but it was not a long journey. Soon, they would be home. Resigned to an uncomfortable ride with an insistent erection, he mounted his horse, and motioned the captain of the men-at-arms to lead them out of the courtyard.