Dark Champion

by Jo Beverley

  She was not nervous about the matter, however, for she knew her father would not force her into a match she disliked.

  “Do I have any other suitors yet?” she asked, beginning to like the thought of being courted. At ten she had been little interested in the matter; now it might be fun.

  Lord Bernard ran off a shrewd list of the men who would doubtless make moves to gain one of England’s greatest heiresses for themselves or their sons. “But I’ll make no decisions yet, dearling. I’m not sure of Henry Beauclerk’s ability to hold his throne. I’ve sworn my oath so I’ll hold true to him, but I don’t know about others. If Henry’s still king come Michaelmas, we’ll see who the men of power are then.”

  It was less than a year since the ascent of the new king—Henry I, called Beauclerk—and the king’s older brother Robert, Duke of Normandy, was still contesting the succession. Robert was even now gathering a fleet to invade England as his father, William the Conqueror, had done.

  Imogen shuddered. “Will you have to fight, Father?”

  He shrugged wearily. “We all do what we have to do, daughter. Never forget that. Protect you as I may, doubtless the time will come when you will have to bite into gall to maintain our honor, or even to survive.” He pushed up out of the chair and chucked her under the chin. “For now, dearling, enjoy yourself. I doubt not you’ll have the might of England prancing through here in silks and tissue, and so long as you choose a man of honor, you can have your pick of ’em.”

  It had been as her father had predicted. For a while Imogen had enjoyed a pleasant summer entertaining the eligible men of England in their silk and tissue.

  Then in July the Duke of Normandy had invaded, and Lord Bernard had marched out to support his king. Courtship games had halted. In early August, however, the duke had quailed before King Henry and his supporters, and slunk back across the Channel.

  Lord Bernard and his men had returned without a scratch, and Imogen had been surrounded by eager suitors again. It had been far too much fun to cut short and her father had not pressed her.

  Which, with hindsight, had been a mistake.

  If Gerald had lived, or if Imogen had been legally betrothed to another, Warbrick would have been unlikely to have tried such a crude wooing. Now there was little to prevent a man from forcing a match.

  She had escaped the trap, but only for the moment. Imogen shuddered at the thought of her fate at Warbrick’s hands. His brutality was only exceeded by that of his brother, Belleme. Belleme’s first wife had died by violence, and his second, Agnes of Ponthieu, had fled him a broken woman.

  Imogen knew she had truly been mad to want to give herself into Warbrick’s power. Why had she thought he would wait for a marriage ceremony to claim her? If she fell into the hands of any ruthless, godless man, it would be rape and imprisonment until the formalities were completed. And could even the king undo such an alliance?

  She clung to Siward. She wanted to burrow into the leaves on the forest floor and hide like the hunted creature she was, but as he said, there was no safety here. As soon as Warbrick was sure she was not in the castle, he would tear Gloucestershire apart in the search for her.

  She needed someone of equal power to protect her.

  Siward stroked her head. “We could try to get you east to the king, lady.” He sounded dubious, and with reason. Warbrick’s land lay to the east and his men watched the road.

  Imogen reminded herself that she was her father’s heir, heir to his responsibilities as well as his wealth. She removed herself from the steward’s arms and forced herself to think, to lead.

  “No. That’s the road Warbrick will watch most closely. And who’s to say where the king is, or if he’s able to come to my aid? He’s likely still watching the coast in case his brother changes his mind again. It would take at least a week of walking just to reach London, and if Warbrick didn’t stop us, I fear some other hazard would.” She looked around. “Did any of my father’s men-at-arms escape?”

  “None that I know of, lady.”

  Totally undefended. Imogen had never in her life stepped out of her castle unguarded, and now she felt naked before the world, but she forced her voice to steadiness as she said, “We must seek aid closer by, then.”

  Siward shook his head. “But where, lady? To the north and east are Warbrick and Belleme. To the south is Sir Kyle. To the west is Cleeve.”

  Imogen shivered. Put like that it was a withering choice. “Sir Kyle would do me no harm,” she said, thinking of the elderly knight who held Breedon Castle for the Earl of Lancaster.

  “And little good, I fear, lady. You know well enough that he’s an old man and of a nervous disposition. He’s been secure, for no one had reason to risk Lancaster’s wrath, but you would be enough to tempt Warbrick to take the risk. If Warbrick and his jackals arrived at Breedon’s gates, old Kyle would hand you over.”

  “Surely not,” protested Imogen, but she knew it was true. She was fighting the obvious source of help. “You think I should go to Cleeve?” she whispered. “But it’s in the hands of the one they call Bastard FitzRoger!”

  “Cleeve’s your only chance against Warbrick unless you want to hide in the woods until the king comes.”

  An owl hooted and there was a scurrying in the undergrowth. Imogen felt like that small animal, frantically hiding from predators.

  She turned away that puling image. She was Imogen of Carrisford. She was a wolf at bay, not a rabbit. What she needed was an ally.

  “Is FitzRoger as hard a man as they say?” she asked.

  Siward rubbed his long nose. “He’s not been hereabouts long enough to tell, lady, only since January. And not about the place that much, what with helping the king establish himself and driving off the duke. All we know of him is rumors and gossip. You know he was maybe son to old Roger of Cleeve but raised in France. Came over with the new king and looked up his family, so to speak. That weakling brother of his was still lord then, but when Lord Hugh died without heir, the king gave FitzRoger the place.”

  Imogen did know this, and more. Rumor said the bastard had killed his brother. Lord Bernard had said little on the subject, however, and Imogen had been too busy teasing suitors to care. Old Roger of Cleeve and his son had been such an unpleasant pair that Carrisford had had nothing to do with them.

  “The local people must have some opinion of him,” she said.

  Siward shrugged. “He’s a young man, they say, but well proved in war and tourney, and close to the king.”

  A man able to stand against Warbrick and Belleme, perhaps, but at what cost to herself? “I have heard he is a harsh man,” she whispered.

  “Aye,” said Siward. “He’s taken Castle Cleeve in a firm grip, sure enough.”

  A vision of Warbrick’s fist around Gilbert’s throat flashed through Imogen’s mind, and bile choked her. She forced herself to ignore it. “You almost sound as if you approve of him, Siward.”

  “It’s not for me to approve or disapprove, lady.”

  “What I mean,” asked Imogen impatiently, “is do you think FitzRoger is a lesser risk than Warbrick? You know my father sheltered me. I don’t know enough.”

  “There’s no risk with Warbrick,” said Siward flatly. “There’s just certainty of evil. From what they say, FitzRoger’s a hard man and a good soldier. That’s what you need right now, lady. He’ll likely help you, for Cleeve and Warbrick have long been at odds. Besides, he’s the king’s man, and Belleme and his family are a thorn in King Henry’s side. I judge FitzRoger rich and strong and brave enough to stand against Warbrick, do he choose to, maybe even take vengeance for what was done this day.”

  Vengeance.

  As soon as the word was spoken Imogen knew she wanted it, hungered for it. Her home had been despoiled in the most vile manner. Her people had been abused and slaughtered. She wanted her castle back, but more than that, she wanted Warbrick dead in the dirt for what he had done.

  To achieve that, she’d pay any price.

 
; She sat up straight. “Then I had best go to FitzRoger and enlist his aid,” she said. “Now let us think how I can make my way there safely.”

  Chapter 2

  The next day, as the sun began to set, an elderly couple hobbled along the edge of the dusty road leading to Castle Cleeve. The edge of the road was the wise place to walk, for the wide track was busy and each horse and cart sent up clouds of dust. The traffic coming and going to the stern castle on the crag was largely military.

  The man was gray-haired, dirty, and stooped beneath an enormous pack. The woman’s hair color could not be told, for she had a grubby white headrail over it, but she looked as if it should be gray too. For all that, she couldn’t be as old as her man, for she was clearly well-advanced in pregnancy. Despite this she too stooped beneath a load nearly as large as his and hobbled like a crone.

  Imogen looked up as the castle came into view and felt nothing but relief. It no longer mattered to her if the devil himself waited at the end of the journey; she could hardly go another step. If it wasn’t for the sturdy staff Siward had cut for her, she would have given up hours ago. Her feet were merely balls of agony on the ends of numb-weary legs, and her back screamed with the desire to be straight again.

  Their disguise had been wise, however, for they had encountered Warbrick’s men along the way, checking among all travelers for Imogen of Carrisford. When they had faced such scrutiny Imogen had been grateful Siward had insisted that every detail be exact. For the rest of the journey she had simply been miserable.

  Her hair beneath the filthy cloth was caked with grease and dirt, just in case anyone decided to look for the famous honey-and-gold hair of the Treasure of Carrisford. Her fine leather shoes had been discarded in favor of peasant sandals tied on with coarse linen strips. Her feet had started out looking like bandaged sores; now they felt like them. Her clothes from the skin up were of the poorest sort and unclean. Her own smell revolted her, the pack straps galled her, and she was itching from bites.

  Worst of all was the paunch Siward had constructed and which she had bound to her body with the wide winding cloths commonly used by pregnant women. The effect was of a woman well gone with child, and the deceit would not be detected unless the cloths were removed.

  The pregnancy had been her own idea. It would further mislead the hunters, she had thought, and surely give some protection from rape and cruelty. More important, if she could maintain the deceit it could prove even more useful. Should FitzRoger turn out to be more predator than paladin, he would hesitate to wed a woman who carried another man’s brat. That would be to risk having to acknowledge it as his own.

  If there seemed any danger of a forced wedding, she would claim the child to be fathered by Gerald of Huntwich. As she had been legally betrothed to him, that should muddy the inheritance situation enough to make any man hesitate. She’d considered herself very clever to have thought up such a plan, but now she cursed it.

  The bag filled with bracken and sand had not felt heavy at first, but now it dragged on her bent body. She was convinced even a real babe would not be so hard to carry.

  There was one good thing to all this: she no longer needed to act to appear to be a downtrodden peasant rather than a rich young lady. She looked toward the castle as refuge indeed. There she could shed her rags and become once more Lady Imogen, the Treasure of Carrisford, the Flower of the West.

  Though it hurt her neck to look up, Imogen studied Bastard FitzRoger’s keep. Castle Cleeve was harsher than Carrisford, and less graceful in its lines, but it inspired confidence. It was set on a rocky elevation and the keep was protected by a deep, steep-sided ditch which ran straight up to its tall, defensive walls. Before the gate the ditch was broken by a causeway just wide enough to allow a single cart to cross. As she and Siward hobbled their way toward it, Imogen admitted she would not like to be an enemy faced with crossing it under fire.

  They paused for a brief rest at the end of the causeway. The sun was beginning to set and many people were passing in and out of the castle to find their places for the evening meal and sleep. Still, there seemed more activity than she would have expected.

  “What do you think is going on?” she asked Siward.

  “Who’s to say?” he grunted wearily. “Perhaps Fitz-Roger’s just arrived, or is just leaving.”

  “Leaving,” Imogen echoed in alarm. “He can’t leave now!”

  “He won’t go anywhere,” Siward assured her, “once he hears your news. You can drop the pack now, my lady. We’re safe.”

  But Imogen looked at the causeway and the well-guarded gate at the end of it and held on to caution. “They seem to let people in and out quite readily,” she murmured. “Perhaps it would be wiser to keep our disguises until we find out what’s going on. Till we discover more of FitzRoger. It should be easy enough to sense what his people think of him.”

  “If you don’t ask the Bastard’s help,” Siward asked with a touch of impatience, “what will you do?”

  Thought of a further journey was beyond Imogen, but she still felt wary. She remembered her father saying, “Go with your instincts, child. You have a gift for it.” So be it. She could carry her burdens a little longer.

  They began to make their slow way across the causeway behind a young man and a woman who looked like entertainers of some sort. Imogen bitterly envied their light step. She looked down and saw a bloodstain on the cloths binding her right foot.

  She gave a little cry and staggered. Siward grasped her and she found she was at the very edge of the steep drop. In her exhaustion she had been weaving as she walked. She looked down dizzily at the sharp stones far below and staggered away from the edge. Then she looked again at her feet. They had felt so sore, but she had never imagined them actually bleeding.

  “Come on!” said Siward roughly. “Move on, woman!”

  Imogen looked up to see that the entertainers had stopped and were staring at them. She wasn’t sure she could go on, but neither could she stay here—

  “Move on! Move on!” bellowed a voice and she looked up to see two armed horsemen at the castle end of the narrow path, holding back their prancing horses and beckoning. “Get a move on!” one shouted again. “Get out of the way, curse you!”

  The fear that they’d ride them all off the cliff gave Imogen strength and she staggered forward as quickly as she could. The horsemen waited, however, then as soon as the people were across they charged off down the narrow strip of land as if it were acres wide.

  Seeing their urgency, Imogen took heart. Surely Castle Cleeve could not be such a bad place if soldiers on urgent business hesitated to ride peasants to their death. And a castle would take its character from its lord.

  They approached the guards. The two men surveyed them without great interest. “Business?”

  Siward looked to Imogen. She had expected to just walk in, announce her identity, and enlist the aid of Lord FitzRoger. Now that she wanted to maintain anonymity, what reason could they give for coming here?

  “We come to seek justice, sir,” she muttered in a thick accent. “Justice of Lord FitzRoger.”

  One guard rubbed his broken nose. “Well, you’ve come at a bad time, woman. The master’s a mite busy.”

  “Aye,” said the other with a grin. “But he is dishing out justice, Harry!”

  Both of them laughed coarsely at this, and Imogen’s feelings about the place changed. She had the urge to flee, but the guards were waving them through. “Go on in. He might find time to heed your plea. Wait to the right of the gatehouse.”

  “Wait” translated in Imogen’s numb mind to “rest.” She forced her painful feet down the long dark passage toward the busy castle bailey—an arch-framed picture gilded by the evening sun.

  They walked out into pandemonium. A small army of people seemed to be milling around, along with horses, dogs, hawks, and assorted livestock. Lord FitzRoger was undoubtedly busy. Imogen didn’t much care anymore. She found an empty bit of wall, dropped her pack, and sat on
it with a bump. She looked at her feet and wondered if it would be better or worse to take off the cloths and sandals.

  “What do you want to do now?” muttered Siward as he took his bent stance next to her.

  Never move again, thought Imogen. But she was Imogen of Carrisford and her people depended upon her. She must act. But, please God, not for a minute or two.

  “Get a feel for the place,” she murmured back. Her instinct was still sending a warning, though she could see no reason for it. “Do you think we could make it to London like this?” she asked.

  Siward flashed her a look. “It’d be terrible risky, lady. Unprotected strangers are always in danger, and these are chancy times. Could you walk that far?”

  “I might be able to,” she complained, “with decent shoes.”

  “Starving peasants don’t have decent shoes,” he replied.

  Imogen fell silent and worked at making sense of the scene around her.

  Packhorses were being loaded; weapons were being carried here and there. It definitely spoke of a journey and looked like preparation for war. Was it possible Duke Robert had invaded again? Since Belleme and Warbrick had thrown their forces behind Duke Robert, the attack on her castle might have been part of a wider plan.

  To add to the evidence of war, she could hear the clamor of an active smithy off to one side, doubtless fixing up swords and mail.

  On the other hand, it was said that the king was moving against those who had proved traitor. FitzRoger was the king’s man; perhaps he was planning a punitive mission.

  Against Warbrick and Belleme?

  The noise of people and animals all around was deafening, but another sound began to stand out. Regular repetitive screams. Memories of Janine sprang into Imogen’s mind and she used her staff to push herself to her feet. Was she to witness another rape?