Dark Champion

by Jo Beverley

  No, never.

  The crowd shifted.

  Imogen saw the cause of the noise.

  A man was tied to a post and another was wielding a long whip. It was a flogging. A number of soldiers stood rigidly watching, though most people were paying little attention.

  Was this such a regular occurrence here?

  Each time the lash bit, the victim let out a hoarse, guttural scream. Imogen was amazed he was still conscious—his back was such a bloody mess that the strokes no longer made any visible difference.

  The man wielding the whip was also stripped to the waist and she could see hard, contoured muscles rippling across wide shoulders with each swing.

  He stopped.

  He simply stood there, like a lord watching a show, as his victim was untied and carried away and another man was dragged trembling to the post. The sun moved past a tower, and the scene, which had been in shade, was suddenly grotesquely gilded. The body of the man with the whip seemed to be made of gold and the sun struck red in his black hair.

  Then the smooth swing of the bloody whip started again. For a few strokes the prisoner merely jerked as the lash bit, but then the cries of pain began again, more loudly. Each stroke cut a clear new welt.

  Imogen turned away blindly, fighting the urge to vomit. This was hell on earth, not a place to seek help.

  “We’re leaving,” she said to Siward.

  “What? Why?”

  “This place is as bad as Warbrick Castle.”

  Siward grabbed her arm. “What? Because of a whipping? Your father had many a man whipped. You just didn’t see it.”

  “Not like that,” Imogen protested.

  “Sometimes like that, aye. He protected you too well, lady. Find out first what those men did before you judge.” He called out to a passing servant carrying trays of ale around. “Ho, my friend. Someone’s getting a fine stinging there. What’s the cause?”

  “Drunkenness. But there’s only one cause ’round here, granddad,” replied the cocky youth with a grin. “Not following the master’s orders.” He hurried on.

  “Drunkenness!” Imogen hissed. “He’s having a man half killed for drunkenness?”

  Siward shrugged. “I said FitzRoger was a firm lord, and so it proves. Drink can cause a lot of trouble. You’d be mad to scurry away from here just because of a bit of tough justice. He’s hardly likely to have you whipped.” When she did not agree, he shook his head and said, “At least wait till the morrow, lady, and until you’ve seen the man himself. It would be madness to go without sleep and venture out in the dark.”

  Imogen collapsed back down on her pack, knowing she was too weary to go anywhere now.

  Had her father truly ordered such punishments? She supposed he had but not where she would witness it. Her world had been a peaceful, civilized place—a place where the guards never had to use their weapons, where a guest was always welcomed with smiles and courtesy, and where justice was mild and understanding.

  Her father had created such a world for her, but she saw now it had largely been an illusion. Men had marched from Carrisford to war, but it had always been accomplished much more as a parade than a military expedition. The wounded, she now recollected, had always been cared for at the infirmary maintained by her father at the local monastery. The worst she had actually seen was the healed results of war—the occasional missing limb or patched eye.

  Imogen had been raised to do her duty as a noble lady, and to care for the sick and injured, but her care had been confined to minor wounds and those diseases unlikely to do her any harm.

  Her life at Carrisford Castle had been idyllic, but an illusion. This was reality—Castle Cleeve and Warbrick.

  Her delightful childhood had been poor preparation for all this. Siward was right. The least she could do was wait, and listen, and find out what kind of man this Bastard FitzRoger was.

  The cocky young man with the ale pots was pushing his way back toward the brewhouse. He stopped. “Here,” he said, and pushed a half-empty flagon at them, then carried on.

  Siward called out a blessing and passed the pot to Imogen. She took a deep draft to ease her dusty throat, too thirsty to care that one or more had already drunk from it. It was good ale. Another point in Castle Cleeve’s favor. She passed the rest to Siward and he drained it with a grunt of satisfaction, wiping his mouth on his dirty sleeve afterward.

  Imogen supposed that was the sort of thing she should do and copied him tentatively. She hardly touched the cloth to her lips. She couldn’t identify the smells that assailed her from it, and didn’t want to. Then she cursed herself for a pampered nothing. What did a little dirt and discomfort matter when the future of her people was at stake?

  She struggled to her feet, moaning slightly when they took her body’s weight again. Quickly, she grasped her staff. The rest seemed to have made the pain worse, not better. It felt as if sharp hot coals were pressing all over her feet and every part of her body screamed.

  “It’s as well I’m supposed to hobble,” she muttered as she eased into an almost vertical position. “Let’s see what there is to learn.”

  Siward looked down at her feet and muttered a horrified curse. “Lady, you must not—”

  “We are here to save Carrisford,” she said grimly. “My feet are not so bad, and the sooner I am easy in my mind about approaching FitzRoger for aid, the sooner I will be able to put aside this disguise.”

  They started to circle the crowded courtyard, keeping close to the wall where they were less likely to be trampled by a destrier or knocked flying by a hurrying servant. Even so, they had to stop and start to allow for the constant coming and going from the storage rooms in the wall.

  Imogen began to take heart. She noted the overall good humor of the busy throng. There were curses and shouts to get out of the way, but generally people made way and jokes were as common as insults. A slight change in the cacophony alerted her and she looked over to the whipping post. It was empty, no sign of the punished or the punisher. Thank God for that.

  A smell caught her attention and cramped her belly. Baking bread. Her stomach growled with the reminder that there had been nothing except water and that swig of ale for over twenty-four hours. No wonder her spirit was so weak.

  “Can we ask for some?” she whispered, scarce able to believe how desperately she wanted even a crust.

  “No harm in asking.” Siward made his way to the bakehouse door. Imogen peeped in after him and saw the baker and his men, stripped down to loincloths in the intense heat as they shoveled loaves in and out of the stone ovens.

  “Any scraps for poor folks?” Siward whined.

  The baker looked up and nodded curtly. A young boy picked up a loaf which had fallen into the dirt and tossed it to them. Siward caught it and called a blessing as they escaped into the cool of the bailey. As they pushed their way toward a quiet corner, Imogen felt something wrong. She yelped and grabbed the base of her slipping paunch. The bandages were loosening.

  A middle-aged woman was beside her in an instant. “A pain?” she asked. “Are you due yet?”

  Imogen shook her head desperately. “No. Not for weeks.”

  “Thought not. Probably just kicked you funny. Where’re you from, dear?”

  Imogen was having to keep hold of her weighted paunch to stop it sagging and she looked frantically at Siward to answer.

  He acted the selfish man and took a large bite out of the fresh loaf, making Imogen’s mouth water. Then he mumbled, “Tatridge.” It was a village on the border of Carrisford, Warbrick and Cleeve land.

  “No wonder you’re on the road then, things being as they are—” The woman broke off and cocked her head. Doubtless one of the many shouts had been directed at her. “Have to go. Just find a place to sit, dear.” She bustled off.

  Siward immediately passed the loaf to Imogen and she took a huge bite. It was delicious; still warm from the oven. The slight grittiness of earth didn’t bother her at all. “The winding cloths are coming
loose,” she mumbled with a full mouth.

  “Why not let it go?” he asked. “It’s served its purpose.”

  Imogen shook her head as she swallowed. She hadn’t told Siward her full plan for her guise of pregnancy. He’d have a fit at the thought of the Lady of Carrisford appearing to be with child while without husband. “Enough people have seen me like this,” she said. “If we want to leave without speaking to FitzRoger, we’d best not attract attention.” With great willpower she passed the rest of the loaf back, but he shook his head.

  “You have it. I’ve had enough.”

  He was doubtless lying, but Imogen found she couldn’t continue the protest and settled to enjoying the last of the loaf.

  “I must say that grabbing at yourself looked very real,” said Siward. “I half expected you to drop a babe at any moment. But you’d best not go around clutching yourself or we’ll have the midwife hovering. Move back in this corner and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Imogen squeezed into a shadowy corner half behind some bales of hay, and Siward groped under the back of her skirts to try to tuck the loose end of the winding cloths back in. Imogen stared at the sky, trying not to look as embarrassed as she felt at the whole thing.

  “Hey, you old goat,” called a big soldier who was carrying a bundle of pikes as if they were sticks. “You’re a spicy one, aren’t you? Everyone can see you’ve done your work on your woman. Can’t you wait till nightfall to plow her?” He burst out laughing and all the nearby people looked over and sniggered.

  Siward cursed, and Imogen covered her red face with her hands.

  “Haven’t got that many years left for it,” Siward called back amiably. “Got to take every chance I get!”

  There was a huge gust of laughter from the crowd. “Well, I’m glad you brought your own with you, then. There’s few enough women around here as it is and you’d doubtless exhaust the lot of ’em in one night!” The soldier rolled on his way, still laughing. Everyone else lost interest and got on with their work.

  Imogen turned to rest her head for a moment against the cool stone wall. This was getting worse by the minute. “Can we just find a quiet corner and hope no one knows we’re there?” she asked faintly.

  “Come on,” Siward said, and though he tried to sound comforting, she heard the amusement in his voice. Everyone thought they’d been . . . And nobody thought it was wrong, merely funny.

  Imogen began to wonder whether she might not be best suited to life in the cloister, as Father Wulfgan said. These last few days since her father’s death the Carrisford chaplain had been urging the advantages of the religious life on Imogen. His arguments about a life of penance and prayer being a sure path to eternal bliss had not carried much weight, but now Imogen could see one great advantage. If she entered a cloister, she wouldn’t have to marry. There’d be no man fumbling at her body.

  She’d never end up like . . . like Janine.

  She hobbled after Siward. She couldn’t help thinking, too, that in the cloister she’d have good shoes and clean clothes. There’d be regular food and some of the elegancies of life—music and books. She’d be taken care of and she wouldn’t have to take risks because people depended on her.

  You sniveling little coward, she berated herself, and made herself walk a little faster despite the pain. You took delight in being Imogen of Carrisford when all it required of you was pleasure. Now it demands work and sacrifice, and you shrink back. All of Carrisford depends on you, and you think only of your comfort. It is time to prove yourself worthy of your father. Though he was a gentle, civilized man, Bernard of Carrisford held his own and cared for his own. His people were safe within his governance. As his daughter, you can do no less.

  Imogen stiffened her resolve.

  First she must regain her castle and wreak vengeance on Warbrick for his acts.

  Then she must find and marry a man as good and strong as her father so that the like would never happen again.

  Then, she resolved grimly, she must endure the disgusting things men do to women so as to bear sons. She would raise them to be good, strong men like her father so that her people would be cared for from generation to generation.

  She was dragged out of these lofty resolutions when she realized her “baby” was lopsided. She couldn’t bear to ask Siward to fiddle around with the supports again, and so she put her right hand under the sagging side, pushed up and held it there. She only hoped she’d got it even.

  They’d just found what seemed to be a quiet corner, with boxes convenient for sitting, when a voice shouted, “Hey you! Granddad!” They turned.

  It was the burly guard from the gate. “What’re you doing, wandering all over? Didn’t I tell you to wait nearby? Lord FitzRoger’ll see you now.”

  Imogen flashed panic at Siward. They hadn’t had a chance to question people, to find out what FitzRoger was really like.

  Siward put an arm around her and said, “My wife’s not feeling well . . .”

  “Master wants to see you,” the man stated. “She can be sick later.” When they hesitated, he seized them by the arms and began to haul them along. He moved at such speed, that every part of Imogen’s body complained and she let out a scream.

  “None of that, woman,” the guard growled. “I’m beginning to think there’s something fishy about you two. You wanted justice from the Lord of Cleeve, and by the Rood you’ll get it.”

  Chapter 3

  Imogen stumbled along as best she could, clutching her paunch and biting her lip to stop further moans.

  “Harry, what are you doing?”

  The guard stopped as if he’d run into a wall. There was bluster in his voice as he said, “Bringing these peasants to you, me lord. The ones I told you of.”

  Imogen looked up and her heart chilled.

  It was the man with the whip.

  She couldn’t mistake him, though his bare torso was now covered by a dark shirt. His clothing was plain and he wore only a studded leather belt with pouch and knife, but there was no mistaking his authority. It had to be Bastard FitzRoger.

  He whipped his own malefactors? Imogen thought in horror, and her instinct took her a step backward.

  On the surface there was nothing to fear. He was clean, personable, and civilized. His features were fine and lean, his eyes a clear green; on a woman they would have been called beautiful. His dark hair rippled down onto his shoulders in the latest fashion her father had so deplored. He was tall and had broad shoulders and strong legs, yet a fineness in his build denied the looming brutality of some fighting men. He was nothing at all like Warbrick.

  So why was Imogen’s heart racing? Why had her throat constricted beyond hope of speech? Why was her instinct screaming that she should flee?

  Perhaps because of the coldness of those arresting green eyes. As they flicked over her, they seemed to see to her soul and not like what they found there. He glanced at the guard and Imogen was sure she felt the man’s hand tremble before he let her go. A simple nod and Harry made himself scarce.

  Bastard FitzRoger sat on a convenient keg, one knee raised to support his arm. “You came to seek justice? State your case. I don’t have much time.” The voice was crisp and impersonal, and she could only be glad of it. The last thing any human being would want would be to attract the interest of this man.

  Imogen’s voice was frozen. What could they say that would get them out of Castle Cleeve immediately?

  Siward nervously filled the gap. “We were thrown off our property, lord. By Lord Warbrick.”

  Imogen saw a spark of interest at the name. She remembered they’d come here because Cleeve and Warbrick were old foes, come here seeking vengeance. That had not changed. Why was she quailing because Bastard FitzRoger had proved to be a hard man? She was looking for a champion, not a troubadour. FitzRoger seemed just the sort of person to be able to help her regain her castle, and the fact that he made her shiver was nothing to do with the matter.

  “Where was this property?” FitzR
oger asked.

  Siward glanced for guidance at Imogen, but her mind had gone blank. “Tatridge,” he said at last.

  “Carrisford land?”

  “Aye, lord.”

  “Do you know the castle?”

  Siward hesitated, then said, “Aye, lord.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Lord, we’re only simple folk come to get justice—”

  “Tell me about it.” The voice was not raised, but the command was imperative.

  Even Siward stuttered slightly as he replied, “L-lord, I don’t know what you want to know. Ask me questions and I’ll do my best to answer them.”

  Imogen watched in fascination as Bastard FitzRoger turned a heavy gold ring on his right hand. He had well-shaped hands which promised both strength and deftness, but the movement transfixed her with its silent menace.

  “How many entrances?” he asked at last.

  “Just the main gate and the postern,” Siward said.

  And that wasn’t true, thought Imogen, for there was an entrance which connected with the secret passageways. She supposed Siward had used it in getting her out of the castle.

  “How is the main gate protected?”

  “There’s a drawbridge and portcullis, lord. The passage beyond is narrow, well-guarded, and has murder holes. Like this one.”

  “Do you know how many men garrison the place?”

  “No, lord, but enough.”

  “What about the postern?”

  “Two guards, I believe, and it leads to a narrow passage with a farther door before the castle proper.”

  Imogen saw the sharpness in FitzRoger’s eyes, and stiffened. He suspected something. “You are surprisingly well informed for a peasant.”

  Visions of the whipping post flashed before Imogen’s eyes. She heard a moan and realized with shame it came from herself. The green eyes turned to impale her.

  “Sit down, woman,” he said sharply. “There’s a box behind you. And if you’re going to drop the babe, go find the goodwives.” Imogen complied before her trembling legs gave way. He had already turned back to Siward. “Well?” It was like the crack of his whip.