by Jo Beverley
“My brother’s a guard there, lord.” Imogen could have kissed Siward for his calm, convincing answer.
FitzRoger’s eyes traveled them both, and such was the power of his gaze that Imogen was astonished he didn’t realize her identity immediately. He was clearly alert to the fact that they were not what they seemed.
Suddenly his questions and the bustle around them clicked together to make a whole picture and her heart gave a little leap. “You are going to attack Carrisford,” she said.
He stood smoothly and came to her, an unpleasant smile sparking on his lean face. The farce was over, it said, and now we’ll see sport. “And you are very gently spoken for one brought so low.”
Imogen was still frightened of him, but the implications overwhelmed fear with hope. FitzRoger had heard her plight, and was already preparing to ride to her rescue. She rose and abandoned deception. “Are you going to attack Carrisford, Lord FitzRoger?”
He hooked a thumb in his belt and studied her. “That is my intention, woman.”
She smiled up mistily. “Thank you.”
He did look slightly bemused by that. “In what way will my actions serve you?”
Imogen stood as straight as she could. “I am Imogen of Carrisford,” she said with dignity. “As you see, I do not need rescue, but I have come to you for aid, as a knight and vassal of our liege the king, in regaining my home from Lord Warbrick and wreaking vengeance for foul deeds.”
The green eyes widened. Imogen rather thought she’d rendered him speechless. When he took a breath, she realized he had not in fact been breathing normally for a few seconds.
“Lady Imogen,” he said, and something gleamed in his eyes. It reminded her of a cat sighting a mouse far from its hole. She took a hasty step back, but she had forgotten to hold her paunch and it slipped. Her grab to support it drew his eyes and the blade-sharp coldness snapped back.
“I think I will need proof of your identity, lady.”
“Proof? How can I prove who I am?”
“Your condition argues against you being the Flower of the West . . .” His eyes wandered over her, stripping her of her dirt and disguise. “Or at least suggests a very strange tale. Come with me.” He turned and strode toward the keep, confident that they would follow.
They did so, but slowly. Imogen simply could not force her swollen feet to move more quickly.
He turned back, sharp displeasure on his face, but then he looked at her feet. He moved quickly to swing her into his arms. She gasped in surprise but could not but be grateful for the relief from agony.
“You stink,” he commented.
“I’m sorry,” she replied with as much dignity as her position allowed. “There are also fleas.” With a degree of malice, she added, “Which are doubtless even now moving with relish from my dirt to your cleaner flesh.”
As he began to mount the wooden steps up to the entrance to the keep he looked her over with a frown. “Take off your headcloth.”
Silently thanking Siward, Imogen obeyed and saw his grimace at the greasy mess revealed. He would not be able to tell whether it was her famous hair or not. Her instinct was working furiously and telling her not to lower her guard with Bastard FitzRoger. The more she kept him uncertain, the better. Her pregnancy was definitely a good idea and she would maintain it until she was sure of his honesty, or—more likely—until she was safe in the protection of the king.
Imogen couldn’t help but notice, however, that her porter was very strong. He was climbing the steep stairs quickly without any change of breathing, and she was not a particularly dainty lady. She was of average height and well-rounded. Her father had always told her she had excellent hips for childbearing.
Since she had sought out this man she should be pleased at his strength, but instead it made her nervous. Imogen was, for the first time, having to consider a protector’s strength being used against her. The plain truth was that Bastard FitzRoger could do with her as he wished, and all she had to oppose him was her wits.
On the other hand his very strength was having a peculiar effect upon her. Protected as she had been, she had rarely even touched a man other than her father. Now, under her hand she could feel a rock-hard shoulder—but warm, living, moving rock. His arms, his torso, all had the same vital firmness.
Her father had been a big man and very strong, but he hadn’t been so hard. It was as if all Lord Bernard’s massive strength had been condensed down into this man’s slighter form—rocklike and singing with power. It frightened her, but it also excited her in the strangest way. . . .
She told herself to stop such thoughts. She was in danger of losing her wits altogether. It had been a horrendous few days, but she could not afford to give way. Not yet.
The simple question was, how far could she trust this man?
She doubted she could trust any man.
In desperation she clung to one clear thought. Whether he was a kind man or not, Lord FitzRoger had heard of her plight and already been on his way to champion the damsel in distress.
FitzRoger carried her through the arched doorway into the castle hall. It was a large chamber hung with cloths and banners, but it had a harsh, crude feel to it quite unlike her own elegant home. The walls were unpainted stone, the hangings were crude and dirty, and the rushes on the wooden floor were stale. It was also deserted. She supposed everyone was busy outside preparing for the relief of Carrisford. That cheered her.
FitzRoger walked straight across the room and into a narrow tower staircase. This proved more difficult to negotiate with her in his arms, but he managed it, and without banging her head or her feet. She had to admire his competence.
The upper floor of the keep was divided into a number of plain rooms. He stopped in the first and lowered her to sit on the floor. There was a bed there and she looked at it meaningfully.
“The fleas,” he said coolly, brushing his hands as if he had just carried a noisome load. Which she supposed he had. “I will send some women and a bathtub. I am willing to assume you are Imogen of Carrisford until it is proved otherwise, and treat you accordingly. But do not attempt to leave this room without my permission.”
He didn’t need to make threats. It was clear from his tone and expression that what the young man had said was true. There was only one crime in Castle Cleeve: not following the master’s orders. And justice would be swift and ruthless.
He turned toward the stairs and Imogen called out, “Stop! Please, what has happened to my man?”
He turned back sharply, his gaze traveling her swollen body. “What is he to you?”
“My seneschal,” she said quickly. “He is an old man. Be kind to him.”
“He will be given the same care as you for now.” He again moved to leave.
“Lord FitzRoger,” she called, and he turned with a touch of impatience.
“Will you help me regain Carrisford?”
Then he did smile. “Yes, of course, Lady Imogen. I am already preparing and tomorrow we ride. You, of course, will want to accompany us.”
It was spoken as an edged challenge, but Imogen matched his smile. “I will insist upon it, my lord.”
With a nod, he left.
Brave words did not make brave hearts, however. Alone for a blessed moment, Imogen sagged back on the floor. It was tempting to give way to tears. Her father was dead. Her home was despoiled and in the hands of a cruel enemy. Her maid had been viciously treated, perhaps killed. She didn’t know what had happened to her beloved aunt. She was alone in the hands of a cold, unpredictable stranger.
She forced back the tears and the weakness that inspired them. She was Bernard of Carrisford’s daughter and she would prove herself worthy.
She turned her mind to Bastard FitzRoger. She had little experience of such men; under her father’s eye, no man had ever dared be other than courteous to her.
How was she to judge such a dark power?
How could she be sure, for example, that once he had regained her castle he
would turn over control to her? The king, of course, would see to her affairs as soon as he became aware of the situation, but FitzRoger could drain the place of supplies and cause serious damage before then. If, she thought bleakly, Warbrick left anything of value after doing the same thing.
There was also the concern that FitzRoger was reputed to be high in the king’s favor. If he did steal from her, would the king enforce the law and grant her reparation? Henry Beauclerk would not have crossed Bernard of Carrisford, but would he pay much attention to his daughter?
Of course, an additional problem was that the king would now have the choosing of her husband. Sweet Virgin, was ever an untried maid so beset with problems?
Imogen had to wonder when the idea of wooing her would occur to FitzRoger. She had not heard that he was already wed or betrothed, so he would have to see her as a ripe plum for the picking. She had no intention of marrying such a man, so her pregnancy could turn out to be very useful indeed.
Three women came in with a tub and lined the inside with thick linen cloths. Imogen was soothed by this evidence of gentle living in such a rough hall. They went away and returned with pails of hot and cold water and filled the tub, adding herbs. One laid out clean clothes for Imogen to wear.
The women eyed her disgusting state curiously but were otherwise as respectful as she could wish. They would have bathed her, but Imogen could not allow that. She sent them away and they obeyed quite readily. Imogen had to admit that she wouldn’t touch herself either if she didn’t have to.
As soon as she was alone she ripped off the foul rags, the paunch, and the sandals. She scratched some of the worst bites, and sank with a blissful sigh into the water. Her feet stung, but it would do them good to be cleaned.
It felt so very, very good.
It would have been easy to fall asleep in the steamy comfort of the bath, but the women would soon return, and so Imogen took up the cloth and the pot of soap and began to wash. When she saw how foul she was, she scrubbed viciously at every inch of her body.
When she started to wash her feet, however, she hissed with agony and stopped. More careful cleaning showed they were in a terrible state. They were puffed up almost beyond recognition. There were swollen blisters all over the soles, and weeping, bleeding sores on the sides where the thongs had rubbed. How had she walked on them? How was she to walk now?
Dabbing at them gingerly, she tried to tell herself that they’d be better in a little while with the soaking.
She resumed the attack on the rest of her body, then turned her attention to her hair. She soaked it, did what she could with the soap, then rinsed it with clean water. She really did need a maidservant to help with this task, for her hair was thick and wavy and fell to below her hips.
Would she ever have dear Janine back to brush and braid her hair? That raised unbearable thoughts, however, and she pushed them away.
When she was as clean as possible Imogen stood, but a moment on her feet had her back sitting, tears in her eyes from the pain. Sweet Savior, what was she to do?
Eventually, she climbed out of her bath by hoisting herself on her hands and falling out onto her bottom. She discovered there was a spot on each heel which could take some weight without protest, and so she managed to dry herself. Then she shuffled over to her paunch and bound it on, and pulled the clean cotton shift on top.
At last she was, just possibly, safe.
Safe? she scoffed. How safe was she when she couldn’t even walk? She was as helpless as a babe.
She eyed the low bed. If she was lying on it when the maids returned, perhaps no one need know just how vulnerable she was. She worked her way awkwardly over to the bed and hoisted herself onto it. Surely by morning she would be able to walk.
Why was she so afraid, when she was in the keep of an ally? Apart from his coldness, the Lord of Cleeve was being a perfect knight. He had been willing to hear and aid two destitute peasants, as a good lord should. He had given her a room, clean clothes, and a bath. He was preparing to recover her castle.
She suddenly wondered why the Lord of Cleeve had not been among her suitors.
He had been busy since coming to Cleeve, of course, occupied with taking control of his property and helping the king repel invasion, but other men as busy had found time to at least express interest. With Carrisford and Cleeve lands adjoining there would have been arguments in favor of the match.
Of course, he could well have realized that someone of such dubious origins would not have been a strong contender. Lord Roger of Cleeve had denied both paternity and the legality of the marriage to the Bastard’s mother. This man’s taking of the name FitzRoger had been a calculated taunt at the man he claimed as father. It was only since the coronation of his friend and patron, Henry Beauclerk, that Lord FitzRoger had obtained validation of his legitimacy. He had not yet managed to shed the nickname Bastard, and perhaps never would.
Imogen doubted that anyone actually used it to his face.
Imogen nodded, satisfied that she understood the situation. He’d either never thought he’d have a chance of wedding Imogen of Carrisford or he’d approached her father and been dismissed. Now he could well be thinking that doing her this service would bring him into favor. He still was not the sort of husband she wanted, but she would try to be kind when the time came to dismiss him. His irregular origins were not his fault.
The women peeped in. Imogen smiled and allowed them to come and clear away the bath. One produced a comb and began to work it through Imogen’s wet hair. “It’s so long, lady. And I swear it looks like gold where it’s drying. Such beauty . . .”
Then one of the maids gave a squeal of horror and pointed at a bloody patch on the sheet. “Oh, lady! Your poor feet!”
Before Imogen could prevent it the woman ran off to get help. Soon a monk appeared along with the master of the castle.
“This is Brother Patrick, Lady Imogen,” said FitzRoger. “He’s more accustomed to sword cuts and saddle sores, but he should be able to tend your wounds.”
Imogen thought of protesting but guessed that if she did, the master would simply upend her and present her feet to the monk. Anyway, her feet did hurt and she wanted the use of them tomorrow.
FitzRoger leaned against a wall, arms folded, and watched as Brother Patrick inspected the damage. The monk shook his head in a worrying way, then set to work, cleaning the weeping flesh then smearing salve and applying bandages. It hurt.
Throughout the painful ordeal Imogen’s awareness of FitzRoger’s impassive observation firmed her courage. She’d pledge her soul to the devil before she’d whine with those cold green eyes on her.
“How bad are they, Brother Patrick?” FitzRoger asked as the monk began to bind her feet.
“Not as bad as they look, my lord. As long as no infection sets in, they will heal.”
Imogen caught her breath at the very notion that they night not heal. She remembered her father dying in agony from a festering wound and a chill swept through her.
She looked up and her eyes were caught by FitzRoger’s. “They will heal unless you are foolish,” he said. “I’ve seen enough wounds.” Despite the brusque tone, it was almost as if he realized her fears and was offering comfort.
He strolled closer to the bed. “You improve with washing,” he said casually, “no matter who you are. You do fit the description of the Carrisford heiress.”
“That is hardly surprising.”
A light flickered in his eyes. “Robust,” he said, “with gingerish hair.”
Imogen gaped. “It is not ginger!”
He picked up a strand, letting it fall before she could slap his hand away. “If it’s not, then perhaps you are not the Carrisford heiress. I wonder what the penalty should be for impersonating a highborn lady?”
Despite the fact that she could never be found guilty of such a crime, Imogen felt a tremor of fear. “You have no right to punish me.”
“You have placed yourself under my governance.”
She glared up at him. “I have not. I have come to you, equal to equal, for aid against my enemies. My father was always an ally of Cleeve.”
The monk finished his work. “Please do not walk on those feet for at least two days, Lady Imogen,” he said, “and send for me if there should be any increase of pain or swelling of the legs.”
At least her confrontation with FitzRoger had distracted her from Brother Patrick’s final ministrations.
But two days? “I can’t stay off my feet for two days,” she protested.
“You must if you want them to heal,” said the monk. “And don’t try to wear shoes.”
Brother Patrick left and Imogen looked down with disgust at the bandaged lumps at the ends of her legs. How could her body betray her at this crucial time?
Then she realized the women had also left.
She was alone at the uncertain mercy of Bastard FitzRoger, and forbidden to make any attempt to escape on pain of death from festering feet.
She could feel the pounding of her heart but kept her chin up and her expression stern.
At least FitzRoger moved away from her, going to sit on a bench beneath the narrow window. The sun was low now and fiery. It touched his dark hair and tunic with red, so that Imogen was reminded of the devil.
He raised a thoughtful finger to his lips as he studied her. “There are stories,” he said at last, “of secret ways into Carrisford. Do you know those ways?”
Imogen’s heart skipped a beat. This was not what she had expected. Even the existence of those secret ways was a family secret, a sacred trust. How had he heard of them? She remained silent.
His expression hardened. “If Warbrick holds the castle, you want him out of there, do you not?”
“Yes.”
“Then you must tell me all you know about the place.”
It made sense, but it had always been strongly impressed on Imogen that a secret escape is also a secret entrance, and a known secret is no use to anyone. “You said you were taking me with you to Carrisford,” she said at last.