by Jo Beverley
“Hardly practical anymore.”
Imogen wanted nothing more than to stay in this bed and be taken care of, but she could see her duty. “I can ride,” she said.
She expected an immediate protest. No one ever allowed the Flower of the West to put herself in danger or discomfort. If had often chafed her.
Instead he nodded. “It will not be easy, but if you insist it can be done. We should be in no great need of speed.”
“Then,” said Imogen, “I will tell you what you need to know when you need to know it.”
“What I need to know?” he echoed. He turned that heavy ring again, then rose smoothly and moved toward the bed. “Did you not say we are allies, Lady Imogen?”
She pressed back into the pillows and nodded, dry mouthed.
“Allies are honor-bound to help one another.” He raised one foot and rested it on the bed frame, leaning forward on his knee, looming over her. “In all ways.”
Imogen remembered thinking that he did not loom. Foolish error.
“Can you read and write at all?” he asked.
She was startled back into her voice. “Yes.”
“Then I will have some parchment sent up with pens and ink. Draw a plan of the castle and put on it all the information you know. Everything.” It was as if she had never spoken. “Tomorrow we’re going to Carrisford, Ginger. If you withhold any useful information, I’ll take it out of your skin. If you deceive me, I’ll strangle you myself.”
She believed him. She would have disappeared under the bed if she’d been able, but she kept her chin up and her eyes on him. “Then you do believe I am who I claim to be?” It came out a little thin, but she was proud of having got it out at all.
“I said I’d treat you as such until proved wrong, didn’t I?”
He leaned forward and picked up a strand of her long hair, twisting it around his finger. “If you are playing a part, sweet Ginger,” he said softly, “I recommend that tomorrow you take any opportunity that presents to run—swelling feet or no.”
Imogen was frozen.
Then he released her hair and straightened. “I’ll have a supper sent up along with the writing materials. Good night.”
He was gone and she could breathe again, try to calm her hammering heart. Her instincts had been right all along. She had snared a dragon, not a hunting hound, and was as likely to be its dinner as its mistress.
She closed her eyes on tears. She wanted her father back to guide her, Aunt Constance to fuss, Janine to comb her hair and lay out her beautiful clothes and jewels. She wanted her home. She didn’t want to be in a strange place, alone, and having to be brave.
She had no choice. She remembered her father’s words and knew that the taste of gall was on her lips.
After she had eaten the plain but adequate supper, Imogen drew a careful plan of Carrisford for Bastard FitzRoger. She told herself she did it because he was her champion and was going to win back her home for her. She knew she also drew it to pacify him.
She even included the section of the passageways which ran behind the walls of the great hall, for they would be easy to find by anyone who suspected their presence, and the link between them and the lower ones was hidden.
Despite her fear, however, she did not include the lower passages or the entrance they provided to the castle.
After all, it was possible that Warbrick had abandoned Carrisford when he found her missing. It would be utter foolishness to give away the family secrets unless absolutely necessary.
All the same, she chewed the quill nervously, wondering what FitzRoger would do when he realized most of the secret passageways weren’t shown.
Of course he wouldn’t whip her.
But neither was he a man to make idle threats. . . .
Fear and confusion about the nature of her paladin—not to mention the bulk of the unaccustomed paunch and her sore feet—should have kept Imogen from sleep, but exhaustion was stronger. She slept deep and dreamless and was only reluctantly roused at dawn by a serving woman.
Imogen discovered she was in a worse state than the day before. She ached all over and the sores on her feet protested at the lightest touch. She briefly thought of changing her mind and staying there in comfort until her home was secure again, but she could not. She was Imogen of Carrisford and her duty called her there. Lord knows what FitzRoger would get up to if she was not with him to protect the interests of herself and her people.
It was awkward to dress, even with two women to help her, but she managed it. Then she ate a breakfast of bread, cold pork, and ale while her hair was worked into two fat plaits. By the time this was done her spirits had improved. With movement some of her stiffness had eased, and she was cheered by the thought that soon her home would be secure once more, and she safe in it.
The clothes provided were simple garments of linen and wool, but clean and colorful, as opposed to the rags she had worn for her flight. The women brought some large shoes which would fit over her bandages, but they hurt, and after one tentative attempt at standing Imogen found Brother Patrick had been wise to suggest she stay off her feet entirely. The slightest weight on them was excruciating. If she wasn’t going to stand, never mind walk, she had no need of shoes.
One of the women was bold enough to venture a protest. “You shouldn’t go anywhere today, lady. You bide here with us, and let the master handle matters.”
Imogen gritted her teeth. “I will be able to ride.”
When she was ready to travel, one of the maids went to find someone to carry her. Imogen braced herself for another encounter with FitzRoger.
However, it was a stranger who entered her room. He was a handsome young man of high rank, already dressed in mail but with brown curls uncovered. “Lady Imogen,” he said, and bowed. “I am Renald de Lisle who has the honor of carrying you to your horse.” His expressive dark eyes suggested he had fought the hordes of darkness for the right to be her porter.
He was clearly French, not Norman. It showed in the way he spoke the language, and in his mannerisms. Imogen could not help but smile in the face of his unconcealed delight at his task. Why could not all men be as appealing?
Though not quite as tall as FitzRoger, he was of more massive build, with heavy shoulders and a broad chest. He picked her up without effort. Imogen leaned at ease against his mailed chest. She noticed that though he had the same strength as FitzRoger, Sir Renald didn’t cause her to turn giddy.
It all went to show it had just been exhaustion and hunger.
Sir Renald smelled slightly of herbs, perhaps from his clothing. She tried to remember what FitzRoger had smelled like. But then her stink would have blotted out any odor more subtle than vinegar. What a way to be first seen by a man, she thought with despair. He would probably never forget her standing there in grimy rags, eight months gone, and half crippled.
Sir Renald broke into her thoughts. “Such a pleasant duty,” he said cheerfully. “I thanked my brother-in-arms most warmly for appointing me his deputy.”
“You refer to Lord FitzRoger?”
“Indeed. We are brothers of the heart, demoiselle. We were poor together as we sold our swords. We vowed that if we became rich we would be rich together. And here we are.”
The warmth in his voice was startling. How extraordinary to think of cold FitzRoger having any friend, especially such a friend. Sir Renald carried her out of the keep and Imogen savored fresh morning sunshine and a light breeze that caught at the edge of her skirts. A good day for victory.
“And what do you do for the Lord of Cleeve, Sir Renald?” she asked as they began the descent to the crowded, noisy bailey.
“At the present I am his master-at-arms as he shapes up these lazy rogues he has inherited from his brother. One day, as his riches increase, he will give me land of my own. Me, I do not care. I have food, a roof over my head, fine clothing, and enough fighting to dispel boredom. I am in Paradise.”
Just then he carried her past the blood-darkened whipping
post. The previous day’s scene returned to her mind, and she saw again Bastard FitzRoger wielding that whip. She heard the men screaming. And their only crime had been a bit too much to drink.
Imogen shuddered. Paradise? Only the coarsest type of man would find Castle Cleeve a paradise. Just let these warriors wrest her castle back—it was all they were good for—and she would seek out a sensitive, civilized husband, another man like Gerald of Huntwich.
Instead of being put on a horse of her own, Imogen was settled to ride pillion behind a solid, middle-aged soldier. He told her gruffly his name was Bert, and it was clear he wasn’t too pleased with his role in this day’s events. Imogen wasn’t too pleased with the arrangement herself, but within moments she had to admit that she would have found it hard to manage a horse. Stirrups would have been out of the question. Sitting sideways on the pillion seat, she found her feet gave her no pain. She hooked her hand over Bert’s leather belt and resigned herself.
Sir Renald kissed her hand gallantly before he left to mount his gray destrier. FitzRoger rode past bareheaded. His squire rode behind bearing his shield and helmet.
FitzRoger’s eyes traveled over his force, taking in every detail. Without hesitation or hurry they passed over Imogen. She could imagine his mind ticking off: “. . . one heiress, mounted . . .” Then they were off at a steady pace which should bring them to Carrisford, she reckoned, by late afternoon.
It was a pleasant day for riding and without even the work of guiding a horse, Imogen settled to enjoy it. The Castle Cleeve lands appeared to have given good crops and fat kine were in the meadows. There was much unused land, though. She had heard that FitzRoger’s brother, Hugh, had not been a good lord, so perhaps these lacks could be laid at his door.
The people were busy with the last of the harvest. They looked up and watched their lord as he passed. There were no friendly cheers such as had regularly greeted Lord Bernard, but nor was there sullen resentment. It was as if they took their tone from him and were cool.
FitzRoger occasionally rode away from the line of troops to speak to a group or inspect something. Always checking, she thought sourly. Nothing was allowed to escape his perceptive green eyes.
Her father had been a good lord and had been deeply loved. She didn’t think that was the case with Bastard FitzRoger, which was hardly surprising. Who would love such a harsh man? But she saw that he was respected. She thought how significant it was that they all called him “the master.” Discipline among his men was as tight as the shine on every visible piece of metal, and yet the soldiers sang as they rode and any grumbles were humorous ones.
Imogen decided with irritation to put aside this obsession with her paladin—her champion. He was nothing more to her than a tool.
She’d help him to take Carrisford, even show him the secret entrance if necessary, then she would settle to restoring her home and holding it safe. She would, of course, give him a suitable reward for his help and that would be that. She’d make sure the next message to the king got through. Henry would crush Warbrick as he deserved, and then Imogen would carefully select a husband.
She began to run her previous suitors through her mind. To her surprise, she found them an unsatisfactory lot. From safe within her father’s protection they had seemed well enough, but now it was clear that one had been too stupid, another too cruel, another too clumsy, another too vain, another too old . . .
FitzRoger was making one of his periodic rides along the line and he pulled up his chestnut beside her. “You frown, lady. Are you in pain?”
“No, my lord.”
“Tired? If so, I’m sorry for it but we cannot stop.”
“I have no problem except tedium, Lord FitzRoger.”
“Some people pray daily for a tedious life, Lady Imogen. I’m afraid you must wait for excitement until the fighting starts.”
Annoyingly, he was gone before she could think of a fitting response. She twisted to follow his progress down the column. He stopped here and there for a word or a joke. Or a rebuke. Imogen saw one man turn pasty white after a few quiet words.
Despite FitzRoger’s saying they could not stop, they did stop three times—to rest and water the horses. The comfort of the horses, after all, was much more important than that of a mere heiress. At each halt Sir Renald carried her to a shady spot and settled her on a blanket there.
He never lingered, however, but was off with FitzRoger making another round of men and mounts, checking, encouraging, admonishing. Imogen had never had anything to do with warfare before, and she began to suspect it was as much a matter of organization and planning as violent action.
At the third halt food was served—bread, cheese, and ale. Sir Renald brought Imogen her portion, but then went off with his friend on the usual inspection. After a while, however, the two men came and threw themselves down beside her, sharing a skin of ale and a loaf.
It was past noon and the day had turned hot. Sir Renald pushed back his mailed hood to reveal damp hair. “I hate summer fighting,” he grumbled.
“Lose some fat,” said his friend unsympathetically.
“I am not fat,” Sir Renald rebutted. “Only an inhuman monster such as yourself would not feel the heat with thick felt, heavy iron, and a surcoat on.”
“I feel the heat,” said FitzRoger. “But I enjoy a campaign whatever the weather.” He turned to Imogen. “I hope you are not overheated, lady.” His tone implied that the sentence could be completed “. . . for I’m not going to do a plague-ridden thing about it.”
“Since I have on only two thin garments, my lord, it would be churlish of me to complain.”
He deliberately eyed her swollen body. “Women in your condition tend to feel the heat.”
Imogen knew her cheeks were flaming as if she roasted. She needed to get the conversation on a different track. “Can you tell me what has become of my seneschal, my lord?”
“Strange,” he mused, “how any mention of your impending motherhood seems to bring him to your mind. I wouldn’t have thought such an elderly man to your taste, but women are strange creatures . . .”
Imogen was about to protest this fiercely when she detected a glint of humor in his eyes. The wretch was daring to tease her! The only response to such impudence was to ignore it. “He is my trusted servant,” she said coldly.
“Then your trusted servant is back at Cleeve in safe but considerate captivity.”
Imogen stared at him. He was holding Siward hostage. “It would be dishonorable to mistreat an old and faithful retainer.”
“If you behave yourself he will not be mistreated,” he countered blandly. At his signal the camp began to prepare to leave—gathering up scraps and tightening girths. As FitzRoger uncoiled to his feet, he asked, “Who, then, is the father of this most inconvenient child?”
Imogen looked down. “I cannot tell you that,” she answered with perfect honesty.
He grasped her chin and raised it so she had to face him. “You are not secretly married?”
“If I had a husband I would have no need of your protection, would I?”
“That would depend on the husband.” He let her go and strode away to supervise the reassembly of the fighting force. Imogen wanted to hurl a lethal projectile at his arrogant back.
Renald de Lisle bent and lifted her into his arms.
“Sir Renald,” said Imogen tartly, “though you doubtless feel your friend has all the virtues, I find him uncivil and unkind.”
She felt his rumble of laughter as a wave through her body. “Of course I don’t think he’s a paragon of virtue. He’s a rogue like me. But he’s a man of his word. What promises he makes he will keep, and that’s more than can be said for most men.” He deposited her once more in the pillion saddle.
Imogen shivered. When she thought of some of the promises Bastard FitzRoger had made to her, de Lisle’s words offered no comfort at all.
Chapter 4
They drew close to Carrisford Castle in the late afternoon. FitzRoger h
eld most of his force back in the cover of the woodland, then he, de Lisle, and a few others went forward to survey the situation. Imogen had no intention of being excluded, and persuaded Bert to ride forward to join them. The men were still within the shelter of the trees, but on a rise which gave an excellent view of Carrisford Castle.
Imogen’s throat tightened at the sight of her home, whole and unblemished on its rise of land near the river. Wisps of destructive smoke rose from the nearby village, though, which looked deserted though not entirely wrecked.
She turned her gaze back to the castle, seeking signs of damage. The tall, square keep and two mighty walls forming an inner and an outer bailey were unbroken, and still fused smoothly with the scrubby rock of the hill upon which they sat. The main entrance, approached by a long, sloping path up to the lowered drawbridge, was watched over by two gate towers. The portcullis was invitingly raised.
She had prepared herself for a gutted ruin, but it was as beautiful as ever.
“He’s gone,” she murmured.
FitzRoger turned to look at her. “Or he’s set a trap for you or anyone else who seeks to claim the place.”
Imogen bit her lip. If she had returned here alone, she would have ridden up to the castle, rejoicing in recovering it. How naive she was.
“What do we do, then?” she asked.
“Observe and scout.”
They all moved slightly back, and the whole force dismounted and looked to their horses. When Sir Renald lifted her down, she persuaded him to make her a place to sit up on the rise where she could see her home. He ensconced her behind some undergrowth, but she was still able to see quite well. She would still swear the place was empty.
A short while later a few men rode off, doubtless to seek news throughout the neighborhood. A few more slipped away on foot, venturing closer to the castle. FitzRoger came forward, and without a word to Imogen sat quietly against a tree and watched the castle like a hawk.
Imogen found herself spending more time watching her paladin than the silent castle. There was little to choose between them, she thought sourly. He was as still and as cold as a stone fortress. What an ability he had to be immobile. Even in the shade it was still hot and she was sure armor was not the most comfortable dress, and yet he sat as still as a statue.