Dark Champion

by Jo Beverley

  His profile had a carved quality, she thought. Very clean, severe lines—

  A disturbance behind them, down near the encampment, interrupted her study. In a second he was gone, heading toward the voices.

  Imogen wriggled around and saw that one of the soldiers had returned with a peasant who instantly fell to his knees before the Lord of Castle Cleeve. Imogen instinctively moved to join them, then hissed with pain and sat again, cursing her feet. She hated being tied to a spot like this.

  As if he’d heard, FitzRoger returned to her, picked her up, and carried her back down the slope. He came to stand before the peasant, who was now on his feet but shaking with fear. Imogen thought he might be the local hurdle maker but wasn’t sure.

  “Who is this?” FitzRoger demanded of the man.

  “That be Lady Imogen,” the man gabbled. “Lord Bernard’s daughter. The Treasure of Carrisford. O, my lady, right glad I am to see you safe. Such a time—”

  “Enough,” FitzRoger said, and the man fell silent. “The lady will be returned to her rights in Carrisford, and order will be restored. You have nothing to fear, but you must stay here until all is settled.”

  The man was led off, bowing and scraping—rather more to FitzRoger than to her, Imogen thought.

  FitzRoger carried her back and set her down again on her blanket. He looked her over all afresh. “So, Lady Imogen. You undoubtedly have a tale to tell. When is the babe due?”

  Imogen swallowed. “Late September,” she said, thinking another month seemed about right.

  “Hmm,” he said with a raised brow. “You must have had a merry Yuletide.”

  Before she could think of an appropriately scathing retort he walked away and settled back to his watching post.

  Imogen kept an eye on him as she tried to think of a tale to tell which would account for her supposed state. It was impossible to imagine that her father would not have noticed such a bulging waistline and arranged her marriage. In fact, she realized with concern, just about anyone in the locality would be able to tell FitzRoger she’d been properly indented in the middle only two days since. Her deception could not last long, but she needed to be out of FitzRoger’s power before he learned the truth.

  She looked over and wondered just what his reaction would be to having been fooled. The thought sent shivers down her spine.

  He tensed and she turned to see what he had seen. Nothing.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  He ignored her. She had an urge to crawl over to him and demand his attention, but she hated to think of the sight she’d be at the end of it. She turned instead to stare at the castle with as much intensity as he. Finally she saw it. A slight movement as someone, emboldened by dusk, peered over a battlement. It could be a nervous servant, but it could be a concealed guard.

  “If Warbrick and his men had left,” she said, half to herself, “and there were servants still in the castle, there’d be no reason for them to conceal themselves.”

  “Exactly.” He slid sinuously from his watching post and came to loom over her, thumbs tucked into his sword belt. “Time for you to tell me all your secrets, Imogen of Carrisford.” A slight hand signal brought Sir Renald and two other men. “Well?” he said.

  She hated being tied to the ground at his feet like this. He was deliberately using her incapacity to terrify and control her, and she loathed him for it. “It is a family secret,” she said firmly, meeting his eyes, even though it hurt her neck to do so.

  “Then consider me family,” he said with a cold smile.

  “Hardly.”

  He dropped to one knee so that at least their eyes were level. “You claim to want Warbrick out of Carrisford, demoiselle.”

  “I do.”

  “Then prove it.”

  Imogen found having those cold green eyes on a level with hers, and barely a foot away, was even worse than having him towering over her. Like an icy wind, his intent gaze numbed her senses, stole her voice.

  “Ty,” said Sir Renald humorously, “stop glaring at the girl. You’ll scare what wits she’s got out of her entirely.”

  Imogen expected FitzRoger to gut the man for his impudence, but instead he collapsed back to sit on the ground, arms around his knees. His expression was still unfriendly toward her, but it did not have that numbing power. “You think she’s a half-wit?” he asked his friend dryly. “It would explain a great deal.”

  “I have all my wits!” Imogen burst out. “Though if I’d been using them, you are the last person I would have gone to for aid.”

  “Where then?” he asked sweetly. He was even smiling. Imogen decided his glare was horrible, but his smile was worse. She was sure he smiled at his enemies before he ran his sword through them.

  “To the king,” she said boldly.

  He raised one brow. “If you’d thought there was any chance of reaching Henry, you’d have gone east yesterday.”

  She frowned at a sudden thought. “Since Warbrick was at Carrisford, I should have gone east, through his land!”

  The men all looked at her with disbelief. “I think half-wit is generous, Renald,” said FitzRoger, and Imogen had to admit that had been a stupid thing to say.

  “Still,” FitzRoger continued, “she presumably has the knowledge of the secret passages in her muddled head somewhere. The question is how to get at it.”

  “There’s a key to every person,” said Sir Renald.

  “Mess up her feet a bit more,” said a massive blond-haired man casually, making Imogen instinctively scuttle backward. She saw the man’s eyes widen. A nervous turn of her head showed a chilling expression on FitzRoger’s face as he gazed at him.

  Again, Sir Renald was the peacemaker. “Use your wits, Will. This is the sweet demoiselle we are rescuing from the vile monster. Save your nasty streak for him. I’m sure when Lady Imogen has considered the matter she’ll see sense.”

  Imogen rather thought there was a warning in those last words, but she couldn’t seem to think straight. Though Bastard FitzRoger had willingly come to her aid, her instincts screamed that she shouldn’t trust him entirely. After she was in control of her property, she didn’t want him knowing its secrets.

  She swallowed and licked dry lips. “It’s clear there are few people left in the castle, even if they are soldiers. If there were many, they wouldn’t be able to stay invisible. It should be no great matter to take the place.”

  “Of course not,” said FitzRoger amiably. “Why don’t you lead the way up to the gate?”

  She stared at him. As soon as she became aware it was open, she closed her mouth with a snap. “I am not a soldier.”

  “Whoever leads the way is going to get killed, soldier or not,” he remarked pleasantly. “Don’t you think the honor should be yours, since it’s your castle?”

  He twisted everything she said. The world didn’t make any sense anymore. “But I’m the whole point of this,” she heard herself say. “If I’m dead, Carrisford will revert to the Crown.” It sounded terribly selfish. Was it her duty to lead the force? She supposed if she were a man it would be. . . .

  “How true,” FitzRoger said with a sigh. “What a shame. In that case, Lady Imogen, perhaps you should nominate a deputy. Who would you like to see killed in your place? Myself? Renald? The nasty man who wants to mangle your feet?”

  She had been right to distrust his smile. When it focused on her, she felt her face flame. “I don’t know,” she mumbled sullenly.

  “The decisions are all yours,” he said implacably. “Perhaps you would prefer that we turn around and return peacefully to Castle Cleeve. That way nobody need so much as prick his finger.”

  Imogen buried her head in her arms, fighting an urge to weep, an urge to scream. If she had a weapon she would have tried to silence that mocking voice in any way she could.

  The worst thing was that he was right. He didn’t have to bludgeon her over the head with it. A direct attack would be successful but would cost lives. A sneak attack through t
he secret entrance could well be bloodless, at least on their side.

  She raised her head and gave him a stare she hoped would blister his soul. “Get me some ink and parchment.”

  It was there so quickly she knew it had been waiting to hand. Stony-faced she began to sketch in the failing light, explaining as she went.

  “The entrance in the cliff is very hard to find. Even when you’re close you won’t be able to see it. It’s above an arrowhead rock, however, and if you just follow the way the arrow points, you will come to it. It’s the merest slit and the very largest men will not fit through.” She looked at him and said with relish, “Even you will probably not be able to go through in armor.”

  He was silent and impassive.

  “The passage is dark and very narrow,” she continued. “But any man who can squeeze through the entrance can make it through the passage. It would be best to use no light as it is awkward enough to sidle along without extra things to hold, and there’s nothing to see. The floor is smooth, and there are no outcroppings or other hazards. You just have to have faith that all is well ahead of you.” She shuddered slightly at the memory of the few times she had gone through the deepest passages. Total dark. The feeling that one was in an ever-narrowing space without end.

  She looked up and saw something strange. His eyes were not so green. No, that was not it. His pupils were unusually large. “Go on,” he said a little sharply.

  “The darkness does end,” she said. “When the entrance joins the castle passageways, there is light through narrow slits in the walls. Or at least,” she added doubtfully, “there is during the day. Light or not, you’ll know you’re there because the passage widens slightly and the walls are dressed stone, not rock. There is a door at that point into the castle proper. It opens into the storage cellars.”

  She looked around. She had their close attention.

  “If you continue in the passage there are steps up. Over the top step there is another door, a trapdoor into the floor of the garderobe off the solar. It should push open but has been little used . . .”

  She carried on drawing and explaining until all the secret ways were laid out for them. Then she handed the parchment over to FitzRoger. “After this is all over, the entrance will have to be sealed,” she stated.

  “Undoubtedly,” he said, but her words seemed to amuse him, which worried her.

  “I think I should lead the party to take this route,” said Sir Renald, and reached for the parchment.

  “No.”

  There was a cold, hard edge to the word which sounded strange to Imogen, but she was past trying to make sense of all this. She just wanted her home and security back.

  The men left her alone as they waited for darkness to fall. Cold meat and ale were passed around and she was given some, but otherwise she was ignored. Clearly she was now of no further use. She fretted about her decision to reveal the secret passages. But what else could she have done?

  She cast bitter looks at FitzRoger, Renald, and the other knights, who sat together making plans. Or perhaps just gossiping. There was occasional soft laughter.

  Imogen lay down, for sitting was becoming hard on her backside. She tentatively tried putting weight on her feet and decided it was still a bad idea. She probably could crawl around the camp on hands and knees, but that was hardly attractive.

  Eventually it became clear she was going to have to do something. She had determinedly ignored her body’s needs all day and been moderate in drink, but her bladder could not be contained indefinitely.

  She cast a wary eye at the men, and then quietly rolled over onto her hands and knees and began to work her way behind some bushes. Her skirt practically strangled her until she gathered it up under her paunch. Her feet hurt every time she jarred them, and soon her knees were complaining violently.

  “Trying to escape? Or are you going to take the castle single-handed after all?”

  Caught on all fours like an animal, her skirt bunched up so he could see most of her legs, Imogen hated him then more than she’d ever hated anyone, even Warbrick. No, not more than Warbrick. “I need to piss,” she mumbled.

  There was a sharp sound that she recognized as laughter. Trust him to find such a thing funny. “I suppose you do. How easily we forget these simple things.” He sounded sympathetic, almost friendly. Her ears must be playing tricks. She began her laborious crawl again.

  “Stop that!” he said sharply. “Turn around and I’ll carry you into some privacy. Beyond that I have no suggestions. I doubt it will be simple, after all.”

  From pride Imogen would have refused his aid, but she feared he would just haul her up anyway, which would likely show him how unstable her “baby” was. She rolled over to sit and glared up at him. “This isn’t funny.”

  He did look well-disposed. “No. I hurt my feet once and I remember how awkward it made simple things. And men have certain advantages.” He scooped her up and she struggled to get her skirts around her legs. “Stop wriggling or I’ll drop you,” he said.

  She stopped, but she colored when she saw how appreciatively he eyed her bared legs.

  Once they were behind some bushy yew, he lowered her gently enough to the ground and left. She watched suspiciously, but he stopped a few paces away and leaned against a tree to wait. This courteous behavior confused her more than his callousness.

  She managed her business kneeling and then made sure her clothes were all in order before calling him. When she was in his arms again, she asked, “What kind of man are you?”

  “What kind of question is that? I’m just a man.”

  She shook her head. “Should I trust you?”

  “You shouldn’t be let out without a keeper,” he replied caustically. “If I say yes, will you believe me?”

  He put her back down on her blanket. The light was already fading to that misty nothing when everything seems magic. His colors were all muted and the lines of his body appeared finer and more fragile.

  “Yes,” she replied, surprising them both. He rose abruptly and left her.

  In a few moments he returned with a heavy woolen cloak and dropped it by her. “You may want to sleep. It will be a long night.”

  When he began to leave she said, “So, Lord FitzRoger, can I trust you?”

  His voice floated back on the misty air. “Yes and no, Lady Imogen. Yes and no.”

  And that, she thought, probably proved his words true, and offered little assurance at all.

  The last of the scouts slipped back into the camp and reported. She could hear none of their words, but the preparations went smoothly forward so she assumed everything was as they had thought.

  She saw FitzRoger start to peel off his armor and de Lisle go over to speak to him. She would swear the two men were arguing. About her?

  Then de Lisle started to undress and FitzRoger replaced his hauberk. A change of plan?

  To confirm her suspicions, de Lisle came over to her. He was wearing a dark leather jerkin over dark hose and had smeared dirt over his face.

  “Any final advice, little flower?” he asked.

  “I thought Lord FitzRoger was to lead the way into the castle.”

  “I persuaded him that staying behind was one of the prices of leadership,” he replied with a flash of teeth. “If you sent him on a route of destruction, little one, you will destroy only me.”

  “Why would I want to destroy my rescuer?” she asked uneasily.

  He laughed softly and touched her cheek with a callused finger. “Your senses tell you to flee, yes? Your senses are wise. But it is too late, little flower, and in the end you will not mind so much being plucked.” Before she could question him further, he leaned forward and kissed her lips, hard and firm. “For luck, my pretty blossom.”

  With that he was gone, leaving her trembling and with a tangled warning in her mind. Who or what was going to pluck the blossom? He must have meant FitzRoger. She was doubly, trebly glad of her supposed pregnancy.

  When FitzRoger
came over and sat by her side, she challenged him. “Do you mean to act honestly by me, my lord?”

  He was chewing on a stalk of grass. “I’m going to take your castle back for you, am I not?”

  “And then what?”

  He turned to face her. “Do you want me to ride straight home again?”

  “If I said yes, would you?”

  She heard the clink of his mail as he shrugged. “Of course not. What would be the point? Warbrick would be right back. You’d be running again. I’d be here again with it all to do over. Though my men could use the exercise, your feet would never take the strain.”

  Imogen had a violent urge to throw something particularly noxious at him. “What, then, will you do?”

  “It is your castle, Lady Imogen. I am merely your strong right arm.”

  Which sounded all very well except that she could hear the amusement in his voice. And she couldn’t think of anything to suggest other than the obvious. “Then I suppose I must ask you to man the castle until I can reorganize Carrisford’s defenses.”

  “I am completely at your service, my lady.” He stood, bowed, and went to take up his watching post again.

  Imogen glared after him. She had just invited him to rule her castle. She felt like the half-wit he’d called her; and yet, stretch her mind as she could, she could see no alternative until the king sent her aid.

  And when the king sent aid, he would almost certainly send it in the form of a husband. Her life was twisting out of her control, and no matter how she tried she wasn’t able to stop the process.

  She lay down on her back with a sigh and pulled the heavy cloak over her. It smelled of wool, horse, and sweat, but also of lavender and sandlewood. It was a strangely comforting blend of aromas, mingling as it did hard work and elegance.

  The only trace of power she had left was to choose a husband before the king made his wishes known. But who should be the man of her choice?