Dark Champion

by Jo Beverley

  She began another depressing review of her suitors. They hadn’t improved. The two most favored by her father had been Lord Richard of Yelston, and the Earl of Lancaster.

  The Lord of Yelston was a gruff, no-nonsense man of forty who had already buried two wives. One had died of some wasting disease, and the other of fever, so the deaths could hardly be laid at his door, but it was not a reassuring history. Lord Richard had been favored by her father for his courage and unflinching honor, but even Lord Bernard had been forced to admit that the man’s attitude to women was not kindly. As far as Lord Richard was concerned, women were to be seen and not heard, and their main purpose in life was to breed sons, even though he already had three, one of whom was older than Imogen.

  The Earl of Lancaster was a little younger and a great deal more sophisticated. He was a man of wealth and power, and under the previous king he had been a valued royal adviser. As a suitor he had proved to be a much more congenial companion than Sir Richard. Imogen still had those doubts, however, about his personal courage and competence. She was convinced that he was not, at heart, a strong man.

  She ran through her other suitors without finding better.

  The leaves above her were black against the gray of the cloudy sky. Though it wasn’t cold, there was a dampness in the night air and Imogen pulled the cloak closer, wishing for another, better choice, wishing for her father’s guidance. Perhaps she should let the king choose her husband after all.

  But she did not know Henry Beauclerk, and the thought of being handed over, body and soul, to a stranger terrified her.

  She pulled her mind away from that distant problem to the more immediate. How long would it take de Lisle and the dozen men who’d accompanied him to reach the castle and make their way in? They’d go cautiously, for those in the castle would maintain close watch, and there was a three-quarter moon to light the scene. Mostly the moon was muted by the clouds, but every now and then it would sail out, and clear white light would flood the castle and the open slopes leading up to it.

  She guessed it would take them hours.

  Hours for her to wait with only the occasional soft voices from the soldiers, the scurry of night creatures, and the screech of a hunting owl. Hours during which her recent experience of violence grew larger in her mind until she would almost give up her land and abandon her people not to have more blood shed in her name.

  Then her scurrying mind threw up a fact. She sat up with a jerk. “Oh, Sweet Jesu!”

  FitzRoger heard and came over. “You are sick?”

  “No!” She grabbed the cold metal which covered his arm. “I forgot. How could I have forgotten?”

  He twisted out of her hands and took his own ungentle grip on her shoulders. “Make sense! What did you forget?”

  “The trap!” she gasped, thinking of smiling de Lisle, who would surely be in the lead. “The trap. My father had a trap installed two years ago after he felt knowledge of our secrets had escaped.”

  “What trap?” he asked in a voice like a blade on her heart.

  “A swinging stone. If not stepped on right it tips the person down into an oubliette.” She felt him stiffen. “But that is not all! It triggers an alarm.” At the look in his eyes she cringed. He let go of her. In fact, he threw her away.

  “How could you forget such a thing?”

  “It’s so new,” she gasped, tears welling. “I have never traveled the secret ways since it was put there. I was remembering what I had known . . . Surely if someone were to follow quickly they could warn them!”

  He was already stripping off his chain hauberk and the padded haqueton he wore beneath. “Tell me exactly what is involved. And this time don’t forget anything.”

  “But shouldn’t you stay here—”

  “I’ve already studied the ways. Get on with it.” He was in dark braies, chausses, and linen tunic. Now he rubbed dirt into his face.

  Imogen collected her wits. “Where the rock ends and the stone begins,” she explained quickly, “there are three lines gouged in the right-hand wall at shoulder height. If the leader stretches out from there he will find three more at his fingertips. He must step forward so his foot comes down at that fingertip distance. Then he must step forward as far again. It is supposed to be a normal long stride for an average man. Nothing extraordinary except that in the passageways one tends to shuffle.” Imogen had never felt so ashamed and heartsick in her life. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I truly am. I like Sir Renald.”

  “But you’d sleep easy if I was in the lead?” he asked unpleasantly. “Your instincts are finely honed, are they not? Pray, Imogen of Carrisford, that I reach them in time.”

  With that he had a quick word with his lieutenants and ran off toward the castle.

  Imogen sat up to watch, harboring the irrational notion that by keeping her eyes fixed on him she could in some way help. Because she knew he was there she could follow his progress—a moving shadow in the dark. And because he took little care in his haste to reach his men. He ran fleetly down the slope from the trees and then started up the scrubland leading to the castle walls. She lost him then and could only guess where he was.

  Then the moon sailed out from behind the clouds. Every detail of the landscape seemed as bright as day.

  FitzRoger fell to the ground and lay perfectly still, but to Imogen he looked as visible as if he lay black on pristine snow. She waited with thumping heart for a cry of warning from the castle, for the whine of an arrow speeding to its mark.

  Then the clouds brought darkness, and in that instant he was moving and she could breathe again. Dear Lord, how did a leader send armies into battle knowing some of the men went to meet death? She found it impossible to contemplate even one man losing his life in her enterprise.

  Even if he reached de Lisle and the plan went forward, was it possible that she could win back Carrisford without loss of life? She looked down at the shadowy shapes of FitzRoger’s force, sitting quietly, some perhaps dozing, as they awaited the call to action.

  Would some of them die tonight?

  Which?

  Another man came over to take up FitzRoger’s watching post. It was the burly fair-haired knight de Lisle had called Will, the one who had wanted to torture her. Was Bastard FitzRoger squeamish about torture? It seemed unlikely. He’d doubtless known he could win her compliance without going to such trouble.

  FitzRoger was out of sight now, presumably beginning to scale the rough cliff.

  The silence began to grate on her, and the waiting, and so she murmured to the shadowy figure nearby, “Is there to be a signal when they are through?”

  “A fire if possible, but any sign of life will be a signal.” His tone was very curt.

  “But what if it is the alarm?”

  “What alarm?”

  Imogen realized FitzRoger had not explained the problem to his men, but it seemed to her they should know. She told Sir William, not needing to look to see his disgust.

  “You’re a dim-witted little trollop, aren’t you?” he said in disgust. “What a . . .” He swung closer. “He’s gone to stop them?”

  She shrank from the sharpness in his voice. “Or to tell them the way to get past the trap.”

  “But they’ll likely already be in the passage when he catches them?”

  “Yes, but he should be able to get to them before the trap. It’s at the far end, close to the first exit.”

  The man snarled into her face. “After all the work we had to persuade him not to go! Do you know what you’ve done, my lady Imogen? You’ve sent him off to the one thing he can’t do.”

  Imogen flinched back against the tree. “What do you mean?”

  “His father threw him in an oubliette once. Left him there for weeks. The one thing Bastard FitzRoger can’t endure is closed, dark spaces.”

  “His father!” Imogen echoed in horror. “But then why did he go? He said it was because he’d already studied the route . . .”

  “True enough.”
The menace lessened as Sir William ran his hands through his hair. “And from what you said, I’m too broad. But he hates to admit there’s anything he can’t do.” He turned hard again and flashed her a nasty look. “Heiress or no, you’re a great deal more trouble than you’re worth.” With that he stalked away.

  Chapter 5

  Imogen lay back and fought tears. She wished she were dead. A week ago her world had been one of beauty, joy, and safety and nothing had prepared her for change.

  She could never take her father’s place. She lacked the appropriate knowledge. She lacked the fortitude. She lacked the harshness. Who was she to drive men to suffering and death, to send them to face their private demons?

  She knew what it was to have an irrational fear; she was terrified of rats. True, rats could bite, which darkness couldn’t, but still she imagined how it would feel to be in a room full of rats, to go into a room full of rats of her own accord. Could she do that to save a friend? She honestly didn’t know. She was in a fine sweat just thinking about it.

  And what kind of father, she wondered, threw his son into an oubliette?

  She reviewed the gossip about Roger of Cleeve and the FitzRoger bastard. Old Sir Roger had married and sired a number of children, all sickly, most dying young, until he found himself with one sickly heir and no chance of better as long as his wife lived. On a visit to Normandy he’d got a girl with child—a daughter of a poor knight, it was said, and of birth enough for marriage if he’d been free.

  And then he was free. The story went that he’d received news that his wife was dead and promptly married his concubine two months before the babe was due.

  Then he’d returned to England and found the king was offering him a rich heiress as a reward for his service. Bitter at having to miss such an opportunity, he’d returned to Normandy to try to buy his way out of his hasty marriage. When he found his wife had delivered an eight-month babe, he’d promptly had the marriage annulled on the grounds that he had not consummated it, which was technically true, and that the child was not his, which was generally held to be doubtful.

  Much good it had done him, thought Imogen, who had never liked the brutal man. His rich second wife had proved even more unfruitful than his first and never even conceived.

  If the tale was true, it would seem that Bastard FitzRoger was not really a bastard. He surely must have proved his birth to have inherited from his half-brother.

  As for the rest, she could imagine old Roger of Cleeve throwing an unwanted child in an oubliette, but she had not thought he and his supposed son had ever met. The Bastard had been raised by his mother’s family in Normandy. Perhaps that family had been the one who had caused his fear. Such a family disgrace would not have been treated kindly.

  Again she knew how fortunate she had been in her birth and upbringing, and she was touched with pity for that unwanted child, denied and mistreated by both sides of his family. . . .

  Activity jerked her upright, and she looked at the castle. The first dim wisps of dawn lit the sky, but a brighter light came from a fire blazing in the outer bailey of Carrisford Castle.

  “They’re in,” she said with relief. The alarm had not been triggered. FitzRoger must have overcome his fears.

  Her excited hope returned. “We’ve won!”

  “We hope.” Sir William grunted and called for his horse. “You stay here,” he barked at Imogen as he pulled up his mailed coif and jammed his helmet on top. He swung into the saddle and gathered his men with the cry, “FitzRoger!”

  The mounted force swept over the rise and down toward the castle crying their leader’s name, desperate to get involved before the fighting was over.

  Imogen watched, kneeling up straight, her heart pounding with excitement and fear. The soldiers hurtled down the incline, then began the longer and more dangerous ride up to the open gate. This was the time when arrows or pitch could rain down. She bit her lip and prayed. . . .

  Nothing.

  The men charged into the castle without opposition.

  “It’s safe!” Imogen cried, and looked around for Bert. “I have to be there. Please. It’s all clear. Can’t we go?”

  The stolid man didn’t move. “Sir William said to wait for word.”

  “But what did Lord FitzRoger say?” Imogen asked with cunning.

  The man scratched his thinning hair. “Don’t know as he did, lady,” he admitted. Imogen could see how much he, too, wanted to be in the action.

  “Then I think we should go down. After all, it’s clear the castle is taken.” He was weakening. She looked around at the six men and extra horses. “We’re more at risk here now. If Lord Warbrick is prowling around, he could take us easily.”

  The men eyed one another and conferred briefly, but the issue was never in doubt. One of them lifted Imogen onto the pillion, and they set off jauntily to the castle.

  Imogen was practically bouncing with excitement. At any moment she would be back in her home, and she hadn’t had to wait for Bastard FitzRoger to come and get her.

  Even though she knew her side must be victorious, Imogen’s nerves prickled as they rode up to the gaping maw of Carrisford’s entrance. She had never before viewed her home’s defenses with the eyes of an attacker, and it was all too easy to imagine a hail of arrows from the two mighty gate towers, or an ambush waiting in the long, dark, narrow tunnel.

  And at the end of the tunnel was a scene from hell. Armed men were lit by the blood red of dancing flames. Riderless horses milled about, plunging. There were shouts, crashes and the occasional scream of agony.

  It was as bad as Warbrick’s raid.

  Euphoria fled and memory made her teeth chatter—why had she thought this would be bloodless? She tugged on Bert’s belt and croaked a demand that he turn back, but the battle fever had caught him. He was already spurring in, yelling, “FitzRoger!”

  Imogen closed her eyes and held on for dear life.

  Then they were in the middle of hell. Clash of arms. Yelled instructions. Roaring flames. Smashing wood. She opened her eyes to see a frenzied, riderless horse pulverize a corpse with its steel-shod hooves.

  She shut them again. “Not ours,” she prayed. “Please God, not ours.”

  “Nay, they’re not ours,” Bert reassured her. He didn’t sound too bothered by the state of affairs, but he said, “For all that the fun’s over, I’m not rightly sure you should be here, lady.”

  Tumult lessened. Imogen dared another look and found matters much improved. Bert had steered his fretful horse back close by the wall, away from the mayhem. He was stretching to look around and she knew he was looking for his master.

  He still didn’t seem anxious, however, and his calm eased her fears. “I’m safer here than up in the woods,” she said firmly, as much to herself as to him. She set to taking in what was happening.

  As her senses organized the chaos, she saw that most of the frenzied action was directed to putting out the fire and catching the loose horses. They were milling about because the stable sheds were on fire. The fighting was mostly over.

  Where was FitzRoger?

  That brought an alarmed thought.

  Was he already taking possession of the keep? Her keep. She looked up and saw it standing square and strong on the motte, apparently untouched and uninhabited. She should be the first one there.

  “Perhaps we should go to the inner bailey,” she suggested.

  “Nay,” said Bert flatly. “We’ll stay here.”

  And that was that, Imogen supposed. What it was to be deprived of the use of one’s feet. Here she was, perched like a queen on her throne and unable to do anything useful at all, while FitzRoger could be ransacking her home.

  Someone ran by and Bert called out. “Is it all clear, Nathan?”

  “Pretty well!” was the cheerful reply. “Fine bit of action, that. Go see if you can drive those horses there into the inner bailey, Bert, away from the flames. They’re going to bash someone’s head in, elsewise.”

  �
�Where’s the master?”

  “Dunno. Him nor Sir Renald. It’s every man for himself, but it’ll still be hell to pay if we don’t act smart.”

  Bert muttered to himself but began to work his mount toward a bunch of wild-eyed horses.

  “Hold tight, lady. I’m just going to encourage ’em that way a bit.”

  Every man for himself. Looking around, Imogen saw the chaos this implied. Most of the men had laid down their weapons and were trying to put out the fire which roared and sent flaming banners up into the sky. It had spread to a number of storage sheds, but she didn’t think it could do much harm unless it grew so hot it burst the walls.

  A few men were still dashing in and out of wall chambers and nooks, looking for lurking enemies. A few others were gathering up the loose horses. The men were doing useful things, but there was no apparent command. She was surprised. It was not what she’d expected from FitzRoger’s force after the control and planning she’d witnessed so far. So this was what it came to once the fighting began.

  Bert began to herd four horses toward the wide gate leading to the inner bailey. He started to whistle. Jokes were shouted back and forth. Everyone seemed pretty happy with the state of affairs, despite a number of gruesome corpses.

  Imogen assumed none of them were theirs.

  Imogen, however, was increasingly dismayed. She was just beginning to take in the shambles of what had once been her beautiful home. The walls might still be standing, but within, it was a wreck. Among the corpses of men and horses, she saw the domestic animals—sheep, pigs, milch cows, poultry. All wantonly slaughtered.

  She reminded herself that Warbrick had been the invader, and he and his men were doubtless responsible for the killing, as well as for the broken doors and smashed barrels. When she saw one of FitzRoger’s men rip the remains of a door off its hinges, however, she swore silently at all men, her rescuers included.

  As Bert’s large horse walked placidly on, herding the agitated horses toward the inner bailey, Imogen shut out the scene around her and began planning the recovery of Carrisford. Soon she would have it peaceful and happy again, just as it had been in her father’s day.