Dark Champion

by Jo Beverley

  He would like to restore Imogen of Carrisford’s home for her. He began to plan the restoration work. Food, supplies, tableware, hangings, table linen . . .

  The trestles were still set up for breakfast—bare of cloths—but the meal, such as it was, was over and the hall was deserted. FitzRoger hefted a jug, found it still had some ale in it, and filled a wooden beaker. He added ale and wine to his list of requirements. Carrisford had some ale, and the brew house had already started operation again, but Warbrick had opened the cocks on all the casks of wine. Heaven knows when the stink would leave the cellars.

  Even with supplies, living would be sparse here for a while. . . .

  His thoughts were interrupted by Renald de Lisle’s jovial voice. “Unless that’s a maidenly blush, my friend, the lady slapped your face. I thought you said she’d be easy to persuade.”

  “I haven’t tried to persuade her of anything yet.” He poured ale for Renald.

  “Then why did she hit you?”

  FitzRoger’s lips twitched. “She wouldn’t like to admit it, but I think it was because I stopped kissing her.” His friend choked on the ale. “Her excuse was something else. That priest, Renald, the one who was screaming about us doing penance for each life taken.”

  De Lisle nodded.

  “Get him back.”

  Renald looked over in surprise. “Why? He doubtless believes in hair shirts and flagellation.”

  “The Flower of the West commands.”

  “Ah,” murmured Renald. “You think to buy her favors with sweets? Buy her favors with her own sweets? When are you going to tell the luscious little blossom that she hasn’t been rescued so much as plucked?”

  “You make her sound less like a rosebud and more like a scrawny hen. If I’m going to marry her, I might as well make it as easy on her as I can. Perhaps she’ll just think of it as being transplanted into new earth.”

  “At least with her carrying a child, you have plenty of time to confuse and persuade her. And kill the man who made her that way.”

  “It was her seneschal,” said FitzRoger, taking another draft of ale.

  “That old man!” de Lisle exclaimed, his hand flying to his sword. “I’ll gut him.”

  FitzRoger put a hand over Renald’s. “I think you have a taste for flowers too,” he said, quite pleasantly. “Lose it, my friend. She’s mine.” He removed his hand and refilled Renald’s mug. “The seneschal is being brought here to take over the running of the castle.”

  “You’ll overlook such behavior?” exclaimed Renald, his fine eyes flashing. “I most certainly will not.”

  “Lady Imogen assures me it was done with her consent,” said FitzRoger blandly. “Was, in fact, her own idea. She’s very proud of the achievement, and if she isn’t unhappy, who am I to take offense?”

  De Lisle was staring at him as if he’d grown an extra head. FitzRoger glanced up and drew his friend’s attention to the stairs. Imogen was gingerly descending them, startlingly beautiful in bright silks, and remarkably shapely for one so far gone with child. And obviously not the victim of a sudden miscarriage.

  “It was all a hoax?” Renald asked blankly. “I’m surprised you didn’t beat her for it.”

  “I don’t crush such a lovely blossom, not even for perfume. I’d guessed,” he said softly, “and it really didn’t make any difference except that it gave her a false sense of security.” He walked forward and offered his arm to Imogen of Carrisford.

  Imogen eyed him warily, but he seemed calm. She was pleased to see that her handprint on his lean cheek had faded, though she couldn’t help wishing that the full strength of her arm could make a more lasting impression.

  “How are your feet?” he asked kindly. “I will see if there’s a cobbler available to fashion some kind of footwear for you.”

  “I can walk for short distances.”

  Imogen had been concentrating on the stairs and FitzRoger as she descended, but now she looked around the hall and could have wept. There was little sign of mayhem except for some raw gashes on woodwork, but the place was stripped naked. The beautiful hangings were gone, the floor was bare, the sideboards held no goblets and dishes, and there were so few people. Only the three of them in here at the moment, and no sound of bustle nearby.

  Where was everyone?

  Afraid. They would return.

  The sight of four hounds curled near the table was reassuring, until she realized they weren’t her father’s familiar hounds, or her own pair, but strange dogs belonging to strangers.

  This place scarcely seemed like her home at all.

  She would restore Carrisford, she promised herself, restore it as it had been such a short time ago. For that she would need a little help from FitzRoger, but she must make it clear that he was her instrument in this, and that was all.

  She addressed him in a brisk, authoritative tone. “There is obviously a great deal of work to be done, my lord. After breakfast I will inspect the castle and interview what people are still here. I must see what can be repaired and what needs to be ordered. If there are military needs, Lord FitzRoger, you must tell me of them and I will see if they can be met.”

  Though she kept her voice firm, Imogen’s heart was pounding as she threw this challenge down. She was as good as relegating him to captain of the guard.

  “Of course,” he said as he escorted her to one of the two large chairs. “Your main requirement is men-at-arms, Lady Imogen. I’m afraid none of your father’s garrison survived.”

  It was like a blow. “All? All dead?”

  He nodded and poured her ale. “Warbrick was thorough.”

  “As were you!” she replied angrily. “I saw you kill that man after you had him at your mercy.”

  “As am I,” he agreed, and continued, “You will, of course, make some provision for the families of the dead men.”

  “Of course,” she said, though it hadn’t immediately come to mind. So many things to be borne in mind.

  “I have rather more men than I need at present,” he said. “I would be willing to hire twenty to you for a period. Twenty men is an adequate garrison for Carrisford, and should be able to hold it against everything but a long siege.”

  Imogen flicked him a wary glance. He was politely impassive and impossible to read. With his men garrisoning the castle, she’d be as good as a prisoner in her own home, but what alternative did she have? Until the king came, or sent his agent, she was at FitzRoger’s mercy. Her only hope was the dubious one of his good intentions, and the rather better one that he—unlike Warbrick—would not want to cross the king.

  “Thank you, Lord FitzRoger. I will take the garrison until other arrangements can be made.”

  He nodded. “This place should be impregnable. Warbrick must have been given access to the castle.”

  “I know,” said Imogen with a frown. “I don’t know who would do such a thing.”

  “Possibly one of the garrison. If so, Warbrick has taken care of the problem for you.”

  “Impossible,” Imogen protested. “They had all been my father’s men for years. I cannot believe one would suddenly turn traitor.”

  He sat in the other chair and sliced a half loaf and some cheese, passing it to her. “Lady Imogen, the survivors’ stories suggest that most of the garrison was drugged before the invasion.”

  “So it must have been someone in the castle. I can scarce believe it. . . .”

  “Were there any strangers here?”

  “No,” she said as she nibbled the cheese. “There were no travelers those last days. Only some monks from Glastonbury Abbey. And once my father was known to be dying, the castle was sealed.”

  She saw FitzRoger and de Lisle share a glance and then the darker man slipped away. “Monks!” she exclaimed. “That cannot be.”

  “You have a remarkable reverence for religion, Lady Imogen. A habit is easy enough to put on.”

  “But they were here from before my father’s injury, even. And they had tonsures, I am sure
of it.”

  “And were the tonsures as brown as their faces?”

  “I don’t know,” she confessed. There had never been any need in Carrisford to inspect strangers closely, or doubt people’s goodwill. At least not that she had been aware of. She looked up at him. “Am I never to trust anyone again?”

  He tore off part of the crust, but turned it in his fingers rather than eating it. “At least learn to give your trust sparingly, Lady Imogen. You’ve made a good beginning,” he added with a dry smile. “You don’t trust me.” He at last took a crisp bite of the bread and chewed it. “What you need is to marry, demoiselle, then your husband will take care of all these things for you.”

  Here it comes, thought Imogen, and stiffened her spine. “I don’t want to be taken care of anymore, Lord FitzRoger.”

  “You want to fight your own battles?” he asked skeptically. “Drill your own soldiers? Command your own executions? Squeeze information out of your own traitors?”

  How did he always make her seem a fool? Imogen glared at him. “I will petition the king for a husband, then.”

  He laughed out loud. “He will be enchanted. He has any number of debtors to pay.”

  Imogen had already realized that, but what was the alternative? None of her suitors appealed.

  “My father left me to King Henry’s care,” Imogen said, trying to sound more assured than she felt. “It is my duty to wait on his will.”

  “Very likely,” said FitzRoger, “but it is one thing to leave the choice to the king, and another to go to him and ask his consent to your wedding a particular man. As long as your choice is reasonable he has no right to object and can only demand a fee for his blessing.”

  Imogen eyed him uncertainly. His words made sense, but he had already admitted that she was wise not to trust him.

  “I know Henry and his current situation,” he added. “To gain the approval of the English of his claim to the Crown, he has had to promise much relief from taxes. If you leave the choice to him, Lady Imogen, he will sell you to the highest bidder. Even Warbrick is possible.”

  Imogen paled. “He couldn’t. Not after everything.”

  “It’s not very likely, I admit, because that whole family is out of favor. They chose to back Normandy in the recent conflict. But it all depends on what Warbrick is willing to pay, or promise. Warbrick might think it worth a lot to have the Treasure of Carrisford in his grasp, and Henry could well see it as desirable to suborn Belleme’s brother.”

  Imogen considered this scenario. Robert de Belleme was using the unrest, the conflict between the Conqueror’s sons over England, to try to carve out a fief for himself here on the borders. King Henry would definitely consider any means to weaken the man, but she doubted he’d be fool enough to trust Warbrick with the power represented by Carrisford.

  She called FitzRoger’s bluff. “You’re deliberately trying to frighten me,” she said, and saw that she had scored a hit. “What do you want, Lord FitzRoger? State it clearly.”

  Again there was that gleam of admiration in his eyes, and he nodded. “Your welfare.”

  She would not be wit-softened again. “I find that hard to believe.”

  He showed no disappointment at her tone. “As you will. Whom then do you wish to marry, demoiselle?”

  She was relieved that he accepted the situation so calmly, and he had been correct in advising that she face the king with the choice already made. After all, there doubtless were other men like Warbrick seeking a rich bride. Imogen reviewed her discouraging list of suitors.

  Finally she said, “It will have to be Sir Richard of Yelston or the Earl of Lancaster.”

  “Really?” he said.

  He hadn’t given up. He wanted her to choose him. She couldn’t bear this cat-and-mouse game. “I will not marry you,” she said firmly.

  Not even a twitch. “Negative decisions are not very productive, Lady Imogen. Whom then will you marry?”

  She had to put an end to this. “The Earl of Lancaster,” she declared. “He has power enough to see to my security, and has stood friend to our family for many years. He even sent his personal physician—a man of great skill—to tend my father . . .” To no avail, she thought sadly.

  “Then you had best send him a message to tell him of his good fortune, demoiselle.”

  Imogen had expected more protests. Thrown off balance, she began to retreat. Perhaps with time a better prospect would occur to her. “I need to have Carrisford restored to its glory,” she said, “before I can hold a wedding.” She rose to her feet.

  “As you will, Lady Imogen,” he said amiably. “Just tell me when you need a messenger.”

  “I can find my own messenger,” she declared. He raised a brow and she realized she couldn’t.

  She was tempted to hit him again. How did he bring out the very worst in her? She realized in time that there were servants in the hall now.

  “Very wise,” he murmured.

  “Let me make it clear,” Imogen said with icy precision. “You, My Lord of Cleeve, are the last man in England I would ever consider marrying.” With that, she stalked back up the stairs, even though it hurt her feet.

  De Lisle returned in time to catch the end of this. He looked amused. “The monks were here when Warbrick got in, but they were among the dead.”

  “Warbrick wouldn’t balk at killing his own tools.”

  Renald watched Imogen disappear around the bend at the top of the stairs. “You do have a way with women, don’t you?”

  FitzRoger cut more cheese. “What of the priest?”

  “I’ve sent some men to trace him. He can’t have traveled far. Apparently he’s crippled in the feet as well as the hands. Made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, was captured and crucified by some infidels. The people ’round here regard him as a regular saint. They don’t like him, but they revere him. By the way, he would have nothing to do with the monks. Said they were vicious and ungodly.”

  “Vices, not habits,” mused FitzRoger. “When you find the priest, bring him back slowly.”

  “What’s going on? First you throw him out, then you want him back. Now you want him back, but not soon.”

  FitzRoger turned his great golden ring thoughtfully. “I think I’m going to have to seduce my future wife. The last thing I need is a resident thorny conscience.”

  Renald hooted with laughter. “I think you’ve got a long way to go, Ty, before you get Imogen of Carrisford soft and rosy beneath you. You heard her. You’re the last man in England she would consider marrying, and she said it like she meant it.”

  FitzRoger just smiled. “She did, didn’t she?”

  Chapter 7

  To Imogen’s disgust, her short foray into the hall had brought up some of the blisters on the soft soles of her feet. She fumed against her body’s weakness but set her mind to action. Even if she had to stay in her bed, she did not need to be powerless.

  She sent Martha to find youngsters who would not be needed for other work and set them to being her eyes and ears.

  Soon she had reports of who was dead or injured, and who just missing. As FitzRoger had said, all the garrison were dead, along with five servants, the monks, and Janine.

  “Is there news of my aunt?” Imogen asked the boy who was reporting.

  “Laid to rest in the chapel vault yesterday,” said the lad cheerily.

  “Dead?” It hit her like a blow. She had just assumed that Aunt Constance had been spirited away too, and would soon return. Why would anyone kill such a kind lady? “Buried?” she asked. “Without a word to me?” Anger rose to drown grief. “How dare he?”

  The boy took a step back. “You were sick, lady.”

  “He could have waited.”

  The boy kept wisely silent. She waved him away and grief returned. She was truly, truly alone.

  She pressed her hands to her face. She would not cry. She had promised herself she would not cry. Constance had gone to her heavenly reward, as had her father, Janine, all the soldiers. The
y were much happier now than before, or so the Church would say. She called up Father Wulfgan’s teaching. This life was just a brief moment of pain and sorrow. It was the afterlife that we should long for.

  It didn’t, she discovered, ease the grief of those left behind alone.

  The sense of loss almost overwhelmed her, but she knew that if she once gave in she could drown in it. She remembered a village woman who had lost all her children to a fever. The poor soul had wandered mindlessly about the area, and then one day had been found in the millpond. Imogen could not afford that road; too many people depended upon her. She pushed all thoughts of her losses away and set her mind to restoring her home.

  She reminded herself to ask if Brother Patrick was around. She probably needed more salve for her feet. That reminded her of Lancaster’s physician. What had become of him? He had trained in Spain, and was much more skilled than a soldier’s monk.

  Enquiries merely discovered that he had disappeared during the sack, but that no body had been found. It was assumed that he and his servants had escaped.

  So Imogen asked for Brother Patrick’s help. The monk applied a salve to her sores and again recommended that she keep off her feet as much as possible. “I understand your impatience, Lady Imogen,” the man said, “but each adventure delays the healing. And if you were to venture into the bailey I fear infection.”

  Imogen had to accept that lying in bed for a few more days was her fate. She continued her administration from there.

  She discovered that a handful of Carrisford servants had weathered the siege by hiding, and that they were being helped with essential tasks by FitzRoger’s men. Imogen sent lads out to the nearest villages to spread the news that she was in control of Carrisford once more, and that everything should return to normal. Her people should return to their places, and the village headmen should send supplies.

  Carrisford had always been good to its people and she knew they would rally to her support now.