by Jo Beverley
Her little messengers told her that the wine in the cellars had been drained, and that Lord FitzRoger—or the master, as her people would keep calling him—had already brought in some supplies from Cleeve and sent for more.
Frowning, she made notes on waxed tablets, keeping tally of what she owed him. Once she was mobile again, she would find a way to slip down to the secret treasure vault and bring up enough coin to pay him off.
It would be very dangerous to be in that man’s debt.
She would also bring up some of her jewels. He must be brought to realize that Imogen of Carrisford was not a poverty-stricken suppliant but a great lady.
The grains had fortunately only been spilled out of the bins and much had been recovered, so bread was in production, but what joints had been available had gone. There was meat, however, for the slaughtered stock had been butchered for use.
Then she was told FitzRoger had gone off hunting. That hardly seemed necessary with so many carcasses around. She curled her lip at the thought that he was off amusing himself when there was so much work to be done.
All the same, Imogen was surprised at how the knowledge that he was out of the castle affected her. She was keyed up for another assault on her. Now, with him gone, she felt freer, but also nervously vulnerable. What if Warbrick returned?
She stopped in her record keeping and sucked on the end of her stylus. Freedom or security. It was a choice.
I choose freedom, she thought firmly, but wondered if the secret entry had been sealed. That was a task FitzRoger could delegate; he would not need to enter the passages himself. She made a note to check on it. It made her very nervous to think of the secret ways lying open now they were known.
Her precious supply of spices was apparently missing, along with the fine carved chest that held them. Her chests of cloth—the silks and sendals, samites and tissues—had been spilled out into the bailey and stamped into the dirt. Curse Warbrick. One day she’d see him dead for what he had done. As soon as there were enough servants, she would have some women do the best they could in cleaning the lengths of cloth. She would surely need new clothes from somewhere and she wasn’t sure she should spend coin on adornment just yet.
Though most of the stock would soon have been slaughtered before winter, some would have to be replaced. She would prefer to offer coin directly but had none. She sent for laying hens and milch cows anyway. Surely Imogen of Carrisford’s word was good.
Every time she looked up she was aware of her missing window and her bare walls, and was reminded of the destruction wreaked throughout the castle. She put it behind her. Time enough for elegance later. For the moment it was the necessities of life which concerned her.
Feeling as if she trespassed, she sent a boy to report on the state of the soldiers and armory, and on the progress of repairs. He brought back reassurance of security. The men all knew their business and were well armed. Those not on guard duty spent their time in repairing weapons.
She should have known FitzRoger would not have left the castle vulnerable. She remembered that time after the castle had been taken, when the men—unsupervised—had acted efficiently. He kept a well-trained force.
And they had been unsupervised because their leader was spewing up his terror of closed dark spaces in the arms of his lieutenant.
Imogen pushed that image away. It softened her to think of FitzRoger’s point of vulnerability, and that was dangerous. He would give no quarter in this fight, and anyway, look how he had reacted when she had mentioned it.
She frowned over the problem her supposed champion represented. He had his fingers into everything in Carrisford, and his men were her guards. He had all the people thinking of him as the master, and he’d even buried her aunt without Imogen’s authority or presence.
She had better winkle the man out of Carrisford before he put down roots!
The only way to do that, however, was through the king, and that would lead to her speedy marriage to a man of King Henry’s choosing.
She found she had chewed the end of her wooden stylus almost to a pulp. She threw it down in disgust.
Henry Beauclerk had only been on the throne of England for a year and Imogen had no idea what to expect from him. FitzRoger claimed he would sell her to the highest bidder, and FitzRoger was said to be close enough to the king to know. King Henry’s right to the throne was being challenged, and he was also plagued by Belleme and a number of other restless barons. He doubtless did have wavering supporters to buy.
But surely he would never sink so low as to try to buy Belleme or his brothers with her?
Then she remembered her father discussing the rumors that Henry Beauclerk had been behind the death of his brother, King William Rufus, who had so conveniently died of an arrow while hunting. Lord Bernard had been warily watching the new king, withholding judgment. If a man would kill his brother, would he balk at anything?
Imogen felt as if her mind were whirling in circles. If she didn’t want to submit to the king’s whim, she had only two alternatives. She could offer herself to one of her established suitors—probably Lancaster—or accept the unspoken proposal of Bastard FitzRoger.
She collapsed back against her pillows and tried to think straightly about her choices. The king was a gamble and Imogen was not a gambler.
Lancaster then.
Lancaster was many years her senior, but that was not unusual, and not a matter to take into consideration. She knew her duty as Lady of Carrisford. She should not look for someone pleasing, but for a strong and just lord for her people.
It was as well, she thought dryly, that she could put aside her own tastes if the choice lay between Lancaster and FitzRoger. Neither appealed to her. One older, and seeking always the easy way, not the right. One younger, hard, and frightening.
But, whispered a tiny part of her mind, he would not seek the easy way.
Then she sat up straight.
As wife to Lancaster she would have to live at his principal castle in the north of the country. She would rarely return to Gloucestershire. After all, Lancaster owned Breedon, which lay in this part of the country, and had scarcely ever visited there even when he had come to Carrisford to court her.
Marriage to Lancaster would mean leaving Carrisford.
How could she care for Carrisford from so far away? How could she know if all was well, if justice was fair, if succor was given in times of hardship?
These questions had never arisen when her father was alive to care for his land. He had not been an old man, and it had been assumed that Lord Bernard would live to see a son of hers hold Carrisford after him. Now, however, everything was different. Having just taken Carrisford in her grasp, having suffered to save it, was Imogen now to abandon it?
She saw a hateful decision rearing up to face her.
After all, every mighty lord in England—king’s choice or her own—had the same disadvantage. They would expect her to live on their estates far away from Carrisford.
Every lord except Warbrick and FitzRoger, whose principal estates bordered hers.
Warbrick was out of the question.
The Castle Cleeve land adjoined hers. Moving between the two would be easy.
Though she disliked him, FitzRoger had impressed her with his competence. If handled properly, he would keep both estates safe, and she was certain he would not shirk his duties through indolence.
Imogen wiped damp palms on her skirt as her mind skittered around the point.
Martha came in with a pile of laundry.
“What do the people think of Lord FitzRoger?” Imogen asked the woman.
Martha laid her load down and considered it. “He’s got a hard edge on him, that’s for sure, lady. People ’round here have had it soft, and many a one’s tried to shirk or whine, but they soon found it better to work.” She began to sort the wash. “He’s a fair man, though,” she said, “and keeps his men in line. I’ve not had so much as a pinched bottom.” She sounded a little regretful.
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br /> Imogen licked her lips. “And . . . and has he whipped anyone?”
“Whipped?” asked the woman in surprise. “Not that I’ve heard of, my lady. Not but what that Sir Renald don’t carry a lash and sting a body here or there if they try to malinger. Some people ’round here are bone idle.”
Imogen felt dizzy. “Sir Renald?” She’d thought him so gentle. But that wasn’t the biggest surprise. “Are you saying my father was lax in the running of Carrisford?”
Martha looked up in alarm. “Lord, no, lady! Sir Bernard were a fine man and a great lord. But times have changed. Under your father everything had gone along smoothly for, well, for nigh on twenty years. There were people aplenty and everything always kept in first order. Now everything’s in disarray and half the people are missing.” She shook out a sheet that still had boot prints on it. “Look at this. See what I mean? Lazy work.” She threw it on the floor to go back to the laundry. “All have to work twice as hard and many don’t like it much, lady. It wouldn’t surprise me if some of those that fled just aren’t hearing that all’s well, hoping most of the work’ll be done by the time they return to claim their place.”
Imogen knew her people and that had the ring of truth. Life had been soft and easy at Carrisford—for her and for everyone.
Suddenly she knew what FitzRoger was out hunting. He’d never waste his time chasing deer when they had too much meat. He was chasing her missing servants. She remembered that terrible whipping post.
“By the Grail,” she muttered, “if he bullies my people . . .”
She commanded that her bed be moved over to the window so that she could observe the goings-on in both baileys. She’d see exactly what FitzRoger was up to when he returned.
She put aside her momentous decision, waiting to see what would be revealed next.
FitzRoger returned alone. She noted that he had ridden out bareheaded in only a leather jerkin sewn with metal rings. She supposed with disgust that it would stop an arrow if he were lucky.
Then she wondered why she was worried about his safety.
Because he was her temporary bulwark against the world?
No, because she’d decided to marry him.
All unconsciously, the decision was made.
She studied the man with new eyes. He was hers. He was her strong right arm. He should protect himself better for he would be no use to her wounded.
It was all very practical.
Why, then, was her mouth dry, her heart pounding? Was it fear? It didn’t feel like fear.
He tossed his reins to a man and walked briskly toward the main tower with a smooth, easy grace which denied hours in the saddle. By the Virgin, she’d like to see him weakened, at least limping!
She bit her lip when she realized that directly contradicted her previous thought. He was going to drive her mad.
He passed out of sight but not out of mind. He would be a good lord to Carrisford, she admitted, but would he be a good husband?
Would he be kind? She thought he would if she didn’t cross him. Would he beat her? The answer was yes if she did something to deserve it. She shivered, but was surprised not to feel great fear. She realized she believed him just.
She hoped to heaven she was right. He could kill her with one blow.
Would he allow her some hand in the running of Carrisford?
Yes, he would, she decided, because that would be her condition for the marriage. She must remember her worth and set her price high.
And what, she thought hesitantly, of the marriage bed?
She remembered Janine and pressed a hand over her eyes, fighting nausea. It would not, could not, be as bad as that for her.
There would be a bed, not a table. She would not fight and so no one would have to hold her down. FitzRoger was surely not so . . . so gross as Warbrick, she told herself, remembering that huge, engorged phallus.
It was a normal thing, after all, and necessary for children. She could endure it as other women had since Eve. She had broken her arm once and had it set without one cry. It was simply a matter of closing the eyes and thinking of something else.
It would merely be another taste of the gall.
Now, the sooner she told him, the sooner it would all be done, and she could settle to restoring Carrisford. She listened for his brisk footsteps.
After a little while Imogen realized he wasn’t coming hotfoot to report to her. That annoyed her, but she controlled her irritation. Letting FitzRoger catch her constantly on the raw was to play into his arms.
She tapped her finger and considered strategy. She could send for him and acquaint him with her decision. It was tempting to get it over with, but Imogen knew it would be wiser to wait and make him try some more of his dainty maneuvers. Then she would be able to settle on better terms.
It was just like bargaining with an itinerant merchant, and Imogen had always been good at that. The first rule was not to show how interested one was in the goods.
She became aware of noises and looked out to see FitzRoger’s men on horseback driving some of the castle people into the outer bailey like a herd of sheep. At least the people didn’t look to be beaten or frightened. She set herself to watch.
FitzRoger came out again and waited as the group progressed to the inner bailey. They were filed toward him. He spoke to each and consulted a listing in his hand.
She caught her breath. That was the record of the castle staff. He had no right to be using it without a word to her!
Each one was given something and sent off to their job. When the sun shot a gleam from one of the items being handed over, Imogen realized he was giving them a silver farthing each. It could be seen as a rehiring fee. It was a crafty move designed to soothe any grievances, but she felt herself seething. It meant that as far as they were concerned they had been hired by him!
More people who saw him as the master.
She felt her teeth ache from the pressure she was exerting on them and muttered a few unpleasant curses in his direction. She imagined she had a bow and was sighting on his back. No, not his back—that was still protected by that leather jerkin. His neck. Could she hit his neck at this distance? She was a good shot with her small bow and thought she could.
She imagined an arrow hissing through the air to strike—
He suddenly turned and looked up at her. She almost cowered back as if she really had sent that arrow. Then he raised a hand in salute and turned back to the servants.
They, however, had followed his look and now set up a cheer. “Hail to Lady Imogen! Hail to Carrisford!”
She grinned and waved back.
That for you, Bastard FitzRoger. They know their true liege.
Their genuine pleasure at her safety heartened her, but it still galled her that he was down there acting as her deputy, perhaps even seen already as her lord, while she was trapped here by her cursed blistered feet.
She lay back and shut her eyes. Oh, Father, she prayed silently to her earthly father, not her heavenly one, am I doing the right thing? Why did you not prepare me better? I always expected to choose a husband under your guidance, and then live for many years with the knowledge of your protection.
What would you think of Bastard FitzRoger? He frightens me, Father; but I think you’d like him. He’s good at what he does and you always liked people who are good at what they do.
I wish I didn’t have to marry him, Father; but I have to marry someone. You always made it clear that was my duty, and now I find he seems the obvious choice, the only choice. It’s very strange. It’s as if I’m impelled toward him. Is this the instinct you always spoke of or is it madness?
Watch over me, Father. Guide me. . . .
She heard the door open and her eyes flicked open to see Bastard FitzRoger in the doorway.
“Were you sleeping?” he asked. “I’m sorry if I woke you.” He’d taken off his jerkin and was dressed only in braies and a fine linen shirt, belted at the waist. The unlaced neck revealed his finely muscled che
st glossed by sweat.
Imogen hastily sat up and grabbed for her wits. “I was thinking of my father.”
He perched on the end of her bed. It seemed shockingly intimate and she almost protested, but there were enough important things to fight over without descending to the petty.
“You have scarce had time to grieve, have you?” he said. “From the stories of how Lord Bernard doted on you, you must miss him.”
“Of course I miss him. But he didn’t dote. He . . . he loved me.” Her voice almost broke and she took a deep breath, praying that she wouldn’t let the tears escape.
“It is acceptable to cry, you know, when someone so close dies.”
Imogen won the battle. “I’ll never cry before you, FitzRoger. That I vow.”
That stillness came over his face that she knew was anger, tightly controlled. “I hope at least that you never cry because of me,” he said quietly, “though I suspect you will.” He rose. “If you’re in the mood for grieving, I should leave you in peace.”
He was halfway to the door before she cried, “Stop!”
He turned, mildly surprised, but not as surprised as she. Imogen had no idea why it seemed so important to keep him here. This wasn’t the time to tell him she’d marry him.
“Surely we have things to discuss,” Imogen said.
“Do we?”
She remembered her grievances. “You buried my aunt without me.”
“It was necessary.”
“You could have waited a day. I wanted to say farewell. She was very dear to me.”
Imogen couldn’t read his expression, but it wasn’t inimical. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It seemed better to get it over with.”
She could hardly demand that poor Aunt Constance be disinterred. “What about the people you have just rounded up and herded back here like sheep?”
He relaxed and humor glinted in his eyes. “They seemed to have forgotten the way home. I merely guided them.”
“I won’t have them punished,” she told him.
“Not at all? No matter what they do?”
He was laughing at her again. “I mean, I won’t have any flogging at Carrisford. I don’t forget what I saw at Cleeve.”