Dark Champion

by Jo Beverley

  With that he was gone.

  Imogen picked up the long knife with shaking fingers and carefully tested the blade. Despite her care, she still cut her thumb. The knife was wickedly sharp—a hunting knife, not a table knife. She imagined slashing it through skin and muscle. . . .

  She sucked her own salty blood thoughtfully. What was she to do? What choices did she realistically have? None but the convent, and honesty told her that wasn’t for her.

  She wished this wasn’t her wedding day. She wished her father were alive to look after her. She wished FitzRoger would at least pretend to be gentle.

  Fine chance there was of that. But at least he didn’t pretend to virtues he could never possess. He had, in his own way, been honest, and she had decided to marry him for good and logical reasons. Those reasons had not changed.

  And his first gift to her had been a knife to kill him with.

  Imogen placed the knife neatly on a chest by her bed. Perhaps if he were ever vile enough, she would find the courage to use it.

  Imogen spent the rest of the day mending the dress she had chosen for her wedding and trying to think no further than that. She could not help but regret, however, that her finery was so limited. Only a mended gown to wear, and no jewelry at all.

  Ridiculously, that trivial problem did bring a few tears to sting at her eyes. Perhaps she should weaken and tell FitzRoger where her jewels were hidden.

  Just then Martha bustled in with a carved chest in her hands, her eyes glittering with excitement. “For you, lady!” the woman exclaimed as she put the box on the bed. “From the master!”

  Imogen eyed the box suspiciously. She was wary of anything sent by FitzRoger, and reminded of the story of the ancients and the gift that had conquered Troy.

  This gift, at least, could not conceal an army. It was a domed chest about two hands long, finely carved with woodland scenes and bound in silver. It had a lock, but the key was in it. She turned it and lifted the lid to expose leather pouches. She opened one to spill a golden girdle.

  Another contained a bracelet, another rings. Soon the bed was covered with a flashing carpet of earrings, fillets, collars, brooches, and even ancient fibulas. There was every kind of metal and design—filigree, ribbon work, chains, stones.

  Martha was gasping and oohing, but Imogen turned the ornaments thoughtfully. This haphazard collection was all of women’s pieces, and as FitzRoger had not had time to purchase them, they must be loot. They were all good pieces, but it was a collection without pattern or meaning. Doubtless whatever had been up for grabs at the time.

  A mercenary’s loot.

  Even so, she was touched by the lavishness of the gift, and that FitzRoger had thought of her problem. Perhaps the chest had contained an army of invasion after all, an army designed to invade her heart.

  Imogen laughed at that. Probably such riches would turn the heads of most women, but when FitzRoger finally saw her true jewelry, he would realize these were mere trinkets.

  All the same, she was touched, and could approach her wedding a little easier in her mind.

  Imogen stood for the first time in over a day. Her feet did not hurt much and she discovered that FitzRoger had been right again. The world did look better when she was standing on her own.

  Martha helped her into a cream silk kirtle and the darned red silk tunic. Imogen investigated the loot and clasped a girdle of gold filigree set with ivory flowers around her waist and a collar of gold and garnets around her neck. There were two narrow gold bracelets of ancient design and she slipped them onto her wrists. That was enough. There was no need for ostentation and she reminded herself that it was not wise to flaunt wealth before princes.

  She replaced the rest of the jewelry, locked the chest, and then tucked the key under the girdle. She had nowhere else secure to keep it.

  Martha combed out her long hair. “Oh, but it’s so pretty,” the woman said as it crackled along the comb. “And so long. It’s a wonder for sure. I don’t know what color it is, lady. Gold? Copper?”

  “Lord FitzRoger says it’s ginger.”

  “He never did!” The woman chuckled. “I’ll be bound he says something else tonight, lady.”

  Imogen stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  “Men say these things when they’re wooing, lady. They like to tease. But when they’re all hot and bothered, they say the truth.”

  Imogen turned to look at her. “Hot and bothered? In lust, do you mean?”

  “If you like, lady. Turn ’round do, so I can finish this off.”

  Imogen turned. Martha was a married woman and might be able to advise her. “Er . . . is it hard in the marriage bed to . . . to be good, Martha?”

  “Good, lady?”

  Imogen licked her lips. She found she couldn’t speak of the practices described by Father Wulfgan. “To do right. You know . . . Not to offend.”

  Imogen felt the woman’s hand stroke her head briefly. “Don’t you fret, lambkin. He won’t expect you to be clever. It’ll be all right.”

  Clever? Imogen’s heart thumped. What had clever to do with it? She abandoned questions which only seemed to make matters worse. She knew she had been cossetted and protected, and Father Wulfgan had told her only what she shouldn’t do. What if there were things she was supposed to know that she didn’t know?

  She would hate to give FitzRoger another reason to call her a silly child.

  When it was time to go down, Imogen’s nerves were on edge and her legs felt unsteady. She tried her softest shoes but found they immediately galled the sides of her feet. She would have to go down barefoot and this made her feel even worse, as if she were entering the great hall only half dressed.

  There was no help for it. Imogen reminded herself that she was Imogen of Carrisford, great heiress of the west, and set out to her wedding.

  Alone, for she had no female attendant of stature, Imogen walked through the rooms and began to descend the wide staircase into the great hall. Her head felt fogged. It could be because of her sore feet, or the fasting.

  She thought it was fear.

  She was amazed to find that the hall looked ready for royalty and a wedding. There were hangings on the walls—not as fine as those destroyed by Warbrick, but better than nothing. The trestle tables set up for the meal were covered with snowy cloths. The rushes on the floor were clean and, she detected, strewn with rosemary and lavender to sweeten the air.

  The large oak high table was not yet laid, for it was covered with the betrothal documents, but the nobles gathered around it were drinking wine from fine silver and gold vessels. The empty sideboards now held plates and even some precious glass.

  It must all have come from Cleeve.

  Something alerted the men. Silence fell as they turned to look at her.

  Imogen’s steps faltered under all those assessing eyes. Hard eyes, mercenary eyes. To them she was just wealth and power on legs.

  She gave thanks at that moment for FitzRoger’s trinkets, which allowed her at least the appearance of a great heiress. She regretted, however, that she had not agreed to be carried down to her betrothal; her dizziness was growing worse. She put a steadying hand against the wall.

  Then she steeled herself. She was strong, and must prove it. By God, she would need to be strong as the wife of Bastard FitzRoger.

  She saw him.

  In the few brief days since they had met she had seen FitzRoger half naked, in armor, in gory leather, and in silk, but she had never seen him in such finery as this. He clearly had plenty more loot of a masculine sort.

  He was sleek and hard in the green and gold of his colors. His dark hair glittered in a beam of light, and heavy gold ornaments glowed so that he outshone even his prince. He dominated the room, the King of England included. So much for not flaunting wealth before princes. It was as well he and Henry were friends or such unconscious arrogance could cost him his head.

  And she had called him a nobody. He clearly was anything but.

  She h
ad learned to read him a little. She knew that just now he was concerned that she would fail to complete the walk she had set herself.

  The concern didn’t hearten her. It was the same cool-headed concern he gave to his men’s fighting fitness, his animals’ good health, and his weapons’ edge. Everything Bastard FitzRoger possessed was expected to fulfill its purpose perfectly. He made no move to help her.

  She would marry him for his strength and hardness, and be grateful she knew it was war she entered, not love.

  But one does not go into war alone. As she walked down the long staircase, Imogen wished she had someone familiar by her side. Her father and aunt were dead. Janine had met her bloody end in this very hall but five days past.

  Unwise thought.

  The memory burst back on Imogen and she faltered. She immediately picked up her pace again, though her heart was pounding and bloodred shadows were threatening her vision. She would not faint in front of them.

  Now, however, instead of a richly dressed wedding party she saw brutes in armor, blood dripping from sword points, and Janine . . .

  She saw the woman held stretched across the table. She heard her guttural screams for mercy as her rapist thrust into her, grunting in rhythm. Grunt, grunt, grunt—

  Dear God, it was the same table!

  She came to the present frozen with horror, staring at the oak boards spread with documents. Was it her imagination that there were bloodstains?

  A hand took hers, burning hot against the chill of her flesh. She looked up into the sympathetic dark eyes of FitzRoger’s friend, Renald de Lisle.

  “You should not have walked, Lady Imogen,” he chided gently. “Now you must sit.” He guided her to the great chair set by the table. She glanced at the king, but he waved a negligent hand.

  “No, no, Lady Imogen. I insist. Ty has told us of your stubborn pride. I commend you, but it would be foolishness to take it too far.”

  Stubborn pride? Her eyes met FitzRoger’s. Was that really what he saw? How strange. She felt feeble, so unable to take charge of her own destiny. After all, this wedding was an admission that without some man at her side she was like a rabbit flung among wolves. She was grateful to sit, however. It lessened the chance that she would faint.

  Renald poured her wine, but before she could drink, a long brown hand removed her cup and replaced it with a goblet of water. “We are supposed to fast,” said FitzRoger. “Remember? If we don’t, all our works will turn to evil and you’ll give birth to rabbits.”

  Imogen looked at him in shock. “What?”

  His smile was cool. “That’s what Father Wulfgan says. The priest you value so.”

  Imogen looked over at Wulfgan, huddling darkly over his psalter, clearly dissociating himself from this event. Was that why FitzRoger sounded angry?

  She sipped the water to ease her dry mouth.

  The king stepped forward into the silence. “As your father entrusted you to my care, Lady Imogen, I am honored to guide you in this matter of your marriage. Perhaps you would like me to explain all these documents.”

  “She knows them well, sire,” said FitzRoger. “She was the scribe.”

  “Indeed.” The king looked at her with more respect. “You have won a gifted bride, Ty, as well as a beautiful one. But does she understand what she has written?”

  They spoke as if she wasn’t there. “She does!” snapped Imogen, and then looked at the startled king in horror. “I beg your pardon, sire.”

  Again he waved a hand. “No matter. This has been a hard time for you, Lady Imogen, and we make allowances. It is our wish to see you safe in the protection of the Lord of Cleeve. Tell me, then, what is in the documents, so that we may all give testimony that you enter this betrothal with full understanding.”

  So that she couldn’t seek annulment later on the grounds that she had been forced or deceived.

  Imogen clasped her hands on the table and said, “I agree to marry Lord FitzRoger of Cleeve. I will retain overlordship of Carrisford for myself and it will pass to one or more of my children excepting only the eldest son, who will inherit Castle Cleeve and whatever other properties my . . . my husband may gain in his life.” She looked up and found her eyes locked with FitzRoger’s. In a painful way it was welcome. She had noticed this before. His cool gaze strengthened her where sympathy would make her crumble. She’d do anything rather than snivel before him.

  “My husband,” she said as if to him alone, “on my behalf will defend Carrisford and provide the knight’s fee due to you, sire, for the estate.” Meaningless possession, in other words.

  “I, through my officers,” she continued, “will be responsible for the civil administration of Carrisford and its holdings, and for all costs incurred there.”

  “Under your husband’s guidance,” prompted the king.

  “I beg pardon, sire?”

  “It does say”—he pushed forward a document and pointed to a section with a bejeweled finger—“you are responsible et cetera ‘under the guidance of Lord FitzRoger, my husband.’ That should say ‘Tyron FitzRoger.’ Where’s my clerk?”

  A monk came forward, scraped off the word Lord, and wrote in Tyron. So now she knew his full name.

  “Do you agree to this, Lady Imogen?” the king continued. “It would hardly be acceptable for a girl of sixteen to rule her own estate, but we must be sure you understand all this. These words do sharply limit your authority.”

  Imogen looked up again at Bastard FitzRoger. “I know it.”

  “And accept it?” queried the king.

  “And accept it.”

  “Is there a dower property?” asked one of the other men. “It is irregular that there not be.”

  FitzRoger answered that. “Since the lady comes to this marriage more well endowed than I,” he said dryly, “it seemed superfluous. The granting of her title to her lands constitutes her dower, since I have just won them back for her.”

  Crudely put, but accurate. “I accept it as such,” Imogen said flatly.

  “Good,” said the king jovially. “Then I see no impediment and it remains only for all to witness this betrothal.”

  Imogen took the offered pen and signed her life away, adding the cross that made it a holy vow. She watched as FitzRoger put his signature and cross below hers, and then all the witnesses followed suit, with mark, seal, or letters. She was now committed, for a betrothal was binding and she had freely consented before witnesses. It was a relief of sorts to have no further choice. She felt light-headed and detached from the action and the cheerful voices around her.

  She was snapped out of her thoughts when FitzRoger took her hand. “Now you must swear fealty for Carrisford to Henry.”

  Henry sat, and Imogen rose to kneel before him and place her hands in his, vassal to liege. It was a solemn moment, and one she found joy in, for she had won this honor for herself by courage as great as any knight in the field.

  When that was complete, it was time for the oath taking. Her wedding.

  FitzRoger eyed her with that same impersonal concern. “It would not be wise to walk across the bailey with open sores on your feet. There is a chair here which can be carried.”

  Imogen looked bemusedly at the chair he indicated. A simple seat with a back had been attached to two long poles. Two sturdy men stood ready to carry her on them. A sudden relief told her how much she had dreaded having to step out into the mud and dung.

  “Thank you,” she said. For all he’d done for her, it was the first time she had truly felt grateful.

  “Renald arranged it,” he said.

  She should have known FitzRoger wouldn’t have wasted time on her problem when she could always be carried in someone’s arms, probably his. She’d had her fill of that. Imogen smiled at the other man and went to sit in the chair.

  She clutched the sides as it was hoisted up, then they were on their way in a bizarre kind of procession. Father Wulfgan walked at the front bearing a crucifix and looking as if he wished he were anywhere el
se in the world but here.

  Imogen could sympathize.

  Her porters managed to carry her down the steps from the doorway of the great hall to the castle bailey without tipping her out, and there the inhabitants of Carrisford were crowded to witness the nuptials of their lady and their liberator.

  They let out a cheer as the procession appeared. Imogen heard her own name, the king’s, and FitzRoger’s, but she noticed how few of the crowd were Carrisford people. Many were doubtless busy preparing the feast, but a great number of her people had not yet returned to the castle. The bulk of the crowd around her now were FitzRoger’s small army and the king’s escort.

  It made it clear how illusory any notion of choice had been.

  Wulfgan disappeared into the chapel and her porters put the chair down by the church door where a cloth had been laid for her to stand on. More of Sir Renald’s thoughtfulness? She saw with a sigh that it had once been a fine embroidered depiction of a hunt which had hung in her father’s chamber. It covered the ground adequately enough, but was slashed almost to ribbons. How long would it take to bring her savaged home back to the richness it had once known?

  The king came to stand beside her, and FitzRoger took his place on Henry’s other side.

  Wulfgan reappeared. He had merely put his stole over his patched black robe and looked more suited to a funeral than a wedding, especially in view of his expression. He proceeded to read out the betrothal documents in his deep and sonorous voice, making them sound like a list of crimes awaiting punishment.

  “Tyron FitzRoger of Castle Cleeve,” he intoned at last. “Do you agree to these dispositions and attest to this being your true and honest mark?”

  “I do.”

  “Imogen of Carrisford. Do you agree to these dispositions and attest to this being your true and honest mark?” He made it sound like the most heinous accusation.

  Imogen swallowed. “I do,” she whispered.

  “And are all here present willing to stand witness to this agreement having been freely made?”