by Jo Beverley
Now she knew why Janine had screamed.
She beat at him, crying. “Stop. Please stop.” It was like trying to move a boulder. She went for his eyes. He seized her wrists and stilled her breathlessly.
“Imogen. Stop this.”
His voice came from a distance. She saw only Warbrick thrusting into her screaming maid, felt only a monstrous imprisonment and invasion, and terrible, terrible pain. Powerless before his great strength, Imogen echoed Janine’s plea, with the same tearful despair. “Sweet Mary, aid me!”
She was free.
Imogen rolled out of the bed and huddled on the floor, shaking so she feared she was rattling the castle walls. She couldn’t bring herself to look to see if the monster was coming after her.
Then she heard the click of the latch. It was like a key turning, bringing back sanity, bleak sanity, to her tangled mind. Fearfully she uncurled from her defensive position enough to peer over the bed at the room.
It was empty.
He had gone. FitzRoger had gone.
Imogen broke into soul-shaking sobs that spoke of relief, and anguish, and a deep mysterious loss.
When Renald de Lisle finally found his small wall chamber—a somewhat difficult matter after the quantity of wine he’d drunk—he found the bridegroom lying on the narrow bed, hands behind his head, staring at the beams. In the small amount of dying sun slicing in the slit window, it was hard to see anything except Ty’s shape.
Renald struggled for his wits but still couldn’t think of anything safe or sensible to say.
It was Ty who spoke. “I said I didn’t bruise flowers,” he said. “I lied.”
Renald looked at the flagon of wine he was carrying. There wasn’t much left, but he sloshed it into a wooden cup and set it by the bed. “Went hard, did it?” he said, not really believing it. Ty had tricks enough and the girl had been practically eating out of his hand these last few days.
Ty was completely immobile, which was a very bad sign. Renald hoped it wasn’t the little bride his friend wanted to kill, for he supposed he’d have to try to save her, which was to greet death himself.
“You were right about the priest,” Ty said at last, quite calmly. “I was too clever by far there.” After a long, heavy silence, he added, “Keep him out of my sight.”
So that’s who he wanted to kill. Renald hadn’t the slightest idea what had happened in the marriage bed, but dealing with Father Wulfgan seemed a simple enough matter. “I’ll sh-send him on his way tomorrow.”
Silence.
“Now?” Renald queried, knowing himself incapable.
“He will stay as long as Imogen wishes him to stay.”
Renald gave up and let his wine-sodden legs buckle so he was sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed. “There’sh wine by your head. Plenty more below . . . Get drunk. I am.”
“That’s obvious.” Two strong arms hooked under Renald’s and hauled him onto the narrow bed. Ty’s steps moved away.
Renald couldn’t keep his eyes open and it was too dim to be a useful effort anyway, but he struggled to use his brain. He knew he was needed here and wished to Jerusalem he hadn’t drunk so deep.
He’d thought a full-blooded celebration was in order.
“Wha’ happened?” he asked.
There was no audible emotion in his friend’s voice when he replied. “Nothing extraordinary. Go to sleep, Renald. I may be lacking in many respects, but I’m still capable of handling a military emergency if one should arise.”
Renald heard the curtain rustle as his friend left.
By the wounds, he wished he hadn’t drunk so deep. But the drink took him anyway.
Imogen didn’t know what had happened to her, except that time had passed. Had she slept? Fainted?
The room that had been bloodred with the setting sun was now silvered by the moon. It was her father’s room, where she had always been safe; the place she’d played as a child, and come to as she grew to ask questions and discuss problems.
Now, however, it was no longer safe. It was tainted by an alien smell and troubling memories.
Violence. Death. Corpses. . . .
Memory clicked in.
Bastard FitzRoger. Her husband.
She shuddered as she remembered what had occurred. She remembered it all, the pleasure and the pain.
Pleasure? Yes, she remembered pleasure. She remembered, too, her husband’s face when matters had been right between them. He’d let his mask fall for her, and she’d seen the man, and the soul within the man.
So briefly sweet.
Then she’d fought him, and screamed. She’d seen him as Warbrick, monstrous and vicious.
He’d left her.
She was sure the mask was back firmly in place.
She covered her face with shame.
What had she done?
She could try to blame FitzRoger for the disaster. She could say that he should have waited, given her longer to grow accustomed, but he’d been gentle with her. She remembered begging him to do what he was doing and do more of it.
Until the pain.
Had it been the pain she’d fought, or the pleasure? The pain had been far worse than she’d imagined, bul the pleasure had frightened her too. Frightened her into her worst nightmares.
Father Wulfgan was right. Pleasure did lead straight to hell.
FitzRoger seemed to think that pleasure in the marriage act was not wrong, but he had not been to the Holy Land and been nailed to a cross for his faith. He did not fast most days of the year and whip himself with metal-tipped thongs.
And now FitzRoger was proved to be wrong, for the terror and pain that had come between them must be a punishment for their lust. If he’d simply entered her, it would surely have gone much better.
Imogen knew she had virtue, harsh virtue, on her side—but still, her instinct said that she had done very badly this night.
What must FitzRoger have felt, with her screaming and fighting beneath him as he did only as he thought best?
Could she do otherwise next time?
Imogen rested her head on the bed. She wished she had someone, anyone, to advise her, or even just to hold her. “Father, Father,” she moaned. “Why did you have to die? It was so . . . so careless of you! I need to talk to you.”
She gave a choke of laughter. She could almost hear her practical father pointing out that if he hadn’t so carelessly died she would not be in this predicament. And, Imogen, my darling, you must grow up, and quickly.
Imogen sat up straight. It was almost as if she could hear her father, here in the room where they had shared their most precious private times.
You have been plunged into a torrent of the evils I tried so hard to spare you. But you have chosen your course—not a bad course—and you must see it through.
Was she going mad? Imogen didn’t know, but this moment of communication was too precious to risk with skepticism. She closed her eyes tightly and framed a question.
Do you approve of him, Father?
He is not what I would have chosen for you, my child. I confess I had a father’s distaste for giving you to a lusty young stallion. But he will serve you well if you let him. And remember that you must serve him.
In the marriage bed?
Not only in that. Perhaps least of all in that, daughter. No man is so strong as to be able to stand alone. Look to your husband’s needs.
Needs? Imogen tried to imagine how FitzRoger might need her other than as bed partner and mother to his children. He had perhaps hinted that she should manage the domestic arrangements at Cleeve, and as his wife that was now her duty.
That must be what her father meant, but this did not address her current problem. She must learn to tolerate the marriage bed.
What of Father Wulfgan? she asked. Is he right about lust?
She could swear she could hear the worldly humor that had marked Bernard of Carrisford. Saints are sent to irritate our tenderest spots rather than ease us, Imogen, and Wulfgan is v
ery good at irritating. That is why I brought him to Carrisford, for I was always a worldly man, but I had heed to my soul and knew I needed the goad of a stern conscience. But even saints do not always know the truth, daughter. Have you forgotten your lessons? Listen respectfully to all who have the authority to advise you, but take the decision from within your own heart. And then accept the consequences.
Accept the consequences.
“Sweet heaven,” she murmured. “Consequences.”
What would be the consequences of this night’s work?
She had to do something.
She leaped up and pulled on her clothes. She didn’t know what she should do, except that she must find her husband.
Where was he?
She went to peep out of the door, hoping that he would be hovering there. He wasn’t. She could hear raucous celebration still going on in the hall. There seemed a remarkable amount of feminine squealing, but she couldn’t be distracted by that. She supposed the castle women were enjoying themselves, too.
Where would FitzRoger have gone? Surely he wouldn’t have rejoined the carouse below on his wedding night. That would be to shame her terribly.
Perhaps she deserved that shame. She rubbed away tears and made herself think. There were other rooms and wall chambers, but on instinct she took the narrow circular staircase which led up to the battlements.
She found her husband there, standing by the battlements, looking out as if on guard at a landscape washed white by the large low moon.
FitzRoger was not on guard. On the far side of the square space the watchcorn was keeping watch, horn and bell at the ready to sound alarm.
FitzRoger was still and calm, but something about him stabbed a pain near Imogen’s heart, a pain that was largely guilt.
She didn’t want to deal with this. She wanted to creep away and let someone else sort everything out, but she was done with such weakness. She said a brief prayer to her father and walked over to her husband.
He sensed her at the last moment and spun around, a knife flashing in his hand, halted inches from her body.
He let out a hissing breath. “Don’t ever creep up on me, Imogen.”
“I’m sorry,” she said shakily. “I didn’t think . . .”
She could swear he was shaken too. “Start thinking,” he said sharply.
Imogen bit her lip. She wanted to speak of things that had to be said, but not when he was angry, and not where the watchcorn would hear every word.
He must have caught her anxious glance at the studiously oblivious guard, for he moved away from the battlements, silently leading the way to the stairs, back down to their room.
Imogen grabbed his arm—she couldn’t go back there yet—then jerked her hand away from his hard flesh as if burned.
He stopped and looked at her. In the chill moonlight he seemed to be carved of stone, cold stone. Then he moved. Almost hesitantly, he put a hand on her waist, and the hand was warm. When she made no retreat, he drew her gently against him, his arms encircling her.
Imogen shuddered as she leaned her head against his shoulder. She hadn’t known how much she needed to be held.
Tears swelled in her, and she knew it would do her good to weep here within the strong encompassment of his arms, but her tears would surely hurt him and she had hurt him enough. She won the aching battle with them.
It was comfort enough just to be held. She hoped it was comfort for him to hold her. . . .
It was only when he softly said, “There is a perfectly good bed below,” that she realized she was drifting off to sleep. Perhaps had slept.
She stirred and saw from the position of the moon that quite some time had passed.
“You need sleep, too,” she said, and realized it was an invitation of sorts. She hoped it was not an invitation to disaster.
She couldn’t read him. He was more relaxed than before, but guarded. Without a word, he guided her toward the stairs with his hand on her back, then went down their blackness ahead of her.
The castle was quiet now. The carouse must finally be over.
The solar seemed strangely normal when they reentered it, though eerie in the moonlight. She had expected it to be marked by what had occurred.
Still he didn’t speak, so Imogen braced herself to break the silence. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t behave at all well.”
He was standing calmly in the center of the room. “What has that to do with it? I’m sorry I couldn’t make it easier for you.”
His flat tone bruised her. She wished she could explain some of the devils he hadn’t been able to exorcise, but the words would choke her. “I’m sure it will be better next time,” she offered.
She saw rather than heard the sigh. “Go to bed.” He turned toward the door.
“Where are you going?” she cried in alarm.
He turned back. “It’s all right. You hardly ate at the feast, and I’d forgotten that you probably took that business of fasting seriously. You’ll feel better with some food in you.”
“You mean you didn’t fast?” she asked in dismay.
“No,” he said, and she could almost feel his effort at patience. “And if you give birth to rabbits, Imogen, I vow I’ll make pilgrimage to Jerusalem on my knees.”
“Oh, don’t say that!”
“Imogen, women do not give birth to rabbits.”
“With God all things are possible.” She wondered if he were heretic enough to deny that.
“Doubtless. But I’m sure God has better things to do with his omnipotence.”
Imogen bit her lip. That sounded both true and sacrilegious. “And the monsters?” she asked.
He moved back, a step closer to her. “Imogen, women do give birth to strange children—crippled, even lacking limbs. I once saw a babe like a Cyclops, with only one eye. You must have seen some unfortunates, even in Carrisford. But I don’t believe God made them that way as punishment for adultery or unseemly pleasure. I’ve seen animals similarly deformed. Did they also enjoy themselves too much?”
Imogen couldn’t think what to say to that. She had once seen a lamb with six legs.
He touched her cheek very gently, and she could swear there was a trace of a smile on his face. “My biggest crime, I think, is to forget how young and naive you are. Sometimes you are so brave and strong. Go to bed. I’ll be back shortly.”
Chapter 11
Young and naive. That hurt, though it was doubtless true. She was trying, though. Did that count for nothing? He had said that sometimes she was brave and strong, and that comforted her.
When he’d gone, Imogen made a light and lit a candle, then remade the bed. She distastefully brushed all the crushed rose petals onto the floor. A perfume rose from them but it didn’t please her; she preferred the other smell, the musky one which she recognized as his.
She stood looking at the bed, hands clasped tight. He thought her problem was just religious scruples, but she knew in her heart it wasn’t. It was that other, darker, fear that lay between them, only exacerbated by Wulfgan’s preaching.
She didn’t want the fear, but she didn’t seem to be able to control it. Such a thing should surely be under her control. When she was clearheaded, like now, she knew FitzRoger was no Warbrick, that he was not trying to rape her, that she wanted to be joined with him.
At the time, however, it had been like rats. No amount of thought could stop her fleeing a rat. Nothing could make her willingly touch one. She was sure that it was that fear that had caused the pain. Was it possible that nothing could make her welcome his invasion of her body?
She covered her face with her hands. That would surely be hell.
It had to be within her control.
Imogen gathered her courage and slipped out of her clothes and between the cool sheets, clearing her mind so that she would behave properly this time.
She brought to mind some holy martyrs. If Saint Catherine could endure the wheel, and Saint Agatha having her breasts cut off . . . Too la
te, she remembered that these stories supported Wulfgan’s preaching, for the martyrs had been punished—and sanctified—for refusing to sully themselves with men.
She thought instead of the walk to Cleeve, which had been horrible and frightening, but it had to be done and so she had done it. This too was something that had to be done.
FitzRoger came in with a piled trencher, a flagon, and two goblets. Thoughts both noble and philosophical were swamped by simple hunger. Imogen’s stomach rumbled and she sat up in the bed eagerly. With a quizzical smile, he placed the food before her. She grabbed a piece of cold saffron chicken and bit into it with a sound in her throat that was almost a purr.
It was gone quickly and she began on an almond honey cake, ending by licking the crumbs from her fingers. Suddenly embarrassed by her greed, she looked up at him. He was watching her, catlike, but did not seem to be displeased. He offered her a goblet of wine.
She tried a smile as she reached for it. “Thank you, my lord.”
He held on to the silver goblet when she would have taken it. “Tyron,” he corrected. “Or Ty. Or even Bastard, if you wish.”
She tentatively allowed herself to tease. “Bastard,” she said.
His lips twitched and he gave up the goblet.
“Do you not mind?” she asked, watching him over the rim.
“I’ve been called that all my life behind my back, but I’ve killed men who used it to my face.”
She considered him. He was being pleasant, but the mask was firmly in place. She wished he’d let it drop again. “What will you do to me, then, if I use it?”
“I’ve given you permission, haven’t I? And if you need someone to mortify your flesh, I’m sure Wulfgan will oblige.” She saw him catch himself on that spurt of irritation. He went on calmly, almost lightly. “However, if you call me Bastard in public, wife, you can explain the ramifications of my mother’s relationship with Roger of Cleeve.”
Imogen felt as if she were tiptoeing through daggers, but that deliberate use of the word wife strengthened her. He was not rejecting her. “What are the ramifications, then?” she asked.