Dark Champion

by Jo Beverley

  He moved to lie on the bed, his back to one of the foot-posts, facing her. His shoes almost touched her knees. “My mother married Roger of Cleeve and I have documents to prove it, though he sought to have them destroyed. When the marriage became inconvenient, he had it annulled on the grounds that I wasn’t his child. I was born a month early and he could prove that nine months before he had been in England.”

  “Were you small?”

  “Very. That didn’t concern him, or count with the Church court he took the case to. The bishop found a generous donation to his coffers much more interesting.”

  “But now your birth is validated.”

  “Yes. Money and power now weigh the other side of the scale.”

  Imogen almost protested that sounded remarkably irreverent, but she held her tongue.

  He carried on. “It was made easier, of course, by the fact that there is no contesting heir.”

  “Your half brother Hugh being conveniently dead.” Then she wished she had held her tongue. It was said Hugh choked at the table, but there were rumors . . .

  It was a particular look in his eyes that distracted Imogen. She realized she was sitting up naked in the bed for this meal and conversation. With a squeak she moved to slip under the covers, but—lightning fast—he snared the sheet.

  She remembered her good intentions and froze. Her heart was pounding, and she knew she must be rose-red, but she didn’t fight him.

  “You’re lovely,” he said. “There’s no reason to hide from me.”

  “Modesty,” she countered, then bit her lip.

  A momentary lowering of his lids was all the evidence of the impatience she knew he felt. “It isn’t immodest for you to be naked before your husband,” he said in that same calm, authoritative voice he had used before. Situation and memory combined to render Imogen miserably self-conscious.

  He tossed the sheet over her and left the bed. Imogen knew she’d failed again. What on earth was she to do about all this? Despite good intentions, she feared that if he tried again to consummate the marriage, the same terrible thing would happen.

  But without it, they were not truly wed.

  He was standing by the narrow window looking out at the bailey, his arm raised against the wall. It was shadowy in that dark corner of the room, but the muted moonlight deepened the angles of his body and made him appear even harder than he was.

  But she had seen tonight that he was not hard.

  “I wish you would come to bed,” she whispered into the gray half-light. “Please.” She knew it might sound like an invitation to repeat his act and she didn’t want that. But she knew it would be disastrous if he stayed by that window all night long.

  She thought he would refuse, but then he stripped off his clothes and joined her. He lay on his side again, and played with a strand of her hair. “What would you do if I started all over again, I wonder?”

  Imogen swallowed. “Submit,” she said bravely.

  “That’s what I thought. Go to sleep, Ginger. We both need our sleep.”

  When Imogen awoke it was bright daylight outdoors and she was alone in the bed. She leaned up to scan the room, but he was not there. Dread leaped into her. An unconsummated wedding night. What was going to happen to her now?

  She heard men and horses in the bailey and shot upright in the bed. He was leaving!

  Before she could act, the door opened and FitzRoger came in. Imogen grabbed for the sheet, then stopped herself, trying not to mind her nakedness, absorbing the vast relief that he was still here.

  Unless he had come to announce his departure.

  He picked up her shift from the floor and tossed it to her. As soon as she was in it, he opened the door wide and two servants came in to lay a cloth on a table and spread meat, bread, and ale.

  When they were gone, her husband said, “Good morning. You look well rested.”

  “Yes.” Then she wondered if that was the wrong answer. Should she have lain awake worrying? Had he? The idea seemed ridiculous, and he looked his usual unruffled, austere self.

  He gestured to the table and she climbed out of bed and joined him there. She picked up a bread roll, wishing she could think of something light and clever to say. The fresh, warm bread reminded her of the bread she had eaten at Cleeve. If she hadn’t traveled there, what would have become of her?

  Warbrick, perhaps. She’d be dead in that case, for she would have killed herself. On this sweet, sunny day with birds singing and the smell of the warm earth in the air she was glad to be alive.

  She might have made it through to the king, though. Then she would have been delivered to FitzRoger without the chance to make terms.

  Perhaps she could have insisted that there had been an agreement that she wed Lancaster. She thought of Lancaster in the marriage bed. His hands were fleshy and clammy. He licked his lips a lot so they always appeared moist, and bad teeth made his breath foul. She knew with certainty that scream as she might, Lancaster would not have halted the consummation. . . .

  “What’s the matter?” FitzRoger asked her alertly.

  “Nothing.”

  She could see he didn’t believe her. All his formidable attentiveness was now focused on her; she was a problem to be solved. It unnerved her.

  “Are people up yet?” she asked.

  He poured her some ale and she downed it in a gulp.

  “A few bleary servants and the unfortunate guards who pulled duty last night. I gather,” he added dryly, “everybody except them had an excellent time.”

  Except us, thought Imogen, and concentrated on her bread. “I suppose I should go down and organize things . . .”

  “Hardly. We are allowed some indulgence. Or at least, you are. Hal is already up and raring for a hunt.” He took a piece of meat and bit into it.

  Imogen looked up, feeling she was being pushed into her pampered corner again. “I like to hunt,” she challenged.

  “Not today you don’t.”

  “Am I to be confined to my room, then?”

  He made a sudden movement, abruptly controlled. “Imogen, Carrisford is yours. Go where you want. Do as you wish. Hunt if you wish. I’m sure my reputation can stand the implications, and you obviously don’t care about yours.”

  Then she understood and blushed. If she rode all day, people would know the marriage had not been consummated, or would think that she had not been a virgin. “I won’t hunt,” she said.

  “As you will.”

  She shook her head miserably. Those moments of warmth before the disaster had been brief but potent. She could not forget them, and she wanted them back. She wanted to discuss what had happened, now, in the safety of daylight. She wanted to tell him of her demons, and apologize for her silliness. She couldn’t think of words that wouldn’t choke her.

  “What you need,” he said briskly, “is some women. Do you have relatives who would come to live with you?”

  She shook her head. Since he was looking away, she had to force words out. “No. There was just my . . . my aunt. My father has . . . had relatives in Flanders, but they are strangers. . . .”

  “I will arrange something. For the immediate, I will ask for some nuns from Hillsborough. I’m sure you will be comfortable with such companions.”

  “Very well.” Imogen was more concerned with ways to melt FitzRoger’s icy shell than with companions.

  She wanted the teasing, relaxed companion back. The longing was a physical pain in her chest, deepened by the fact that she had doubtless made it impossible. He would not seek such a disastrous scene again.

  He would have to.

  Unless he abandoned subtlety and raped her.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he said sharply. “I’m not going to attack you again.” He rose from the table, flipped open a chest and grabbed a pair of hawking gloves and a whip, then headed for the door. “Rest.”

  Trying for humor, Imogen said, “Is that an order?”

  He was already at the door. He looked back and sh
ook his head. “Do as you wish. Carrisford is yours. You’ve earned it.”

  From her window Imogen watched the hunt leave. The king must have a hard head, for he and FitzRoger appeared to be the only ones really relishing a day in the saddle. The rest hauled themselves onto their horses as if their muscles were string and their heads fire. Imogen couldn’t help but giggle, especially when one knight mounted only to topple off the other side.

  As if sensing her, FitzRoger looked up. His face assumed an appropriately fond expression and he blew a kiss. Imogen didn’t have to force a smile as she shyly waved.

  The king said something. She guessed from his gesture that he was offering to allow her husband to stay behind. FitzRoger refused and made a remark that caused humor among those nearby. Imogen knew it would have been something lewd, but that was expected of a bridegroom.

  The falconers came out with the hawks and some men took their own on their wrists. Her husband did. It was a fine peregrine, and the cruel head sought his voice, the neck curved under his gentle touch.

  In what condition were her mews? And what of her own merlin? There were so many parts of Carrisford she still had not even considered. She feared the worst.

  Leashed hounds strained, pulling their handlers toward the gate and the open country. There had been no sign of her father’s fine dogs since the sack. They must have been stolen or killed.

  The king gave the signal and the party streamed out.

  And the horses. What of the horses? She sighed, having little hope that her snow-white palfrey, Ysolde, had escaped Warbrick.

  Trapped by her feet, and by her tangled obsession with FitzRoger, she had not even begun to face her responsibilities. Now it was time. It was also time to go to her treasure store and put the administration of Carrisford on the right footing. It was not so much a distrust of FitzRoger anymore as a desire to prove herself responsible and worthy.

  Worthy of him.

  On the other hand, she had to admit that she didn’t want to give him free access to the treasure.

  Could she both trust and not trust a man at the same time?

  Yes. She trusted him in personal matters, but she didn’t trust him not to put his interests and those of the king before hers. Both FitzRoger and the king were new men and power-hungry. Her husband wanted to make Cleeve great, and the king wanted a power base in this part of the country. Imogen didn’t oppose those aims, but her first priority was to restore Carrisford.

  She scowled down at her feet, for she didn’t want to go through the dusty passageways to the treasure chamber barefoot. Again she tried a pair of shoes but could feel the pressure on sensitive spots. She could wear them for a while, but the price would be to undo most of the healing. She muttered a few curses that would have gained her a scolding from her aunt and a severe penance from Father Wulfgan.

  Where was Martha? She wasn’t much of an attendant, but she was all Imogen had. The woman was doubtless still sleeping off the carouse.

  Imogen decided she could do without Martha. Though she had never done such a thing before in her life, she dressed herself. It was no difficulty to get into a simple kirtle and tunic, though it was hard to arrange the garments pleasingly when she could not see herself.

  She brushed out her hair, but trying to plait it proved beyond her; it was too long and thick. When she tried, the plaits did not look right at all. She would have to leave it loose.

  As a married lady she was entitled to wear a veil on her head, but she didn’t have such a thing or anything to hold it on. A check of FitzRoger’s jewel chest proved that it contained no circlets. She could use a circle of cloth, as serf women did, but that seemed to be more lowering than going bareheaded.

  She had plenty of circlets in the treasure chamber.

  She clicked her tongue with frustrated impatience.

  In the end she abandoned the effort to look matronly and went down the hall barefoot, with her hair uncovered and loose to her thighs. If anyone cared to make a scandal out of it, they could. She knew no one would even try to make a scandal out of anything Bastard FitzRoger’s wife did. There was pride in that thought.

  When she took in the scene in the hall, she bit her lip on laughter. There was such an air of fragility. Judging from the condition of the survivors, it certainly had been a magnificent debauch. Renald de Lisle was sprawled at the high table, his head in his hands.

  Imogen walked up behind him. “Good morning, Sir Renald.”

  Even though she’d spoken quietly, he jerked as if she’d yelled, but then he gathered his manners and stood unsteadily to seat her.

  “Good morning, little flower.” He looked at her rather closely and said, “You appear none the worse for wear.” Then he winced at his own words.

  “I am none the worse, thank you,” said Imogen, then colored at the admission that could be. Surely he wouldn’t take it as such. She did not want to give anyone a hint that her wedding night had been incomplete. “In fact,” she added quickly, “I would have said that I am in better shape than most of the castle today. You chose not to hunt?”

  “I am left behind in command. I’m not sure if that was a kindness or not. My whole body rebels at the thought of riding, but those men will come back from a day in the open air in a better state than I will be.”

  A woman sauntered into the hall, hitching her loose gaudy gown up over lush breasts. She strolled over to a table and poured herself a goblet of ale, running a casual hand over the shoulder of a nearby guard. Just as casually the guard put an arm around her and pulled her close.

  “Who is that?” Imogen demanded. “That woman isn’t from Carrisford!”

  Renald sat up sharply, then cursed and clutched his head. “Visitor,” he said. “I’ll send her on her way.”

  “But who . . . ?” Imogen realized there were a few other strange women about and none of them seemed to be doing any work. “The lazy sluts!” She was half on her feet when Renald tugged her down.

  “Hush! Don’t make a fuss.” He looked slightly harassed. “They’re whores from Hereford.”

  Imogen gaped. “In my castle? Is this FitzRoger’s doing?”

  “Keep your voice down!” he hissed, wincing in pain. “Yes, but you don’t know Beauclerk. He’s a lusty man, and those with him follow his style. If you didn’t want every woman in Carrisford unable to walk today, we had to bring some in.”

  Imogen opened and shut her mouth a few times. “Very well,” she said at last, “but I won’t have them in my hall, king or not.”

  “Of course not. I’ll see to it, but without a fuss. Ty should have . . .” He slid her a look. “He’s not quite himself this morning.”

  Imogen kept her face calm. So the efficiency had slipped a little. She was pleased to know it. She lowered her eyes demurely. “It doubtless takes some getting used to, being a married man.”

  “I’m sure it does. And how do you feel about being a married woman?”

  She glanced at him, wondering at his tone. But even between her husband and Renald there must be some secrets. “What choice did I ever have?” she asked, standing and shaking out her skirts. “At the moment I am more concerned about being Lady of Carrisford. Remove those women from my hall, Sir Renald. And you will make it known that if the servants are not busily about their work within the hour, I will be after them with a whip.”

  A spark of admiration lit his bloodshot eyes. “Yes, my lady!”

  Imogen stalked out of the hall to the steps that led down to the bailey, but was brought to a frustrated halt. She couldn’t go down there barefoot.

  Raging at her feet, she went through the wooden buttery and down steps to the storage rooms and cellars. These were cleaner, but not kind to her bare feet.

  In the lowest floor of the keep she was met by the dismaying sight of empty shelves, broken containers, spilled goods, and the stink of leaked wine and ale. Though she had been told, she hadn’t expected it to be quite this bad.

  FitzRoger had brought in supplies for the wed
ding. Could he not have had the mess cleared up too?

  She quickly brushed aside that peevish thought. He had been busy and shorthanded, and this was her work, not his.

  But to put all right would be a tremendous amount of work. She needed people and money.

  She had money aplenty but could not reach it. The passage to the treasure vault was deliberately unwelcoming—dank and muddy, and in some places inches deep in water. It was made to appear a part of the secret ways which had been abandoned. It would be insanity to attempt it in bare feet.

  With a sigh, Imogen gave up all thought of reaching her treasure until she could wear good solid shoes. She climbed a narrow circular staircase to her tower chamber.

  It was only when she entered the room and saw how little it contained that she realized it wasn’t her chamber anymore. Unless, that was, FitzRoger chose not to share his quarters. She didn’t know how she felt about that. She knew it would not be wise for them to advertise their problems by sleeping apart, and yet she feared that if they were together it would come to that terrible intimacy again.

  She gripped her hands tightly. It had to be done. Without consummation, the marriage was incomplete. It was voidable.

  She suddenly realized her virginity provided the means of escape. Of course, while she was totally in the power of FitzRoger and the king there was nothing she could do, but if the situation were to continue for a period of time, and if the balance of power should shift . . .

  Imogen went over to the gaping space where her beautiful window had been and looked over her castle and her land.

  Did she want to escape the marriage?

  Her husband was a hard man, and not one she was sure she could entirely trust. His power was uncertain, for the issue of the crown was not settled between Henry Beauclerk and his brother. If Henry fell, FitzRoger would fall too, and perhaps take Carrisford with him.

  A wise woman would flee Bastard FitzRoger, and yet the thought brought a shadow of pain. In some strange way he was already a part of her life; his leaving would cause a gaping hole.

  Before Imogen could tussle with the problem further, Martha burst in. “There you are, my lady! What’re you doing here? I’ve been that worried! There’s a man here for you. I’ll go get him.”