by Jo Beverley
She was gone before Imogen had time to question her.
Imogen didn’t know who she expected to appear, but it certainly wasn’t the slight, middle-aged tradesman who bowed in. “Lady Imogen of Carrisford?”
Imogen agreed this was so.
“Cedric of Ross, master shoemaker,” he announced with pride. “Your husband ordered footwear for you.” He opened his pack and spilled out a half dozen pairs of rather incomplete shoes. Mere sandals, really.
Bemused, Imogen picked up one which was all heel and toe with nothing in between. “How would it stay on, Master Cedric?”
“None of these are complete, lady. Lord FitzRoger sent a pair of your shoes for measure and a description of your . . . er . . . problems. I have prepared as best I could. Now we can try them and I will put on the fastenings so they won’t cause you further hurt.”
Imogen could have wept with gratitude. Amid all the chaos and work, FitzRoger had thought of this. No, she did not want to escape the marriage.
Master Cedric tried on various styles, marking, cutting and measuring. At last he held up one pair which were mere slender straps and sole. “These would be best for in the castle, lady, for they will protect the soles of your feet and come nowhere near your sores. I can affix the laces speedily.”
Imogen nodded. “But I need something a little more solid,” she said. “In case I have need to go into the bailey.”
The man pursed his lips then picked up the one that was toe and heel. “This one, lady. See, I can add a little extra soft leather along the sides, which should give protection and not pain you. With a raised cork sole, you would be above any foulness.”
“How long will that take?”
“The sandal you can have within minutes, lady, but the other will take until tomorrow.”
Imogen sighed but agreed. “It is a shame you didn’t come a few days earlier, Master Cedric, rather than working on these efforts at a distance.”
The man looked up. “But I was told not to come until today, lady. Your feet were doubtless not ready for shoon.”
Imogen’s bubble of contentment burst. FitzRoger, as usual, had thought of everything. He wanted her mobile—doubtless so she could take up her duties in the castle—but had not intended that she have the freedom of her castle until she was securely bound to him.
It was completely in character. Kindness, but always judicious kindness.
Her calculating husband hadn’t counted, of course, on the marriage still being unconsummated today.
For the first time, Imogen wondered why it wasn’t.
She remembered thinking that Lancaster would have completed the act no matter how she screamed. Men did take women by force, so why hadn’t her husband?
She must remember, though, that FitzRoger acted always in his own ambitious interests. He’d achieved his main purpose; they were married. He doubtless knew she wouldn’t announce her failure to the world. So, he probably thought it would benefit him more to treat her gently than to force her. After all, she’d be unlikely to loosen her purse strings for a rapist.
She sighed. She was very tired of brutal reality.
When the sandals were finished and on her feet, Imogen praised Master Cedric for his work and dismissed him, telling Martha to find him a place to work. She walked around her room, rejoicing in the simple security of a layer of leather between her skin and the floor.
Then she set out to explore. At last she had the freedom of her keep, and by walking along the walls she could survey most of the castle.
Imogen spent the day investigating and planning.
Considering the situation and the lack of servants, Carrisford was in surprisingly good condition. Even the pens of livestock were beginning to be replenished. New hens were laying, new milch cows had heavy udders, and in the dairy butter was being churned. She inspected and made a few changes in the arrangements, but had to acknowledge that matters were well in hand.
As the stables had burned, there was only a lean-to roof to shelter the horses, but that should be adequate in summer. Even with men out hunting, the stables were full, but peering down from the wall Imogen saw no familiar horses. She summoned a stable groom up onto the wall to speak with her, and he confirmed that her father’s and her horses were gone.
“Don’t rightly know if they be dead or not, lady,” the man confessed. “I fled the castle, and by the time I came back, things were much as you see ’em.”
“And what of the mews and kennels?” Imogen asked.
“The same, lady.” But his eyes shifted in a way that told her there had been corpses. He was protecting her, as everyone did, but she let it pass, thinking sadly of her hounds, Gerda and Gelda, and her fine merlin.
Mere death was not enough for Warbrick. She’d like to roast him slowly over a fire.
She retraced her steps back to the hall. There was no need to replace her father’s hounds and horses, for FitzRoger must have his own. It was a relief to see one thing that wouldn’t need buying afresh. Carrisford contained ample treasure, but by the end of this it would be severely depleted.
She wondered if there was any possibility of gaining recompense from Warbrick, then laughed at the thought. Warbrick and Belleme needed money to fund their rebellion, which explained the attack on Carrisford in the first place. Moreover, if the king had his way, Belleme and his brothers would soon lose all their lands and property in England.
She stopped, thoughtful. Would the king give her some of the land in restitution? There were ramifications, but a chunk of Warbrick’s land would round out the Cleeve-Carrisford holdings very nicely indeed.
The Cleeve-Carrisford holdings.
She relished that, for the first time appreciating how much power it represented, and what trust in FitzRoger the king showed in allowing it. In one stroke, FitzRoger had become one of the great magnates of the land. Perhaps the king planned it that way.
Imogen knew that in July, when Robert of Normandy had sailed to England to oust his younger brother, quite a number of the Anglo-Norman magnates had supported him. Robert, however, had not had the fortitude to carry through his plan, and had settled for a payment of three thousand marks. Since then Henry had been pursuing the traitors. Most he merely fined and settled with, but some, such as Robert Malet, Ivo of Grandmesnil, Robert of Pontfract, and Robert de Belleme, he intended to break.
Henry would certainly welcome a great lord he could trust. Imogen already knew FitzRoger enough to know that Henry could trust him. When FitzRoger gave his word, he kept it.
Imogen looked around her castle and saw it as the base for one of the great holdings of England. She nodded. Her father would have approved.
She wondered again exactly how the castle had been taken. FitzRoger had seemed to suspect the monks, but she’d heard nothing more about it. The last time she had raised the subject with FitzRoger, they had been distracted onto matters relating to their marriage. She must raise the subject again.
Carrisford must never again fall so easily to a conqueror.
Imogen returned to the keep, but when she entered the great hall she was struck again by how rough and bleak it looked compared to its glory days. It must be restored to reflect her husband’s new power. Some of the hangings had come from Italy and beyond. How long would it take to replace them? The gold and silver vessels could be commissioned from craftsmen nearby, but not the glass.
She sighed. It was all going to take so long.
At this time of day the hall was deserted, everyone being about their work. The whores had disappeared, she noted, though she doubted they had left the castle entirely.
That recalled Renald’s words about Beauclerk’s lust, and the way his followers behaved as he did. She frowned slightly. Had FitzRoger used whores in his years at Henry Beauclerk’s side?
Of course he had. What else did she expect?
But, ridiculously, it hurt.
Would he use whores if his wife would not satisfy his needs? Was he even now whoring in the wo
ods?
That was sharp agony.
There was nothing she could do about that, but she swore that if he shamed her in her own castle, she’d use the knife he gave her.
She pushed the matter out of her head and strode off to investigate the path across the bailey to the weaving sheds. It was dry and packed, and so she followed it.
The linked rooms had always been humming with industry as women spun, wove, dyed, cut, and sewed, providing nearly everything needed for the hall and its people. Now the sheds were deserted, except for the laundry. This idleness was wickedly wrong. It was ridiculous, for example, that such a skillful woman as Martha should be spending her time taking care of Imogen when she should be here.
Imogen summoned Martha and set her to gathering some women and getting these rooms working again.
“But the women are helping out elsewhere, lady,” Martha pointed out.
“Then elsewhere can do without.”
“But with the king here . . .”
“Even with the king here. He must surely make allowances for a place that has been sacked. Anyway, Henry is on his way to trounce Belleme, and I think he will leave soon. The first thing to do, Martha, is to see what cloth, wool, and flax we have still. If it is as I fear, I will order more.”
It turned out just as she feared, with little remaining unspoiled. She sent off an order for wool for weaving, but they would have to wait a little for the flax crop to come in before they could weave linen.
She sent to Gloucester for ready-woven material to be brought for her inspection. By the time it arrived she should have the money in hand to pay for it.
She consulted with Martha and some other women and chose a girl called Elswith to be her personal servant. She was a quiet child of twelve, but well able to learn. Imogen took her to the tower room and explained some of the duties, then left the girl to some mending.
Imogen went to the kitchens to check and amend the food planned for the next days, hoping the king and his train would soon leave. She supposed she should be grateful that he had left most of his army to forage on Warbrick’s land; the first stage of the man’s punishment.
As soon as Henry received Warbrick’s response to the call to justice—or when he ceased waiting for that response—he would seize the Warbrick lands, then move in force against Belleme. She hoped fiercely that he would crush both of them, but she wanted a more direct revenge. She wanted Warbrick brought low, and dead, and she wanted to be there to see it.
FitzRoger had promised to do his best to see him dead. She must remember to tell him that she wanted to witness it.
Imogen was in the pantry checking candles when she realized the implications of all this. When the king marched on Belleme, FitzRoger would go with him. He would fight, perhaps fight Warbrick. He would be in danger.
The man had been fighting all his life, she told herself. What point in her fretting about it now?
But she did.
She told herself that she simply did not want to be vulnerable again, but knew in her heart it was more than that. It was the feeling she’d had last night that he was now part of her life—like a father, brother, or son. One who could never be swept out, no matter what might happen.
“Ah, there you are, Lady Imogen.” It was Siward. “A number of folk are in the bailey, returned to seek their places.”
There was a twinkle in his eyes, and Imogen smiled. “Just realized Warbrick’s gone, have they?”
“Just heard tell of the celebration, more like. We can send them away for a few days if you wish.”
“No. We need them all.” Imogen remembered FitzRoger greeting the returning workers, and smiled. “I’ll receive them by the steps, Siward.”
She needed money. She ran up to the solar and ransacked her husband’s belongings. His treasure chests were all locked, of course, but at last she found a small pouch of silver farthings still attached to a belt.
Next she went to the office where Brother Cuthbert, the scribe, was working and took the list of castle servants. The she went to the bottom of the outer stairs and, like FitzRoger days before, checked each returnee against the list and gave each a silver farthing.
There, that should make it clear to whom they owed service.
The suitable women were sent straight to the weaving sheds to join the women already working there. Imogen thought she detected a trace of disappointment in some of them. She went with them, partly to help make the place ready, but also to make sure they settled to purposeful work.
The rooms were already clean and tidy, and the best needlewomen were repairing what linens were not beyond help. Others cut up the larger hopeless cases to make smaller items—hand towels and women’s personal cloths.
Fine stuff was carefully preserved to serve as trimmings.
As they worked, the women gossiped. Though nothing was said directly it was clear that some of them had engaged in fornication last night, and expected to again tonight. It was also clear they looked forward to it.
Imogen worked alongside them, listening. She had never heard such talk before and guessed it was the fact that she was supposed to be a fully married woman that had broken their reticence. Or perhaps it was the fact that her powerful father was dead, for he had been the one determined to keep her innocent beyond reason.
“. . . you wouldn’t believe the size of it,” one woman, Dora, murmured to another. “Didn’t know what to do with it, though. Now, that barrel-chested one, he knows.”
“I like a big man myself.”
“Big where, though?” smirked Dora.
“Everywhere.”
Laughter.
“You listen to me, Edie,” said Dora. “It’s what’s in their head that counts, not what’s between their legs. The best futtering I ever had was from a wizened old man when I was just a girl. Showed me what’s what, he did. I had to teach my Johnnie everything, or it would’ve been in and out every night of our lives.”
Imogen wished someone would teach her what’s what. On the other hand, she feared she knew. The woman were talking of lust and sinful things, and just see what came of it. Dora was lewd and lost, ready to go with any man who offered. She probably did take a man’s thing into her mouth. Imogen wondered if Father Wulfgan could show the woman the evil of her ways.
But then Dora sighed. “As it was, Johnnie were all I ever wanted. If he’d not taken that fever, I swear I’d never have let another man between my legs, no, not even the king.”
“You didn’t, Dora!”
Dora managed to look coy. “Didn’t I then?”
“Oooh! What’s he like?”
Dora looked around, pleased with her audience, but then seemed to notice Imogen for the first time. She went red. “I’m sure it’s not proper to talk of it.”
Now everyone was looking at Imogen. She forced a smile. “Don’t worry about me. I’m a married woman, too, now.”
“Yes, lady,” they chorused, but the conversation was dead. After a while, Imogen put aside her work and left, hearing the voices spring up again soon after.
She was tempted to sneak back and try to listen, but she was Imogen of Carrisford, and above such things. And those women were low and doubtless sinful.
The idea popped into her head: FitzRoger surely knew what was what, and probably liked low sinful women.
Imogen was so deep in thought that her steps took her once more to her tower room. There she found Father Wulfgan awaiting her, frowning blackly. “We were to pray together today, daughter.”
“Were we?” Imogen did not remember such a plan, but she knew she had not been in any state yesterday to remember much. She looked for Elswith, but the priest must have sent the girl away. Imogen wished she could send the priest away.
“Do we need to pray?” she asked.
“Indeed we do, daughter. For cleansing, for strength, or for forgiveness.” He eyed her as if he could strip her down to the soul.
Imogen did her best to look completely blank, but Dora’s spicy talk
was still running sinfully through her brain.
Wulfgan fell to his knees.
Under his fiery gaze, Imogen had to do the same.
“Now, daughter,” he whispered. “Speak through me to the Lord Jesus, who, though tempted day and night, never sullied thought or action with woman. What happened last night?”
Imogen couldn’t think what to say, but even if everything had gone as expected she did not think it proper to discuss it, even with a priest.
“Is it possible?” Wulfgan asked in ecstasy. “Are you still innocent?”
“No!” Imogen instinctively lied, then waited for God to smite her.
Nothing happened, and Wulfgan did not appear daunted. “But did you avoid lust?” he demanded.
Imogen looked down at her joined hands. “Yes,” she said, rather sadly.
“Blessed child! And did you help your husband to avoid lust?”
“Yes, I think perhaps I did.”
His dirty twisted hands clasped hers. “Twice, thrice blessed! You have set your feet on the road to sanctity, and will take him with you to his heavenly reward. Now, pray with me for continued strength. Christe, audi nos . . .”
Imogen sighed and made the response to the litany. “Christe, exaudi nos.” If they were to do a litany, they would be here for ages. Her knees would be as sore as her feet.
“Pater de caelis, Deus . . .”
“Misere nobis.”
“Sancta Virgo Virginem . . .”
“Ora pro nobis . . .”
FitzRoger went fleet-footed to the solar, disconcertingly aware of something that might be eagerness. Inappropriate eagerness in view of the situation between him and his bride. His heart chilled when he found no trace there of Imogen. Not an item of clothing, not a comb, not even a long glittering hair on the pillows. The bed had been remade, as if it had never been touched.
Where was she? He could not allow this.
He left the empty room, walked briskly along the corridor and ran up the winding stairs to the pretty tower room that had housed the Treasure of Carrisford, the place where they had fought their battle of wits. Even without its hangings and glass window it had been an exquisite setting for a jewel, symbol of her life before disaster. She doubtless felt at ease there.