by Jo Beverley
He was going to watch? Imogen froze.
“Your naked body will not inflame me with lust, Imogen. Dress.”
Imogen began to take off her tunic, then paused. She let it drop again, and faced him, dry mouthed. “No.”
His face was completely still. “Why not?”
“It may be right before the law, it may be right before God even, but it does not feel right to me.”
He rose and walked toward her, menace radiating from him.
Imogen flinched. She had finally gone too far. With hopeless defiance she held her ground and met his eyes.
Then he relaxed and real warmth glinted in his eyes. “Well done,” he said, and left the room.
Her legs gave way and she crumpled to kneel on the ground, trembling as if with an ague. How had she done that? She would never have denied her father in that way, never mind FitzRoger.
It was as if she were impelled to make these stands, to assert her rights, when she wasn’t even sure she had rights. The only person who had advised her to stand firm on an issue was Father Wulfgan. Everyone else would surely advise her to be submissive to her lord in all things.
Especially in bed.
Except that her lord appeared to be encouraging her to rebel.
When Imogen descended to the hall, she wore the clothes FitzRoger had chosen and the beautiful girdle. She had summoned Elswith to plait her hair as a gesture toward her married status, but still could not wear a veil without a circlet.
The hall full of men fell silent. She saw in their eyes that they did indeed envy her husband, and she was pleased for it. He came forward to escort her to the high table, to sit beside the king.
“You are radiant,” said Henry with a leer. “Perhaps Ty does know his business after all.”
Imogen looked down, knowing her face was red.
“Ah, the charm of innocence. Pity it so quickly passes. I warrant you’ll be more eager to leap into bed this night, eh? No need to push you.” Imogen could have crept under the table for shame. “Sets up a fine appetite in us all, this kind of thing,” the king went on. “Where’s—” He broke off what he had been saying and Imogen could swear Fitz-Roger’s hand had moved in some sort of sign.
The whores were not in evidence and Imogen realized the king was willing to bend in this matter. It was all an interesting reflection of powers. The king was FitzRoger’s liege lord, but he would modify his behavior to humor him and her.
Why?
Everything was a question of who needed what most.
Henry needed FitzRoger on his side. A king needed powerful men to act for him in the land, and preferred ones he could trust. He would humor and reward those who served him well.
And punish those who didn’t.
Could the same be said of FitzRoger? What did he need of her? Eventually he would need sons, but for the moment he had everything he required unless she told the world that the marriage was incomplete.
For his part, he would humor and reward her if she were dutiful, and punish her if she were not.
He had implied the situations could be reversed. But that meant she should reward him for his service, which presumably meant the treasure. She didn’t think that punishing FitzRoger entered into it. It was all very well for him to be drawing analogies between her and the king, but the fact was that she had no power to oppose him even if she wanted to.
She accepted it. It was the way of the world.
Thinking on these issues recalled what had started their disagreement. Her medical skills. He was justified in upbraiding her. In that respect, she needed to do better.
She had been well trained is such matters, but had never been allowed to practice on serious war wounds or the more noxious diseases. Perhaps her father had been at fault in that, though his aim had merely been to protect her.
She was certainly sure that if FitzRoger were carried home from battle wounded, she would want to be able to care for him properly.
Where were the men wounded in the taking of Carrisford? Doubtless they had been taken to Grimstead monastery nearby, and the number should include Bert, injured by her recklessness. Tomorrow, she would go there and begin learning.
“Why do I think you are plotting something?” FitzRoger murmured.
Imogen started. “I? I am not plotting. Just thinking.” She didn’t want to tell him of her plans just yet. She wanted to surprise him.
His eyes seemed to read her secrets. “Thinking of what?”
She turned to face him. “Are my thoughts not to be private, even?”
“How can they be otherwise, now you have learned to wear a mask?”
“Have I?”
“What?”
“Learned to mask myself from you?”
“Apparently.” He washed his hands in the bowl between them, and dried them.
Imogen did the same, wondering at the implications of his words.
The food was served and talk veered safely to the successful hunt. Two roebuck had been found and killed, as well as a number of smaller venison. As the musicians played in the background the moves of the chase were retold with vigor by the men, the virtues of hawks and hounds were debated.
It was all like, and yet unlike, the way it had been so few days ago. A melancholy swept over Imogen, and she had to fight tears. She kept looking up to speak to her father, but he was not there. There was a stranger in his place. She expected to hear Aunt Constance’s voice, and yet the only female voices were the muted ones of servants.
FitzRoger rose abruptly, and Imogen looked up, startled. Her first alarmed thought was that he was going to take her to their room for marital matters, but he went to the musicians. He relieved one of them of his harp and carried a stool over to the middle of the room.
Conversation ceased as everyone paid attention to him.
He sat, and tested the instrument. He glanced around almost humorously. “You rogues doubtless expect my ususal style, but tonight I sing for my bride.”
He did not have an exceptional voice, but he sang competently, and amazingly it appeared that the song might have been composed for her.
Treasure incomparable, such is my lady,
Set among roses, played to by love-birds,
Nourished on honeydew, and finest wastel bread
Such is my lady, flower of the west.
Let her step softly, over the smoothest ground,
Let her sing lightly, only of pleasant things,
Let her weep tears of joy, and touch me gently,
Sweet is the treasure she brings to my chest.
The men were pleased by this appropriately sentimental offering. Imogen was just amazed he was capable of it, and wondered if he had hired a jongleur to compose the piece for him. She had not missed that last line, however.
Treasure. Always the treasure.
He stood and bowed.
She smiled.
She rose in her turn and came to take the harp from him.
“You will sing?” he asked, almost warily.
“I will sing lightly, and only of pleasant things, my lord.”
He gave her the instrument, reluctantly, but kissed her hand as he passed it over, unsettling her.
Imogen sat and summoned her wits. She and her father, along with the professional musicians brought to train her, had played these improvisational games, making up long interwoven poems. She was very good at it.
She struck a note. “I sing for my husband,” she said to the men.
The treasure of Carrisford, rescued by courage,
Safe in her true home ever shall be.
Tending her people, nourishing, guiding,
Sharing the wastel and honeydew, she.
I sing of the courage of Tyron FitzRoger
I sing of his honor in coming to aid me,
My tears are of joy, my touch will be gentle
A treasure preserved just where it should be.
She could swear she saw a flash of genuine humor in his eyes in response to the l
ast line.
“Very pretty!” declared Henry, “and a lovely voice. Come, Lady Imogen, sing us some other piece now you have done your duty.”
“Oh, it wasn’t duty, sire, but pleasure, I assure you.”
Imogen went obligingly into a song of Charlemagne’s knights, a Provençal piece of more elegance than martial. It was only as she sang of the great king’s twelve paladins and their adventures with the beautiful princess, Angelica, that she wondered why that particular song had come to mind. She glanced at her own darkly thoughtful paladin.
Why was he frowning? The company seemed well pleased with her offering, and she knew that in this one respect at least, her husband could not find her lacking.
She resumed her seat at his side.
“You sing beautifully,” he said. “Doubtless a result of many years of expensive training.”
Imogen raised her chin. “And many years of arduous practice, my lord. Doubtless you were engaged in other matters.”
“Yes. Many years of arduous practice. Did I sneer? I beg your pardon. It is merely envy. I hope you will sing privately for me from time to time.”
She glanced at him, and though he was cold as ice she judged him serious. She should have realized his strength and skills had not come easily, especially to a puny eight-month child. “Of course,” she said, even though his words carried implications of unbearable intimacy.
One of the knights was singing now, in a fine bass voice, and they paid attention.
There was the sudden interruption of a bellow from the watchcorn’s horn. The music broke off. FitzRoger glanced at Renald, and the darker man slipped out of the hall. At a signal, the singer continued.
Renald returned to murmur to FitzRoger, who then said, “Sire, it is the Earl of Lancaster. Is it acceptable to you that he be admitted?”
“The laggardly lover?” said the king with a malicious grin. “By all means!”
The order was given, but Imogen sensed a new tension in the air coming from the men on either side of her. It was not fear, but a kind of readiness, as men show before battle. Why? This doubtless would not be pleasant, for Lancaster would not be happy about the marriage, but what was done was done.
Except, she realized with a jolt, that it wasn’t done.
She toyed with a piece of fruit as the king and FitzRoger spoke quietly across her of Lancaster. It became clear that the earl was not a man Henry could afford to ignore, and that it was even possible Lancaster would throw his support behind Henry’s enemies if offended. He was known to have met with Belleme.
It was also clear that Henry’s distrust of Lancaster had been behind the move to marry her to FitzRoger, and behind the haste.
Lancaster might have been told she had agreed to marry FitzRoger, but he had come anyway. And they had known he would come.
To confirm her interpretation, Henry said, “Good thing it’s all settled. What happened to the sheet? We might have to wave it in front of him.”
Imogen stiffened, but kept her eyes shielded and hoped no other part of her revealed her anxiety.
“There was no mark on it,” FitzRoger said calmly.
“What?”
Imogen looked up at that, fearing she was about to be shamed in one way or another.
“That casts no doubt on Lady Imogen’s honor,” said FitzRoger. “Merely a matter of position and care.”
The king turned red. “By heaven, Ty, that was stupid. A wedding night’s no time for games like that!”
Lost, Imogen glanced between them. Games like what?
FitzRoger’s fingers turned his table knife. “Do you think Lancaster will contest my lady’s virtue? I hope he does.”
“Stop snarling,” said the king shortly as the Earl of Lancaster strode in. “I can’t afford a fight between you.”
The Earl of Lancaster was a big, fleshy man who generally looked magnificent in layers of finest clothing. Today he looked haggard and muddy. He clearly had, for once, rushed.
He scanned the situation and bowed. “Sire! I have made all haste to assist Lady Imogen, my affianced bride.”
FitzRoger rose and arranged seating for the earl by the king’s side. “I fear you are in error, my lord,” he said politely. “The lady is my bride.”
Lancaster froze. “But . . .”
“We were married yesterday.”
The earl looked at Imogen in shock. “Lady Imogen,” he said with an attempt at a smile. “How can this be when you are promised to me?”
Imogen swallowed. “Nothing was settled, my lord.”
“But your father’s wishes were quite clear, and should be sacred to a dutiful daughter.”
Imogen felt rather sick, but she kept her chin up. “Nothing was settled,” she repeated.
“Come, Lancaster,” said the king cheerfully before the red-faced earl could explode. “It is a suitable match and has my blessing. There is nothing to be done now. There are prizes aplenty in the land, and I promise you will have your pick of them. You have ridden hard. Take your rest. Eat. Drink. You are very welcome. We go shortly to bring Warbrick and Belleme to heel. You and your men can join us.”
Imogen saw that distract Lancaster, for though he always provided his due in soldiers for his liege, he was not a man to engage in battle himself.
She turned to her husband, and found him looking at her in that catlike way she hated. She knew he was watching for any move she might make to announce her virginity, ready to forestall it. She wondered how he would manage that, and was almost tempted to find out. . . .
He took her hand and rose. “Will you excuse us, sire? My Lord of Lancaster.” The latter was not a request.
“Of course, of course,” said Henry jovially. “Off you go!”
Lancaster looked as if he would object, but after a glance at FitzRoger, he thought better of it.
Imogen thought of objecting also, but there was truly nothing to object to—it would not have caused comment if she and FitzRoger had kept to their room for a week. Still, she felt shamed by this blatant show of possession.
“We’re married,” she pointed out when they were in their room. “You’ve won. You don’t have to rub his nose in it.” She went to look angrily out of the window, trying to put space between them.
“What a suspicious nature you have. Lancaster can choke for all I care, but Henry’s patience is not limitless.”
Imogen turned. “What do you mean?”
“He’s waiting anxiously for the whores to be let in again.”
“What? But I said they were not to be permitted in the hall. In my father’s day—”
“Your father had his arrangements, but you can hardly expect the king to wander off to the village, or sneak into the bathhouse in the dark.”
Imogen was almost spluttering. “My father had no such arrangements. He loved my mother deeply!”
“Grow up, Imogen. Your mother has been dead for two years and was frail for many years before that. You have two half brothers and a half sister being raised in Gloucester. When you take up your duties and go over the accounts, you’ll find your father provided for them handsomely.”
“Bro—” Imogen snapped her mouth shut and tried to collect her scattered wits. It never occurred to her that FitzRoger might be lying, though. “How do you know this?”
“The business of Carrisford has been disrupted, but has not ceased entirely. Someone has had to authorize payments.”
Imogen wanted to protest that he had exceeded his authority, but as he said, someone had to do it. It was her fault for allowing personal matters to block out her duty.
“Tomorrow,” she stated, “I will take up the management here.”
“Excellent. You can also calculate what you owe me.” Before she could respond to that, he said, “I’m surprised Lord Bernard didn’t wed again, especially when he was without an heir.”
The matter of her father was still raw. She had brothers and sisters? “Some men, My Lord Bastard, take marriage more seriously than others.
”
His eyes narrowed. “I assure you, no one takes marriage more seriously than a bastard. If you die without giving me at least two sons, Imogen, I’ll marry again at the first opportunity.”
Imogen sat with a bump on the bed. “You really are a horrible man.”
“Of course I am. It’s my stock in trade.” He came to lean on a post. Looming. “Are you saying you want me to mourn you in celibacy all the days of my life? Hardly realistic. I wouldn’t expect it of you.”
She met his mocking eyes. “After this experience, my lord, I am hardly likely to marry again, even if I should be lucky enough to be free of you.”
“Unfortunately, I seem to live a charmed life.”
“Unfortunate indeed.” Imogen didn’t really want to be saying such cruel things, but it was as if she were being carried along by a stream in flood, a stream of vitriol.
“There’s always the knife,” he said helpfully. He took it from where it lay on top of her chest and placed it beside her on the bed.
She just gave him a disgusted look, and remembered where all this had started. “Those whores—”
“Are now serving their king.”
Imogen opened her mouth and then interpreted the look in his eyes. “Is this one of those matters in which I must be ruled by you, my lord husband?”
“Yes.”
She smiled tightly. “Then I’m surprised you aren’t down there availing yourself of their services.”
“So am I, since there’ll be little amatory release to be found here.” He returned her humorless smile. “After our touching song play, however, it would be a shame to shatter the picture, wouldn’t it?”
“Little . . .” Imogen was off balance again. She had assumed he was determined to consummate the marriage, particularly now Lancaster had turned up sniffing for an excuse to break it; a good part of her bitterness had been a desperate rear guard action. “What do you mean?”
He looked at her derisively. “Are you keen to assuage my husbandly needs then, Imogen?”
She could feel her color flaring. “I know my duty,” she muttered.
“Do you? As laid down by Father Wulfgan, I suppose. I’m afraid I’m too degenerate to be satisfied with that.” He moved away from her, opened a chest, and took out a chess board. He placed it upon a small table by the window and began to set up the pieces with swift, deft fingers. “I assume you play.”