Dark Champion

by Jo Beverley

  “Yes,” said Imogen, bemused by his unpredictable moves.

  “Well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I like a challenging game. You can be ivory.”

  Imogen moved to sit across the board from him. The board was inlaid in dark and pale woods; the pieces were silver and ivory. It was very lovely. She touched her elegant pale queen. “My father had a set similar to this,” she said.

  “It was smashed, but the silver is around somewhere. It can be reworked.” His matter-of-fact voice was designed to give no quarter.

  Imogen gritted her teeth and made the first move. She supposed it was a hopeless cause, but she would do her best to trounce him. She would dearly love to defeat him in something. Soon all her attention was fixed on the board as she fought for her life. FitzRoger played an unpredictably brilliant game, but she was holding her own.

  Just.

  While she contemplated a particularly complex series of moves, he rose and poured them both wine. She drank it absentmindedly, fighting excitement, checking for the third time that her plan wouldn’t spell disaster.

  She couldn’t believe that she actually had a chance to win.

  Struggling to look impassive, she moved her bishop three squares. Still standing, he moved a rook. She moved a pawn seemingly at random. He raised a brow and took it. She moved her queen. “Checkmate,” she whispered.

  He sat rather sharply and studied the board for a long time. “So it is,” he said thoughtfully.

  Their eyes met and a grin started on Imogen’s face that she couldn’t stop. She was gloating, but couldn’t help it.

  He suddenly laughed, his face lighting in a most amazing way. “A true victory,” he said, and toasted her. “Remind me never to underestimate your mind, especially when mine is distracted by lust.”

  It was like a dash of cold water. Imogen glanced nervously at the bed.

  His smile faded. “I’ll give you notice, Imogen. I do believe that in time you will come to be comfortable with me. I am willing to wait if I can.”

  “If you can?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I’ll wait. But you have to try to overcome your anxiety. It would help if you didn’t keep running off to that priest to have your fears reinforced.”

  “I didn’t . . . I don’t . . . Why should I believe you, not him?”

  “For no reason at all. But there are other opinions. When we have opportunity, perhaps you would like to ride to Grimstead monastery and consult with the abbot there. I have met him and he seems to be both good and wise.”

  Imogen nodded, relieved by such a reasonable suggestion. “I would like to do that.”

  “Good. I assure you, the last thing I want is to force you to act against your conscience, but this situation cannot go on indefinitely.”

  “Particularly with Lancaster around.”

  His glance was quick and sharp. “Quite.”

  Imogen’s fingers tightened on her goblet. “What did you mean about position and care?”

  He lounged back and sipped his wine. “With most women, if a man takes care, there’s little blood and pain, and if you weren’t on your back on the bed, there quite likely wouldn’t be blood on the sheet.”

  Imogen opened her mouth and then shut it again. She had questions, but they were not ones she felt able to ask. She liked the fact, though, that he had answered her question so directly. She was used to people telling her not to worry her pretty head about things.

  She should tell him about Warbrick and Janine. Panic seized the back of her neck just at the thought.

  She took another tack. “I am ready to do my duty, Lord FitzRoger. I’m sure if you would just do it, it would be all right.”

  She wasn’t sure, but if he were quick, surely it would be over with before the worst of her fears had a chance to gather.

  “It might come to that, Imogen, but it’s not my way. And I hope for better.” He turned his goblet thoughtfully, then looked up at her. “You may not realize this, but it would have been no easy matter to complete the marriage last night. Perhaps it was the way you fought me, or perhaps it is the way you are made, but I could not have entered you without using a great deal of force.”

  She hadn’t realized. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not sure it is something you can control, but I’m sure it will help if you can ease your fears. Even if it does hurt you the first time, it is a natural thing, after all.” He was looking at her in that considering way, seeking out strengths and weaknesses. “Come here.”

  Her nerves trembled, but warily she rose and obeyed.

  When she was standing by his knee, he took her hand. He played with her fingers. “Tell me what you fear. The pain of losing your maidenhead, if there’s pain at all, will be soon over.”

  “I don’t fear the pain.” Imogen wanted to tell him, but could not find the words. Could he explain why he feared closed spaces?

  “You cannot persuade me that you do not like to be kissed and fondled.”

  Her cheeks were burning. “No, I like it well enough. From you, at least.”

  “A compliment!” he declared. “We progress! Who else has kissed and fondled you, though?”

  The edge in his voice made her nervous, but she answered. “My betrothed kissed me on the lips now and then, and Lancaster once. His breath is foul.”

  Still, he played with her fingers in a mesmerizing way. “So, why are you afraid, Imogen? I don’t bite. Or only,” he added, raising her hand and nipping her fingers, “in the nicest ways.”

  She snatched her hand away. “That! That’s what I fear. Your urges are wicked!” It was a paltry, lying evasion, and she knew it.

  He shook his head slightly and considered her. The silence stretched until she felt fit to scream. What was he planning?

  “For this night,” he said eventually, “I give you my word, I will do only what you wish. If you say stop, I will stop.”

  He held out a hand. Tentatively, Imogen placed hers in it. He pulled her down onto his lap.

  “What are you going to do, then?”

  “Kiss you,” he said, and did.

  His lips were soft and warm, and his hand played gently at her neck. Imogen easily put all the words of Father Wulfgan away and relaxed. She snaked her hands about her husband’s neck and submitted happily.

  Even when his hand wandered over her breasts she stifled any protest. If she just kept her attention on the kiss, perhaps she could keep dark thoughts at bay. . . .

  The mere idea caused them to hover around her like a storm cloud. It was as if she were afraid of being afraid. No, she wouldn’t give in to this insanity. There was nothing here to stir her fears. Warbrick had never touched Janine’s breasts. There was no connection.

  She kissed her husband fiercely, trying to drive the shadows away. This could not be too hard a thing to do, especially when she could tell that her body wanted what he offered. The wanting was like warmth trickling through her and coiling sweetly in her belly.

  He said she’d tightened against him. She didn’t think she was tight now.

  He murmured something approving and unclasped her precious girdle to let it slither to the floor. It clattered carelessly in a way that made her wince. His hand invaded her tunic to be one layer closer to her skin.

  Her body moved with desire. Her mind said this was right.

  The terrors, though, the terrors screamed, Stop!

  She blocked them and said, “Yes,” even though her heart was pounding with fear.

  He was studying her and she looked into his eyes for strength. He captured her hand and held it to his chest. “Yes?” he asked.

  She nodded, fighting the demons with every fragment of strength she could find.

  Who was in control of her body and her mind, she or them?

  She could do this. She could.

  “You look frightened,” he said on an unsteady breath, “but we’ll go very slowly, and I’ll stop if you want.”

  “I’d rather
it were fast,” she protested. “I know it can be fast. I’ve heard—”

  He put his fingers over her lips. “It will be easier for you if we take our time. Trust me, Imogen. . . .”

  He was slow as he took her hand and slid it down his hard body until it touched where he was harder. She flinched, but he held her there gently. “Don’t be afraid of it,” he said. “It won’t hurt you, or at least, only the first time. You are made for this, Imogen. Accept it.”

  Yes, she told herself. Women are made for this. She remembered the needlewomen and their anticipation.

  No! shrieked her fears. Remember the pain. Violation. Blood. Screams.

  Martha, she reminded herself fiercely. Dora. Those whores down in the hall taking ten men a night. Her mother and father.

  Janine!

  Women have endured this since time began. It is natural. I can be calm and let him do his duty.

  I can. I can. I can.

  Her heart was speeding so, she feared he must hear it.

  In her effort to gain control she clutched at him. He jerked under her hand and swelled. She looked into his eyes and saw the power of his need.

  Her control broke. She pushed away violently. His hold was lax so she fell bruisingly to the floor.

  At the look on his face, she scuttled backward. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “I tried . . .”

  He buried his head in his hands. “Then don’t.” He surged to his feet and turned toward the door.

  “Please don’t leave me!” Imogen cried, then she shook her head. “Oh, I’m sorry. Go, if you want. Go to a whore. I won’t mind. It’s all my fault.”

  He was like an ebony statue, except his face, which was ivory-pale. “I will never use a whore in your house, Imogen. I will only be gone for a short while. If you wish to be kind, get into bed, but keep your shift on.”

  Imogen watched the door click shut, heartsick. How could something she wanted so much be so impossible?

  She obeyed him, though. Trembling, she used the water left for washing, then climbed into the bed in her shift.

  She was discovering that life wasn’t a chess game. She couldn’t plan the moves, and she needed more than her brain to win. Despite all her good intentions, she wasn’t in control of her body and couldn’t will herself to behave as she wished.

  It was like rats. No willpower on earth could make her pick up a rat, even a dead one.

  How could it be resolved?

  But FitzRoger had gone into the secret passageways to save his friends.

  How did that help her? She’d tried to be brave tonight, and it had been nothing but disaster.

  He had vomited when he came out of the passageways. Would she vomit if they consummated the marriage? What would that do to him? Perhaps, after all, she should go to the nunnery.

  She didn’t want to. She wanted to stay with FitzRoger.

  He returned, calm in a way that was not natural. It made the hairs raise on Imogen’s skin, though not with a sense of danger.

  Father, she begged, what do 1 do now?

  There was no answer.

  FitzRoger stripped down to his drawers, then climbed into the bed. He did not touch her, but lay on his side, looking at her. She met his eyes. She owed him that.

  “Imogen,” he said, “it would help, I think, if you could send Father Wulfgan away. The monks at Grimstead would take him in and doubtless some of them would appreciate his brand of piety.”

  Imogen knew Father Wulfgan wasn’t the major problem, but just the mask she was using to hide from the dark. Sending the priest away, however, was a little enough thing to ask. “Very well,” she said.

  He nodded. “And I would like a promise from you.”

  “What?”

  “That you will never endure anything from me in love-making. If you feel at all uncomfortable, let me know. It is . . . extremely hard on me to be misled in these matters.”

  Imogen swallowed. “But I’m not sure if . . .”

  “We can at least try.”

  She searched his eyes and told herself that he knew what was what. “Very well. I promise.”

  “Good. Now, go to sleep.” He turned, and cut off communication with absolute finality.

  Imogen turned wearily in the other direction, wondering how this was to unravel.

  Chapter 13

  The next day, Imogen again awoke to find herself alone, but she had no fear that he had abandoned her. No matter how tangled it all became, FitzRoger would never abandon such a source of wealth and power. The more likely hazard was that one day he would tie her down and rape her.

  When she ventured down to the hall she learned that FitzRoger and the king were again out hunting. They were insatiable, and in the king’s case, inexhaustible. The hall gave silent evidence of another wild night, but at least there were no whores in sight.

  Imogen intended to continue her organization of Carrisford, but when she was told that the Earl of Lancaster had pleaded the exhaustion of the journey and declined to hunt, she grew wary. She retreated back to her room to avoid a meeting. Any meeting between them was bound to be unpleasant, but it could also be dangerous.

  What would Lancaster do if he suspected the marriage was unconsummated? He would do something, and it was clear the king did not want to move directly against the earl. Henry’s position was still precarious, and he could not afford to offend such a powerful man.

  Considering the possibilities, Imogen wanted, quite desperately, to be in a consummated marriage with FitzRoger. Everything then would be relatively simple, both for her and for the kingdom. Here, in the calm of the moment, she couldn’t understand why it was impossible to achieve. If FitzRoger had been available, she would have dragged him to the bed to try again.

  She laughed at the thought.

  For the moment, however, she had plenty to occupy herself. If she couldn’t be a full wife to him, at least she could manage their properties properly. Today she would tackle the accounts and pay all her debts.

  That meant a trip to the treasure vault.

  The shoemaker had sent the new shoes, and she found the man was good at his work. The shoes did not rub any sore place, and fitted snugly. The raised cork soles would protect her from any mud.

  She wasn’t looking forward to the trip, for the passages were dark, damp, and noisome in places, and she had never gone to the treasure vault alone. This, however, was just a fear, and one she could face, unlike the other. The main hazard was that she might encounter a rat, but she had never met a rat there. They tended to avoid the lantern light.

  Keeping an eye open for Lancaster, Imogen made her way to the lower floor by a tower staircase that led to the buttery. After ensuring that the paneled corridor was deserted, she moved one carved panel and slipped into a stone alcove behind, easing the wood back in place. The alcove did not look unusual to the uneducated eye, but a push swiveled the wall, causing an opening.

  Imogen slipped through and let the stone swing heavily back, enclosing her in the musty damp. Panic choked her for a moment, for there was only the glimmer of light through small openings in the wall designed for just that purpose. She had expected this, though. She fought her fear and waited for her eyes to grow accustomed to the dimness.

  Her ears sought betraying scratching noises but heard only blessed silence broken by the drip of water in the distance. Her heart rate began to settle.

  The floor here was smooth stone and she walked quickly to her left to where the lantern was kept. What would she do if it wasn’t there? Go on, she told herself. Go on to the next one closer to the treasure room.

  The lantern was there, along with flint and tinder. She lit the candle inside with hands unsteady with relief. The thin light seemed startlingly bright, but only showed stone walls striped by green dampness, and a lot of cobwebs. Now she had a light, however, Imogen’s fears receded.

  She went through the passageways purposefully, coming to forks and turns, but always knowing the wa
y to go. She stopped at one unmarked place and loosened a stone. From behind she took the key to the treasure room.

  She pressed on, feeling the way slope downward. The passage became damper, the floor slippery.

  Now two clear passageways lay before her, and one that appeared hopeless. Thick cobwebs curtained the entrance, indicating that no one had passed that way for years. Beyond the ground sloped apparently into deep water. Imogen ducked as low as possible under the cobwebs and skirted the slimy little pool which, in fact, was only ankle-deep. Beyond was mud, but it was only a thin layer. It squished unpleasantly under her cork soles, though, and at least one garderobe discharged deliberately down the outside of the nearby wall, filling the place with a foul smell.

  Looking ahead, one would swear the passage soon dead-ended in rough-hewn rock, but she went forward. At the rock face, a narrow turn was revealed which widened into a space blocked with an ironbound door.

  With a relieved breath, Imogen slid in the key and turned the well-oiled lock. The door was open to the treasure of Carrisford.

  There were chests, bags, boxes, and—on shelves—golden plates and goblets.

  It was tempting to take some of the splendor up to the hall to restore the magnificence of her home, but with the king here it would be unwise to produce new treasures. She needed coin for her debts, and a few of her jewels, that was all. She went to a box and took out two bags of coin.

  From a chest she selected a few favorite jewels, including two circlets. That reminded her that she had given FitzRoger no gift. She wanted to give him something.

  She opened her father’s jewel chest. Everything was here, for all his jewels had been brought down after his death, brought by herself, Siward, and Sir Gilbert, the only ones who knew the full secrets of Carrisford.

  Tears pricked her eyes at the sight of these familiar ornaments, last seen on Lord Bernard’s person. She lifted a magnificent egg-sized ruby on a chain, remembering how she had loved to catch the sun in it as a child. Aunt Constance had said she’d cut her teeth on it.