Dark Champion

by Jo Beverley

  Something alerted her and she looked up to see FitzRoger leaning in the doorway, watching her. The sun was setting and the high window was small so that she could hardly make out his still features. Perhaps it was just an emanation that sent a shiver of unease through her. Even so, she put a finger to her lips.

  A movement of his head commanded that she step outside to speak with him, but as soon as she tried to move her tired hand, Bert’s closed on it with surprising strength. She looked helplessly at FitzRoger and saw the tightness of his jaw.

  “Bert,” she said. “I must go away for a moment. I will be back very soon, I promise.”

  Reluctantly his hand released her and she stepped into the corridor, her heart hammering. She waited for her husband to speak.

  “What are you doing here?” His voice was quiet, but she could not miss the anger in him. She could not remember ever having been the focus of such anger before.

  She didn’t know why he was so angry. “I’m visiting the wounded men.”

  “You’ve never done so before.”

  “My father would not permit it, and so I did not think . . .”

  “Perhaps I should not permit it.”

  “Why not?”

  She realized for the first time that he was in his hunting leathers, well stained with blood and mud. She could not help but wrinkle her nose.

  “I offend you?” he asked dryly. The menace was distinctly less.

  “You’d be the better for a bath.”

  “And had intended to take one had my wife been where she should be and ready to wash my back.”

  Imogen colored, as much at memory as anything. “I’m sorry. I would have been back for your return if it hadn’t been for Bert.”

  His eyes snapped to hers. “You did not intend to stay here?”

  “I doubt they’d let me, and why . . . ? You thought I had run away here?”

  “The idea did cross my mind. Your message spoke of staying, and said nothing of returning.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I did not intend that.” That he might think she would run away startled her.

  Silence fell, woven through with the distant ebb and flow of the chant and the closer rasping breaths of the dying man.

  “I must go back,” she said.

  But when she moved he caught her arm. “I cannot let you go to Lancaster, Imogen.”

  She had thought on this and wondered whether she should not allow Lancaster to weave his plans. This marriage, consummated or not, put FitzRoger in grave danger. “The king promised the earl another rich bride,” she said. “He could do as much for you.”

  “But not one with lands so convenient to mine.”

  Imogen tried to find something other than blunt practicality in the words, and failed. Well, they’d laid out the terms of their bargain days ago. He was strong and she was rich.

  She spoke in a whisper. “He could find you a bride who would not fight you in bed.”

  He released her arm and his fingers traced the turbulent vein in her neck. “I don’t mind the fighting. It’s the terror that unmans me.”

  Imogen closed her eyes in shame. “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” His hand slid around to raise her chin. “Look at me.”

  Imogen obeyed, wondering at his troubled expression.

  “I have to take back my word, Imogen. I will try to give you time, but if it comes to it, I’ll tie you down and rape you before I allow Lancaster to have the marriage contested.”

  Though her innards knotted with fear, for she knew he would do it, she said, “I hope you do. I . . . I . . .” Now it came to the time, putting her sin into words choked her.

  All uncertainty fled and he grasped her shoulders. “You what?”

  Impaled by his green eyes, Imogen forced the words out. “I swore on the cross that we were . . . that it was done!”

  “Hush.” His hand covered her lips. His eyes gleamed in the dim light, and for the first time he smiled. “Did you indeed?”

  She jerked free. “Don’t gloat, FitzRoger. I decided I didn’t trust Lancaster’s loyalty, and I’ve no mind to link Carrisford with a traitor. You can tell Beauclerk if you want that the earl seems very inclined to favor Duke Robert.”

  “We know that.” He captured her again in his arms, and though she stood stiff she knew better than to fight.

  “The monks will throw us out for lewdness,” she said.

  He touched his lips to hers. “We’re leaving anyway.”

  Then she did struggle, fruitlessly. “No we’re not! Or at least, I’m not. I promised Bert.”

  “Imogen, have sense. He’s unconscious. The king wants you in Carrisford, and he’s impatiently awaiting his meal and entertainment.”

  “Then you go and entertain him. I gave Bert my word.”

  He slung her over his shoulder and carried her out of the building.

  After the first moment Imogen didn’t struggle, for she knew she couldn’t win a physical fight. When they reached the stables he put her down, watching her.

  “You realize I am right?” he asked warily.

  She straightened her skirts angrily. “By your lights, I’m sure you are. I didn’t fight you, my lord husband, because I know that I cannot match you in strength. But I intend to return to Bert’s side at the first opportunity, starting now.” She began to walk away. He seized her arm and turned her back.

  They stood frozen there as the music stopped and the monks began to emerge from the chapel.

  “And I suppose if I take you back to Carrisford you will return as soon as I turn my back.”

  “Yes.” Her heart was pounding, but this was one battle she could not turn from.

  “I could tie you to the bedposts,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  His jaw tightened with impatience. “He’ll be dead within hours.”

  “All the more reason.”

  He suddenly released his grip. “Imogen. If you don’t bend, I may break you.”

  “I’ve been doing a lot of bending, my lord husband. Perhaps it’s time you learned how.” There was something in his eyes, and she honestly couldn’t tell if it was anger or not, but she knew that for all she had been willing to bend to survive, to preserve her home, and to protect her people, she couldn’t bend on this. In the infirmary a man was dying because of her, and he seemed to find solace in her presence and her voice.

  “I am going back, now,” she said. “If you want to stop me it will have to be with force, and if he dies while I’m gone I am not sure I will ever forgive you.”

  FitzRoger’s hand flexed with abrupt impatience and Imogen flinched.

  “You don’t know him. He was no saint. He was too fond of drink, and lazy.”

  She made herself meet his eyes. “Do you think that matters?”

  His hand moved to grasp her, then stilled. He lowered it. “Very well. Stay. I will return as soon as I can. Don’t leave here until I return. I don’t want you abroad in the dark with only a handful of men. I’ll leave my escort as well as yours. This place could be easily taken.”

  It had never occurred to her that she might be in danger this close to Carrisford. “But who . . . ?”

  “Warbrick,” he said tersely, then spun on his heel and left her.

  Imogen stood for a moment, staring after him, reaction dizzying her. A few short days ago she would not have believed herself capable of defying FitzRoger in such a matter, never mind prevailing.

  And now, though she knew she was morally right to insist on staying with Bert, she was not sure this enterprise was entirely wise. She had never considered that she might still be in danger. FitzRoger had re-created her security to such good effect that she’d almost wiped away what had happened, but she was still a treasure to be seized. Moreover, she was still a virgin, and thus vulnerable if anyone found out.

  So many reasons to rid herself of this silly burden. Once the marriage was consummated she would be irrevocably bound to FitzRoger so that no examination, no oaths no matter h
ow terrible, could change it. She would be able to confess her false oath and receive forgiveness. Being tied up and raped almost had its appeal.

  As she hurried back to Bert, she shuddered at the thought of being asked to swear an oath on a relic, or on the host. No, she didn’t think she could swear a false oath on the host. In fact, she didn’t think she could swear a false oath of any kind again. Some fears, once faced, disappeared, but there were some experiences that were worse once known. This state of sin was such a pain on her soul that she would remember it all her days.

  Brother Miles was in Bert’s room, and seemed surprised to see her. Bert was very restless. “I do believe he missed you, Lady Imogen, but he is very weak.”

  Imogen took her seat again and put her hand in Bert’s, using the other to soothe his brow. “I’m back,” she said. “That was Lord FitzRoger, but he’s had to go back to Carrisford because of the king. Kings are a lot of bother to my mind. Did I tell you this one’s brought loose women into the castle? I wasn’t having any of that . . .”

  Bert settled, and Imogen thought she saw Brother Miles’s lips twitch as he went to see to his other patients.

  Things rapidly grew worse. Bert’s face seemed to swell and when Brother Miles came by he said it was fluid under the skin. There was nothing they could do. The man became more restless and didn’t seem to hear Imogen anymore, though he clung to her hand. If he’d more strength he would have broken her fingers.

  He broke out in a cold sweat, and his pulse became rapid and weak.

  Imogen ceased her chatter and fell to her knees beside the bed to pray earnestly for his release. She only realized she was crying when she saw her tears bouncing off his swollen hand. She tried to stop them, but couldn’t.

  Brother Miles came in and stayed, also praying quietly, prayers for the dying. “Si ambulem in medio umbrae mortis . . .”

  Though I walk in the shadow of death, I will have no fear, for you, Lord, are by my side.

  It was full dark, and just one small lamp glowed.

  The end came suddenly. Bert gave one final, gasping exhalation and went on to a more peaceful place.

  “Sweet Jesus be praised,” breathed Imogen, resting her head on the man’s limp, puffy hand.

  Someone raised her and led her away. She only slowly realized it was FitzRoger. “Where . . . ?” she asked dazedly.

  “Hush, I’ve been here for a while, doing vigil in my own way. After all, it was my fault, too. I should have realized Bert would be soft wax in your hands.”

  Imogen burst into tears. She was swept up and carried away. She expected to be taken to the horses, and though she had no idea how she would ride, she had learned that a person was capable of extraordinary things.

  Instead, she was laid on a bed.

  She looked around at a small room lit by candles. “Where are we?”

  “A guest room. Normally women are obliged to sleep in the special house outside the walls. I convinced the good brothers that your safety required that you be inside. The fact that you pay for nearly everything here might explain why an exception to the rule has been made. There are two conditions, however. One is that I stay with you to control your Eve-like outbursts of ungovernable lust. The other is that we don’t indulge in carnal union on holy ground. I don’t think we should have trouble with either of those conditions, should we?”

  His tone was brittle, but she suspected that for once it was being used as a shield, and rather transparently. She didn’t know why she thought that. If there was warmth in him, only a sixth sense could detect it.

  Imogen eased into a sitting position, feeling drained. “No, I don’t suppose we will have trouble with those conditions.”

  He picked up a wooden platter and beaker from a table. “Just bread, cheese, and meat,” he said, passing them to her.

  “That sounds wonderful.” She began to eat. “What about the king? Is he very angry?”

  “On being assured that you have not run away, he chooses to see you as a noble vision of womanly tenderness. At the moment he’s not likely to take serious offense at anything we do as long as it doesn’t affect matters of loyalty or cast doubt on the validity of the marriage. His mind is largely absorbed by matters military. Warbrick’s reply has come, and it is defiance.”

  “The king will march against him?”

  “He has already sent word to move on Warbrick Castle. Once that is secured, we will move on Belleme.”

  “Will you go?”

  “Of course. I would have thought it might be a relief to you.”

  Imogen ducked that one. “What of Lancaster? I don’t want to be left with him.”

  “Don’t worry. When I leave, I’ll be sure the earl and his men leave with me.”

  “I suppose he’s no danger anymore, now that I’ve lied to him.”

  “I’m not sure. He is down but not defeated. He seems to have spent time with Father Wulfgan and grown encouraged.”

  There was a question behind it, and Imogen answered it. “I haven’t told Father Wulfgan that I am still a virgin.”

  “So I would hope. But might he have guessed?”

  Imogen knew that once the answer would have been yes, but she thought her mask was better now. “I don’t know.”

  “Need I remind you,” he asked coldly, “that you were to dismiss the priest?”

  She looked down. “I meant to. Then I came here.” And in part, she knew, she had been running away from just that task. Sometimes she despaired of ever finding the depth of courage she needed.

  FitzRoger dropped onto the one bench and lounged there, drinking from his own cup and eyeing her. Imogen’s nerves shivered. “I meant what I said earlier,” he said.

  “I know. I meant it too. If it comes to that point, take me by force. I don’t want to end up married to Lancaster. There probably is someone in England I’d rather be married to than you, but my chances of finding him seem slim.”

  He raised his brows and she supposed it did sound blunt and ill-mannered, but no more ill-mannered than things he had said to her. His only response, however, was, “Just so long as you don’t find him later and try to act on it.”

  Imogen faced him. “I will be true to my vows, my lord. When I lied to Lancaster, that was the first false oath I have sworn in my life, and it will be the last.”

  His lips twisted. “Whereas I can only try to be true to my word. I do, however, try.”

  “I know,” said Imogen softly. “That’s why I trust you.”

  His look was direct and unreadable. “Do you? You should be in bed. There’s a privy just outside the door, but few other amenities.”

  Imogen used the privy and returned to eye the narrow bed. “It won’t be easy for two to sleep there.”

  “I’ll sleep on the floor. I’m not unaccustomed to such hardship, and we wouldn’t want to be tempted to carnal union, would we?” There was a bitterly sarcastic edge to the comment and Imogen knew that for some reason her husband was in a terrible mood.

  Frustrated lust?

  She eyed the hard, narrow bed, wanting quite desperately to have it over with. She thought perhaps here, away from Carrisford and its memories, it might go better. But she couldn’t be sure.

  She stripped off her tunic and jewels and slipped into the bed in her shift. She watched as he placed his sword carefully to hand. For the first time, she noticed his chain mail, helmet, and shield lying neatly in a corner. This second time, he had come fully armed.

  “Do you really think we’re in danger here?” she asked.

  “There’s danger everywhere these days. That’s one of many reasons I serve Henry. England needs a firm hand so that people can sleep safe in their beds.”

  “And you think he can be that hand?”

  “Oh yes. Henry is nothing if not firm.”

  “Sometimes you don’t sound as if you like him very much.”

  He flashed her a look. “Sometimes I don’t like myself very much. Henry, like me, has the ability to do what has to be
done, and if given a choice, will do what’s right. There is considerable virtue in efficiency.”

  “It would be pleasant to have peace in the land.”

  “We will.”

  “What of Warbrick and his ilk?”

  “They will be crushed, and soon.”

  “And then you will hold this part of the country in orderly security.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I am just a means to this end.”

  There was a hesitation. “Yes.”

  Imogen knew this was an unproductive conversation, but she couldn’t help but pursue it. “If I had been a foulmouthed hag, you’d have married me, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And bedded me?”

  “Yes.”

  Imogen had known the answers, and they were completely reasonable. She couldn’t think why they depressed her so. She reverted to the earlier point. “So you don’t think I’m in particular danger now?”

  He sighed. “I’d rather you were behind castle walls, Imogen, but I have twenty men out there, so this place is well guarded. Warbrick would need an army to take us here, and if he has an army in this area, I’ll have my scouts gutted.”

  She should have known he would have it all efficiently in hand. “Why would Warbrick want to take me now? He can’t know . . .”

  “Partly spite. None of that family can bear to be bested. But more than your luscious body, he and Belleme want the Carrisford Treasure to fund their rebellion, or if not that, to reestablish their power abroad. He’d bargain you for your wealth.”

  “What it is,” said Imogen, “to be a walking treasure chest. And would you pay?”

  The movement of his hand was sharp and revealing. “I’d not easily leave anyone in that family’s hands.”

  Anyone. Not her in particular. She was just a means to an end to everyone. She cleared her throat. “I wouldn’t mind now.”

  “Being captured by Warbrick?” he asked in surprise.

  She knew she was red. “No. Carnal union.”

  “Yes you would,” he said flatly.

  “I’d like to try.”

  “I’ve promised we wouldn’t do that, and I never break my word without great cause. Go to sleep.”

  Imogen felt like weeping. “I know you must be sick to death of me, but I wish . . .”