by Jo Beverley
For her? Or just for any woman. As far as she knew he’d had no woman for quite some time.
He raised heavy lids to expose darkened eyes. He moved his hand as if it were a stranger to him and looked at her neck with frowning concern. Imogen raised her hand to cover her neck, though she knew there was no mark.
Her lips felt bruised.
She waited for him to speak, but he touched her briefly and steered her out into the fresh day.
Would they even wait for tonight to resolve all this? There was nothing to stop them, as soon as they arrived back at Carrisford, from retreating to their room. There was no need to wait for night.
Imogen quivered with nervous longing. She was full of need, but the violence of that kiss frightened her. She had a dragon on a chain; he could warm her with his breath, and soar her high on his wings, but he might, almost absentmindedly, devour her.
When Imogen and FitzRoger emerged from the monastery, she found, as he had said, that twenty men had been on guard. She appreciated his care of her while thinking it excessive. The road from the monastery to Carrisford was well maintained and clear, and curved invitingly before her. The sun was burning away the last of the morning mist, slowly making invisible the lacy spiders’ webs strung between the grasses; birds sang cheerfully in the greenwood all about.
There was clearly no danger out here, and they would be home in a trice.
She heard a groan and turned.
At first there was no evidence of a problem, but then she noticed that one of the men was pale, though busily saddling his mount. Then he swayed slightly, grasping the pommel to keep his balance. FitzRoger had seen it too.
He moved forward. “You are sick?”
“A gripe, my lord, nothing more . . .” The man moved to mount, then doubled over and vomited.
In moments, most of the men were moaning or vomiting. Five were not, and Imogen realized that these all wore FitzRoger’s colors while the others wore Lancaster’s.
Danger after all.
FitzRoger beckoned one of the healthy men. “Gareth. What did they eat that you didn’t?”
The man looked uneasy. “Not eat. Drink, my lord. Lancaster’s men had a wineskin.”
“But you did not drink?”
“No, my lord.”
FitzRoger turned to Imogen. “You see why I flog men for drinking on duty.”
“But why do you have Lancaster’s men?” Fear was turning to terror. This was a plan, and the only purpose could be her undoing. She looked again at the road. Now it was as inviting as a beast’s lair.
“I couldn’t take all my men out of Carrisford,” he said almost absently, “but I wanted extra escort for you, so I brought some of the earl’s. From hindsight, a mistake.”
She began to retreat toward the monastery. “We’ll have to stay here. . . .”
His hand on her arm halted her. His eyes traveled over the men, well and sick; over the ten-foot-high monastery walls; and over the road to Carrisford.
Imogen’s nerves settled a little. No matter what was happening, FitzRoger would protect her. He was her champion and supremely skillful at the job.
His voice was calm when he said, “The monastery offers little security from an enemy indifferent to God’s wrath, and there’s some plan afoot. If we act quickly we may forestall them. Can you ride?”
“Of course.”
“I mean, can you ride hard and fast?”
Her heart speeded, but more with readiness than fear. “Yes. I like to hunt, remember?”
It was a feeble attempt at humor, but he rewarded it with a smile. “Good.” He grabbed one of the smaller of Lancaster’s pitiful men and roughly divested him of his boiled leather jerkin and his conical helmet. “Put these on.”
Imogen bit back a protest and obeyed. The jerkin hung loosely, but the hardened leather would stop an arrow. She hated the thought that it might be needed. Until her father’s death no weapon had ever been turned against her. She was determined not to fail this test, though. She tossed away her circlet and jammed the helmet on over her veil.
FitzRoger picked up the gold band. “We can’t afford to waste this, wife,” he said, and the glint of amusement in his eyes steadied her nerves.
It was impossible that he not prevail.
She tucked the circlet up her tunic, held there by her girdle. Then she saw that one of the sick men had a bow and arrows. She took up the bow, strung it, and tested it. It was stronger than she was used to, but she thought she could manage it for a few shots. She slung the quiver over her shoulder.
FitzRoger turned from giving orders to his men. “Can you use that?”
“Yes.”
He made no further comment, but helped her into her saddle.
In moments, they were ready, just seven of them against who knows how many. But FitzRoger had said he was sure there couldn’t be an army nearby, and it was possible that their enemy, not knowing of FitzRoger’s strict standards, would expect all the guards to be sick.
Her husband rode alongside her and passed her a shield. “Put the strap over your shoulder and your left arm through the bands.” She did as she was told. It was a round one, smaller than his kite-shaped shield, but it was still heavy on her shoulder and her arm.
She felt rather ridiculous. Her arm would be aching just from the weight before they reached Carrisford, and she doubted she would be able to use the shield in any purposeful manner. It would certainly stop her from using the bow.
“They won’t want to harm me,” she protested.
“Who knows what they want?” His eyes searched ahead. “It is my task to protect you, Imogen, and I will do so. Ride by me and keep up. And obey any order instantly.”
“Or what?” she asked, trying for a bit more humor.
“Or I’ll beat you if we survive.”
She knew that this time he wasn’t teasing.
He drew his sword, surveyed his small troop, and gave a quiet command. They left at a gallop, two men ahead and three behind.
Imogen had told the truth when she said she could ride hard, but the too-large helmet kept slipping onto her face, and the heavy unwieldy shield bounced, bruising her leg and causing her horse to break pace and jib. She began to fall behind. FitzRoger slowed and leaned to grab her reins. Imogen didn’t contest it, but took a grip on the mane and concentrated on managing the shield and staying on.
She wished, though, she could have kept up on her own.
They thundered between the trees and there was no sign of any enemy.
Then arrows whined through the air. One of the front men and his horse went down in a screaming tumble of legs, blocking the road.
FitzRoger hauled to a halt. He and the remaining men swung efficiently into a protective circle around her.
Imogen looked in shock at an arrow driven well into her shield. It could have been in her body!
She saw FitzRoger wrench an arrow out of his chest. After an appalled moment she understood that it couldn’t have penetrated far. If it had cut into his mail at all, it must have been stopped by his padded haqueton. But it could have been in his heart.
More arrows hissed through the air, low and at the horses. It was luck that sent most through their legs. One horse screamed, but the rider controlled it. Imogen saw a scarlet gash on the beast’s belly. Not deep.
Sweet Savior, were they going to die here?
The man who’d been brought down stayed down. It was Gareth, the man who’d told them about the wine.
But she was no use to Warbrick dead, she thought wildly.
She was no use to anyone dead.
Except the king. If she died, Henry would have Carrisford.
Surely not . . .
The arrows ceased. It was an eerie moment of calm that seemed to last much longer than it possibly could.
Then ten armed men crashed out of the woods, hurtling against her defenders in a screaming, shrieking tumult. Above all other sounds was the broken-bell clanging of metal brought against meta
l in an attempt to hack into flesh and bone.
Imogen’s horse plunged and turned, spooked by the clamoring melee all around. She controlled it viciously, looking for any chance to be of use. Her bow fell from her arm, but she didn’t bother with it. It was no use in this kind of fighting.
She was bemused by how slow everything seemed. It was only moments since Gareth came down and yet it seemed an age. Everyone, friend or foe, seemed to move at dreamlike speed around her.
She saw an enemy wide open to attack, and yet a man of FitzRoger’s right there took no advantage. If she’d had any kind of blade, she could have spitted him. Her swinging horse showed her FitzRoger moving as slowly as a doddering ancient, but more efficiently.
His sword swung mightily against an exposed torso and Imogen could almost hear the ribs break before the man screamed and toppled off his horse. That was more like it! She let out an exultant cry of victory, as if the blow had been her own.
One of their men screamed and went down. The protective circle fractured.
Her joy soured. There were too many against them.
Imogen concentrated on preventing any attempt to seize her. She wished FitzRoger had given her a sword even as she knew she could never have managed it. Then she remembered her arrows. She whipped a handful out of the quiver, ready to stab with them if anyone tried to seize her.
The attackers were too busy to try for her yet, though. They seemed to concentrate on FitzRoger, as if they knew that downing him was the key to her. He was fighting three, calmly, efficiently, always able to block the blows.
Her heart leaped to her mouth as she saw a mace swing viciously at him from his blind side while he fought another man. She screamed a warning, but he was already moving to avoid, to react, as if he could see all sides at once.
In a split-second gap between blows he grinned at her as if this were an amusement.
She was amazed to realize she was grinning back. This was not amusing, and yet she had never felt so vibrantly alive. If she died here, it was better than many deaths.
But she would not be taken prisoner.
A sword whistled through the air at FitzRoger’s head. He blocked it with a fiery crash, turning his horse with his legs to face the attack again.
Another of FitzRoger’s men went down, but the enemy was losing more. FitzRoger had accounted for at least three. Imogen longed for someone to come in range so she could stab him. She screamed defiance, and exulted at each death.
Another of their men down.
An enemy rode straight at Imogen. She reared her horse to thwart him, and screamed a warning. FitzRoger was fighting two men, but he swung his horse back on itself to cover the new threat.
He was fighting for his life and guarding her at the same time. It was impossible.
Then the rump of his nearest opponent’s horse swung into Imogen’s leg, bruising her. With relish, she stabbed it deeply with her arrows.
The horse bucked wildly. The rider was not thrown, but for a moment he was beyond defense.
Still it was so eerily slow.
The opening at his neck between the flaps of his mailed coif was as clear to Imogen as the bull’s-eye on a target. FitzRoger’s sword found it with deadly precision. Before the man realized he was dead, FitzRoger swung brutally at his other opponent and broke his arm. The man howled and fell.
FitzRoger flashed her a grin. “Well done!”
Her heart sang.
Three other men were coming at him now, but they reined in for a moment. Why?
Not surprising if they feared to face FitzRoger.
Arrows hissed.
One glanced off Imogen’s helmet, jarring back her head, making her yell with fright. Most hit FitzRoger on his right, shieldless side.
At least seven of them. He looked like a hedgehog.
He cursed fluently even as Imogen realized again that they hadn’t done much damage. But they were stuck there, sharp points surely cutting through into his skin, crippling his right arm. He switched his sword to his left.
The last of their guard went down and the two attackers turned to join the three waiting. She saw one grin expectantly.
Everything stopped.
She saw the three men ahead blocking the way to Carrisford.
She saw the two men behind, beginning, so slowly, to move toward them.
She saw the blood oozing from FitzRoger’s many cuts.
When he turned toward the trees and said quite calmly, “Into the woods,” she had already thrown away her burdensome shield and quiver of arrows and was beginning the only possible movement.
They raced their horses recklessly into the woods, leaping them over fallen trees, gathering them from almost disastrous stumbles. To slow was death for him, and worse for her.
He was with her, but she knew that in this race he could not help her or they would lose.
She could hear the crash of pursuit behind them, but fading.
Her helmet went, caught by a branch that would have knocked her out. After that she rode low.
Her skirts were snagged and ripped, but she thanked God they were frail so the entangling branches didn’t drag her off.
He swerved down a deer track and she followed, the way easier now.
Twisting, climbing, then down a mad slope she’d never have attempted sane, almost falling.
A stream.
He hauled up his foam-mouthed horse. “Can you jump it?”
“Yes. How are you?” Most of the arrows had been broken or pulled out entirely, but there seemed so much blood!
“Go!” was all he said.
She set her horse at the stream and leaped it cleanly, pulling in to wait for him. He leaped his horse after her.
The pause gave Imogen a moment to think.
“Up ahead!” she gasped. “There are caves. We can hide.” Then she wondered if that was cowardly. “Or I know the way to Carrisford from here.”
“The caves,” he said.
She led the way up a gradual slope toward the hummocky hills where the stone often broke through the greenery. She began to fear that she couldn’t find the caves, for it was years since she’d visited them. Then she saw some rocks and remembered. She urged the tired horse on, up to the cliff.
She slid off her horse to lead the beast through the narrow opening into the chill gloom. FitzRoger did the same behind her.
“Is this wise?” she asked as she shivered in the sudden dampness. “It seemed like a good idea, but it’s like a child hiding under the bed, isn’t it? We’re trapped here if they find us.” Her voice echoed slightly, though the cave was not very large. For better or worse she’d chosen a cave that did not link into the warren that riddled these hills.
“We’ve lost them,” he said, “and I can defend this place for quite some time.”
The peculiar slowness was still there. It was fading, but still there. And an unnatural calm held her in its grip. Surely she should be shaking with terror. “Let me look to your wounds,” she said.
“Leave them,” he said, assessing their refuge and pulling out arrowheads like someone pulling off teasels.
One he didn’t touch.
She saw that arrow was much deeper. It had managed to go through the mail and into the flesh of his arm. Most of it had broken off, or he had broken it off, but it moved as he moved and must be extremely painful.
It was also causing bleeding with each movement. “We can’t leave that one,” she said.
“We have no choice. The mail won’t come off with it there and I can’t grasp it well enough to pull it out.”
“Then I’ll have to do it.” Imogen prayed that she could.
He looked at her, one quick, doubting glance, then presented his arm.
Only a little-finger-length protruded from the mail and it was both sticky and slippery with blood. Imogen took hold of it as best she could and tugged. Nothing happened except a hiss of pain from him and a new welling of blood.
“I’m sorry,” she said miserabl
y.
“It’s barbed, and will snag on the mail.” His voice was steady. “You’ll have to pull with all your strength.”
Imogen took a deep breath. It had to be done and she could do it. Still, she first explored as gently as she could to see if she could somehow work the mail over the shaft. “Perhaps I could cut the shaft,” she offered.
“I suspect that would hurt more and take a lot longer.”
Imogen looked at the shaft again, one part of her mind clearly telling her that she could not do this, that if she left it everything would turn out all right, that someone else would take care of it. Another part of her knew that this had to be done if he were to have any chance of fighting with that arm without losing more blood than he could afford.
“Lie down,” she said at last, startled by the commanding tone of her voice.
He looked at her. “Why?”
It seemed ridiculous to be giving FitzRoger orders, but she said, “The only way I’ll be able to do it is with you on the floor. Just lie on your front.”
He eased down without protest. Now the arrow shaft poked straight up. Imogen put the ball of her left foot on his forearm and the whole of her right foot on his shoulder. “Does that hurt?”
“Not particularly,” he said, and added with a trace of humor, “In some places it is considered amusing to have a woman walk over a man’s back. . . .”
“What sort of places? Or should I not ask?”
“Probably not.”
Imogen bent and wiped off as much of the blood as she could, as gently as she could, willing her hands to be steady and her strength to be adequate.
His voice was warm with humor when he said, “I’m willing, as you must have noticed, to let you walk all over me. . . .”
She ignored his nonsense and wrapped a tattered piece of her skirt around the stub for better grip.
“It is said to loosen tightened muscle—God!”
The arrow was out. She had felt it sickeningly tear through muscle and skin, and grate against metal. The force she had used toppled her backward and she sat there fighting the urge to be sick.
He rolled up and grasped his arm, breathing roughly. “I don’t feel particularly loose at this moment.”