by Jo Beverley
“I’ll have to practice . . .” She choked on a sob and crawled over to his side. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes spoke of pain but were warm as well. “I’ve had worse treatment. We can work on the other at some more convenient time.”
She took refuge in a minatory look. “Let’s have the mail off you.”
That was painful too, but they managed it, and the leather haqueton as well.
He was covered with blood.
Most of it oozed from the small gashes made by the arrows. The wounds were not dangerous, and some had already stopped bleeding, but they must be painful.
The deeper wound was a mess of torn, bleeding and swollen flesh, and she knew most of the damage had been done in ripping that arrow out. “Dear Lord,” muttered Imogen. “It has to weaken your arm.”
He flexed, causing a new gush of blood.
She grabbed him. “Stop it!”
“It’s not too bad, and I can use a sword left-handed.”
“I hope you won’t have to fight anymore. After all, the castle will send out a party to look for us.” Imogen ripped her skirts to make a pad and bandage, cursing the fact that they didn’t have so much as a drop of water to tend to the wound, never mind herbs. She thought briefly of going to look for something, but knew it wasn’t wise.
“What am I going to do if you die?” she muttered as she pulled the bandage tight.
“I won’t die from this, Imogen.”
“My father didn’t expect to die from his wound,” she pointed out forcibly, then added, “Lancaster said that the wound must have been poisoned.”
He turned to look at her. “So it occurred to him too, did it?”
She stared. “You thought of it? Then why didn’t you say anything?”
“To what purpose? You needed no extra reasons to hate Warbrick.”
She gave the knot an extra, angry tug. “Just because I had a right to know! How many other things have you kept from me?”
He moved warily away from her ministrations to lean against a wall. “We all have things we hoard.”
Imogen sucked in a breath. “Oh, the treasure again. Are we going to fight about the treasure again, FitzRoger?”
“I don’t think it would be wise to fight about anything at the moment,” he said calmly. “I made enquiries about your father’s wound, Imogen, and there was no reason for it to putrefy as it did. There must have been poison involved. The obvious culprit is Warbrick, since he was ready to attack.”
Imogen controlled her irritation. He was right. This was no time to squabble. “Lancaster accuses you, or the king.”
“Does he? And what do you think?”
She glanced at him, then said, “That it couldn’t have been you.”
“Why not?”
Because my heart says so. But she wouldn’t say that. “You’d have moved faster. You’re nothing if not efficient.”
“I’m glad you appreciate something about me.” He leaned his head back against the wall and gripped his arm in a way that admitted the pain.
Her anger faded. “Does it hurt very badly?”
“As much as one would expect. The bleeding should stop in a while. Then the only real problem will be stiffness. We’ll have to hope I don’t have to fight.”
Reaction was setting in, or perhaps it was just the chill of the cave. It was a warm summer’s day outside, and Imogen was dressed only in the remains of light linen and silk. She shivered. “Why didn’t we head straight for Carrisford? It isn’t that far. You could get better help there.”
“Instinct.” She saw him studying her. “If that attack was Warbrick’s work, how did he know we were at the monastery?”
“If he had us watched . . .”
“That’s possible, though I’ve had patrols through the woods here daily to at least disrupt any serious activity. But how then would he arrange for the tainted wine?”
“If someone gave it . . . But Gareth said Lancaster’s men had it with them!”
“A detail that escaped me at that moment. I apologize.”
“I don’t expect you to be infallible.”
“That’s good, since you seem to turn my brain to a dumpling.”
It was said so flatly, she didn’t take it in at first. Then she giggled at the absurdity. “I do?”
“Yes, particularly now.” He was looking at her, though she couldn’t read his shaded face.
“Now?”
“Now that I’ve seen the fire in you.”
“You mean last night?”
“Then a little. I mean today. Come sit by me.”
Wondering, she inched over until she was by him. He used his good arm to lift her onto his lap. “Do you realize you were screaming the most foul insults back there, and cheering every death?”
She closed her eyes in shame. “Yes.”
His strong left arm held her close. “You are a virago, my wife, a warrior woman. And if it wasn’t for my arm, and the danger, I’d ravish you here as a virago deserves to be ravished when all bloody from battle.”
Imogen realized she was blood-splattered, and he was worse. It hadn’t bothered her before.
“I feel terrible,” she whispered. “How could I have—”
He kissed her hard and fast. “Don’t bemoan it. It excites me as nothing else has ever done.” He put her hand against his neck and she could feel the speed and power of his blood, hot beneath the skin.
“It’s the wound,” she said.
“No.”
The beat of his blood beneath her hand seemed to be pounding into her. “I feel strange too. All shaky and excited, and wanting more. But not more danger. . . .” Then she remembered the night before, and knew what she wanted. She turned his head to hers.
“We can’t, Imogen. It would be recklessness.” But he let her draw his head down to hers and his mouth was hotter than his blood, and the kiss sent them reeling closer to disaster.
He pushed her gently but firmly away. “No. Sit over there, Ginger. We need to talk, and with as clear heads as possible.”
She didn’t want to, but she knew he was right. She scuttled back, a piercing ache inside telling her exactly what her body wanted. If it hadn’t been for his wound, she might have demanded it.
Up against the opposite wall, six full feet of space between them, she clasped her hands and said, “So, talk.”
“I suspect Lancaster of being behind this attack, and the main purpose must have been to kill me, not to capture you. You were vulnerable to seizure a number of times, but no one took advantage of it. The attack focused on me as much as possible. That last flight of arrows was aimed to kill me, or maim me enough for them to finish me off. I saw it coming too late.”
“You saw it? Was it slow for you too, then?”
His eyes came alert. “It was slow for you?”
“Yes. Strangely slow. I couldn’t understand it. It made every move so obvious, and people looked so stupid.”
“Me too?”
“No,” she said, remembering. “You were slow, but you always did the sensible thing.”
He leaned his head back and laughed briefly. “Not just a virago, but one with the gift. I wondered how you managed that ride. Let’s pray our sons inherit it.”
“It’s a gift?”
“The most precious one a fighting man can have. The more urgent the fighting, the more it slows, so every move can be considered, every hazard avoided.”
“Not everyone has this?”
“Not one in a thousand. Not one in a hundred thousand.”
“It hardly seems fair,” she said severely.
“Nor is ambush, or poisoned arrows.”
That brought the discussion back to the chilling point very bluntly. “So you think Lancaster tried to kill you, and we are in danger if we return to Carrisford?”
“It’s possible, and I thought we had better have time to think. I have not been my usual efficient self these last few days. Henry and his men will have left at first light to tak
e Warbrick Castle. Lancaster, however, was to stay behind to await the return of his men before joining the king. If he has other men in the area, it would have been easy enough to set up this attack. Then he would have been on hand to comfort and seize you.
“Could he really think I would go from your arms to his in a day?”
“I hardly think your wishes would have entered into it,” he gently pointed out.
“But the king, the king would not have stood for it!”
“He would have had little choice unless he had proof of Lancaster’s hand in this. He cannot afford to break openly with the earl just yet. Henry would have grieved my passing. He likes me, and more than that, he finds me useful, but once I was gone he would take the next practical step. He would probably hope that the bribe of you would keep Lancaster loyal.”
Imogen hugged herself. “Do you know how much I hate this? Being a prize to be passed around.”
“I can imagine. If anything happens to me, Imogen, try if you can to make it to Rolleston in East Anglia, or to Normandy, to Castle Gaillard.”
“Why? Oh, but they are . . .”
“Ruled by the brothers of Roger of Cleeve, yes. My uncles.”
Somewhat hesitantly she asked, “Do they accept you?”
She saw the slight smile turn his lips. “Yes. The old man, Count Guy, accepted me long since, but didn’t contest the Church’s ruling. I suppose he knew there was no point in it, but in my youthful arrogance I would not admit that. I spurned the connection, but the family will aid you, for blood’s sake, and for justice. They are powerful enough to stand against Lancaster if they have cause.”
“There will be no need of this,” Imogen said, unable to tolerate any notion of FitzRoger’s death. “Let’s talk instead about what we should do. Surely if we get to Carrisford we will be safe. You have other men there, including Sir William and Renald.”
“Will has gone with Henry, but I hope Renald is stirring himself to look into things and mop up any trouble. I thought it better to give them time, though. It is possible that Lancaster has men watching, and if we had headed straight for Carrisford it would have been too easy to kill me. I am only one man and not impervious to all attack.”
Imogen was looking at the bandage on his arm. “What if that arrow was poisoned, too?”
“Then I suppose I will die.”
She leaped to her feet. “No you will not! We have to get you to Carrisford. I know of herbs and fomentations that are supposed to draw out poisons.”
He was looking at her strangely. “Is all this heat for me? I wonder why. Lancaster will be a tolerable husband if you don’t balk at him.”
“Is it strange that I don’t want you to die?”
“Yes.”
“No, it isn’t.”
He shrugged and said no more. He rose to his knees and moved his arm cautiously. “I don’t think it will do great damage for me to rearm. Perhaps you could help me. Then we can head cautiously back to Carrisford.”
Imogen picked up the bloody haqueton, feeling as if something were left unfinished. But surely the main aim must be to return to the castle; other matters could be resolved later. She helped him into the padded leather garment, trying to move his arm as little as possible. She knew once on it must gall the wound.
Then she hauled the heavy mail over his head, feeling sympathy at the weight of it settling onto his many wounds.
He rose to his feet and flexed thoughtfully.
“How is it?”
“Adequate. Don’t worry. I can still serve you.”
“This isn’t a matter of serving me,” she snapped. “It’s a matter of survival. Mine and yours.”
“You are not in much danger, other than from a stray arrow.”
“I am in danger of losing you!” There, now it was out.
She clasped her hands and looked at him, hoping.
His mask was in place. “Don’t care too much, Imogen. One man is much like another in most respects. If I die, you’ll find another man will suit you just as well when you grow accustomed to him.”
“Oh, shut up,” she said, and thrust his sword belt at him.
He finished arming in silence. Imogen swallowed tears. After all they had been through it seemed ridiculous to be overset by this cool practicality, but she was. For a moment a while ago, she’d thought he was going to confess to warm feelings for her. It must have been the wound talking after all.
She focused her unhappiness on the state of her clothing. Her skirt was in shreds, and even her shift was missing at one side where she’d cut away stuff for his bandage.
“I don’t feel as if I’ve been in a decent state of dress for weeks,” she muttered.
“With God’s favor, you will soon have your life back.”
In truth, she didn’t much care whether she ever had her pampered life back—in fact, didn’t want it back.
She wanted FitzRoger. She wanted the fighting and the challenging, the kissing and the passion. She even wanted the danger, the excitement that made her blood sing. She didn’t care at all about clothes, and hangings, and gardens.
But she said, “Good. What are we going to do about Lancaster?”
“Hopefully send him on his way to join Henry, and guard ourselves well in the future.” He slid her a look. “Once you are clearly with child, his fangs will be drawn.”
That was doubtless the only reason he wanted to bed her at all, to mark her as his and get her with child. “Why can’t you tell Henry what the earl’s been up to?”
“I will, but he can’t act without proof, and I think proof will be hard to find. Warbrick will be the obvious suspect, despite the questions, and it will suit Henry to have further reason to move against Warbrick and Belleme. You know the way to Carrisford from here?”
“Yes.”
“How far is it?”
“Not far. Perhaps two leagues, though it will take some time if we stay in the woods. The riding would be easier if we joined the road, but . . .”
“But, no. Through the woods, and carefully.”
It was mid-morning when they emerged from the cave, and the bright warmth was almost shocking. Everything appeared peaceful and normal, but they both scanned the area with care.
“What will they have done once they lost us?” Imogen asked.
“That’s the interesting question. I suppose at least some men are spread out between here and Carrisford, hoping for a chance to pick us off.”
“Pick you off,” she said tightly.
“Yes.” He faced her thoughtfully. “Imogen, I have no wish to die, particularly now, but I learned years ago that worrying about it serves little purpose.”
“It would be nice,” she said tartly, “to see you worry about something!”
He smiled slightly. “It worries me that I might die without making you my wife in all senses.”
“We could go back into the cave . . .”
He laughed; he actually laughed. “Have pity, woman. It would mean taking my armor off again.” He began to lead his horse down the slope. Imogen followed, wishing she knew just how to take him. She’d never seen him laugh like that before.
The man was likely to drive her mad, but he was fascinating enough to last a lifetime.
A long lifetime, she hastily amended, and started to pray.
She decided that they needed all the help heaven had to offer and was halfway through a litany of her favorite saints when he stopped.
“What?” she whispered, breaking off her prayer to Saint Adelaide.
“Just that we are about to move into the open a little. I want to watch.”
Imogen was reminded of the time they watched Carrisford and she told him so. “I thought you were like a castle,” she said. “Cold and hard.”
“Just as long as I am a good one.”
“Is that all that matters to you?”
His intent gaze did not halt in its search of the area.
“What purpose is there in life other than to be proficie
nt?”
“You could be proficient at something other than death.”
“I hope I’m proficient at survival. Come on.”
He moved forward toward the trees. Imogen followed, wishing she hadn’t given in to that irritation. But she wanted him to be more than her defender and champion.
They mounted in the woods, and she didn’t allow him to help her into the saddle, but used a fallen tree. He had his sword in his right hand, and his shield hanging from its shoulder strap, but she worried about his wound and his strength.
“If you can’t fight, tell me,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because I need to know.”
“Imogen, just lead us to Carrisford and let me do my job. I won’t fail you.”
Imogen turned her mount’s head sharply and headed through the trees.
This area had always been secure under her father’s rule, and she had played here as a child. Her companions had been her father’s wards and numerous castle children. Lord Bernard had seen no harm in her playing with those of lower orders.
In time, however, Imogen had stopped coming here. Her playmates grew and had more work to do. The wards left to marry. Imogen spent her time with books and music, and her forays into the woods were for hunting, not games.
But she knew them.
She remembered the oak she and the farrier’s son liked to climb, and the thicket of bushes with a space inside which had been the girls’ house. And there was the fairy circle magically free of trees where they’d danced and tried to cast spells.
She glanced back. FitzRoger looked both relaxed and alert, every sense attuned not to her but to the woods around them. She pressed on.
She had to constantly choose between following foot and deer paths that wound away from their destination, or going straight through undergrowth and across uneven land. Once they had to backtrack when they were confronted by a bog she did not remember from before.
She looked anxiously at him then, but he said nothing. She began to worry that his impassivity might be a sign of distress—that he was in pain, or weak from loss of blood, or suffering the first effects of poison. If she asked, he’d doubtless deny it.
“Men,” she muttered to herself.
Carrisford could not be far now. She glimpsed its towers. Fretting about his welfare, she took a risk and headed straight for it.