Dark Champion

by Jo Beverley

  The rift in the earth was new and deep. Her horse stepped into it and she heard its leg snap even as she was tossed. The world spun, then hit her with numbing force.

  Her horse screamed.

  Then was silent.

  She looked up to see that FitzRoger was off his horse and had slit the beast’s throat, but the scream echoed through the woods, and birds still whirled, repeating the cry.

  “Oh Jesu, I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  He held out a hand. “It can’t be helped. Come, we must be close.”

  But before they could mount his horse, they were surrounded. Perhaps thirty hardened men. And Warbrick.

  Chapter 16

  Beauclerk’s green-eyed hound,” said Warbrick, and spat. “And the Treasure of Carrisford.”

  Imogen felt blind terror grab at her, and fought it. “What are you doing on my land, Lord Warbrick?”

  “Looking for a little reparation. For me, and for others. You are so eagerly sought, Lady Imogen. Does it please you? Don’t be bashful, my lord. Come forward.”

  Imogen couldn’t think what he meant, until the Earl of Lancaster was urgently hustled forward. He was in mail, with a rich silk surcoat, every inch the mighty warrior except that he looked flustered and even frightened.

  What on earth was going on?

  She glanced in confusion up at FitzRoger. He was giving away nothing.

  She realized it was strange that Warbrick was not in mail, but had greasy stained leathers stretched over his bulk. He hardly looked as if he were on campaign.

  She turned to the Earl of Lancaster. “My lord, what are you doing here?”

  Lancaster’s eyes shifted and he made no reply.

  “He was waiting for you,” said Warbrick with a shallow smile. “After he took care of your escort with poisoned wine, you were supposed to be easy pickings.”

  “You were supposed to take care of FitzRoger,” spat the earl. “Ten men you had, and here he is, hale and hearty.”

  “You said none of his escort would be fit to ride.”

  Imogen glared at Lancaster. “You toad! You were responsible? You tried to kill FitzRoger! Do you think I would marry you even if I were free?”

  Warbrick laughed and hooked his thumbs into his massive, studded belt. “You, Lady Imogen, will do as you’re told. Listen to your fate. You will marry the earl, and I will have your treasure. With your wealth behind us, Beauclerk will soon be a landless wanderer again.” His eyes moved over her, finding every gap in her torn clothing. “But before I make off with the treasure of Carrisford, I intend to enjoy the Treasure of Carrisford.”

  Imogen stepped back, closer to the graven statue that was FitzRoger. But what could even he do against so many?

  “By the thorns, you will not!” blustered the earl. “Our bargain was clear, Warbrick. She’s mine. Bad enough she’s been polluted by one man.”

  Imogen wondered if she could sow discord between these uneasy allies. “My Lord Lancaster,” Imogen said clearly, “you should know that when Warbrick took Carrisford, he intended to wed me.”

  “What?” Lancaster turned on the bigger man.

  Warbrick laughed again, belly shaking. “Marry you? Are you still so naive after days of the Bastard? What point in marrying you with Beauclerk at my throat? But I certainly intended to enjoy you. There’s particular pleasure in hearing a frightened virgin scream as you broach her. Such a delicate, sheltered morsel would have been sweetly terrified . . .”

  He dropped the false bonhomie, and his piggy eyes narrowed. “But you escaped me, you little bitch. You’ll pay for that. Escaped and took the secret of your treasure straight to Cleeve. You won’t do that again.” He took a couple of menacing steps closer to Imogen. “Beauclerk moved on Warbrick Castle today and I hardly had time to escape. I need all the gold I can get.”

  Imogen stepped back, pressing against FitzRoger. His hands came strong about her arms, bracing her. “You can have it,” she said. “All of it. Just let us go.”

  “Us?” Warbrick asked in mock astonishment.

  “FitzRoger and me.”

  “You prefer the Bastard to Lancaster?” He dug an ungentle elbow in the angry earl’s ribs. “There’s one in the eye for you, my lord earl.”

  “She’s besotted,” snarled the earl.

  “So it would seem.”

  “I’ll teach her better. She needs a few lessons.”

  At last FitzRoger spoke. “If we are contesting possession of Lady Imogen, perhaps we should fight over it.”

  “No!” It was both Imogen and Lancaster together.

  Warbrick laughed. “Bastard, you amuse me! By all means. But win or lose, I take my share of the Treasure.”

  Imogen closed her eyes in terror. She knew he did not refer to the gold.

  Could she survive it? She knew in logic that if the act did not physically kill her, she should be able to survive and put it behind her, but she didn’t think she could. And she knew FitzRoger would not live and let it happen. She could feel the tension in him from staying calm during this exchange.

  For him to interfere just now would achieve nothing, but it could not be easy.

  The particular pleasure in hearing a frightened virgin scream as you broach her.

  And she certainly was a frightened virgin.

  She didn’t realize she was clinging to FitzRoger until he gently put her aside. She opened her eyes to see him take a shield on his arm.

  The earl was in armor, doubtless prepared to ride after the king, but he did not look warlike. Imogen felt a hint of pity for him, but only a hint. She didn’t understand the whole of it, but he had betrayed her castle and tried to kill FitzRoger.

  It was quite possible that he had killed her father.

  Had her father refused Lancaster’s suit?

  If so, she thought suddenly, it could have been because her father was already considering an alliance with FitzRoger. She had thought that if they met, they would like one another.

  Who was to say they had not met?

  For the first time she wondered about the death of Gerald of Huntwich. So many convenient deaths. Had Lancaster had a hand in all of them? And apparently to gain her, not the treasure, judging from the bargain he’d struck with Warbrick.

  But then she knew with bitter certainty that Lancaster had intended to cheat Warbrick, just as much as Warbrick had intended to cheat the earl.

  Lancaster was still protesting. She saw that there were some men of his among the soldiers, but they were outnumbered and too terrified to interfere.

  Lancaster was about to die, and they all knew it, but how would it help her and FitzRoger?

  Warbrick drew his sword and poked Lancaster in the back. “Fight, my lord earl, or I’ll spit you here and now.”

  “You can’t do this,” the earl raged. “Kill the man and have done with it. What benefit to you to let him fight?”

  “What benefit to me in killing him outright? You were of use to me, Lancaster, because your doctor could drug the garrison and open Carrisford to my men once Lord Bernard was dead. That was all you ever had to offer. Your man failed to secure the heiress, though. She was supposed to be drugged in her bed, waiting for me.”

  Imogen gasped at the net that had almost entrapped her.

  “I never guaranteed that,” blustered the earl. “You let her slip through your hands! And again today I did my part. It wasn’t my fault his men didn’t drink the wine. . . .”

  “Whatever happened, I have her now, and she’s going to lead me to her treasure.” Warbrick smiled at Imogen. “I think she’ll do it more eagerly to save FitzRoger than she will to save you. Won’t you, my little chicken?”

  Anything to save FitzRoger. “Yes.”

  “And you’ll lie with me willingly to save him, won’t you?”

  Imogen heard the sob that escaped her, but she said, “Yes.”

  FitzRoger turned his head and looked at her. There was no expression on his face, and yet something flashed between them.
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br />   He turned back to look past Lancaster to Warbrick. “Take the treasure, Warbrick, and leave England, and I will not pursue you. Do more than that and you will die in agony.”

  Warbrick sneered. “Crow, cockerel. You have no spurs.” He poked Lancaster viciously in the back. “Fight!”

  The earl yelped and drew his sword. Eyes wide with fright, he staggered forward.

  It took longer than it should have, and Imogen was afraid FitzRoger was weakened, but then she realized he was spinning it out to make the earl suffer. He was a great deal angrier than she had thought, but no angrier than she should expect.

  He despised treason, and he would let no one tyrannize those under his protection.

  But still, what could he do about Warbrick, one man against so many?

  Would help come?

  They were so close to Carrisford, and surely FitzRoger’s men must be out searching.

  She prayed, not about the fight in front of her, but about the fight to come. She would give up her treasure willingly—that treasure she’d bargained and tussled over—just to have FitzRoger safe.

  But could she give up her body to Warbrick and live?

  The earl was gasping and desperate, his arms and legs both weakening. He had not given up hope, though. His glazed eyes sought desperately for the careless moment that would allow him to snatch victory from death.

  Imogen knew such a moment would not come.

  To her, FitzRoger seemed to have all the time in the world when he finally executed his opponent. His sword swung in a mighty blow against Lancaster’s neck, breaking and half severing it, so the man crumpled like a well-stuffed doll to the ground.

  FitzRoger seemed hardly stirred by it all, but Imogen could tell by a subtle awkwardness in his arm that he was in pain, and possibly weakened. Doubtless the wound was bleeding again.

  “Dull, that,” said Warbrick. “I’d heard you were good, and for once rumor does not lie. I wish I could try you.”

  “I’d welcome it,” said FitzRoger with a distinct edge.

  Imogen saw the temptation flash in Warbrick’s eyes. He was a fearsome warrior, and he doubtless thought he could defeat FitzRoger by might alone. She prayed that he would take up the challenge, for with him dead they had a chance.

  But he said, “The treasure first. I need you alive to make sure the little heiress does my bidding. Give up your sword now, Bastard.”

  FitzRoger made no move to obey.

  Warbrick said, “You won’t tempt me to fight you now. My men will disarm you. You may kill some, but they’ll do it, and relish damaging you. Then there’ll be less chance for you if I do decide to let you fight me later. Perhaps fight for your wife’s virtue.”

  It was a callous piece of bargaining, and hollow, but there was little choice. FitzRoger tossed down his sword.

  “Good,” said Warbrick. “Now, we have a man of yours captured by Lancaster’s soldiers, one who knew something of the passageways. We need him no longer, I assume. How else would you have sneaked into Carrisford if Lady Imogen hadn’t told you the ways?” Warbrick looked around. “Then we have the earl’s men.”

  Imogen saw six men turn pasty white. With reason.

  “Kill them,” said Warbrick.

  Imogen cried a useless protest. As the killing started she covered her face and was pulled into FitzRoger’s arms. She could hear, though. She heard the screams, and the babbling cries for mercy, and the callous laughter. It was as if she were back in the damp passage at Carrisford listening to the sack of her home. It was as bad or even worse now, for the death was all around her, and the smell of it was heavy in the air.

  She wanted to hide. She was willing to die if it were only quick.

  She heard Warbrick say, unmoved, “Now, we must wait for dark. Fulk. You said there were caves nearby?”

  “Aye, my lord. An hour or so.”

  “Then we will go there.”

  Despite her resistance, FitzRoger firmly moved Imogen around and she knew it was time to face Warbrick again. Her head was filled with mist, and her limbs were water. She stared at him hopelessly.

  Warbrick looked her over. “Still not accustomed to death, Lady Imogen? You should be when you are the cause of it. A beautiful woman is nothing but trouble. Your husband here has doubtless learned that. You should smile at me, girl! I have saved you from one unwelcome suitor.” All the time, his eyes assaulted her, as if she were already spread for his invasion.

  She stepped back into the strength of FitzRoger and he put his hands strong on her shoulders.

  Warbrick grinned. “I love to see a woman in fear, and we’ve hardly started yet.” A beefy hand moved toward her, but halted. “No, it is not time for that. You see,” he said, and touched her cheek in a macabre caress, “I have control when I need it.”

  His eyes flicked over her head to FitzRoger’s. “And what of you, My Lord Bastard? Without Beauclerk, last and landless son, you are nothing, and Beauclerk will soon fail. Robert of Normandy will be king here, and he has promised my brother lordship in the west. England will be our hunting ground, with none to say us nay. But war is costly and we need the treasure.”

  He laughed, rocking back on his heels. “I’m going to plunder both your treasures, Bastard, and watch you squirm. Will you kill her first? You should, shouldn’t you? When will you kill her? Will you kill her too soon, unnecessarily? Perhaps you’ll be rescued. What a pity to only have a corpse to kiss. Or will you wait too long and hear her scream to you for death?”

  Imogen felt FitzRoger’s hands tighten to the point of pain before he regained control.

  Would he kill her?

  If he didn’t, would she wish he had?

  Warbrick reached out and seized Imogen’s tunic, dragging her to him. She felt FitzRoger’s grip resist for a moment, then release her. She cried out as Warbrick pulled her against him, the smell of old blood and dirt all around him. But then he spun her off to another man. “Lig. Ride with her in front and with your knife at her face. If he gives any trouble, any trouble at all, slash her. But don’t kill her or I’ll roast you.”

  Imogen fell stunned into the thin man’s arms, knowing neither threat was empty. Her gaze locked with FitzRoger’s for strength. There had to be something they could do!

  There wasn’t.

  He held her eyes calmly. His look didn’t promise anything, and yet it steadied her. He was only human, as was she. They would do what they could, and if he could, at the last possible moment, he would give her the gift of a swift death.

  They rode back along the ways to the caves. The route was different, but not by much, and Imogen marked it as if that were a purposeful thing to do.

  Her guard, Lig, kept an arm tight about her, and his sharp blade glinted in the corner of her eye, but other than that he ignored her. She knew, however, that he would slash her without hesitation even at a false alarm.

  The hills and the caves came as a welcome destiny, though Imogen had no reason to think things would improve here. At least she didn’t think Warbrick would rape her here; he must know that one way or another she would be useless to him then. Hope, slender hope, would keep them dancing to his tune.

  There were other torments, however. He could torture FitzRoger and still keep him alive enough to bargain with.

  They watered the horses at the stream before climbing up to the caves. They had fodder with them, and the horses were settled with guards in one of the larger caves, one of the ones that honeycombed together.

  If they were put in one of those caves, Imogen could find a way through the linked spaces to freedom. She knew the caves well.

  Warbrick inspected and chose the cave they had used before. “In here,” he said. “It does not link with any of the others. Mark my kindness.” He leered at them. “I put you together for a few brief hours. Will you enjoy one another one last time, or has terror sapped your manhood, Bastard? I don’t mind. It’s nothing to me who’s gone before once a woman’s broken to a man.”

  The
y were thrust into the gloom. “There are four guards at the entrance,” said Warbrick, “each knowing hell is mild compared to my vengeance if they let you slip. I will come for you at dark. Meanwhile,” he sneered, “I wish you joy.”

  Then they were alone. Imogen fell into FitzRoger’s arms and he encompassed her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m failing you.”

  She pulled back a little. “One man against thirty? What are you supposed to do?”

  His lips curved slightly. “Perform a miracle?”

  “Well,” she said, trying to match his tone, “if you can . . .”

  He touched her face gently, thoughtfully. “I had one not quite miraculous transformation in mind,” he said softly.

  “What?” But she knew.

  “Virgin into wife.”

  “Here?” Her eyes were growing used to the gloom, and she looked around at the stone walls and earth floor. She could see the silhouette of one guard blocking the door.

  “Not ideal, I grant you, but . . .” He cradled her head in his calloused hands and she felt the slight unsteadiness of them. “I’m not sure I can kill you, Imogen. I’ll hope you can survive. But I’ll die to protect you—”

  “I don’t want you to!”

  “Can I live?”

  “Can I?”

  He held her close.

  “If you can, Imogen, I want you to live. Warbrick is right—in this I am a coward. If I were going to kill you, it should be now, but I cannot do it. By the time all hope is gone, it will be too late.”

  She put her fingers over his lips. “Don’t. Don’t speak of it. And you’re right. If we’re to die, I want it to be as your wife.” She didn’t add the other—that if she was to be raped by Warbrick, she would rather it not be as a virgin. She still had hope that Warbrick would bargain her willingness for FitzRoger’s life, and she’d pay, though what would come of it afterward, she couldn’t imagine.

  His face lightened as if they were not in peril of their lives. “Then I intend to remove my mail, foolish though it may be.”

  “How long do you think we have?” she asked nervously. She might want it, but it seemed a mad thing to be doing.