by Jo Beverley
And, sick though it made her, Imogen knew she would pay the price. But she tried another tack. “I am very religious,” she said primly. “Pleasure in the body is a mighty sin.”
Warbrick guffawed and destroyed any hope of the ploy working. “I don’t give a piss if you get pleasure or not, so your soul won’t be jeopardized by me. If you don’t know what to do, I’ll teach you, and relish it all the more if you hate it.” He smirked at FitzRoger. “Perhaps you’ll thank me for what I teach her, Bastard, if you can bear to touch her afterward.”
Still FitzRoger didn’t react. Warbrick walked forward and slapped him so his head snapped to the side and his lip split, gushing blood. “Are you alive?” Warbrick taunted. “Or are you paralyzed by fear?”
The green eyes blazed, but otherwise FitzRoger did nothing. Warbrick laughed, but there was a touch of uneasiness in it now. “You’ll react, Bastard. I’ll use your woman until you do. I want you begging.”
Then he seized Imogen and dragged her toward the edge of the woods. He halted suddenly and glared at her. “I hope you know what’s wise.”
“Yes,” whispered Imogen. “I know what’s wise.” She knew they had no chance other than to try their plan.
He nodded, satisfied, and towed her onward.
Imogen thought she knew what FitzRoger felt like. The hate, the desire to destroy, were overpowering, but they were deep and cold. They would last forever, or until satisfied.
She had thought she hated Warbrick before, but she had not known true hate until today.
Chapter 18
The moon was waning and there were clouds, so it wasn’t hard for the twelve men with Imogen and Warbrick to slip over the open ground around the castle and up the slope of the craggy rise on the east side of Carrisford.
They moved in short bursts, darkly. Warbrick was a massive black shape, but Imogen knew that from the castle he would be just a shadow. The tightest watch was not kept on this side because apart from the passageways it was impossible to assault this sheer, blank wall. She wondered if Renald was keeping special watch tonight, though.
FitzRoger had tried to guess how his friend would think, but they couldn’t be sure of anything, which was why it was all up to her. She kept an eye on the walls. She saw nothing except the shadowy shape of a patrolling guard who seemed oblivious. She prayed that continue. No good could come of an alarm at this point.
Once at the cliff face, they all stopped to relax for a moment.
“Where?” grunted Warbrick.
Imogen looked up. “It can’t be seen from here, but we climb.” She looked down at her ruined skirts. Some torn tendrils had tangled her feet as they’d crossed to here. “I need a knife to cut my skirts.”
He gave her a hunting knife with insulting lack of concern. She wondered what would happen if she stabbed him. To begin with, it seemed impossible that the blade reach any vital spot in his great bulk.
She trimmed her skirt neatly at the knees and passed the knife back. “Shall I lead?”
“You know where we’re going.” But he produced a length of rope and tied it around her waist. He gave the end to the ever-obliging Lig. “Keep hold of her leash. We wouldn’t want to lose the Treasure of Carrisford, would we?”
Imogen began the climb, giving thanks for the knife pushing at her thigh. Nothing was certain, but at least, if the occasion arose, she could cut the tether.
Despite the appearance of the cliff, it wasn’t a hard climb. There were ledges which made it almost like climbing steep stairs. Imogen had done it only once, at her father’s insistence, and remembered from then how new muscles had complained, but it still was not particularly difficult.
She could feel the pull now, and the scrapes on her hands from gripping the rough rock. She doubted she had any unbroken nails. She was aware all the time of a soreness between her legs, but that pleased her. That was a reminder of the fact that she was Tyron FitzRoger’s wife in every way.
She even smiled against the rock as she remembered. She had made him her husband.
After a while she began to worry that she had missed the way, that she would never find the entrance, but then she spotted the arrowhead rock and breathed a sigh of relief. In moments she was in front of the narrow black shadow that was the secret entrance to Carrisford.
More than three men couldn’t gather by the entrance, and Warbrick had brought twelve. Most had to find their own resting places on the nearby rocks like birds of prey. Warbrick pushed forward to join Imogen and Lig.
He scowled at the narrow space. “This is the only entrance?”
“Yes.”
She could see he’d love to hit her, throw her down the cliff even, but as he’d said, he had control when he needed it.
“Then I will wait here, Lady Imogen. If you are not out with the treasure by the first hint of dawn, I will go down to amuse myself with your husband. Do you understand?”
She shuddered but said steadily, “I am not stupid, Lord Warbrick.”
“All women are stupid and good for one thing only.” He seized her throat and kissed her. The foul taste made her want to gag, his tongue choked her, but worse than that was the sense of smothering in his bulk and sweaty miasma. When he released her she crumpled to her knees.
He dragged her up by her plaits. “Get on with it.” He pushed her toward the entrance and Imogen scurried into it with relief. Anything to be away from him. She felt the rope tighten then slacken as Lig followed. She went a little way and waited.
She heard someone striking flint. “It’s better to do without a light,” she said, her voice echoing in the passageway.
Lig reeled in the rope until she was close to him. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? No, I want to see what you’re up to.”
The man with the lantern was three back, so Lig wouldn’t be able to see very much. Imogen couldn’t help but be grateful for the light, which would keep away rats.
She began to lead the way, which required no thought, as the narrow passage offered no alternatives. The next opportunity would be at the trap.
She could undoubtedly cross over without warning Lig, and send him hurtling down into the oubliette, but even if she cut the rope and so wasn’t dragged down with him, the other men would not be caught. They would go back to Warbrick, and even with the alarm sounding, Warbrick would have time to return to the woods and kill FitzRoger slowly before anyone could interfere.
When they came to the trap, she carefully explained it. It had one good effect. Lig relaxed, convinced that she was too frightened to try any tricks.
She led the way on, keyed up and ready to act. She didn’t know if her state of mind was healthy or not. Her heart was racing, and her limbs felt almost weak, but she could sense that her body was prepared for action. She wished the slowing would come on her again, but she didn’t sense it.
They were still passing through solid rock, but soon they would enter the castle and the walls would be stone. She wouldn’t point it out to them. Shortly after, there was the first adjoining passage, a narrow one designed for the ambushing of intruders.
It had been on the drawing she had so reluctantly done for FitzRoger a lifetime ago, but she hadn’t emphasized it. The chance of it being used then had been remote.
If Renald had found the map, would he recognize the passage for what it was? And would he use it?
She eased the knife out from her garter, praying that the shadows concealed her. She felt the sting as she cut herself, but it didn’t matter. She had the knife in her hand now.
She gripped the rope and began to cut at it against her waist, trying not to let the motion travel back to Lig so close behind her.
She was only half through when they reached the passage.
It was empty.
Imogen swallowed a mixture of disappointment and relief. She wasn’t really ready yet, but she was afraid of time and hovering disaster. How much time had passed? How soon till daybreak?
She forced herself to consider her real
dilemmas. Ahead, the passage would soon branch. One arm led toward the treasure but also through out-of-the-way passages. The other led up, closer to the hall, where Renald might have watchers.
If she went up, though, it would take much longer to get to the treasure and carry it out. She’d give Warbrick her wealth, every last coin, to buy FitzRoger’s life.
She paused for a moment, then headed up. FitzRoger had wanted her to get help, so she’d try. Another advantage was that the higher passages had more intersections. She passed two more junctions without any sign of help and knew she was going to have to act on her own.
“How much farther?” whispered Lig, and she heard his fear. Strange, she’d been so absorbed in her plans, any fear of these dark ways had left her.
“Not far,” she said back, and worked at the rope a bit more.
“What’re you doing?”
“The rope galls me,” she complained.
“It’ll do more than gall you in a moment. Move on.”
“I need a key,” she said, thinking he’d have to hear her thundering heart. “It’s here somewhere. Bring up the light.”
Surely her breathy, tremulous voice would give her away. But then she understood that he expected her to be terrified, and would hear only fear.
There was a sidling and a shifting as the lantern was passed forward. Imogen took the opportunity to slash the last threads of the rope, keeping hold to maintain the tension.
She realized with joy that the slowness had come. The men were moving as if in water, against pressure. Her mind was clear and fast, and able to choose between a score of options. When Lig slowly reached forward with the lantern, she had all the time in the world to smash it into the wall, plunging them into darkness, and to leap away and run.
But her guard flailed and caught one of her long plaits, yanking her back. Again she had time to think.
She gripped the imprisoned plait near her head and slashed it off.
She ran, hand lightly on the wall for guidance, hearing the clamor behind speak of panic.
She even laughed for the joy of the first victory.
But she needed more.
She twisted left, the map in her mind, then up some narrow stairs. She pushed the wall and it swung, flinging her out into the space beneath the hall stairs.
Voices.
Sudden caution.
Instead of rushing around the wall to burst into the hall, she crept, all senses alert, to check if further disaster awaited.
Renald was there with a bunch of men, arguing, worried.
She ran in. “Renald! There are men in the passageways, and we have to block their return. Now. I know how. Come.”
They gaped then obeyed. She led them fleet-footed down the hall stairs and across the bailey to the guardhouse by the gate. There she commanded four bemused armed men to follow, too.
She opened a way there into the passage. “Go down,” she said crisply. “Go forward. There are no turnings. Your passage will meet another. Wait there. Men will come back. Stop them. Kill them if you have to. Try to be as quiet as possible.”
The dazed men looked to Renald for confirmation. “Do it,” he said. “Stephen. Go with them.”
One of the younger knights immediately obeyed.
As soon as they were gone, Imogen collapsed against a wall, shaking, all the power drained from her. She became aware of a sting on her face and her hand found a cut there. Her mind ran back over the last little while and she recalled a shard of the lantern horn hitting her as Lig grabbed for her. . . .
Renald picked her up and carried her to the wooden table and sat her on a bench there. He poured some of the mead the men had been drinking and held it to her lips.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “Hell’s fires. Who cut your hair?”
“I did.” Imogen wanted time to mourn that, but didn’t have it. She drank the mead and let the strength of it seep into her. Then she looked at them. “Warbrick has FitzRoger.”
“Warbrick!”
“He has him tied to a tree not far into the woods, and Warbrick is waiting at the entrance to the passageways. That’s why I had to stop the men getting back to him. He would have gone straight back to kill FitzRoger. Now he’ll wait until first light unless he suspects trouble.”
Renald glanced at a window slit. “About three hours, perhaps.”
Imogen sucked in a deep, calming breath. “We have to rescue FitzRoger before that. Heaven knows what they’re doing even now. . . .” She caught herself up. That way lay madness.
“If we come on them unawares . . .” said Renald.
“It still might not be enough. Warbrick’s men have cudgels, and orders to break his ribs at any sign of trouble. They’re more afraid of Warbrick than of death itself, and with reason. There’s about fifteen of them in the camp, four with orders to do nothing but guard FitzRoger. Warbrick intends to kill him anyway, I’m sure of it, but he’s keeping him as a sword to hold over my head.” She suddenly covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Mary, I’m so frightened!”
Renald gathered her into a firm embrace. “With me by your side? Come, little flower, you have done well. We will find a way.”
Imogen steadied herself. “FitzRoger had a plan.”
“Then how can we not succeed?” asked Renald with a cheery grin that summoned a watery smile from Imogen. “Tell us what we are to do.”
“We are to take some of the treasure and slip out of the postern. Then take it back to the camp, saying it’s the first of the load and they are to begin to share it out. We’re hoping that the sight of such wealth will distract even Warbrick’s men for the moment it takes for you to free him.”
“Is that it?” asked Renald, dismayed.
“It’s all we could come up with at the time,” she snapped. “However, Warbrick is waiting at the passage entrance with only four men. Perhaps we can take him to bargain with.”
“On a cliff face? I doubt it. We could probably kill him, but who’s to say what his men will do then?”
“We could wait for Warbrick to go down at first light.”
“And risk the attack being seen by the men holding Ty. No. We’ll have to try your plan, though I’ve heard better. Are you sure Ty came up with this one?”
“It’s not easy,” Imogen pointed out, “making plans for unknown situations when in fear of one’s life. We did think,” she added bitingly, “that you might already be in the corridors, expecting something like this.”
“By the cross,” said Renald admiringly, “you’re even beginning to sound like Ty. I’m sure he will have words to say. But we didn’t even know there was a problem till noon, and certainly never expected an attempt to enter the castle. It . . .” He rubbed his nose. “It didn’t exactly surprise us that you and Ty were dallying on your way home.”
Imogen colored. “Are the men in the corridor taken care of?”
He stood with a wink. “I’ll check.”
Within moments, Sir Stephen was back, a little rumpled but uninjured. “Those men fight like wild animals. We’re bringing up three prisoners, but the rest are dead or close to it. We lost one. Kevin.”
Renald just nodded, but Imogen felt her hard purpose waver. So thoughtlessly she’d ordered a man to his death, a man who’d been sitting here drinking his ale and scratching his fleas . . . But then she thought of FitzRoger, waiting bound for her to act.
Lig was one of the survivors. He snarled at her. “I’ll get you! And your man’ll die screaming once Warbrick hears of this.” Behind it all was sheer terror.
“Don’t worry,” said Imogen sweetly. “Warbrick won’t live to make you pay. Strip and secure them,” she told her man. “We need their armor, and men of ours who can impersonate them. Three should be enough.”
The men cursed as they were forced to strip, so she ordered them gagged. She had no time at the moment for any trace of compassion. Their white naked bodies reminded her of maggots and she waved them away to a dungeon.
Three men-at-
arms of the right build put on the leather armor and conical helmets, and she assessed them. “It will do in the dark for the few moments we need. The nasal helms obscure your faces. But remember, as soon as we get into the camp you are to flaunt the treasure. We want everyone’s attention on it.”
She turned to Renald. “The rest of you will be ready to take advantage of whatever happens.”
“Of course.” But she saw the bemused look in his eyes. In all their eyes.
She heard herself giving crisp orders and almost felt she should apologize. But she stopped herself. Survival was all that mattered.
She led the way at a run to the best entrance to the passageways, not caring anymore who knew of them. She plunged into the darkness without a thought for rats, lit the lantern with steady hands, and went quickly to the key.
Then, followed by the clanks and bumps of the clumsy men, she led the way to the treasure. She realized the gift was still with her. She could weave through a nest of blades without hurt.
But then she remembered FitzRoger caged in just such a nest of blades and faltered for a moment, offering a prayer. She collected herself and hurried on.
She struck straight through the curtain of spiders’ webs, waded the shallow pool, turned into the corridor, and clicked open the lock.
Once in the chamber she stood back. “Take what you think most tempting.”
The men, even Renald, gaped at the glittering hoard.
“Move!” she snapped, infuriated by their slowness. “Take what you would most want. If FitzRoger comes out of this whole, you can have it.”
“Imogen . . .” said Renald hesitantly.
“Do I care?” she overrode him, and swung on the bemused men-at-arms. “Well?” She flung open a chest full of silver pennies, and another containing gold. She opened her father’s jewel chest and pulled out pouches, spilling chains, rubies, and pearls.