Dark Champion

by Jo Beverley

  A woman peeped around the door, then came in. “Why, my lady, what’s the matter? Never fret. All’s well now.”

  That struck Imogen as hilariously funny, but she managed not to giggle. “My face!” she gasped.

  The middle-aged woman grimaced. “Aye. It’ll never be quite as it was. But it’ll look better when it’s healed, you’ll see. I’ll get some of old Margery’s salve for it. That’ll help.” She came over and picked up the cup and platter. “Now, lady, do you feel ready for a bath?”

  Imogen realized that she was stripped to her shift, but even that was stained with dirt and blood. Her hair was sticky with gore. She stank of blood. “Yes,” she said.

  When the woman had bustled off, Imogen climbed wincing out of bed and looked down at herself. In disgust, she tore off the ragged shift and wrapped herself in a sheet. The shift was good for nothing but rags now, she thought, then she saw one particular set of bloodstains.

  Among all the other stains no one would note them, but Imogen knew they were the marks of the consummation of her marriage. She slid down sadly against the bed, clutching the garment. For a brief while then, at their darkest hour, she had been happy and so had he. FitzRoger had opened himself to her as perhaps he had never done to another. He had trusted her.

  And she had betrayed him.

  It had been a betrayal.

  Honor said she should have let him go to his death.

  She could not have done that, though. She contemplated the matter sadly and decided that she would do the same thing again. If she had the courage. That was what was lacking now—the insane recklessness of living with death for twenty-four hours.

  Servants brought the tub—the same tub she had used when she had first come to Cleeve. She’d been in a disgusting state then, too, she thought wryly. They lined it with cloths and filled it with warm herb-scented water. Imogen was assisted into it among horrified exclamations at her scrapes and bruises.

  Then one woman exclaimed, “Oh, lady! Your hair. Your beautiful hair!”

  Imogen’s hand flew to the severed plait, finding the ragged end brushing her collarbone. She clutched at the other, still thick down to her thighs.

  The women began to unravel the long plait in deathly silence. It only took fingers to untangle the stubby one. No one said a thing, but their shock echoed in the room. Hair was any lady’s glory, and length was one of the most prized attributes. Some ladies had to content themselves with plaits down to the waist, or even to the breasts. Many extended their deficient hair with false braids.

  No lady had hair that was almost too short to braid at all.

  “Cut the other side,” said Imogen flatly.

  “Oh lady . . .”

  “I can hardly have one side long, one side short. Cut it.”

  A woman fetched a sharp knife and with unsteady hands trimmed Imogen’s hair until it was all the same length.

  “Oh, lady,” said one, incautiously. “You look just like a boy!”

  “At least it will be easier to wash,” said Imogen staunchly. “Does this place boast a mirror?”

  “Oh, I don’t think . . .”

  Imogen fixed the ditherer with an icy stare. “Get it.” The woman rolled her eyes and scurried off.

  Imogen forced herself to relax and let the women wash her. What can’t be changed must be endured, and at least her hair would grow. How long, though, would it take to achieve its former glory? She had no idea. Her hair had not been cut since she was a child.

  Years, she suspected.

  Among all her other troubles, this should be nothing, and yet it clogged her mind and heart like a dismal cloud.

  At least, as she had said, it was easy to wash out the grime and blood, though the women were stumped as to what to do with it afterward. “I could make it into plaits, lady,” one said dubiously.

  Stubby little plaits? “No, leave it. Where’s that mirror?”

  Eventually it arrived, a plain one of polished silver, but adequate. Imogen was dressed by then in a borrowed shift. She held the mirror at arm’s length. Braced though she was, she could not suppress a gasp.

  One side of her face was black, blue and yellow, and swollen to boot. The other was marred by an angry weeping gash. Her eyes were red and puffy. Her hair, which had always been merely wavy when long, was now drying into a frizz of unruly curls.

  And in a beam of sunlight, it did look ginger!

  Imogen thrust the looking glass into a woman’s hands and retreated, lips quivering, to the bed. “Go away!” she commanded, and the women went.

  A little later there was a knock on the door. Imogen ignored it. One thing was certain, FitzRoger would not knock. The door opened. Imogen looked up, hoping despite sense. It was Renald.

  She saw him wince at the sight of her, and turned away. “What are you doing here?”

  “You think I’d rather be at Carrisford?” he asked dryly. “Mind you, the state you’re in I think I should perhaps have left you there. Ty would have to be a monster to take vengeance on you now.”

  Imogen gritted her teeth. “Renald, if you think that is any comfort, you’re wrong. I’m a freak.”

  He came over to stand in her line of sight. “Wounds heal, Imogen. I’ve seen enough, and yours won’t leave serious marks.”

  “My hair!” she wailed.

  He shook his head. “Amid everything, you’re worried about your hair?”

  She looked at him miserably. “How is he?”

  “I don’t know. There’s been no word.”

  “Oh.” After a moment, she said, “Perhaps we should send a messenger.”

  “That would tell him where you are.”

  She sat up abruptly. “He doesn’t know? Then send one!”

  Renald wrinkled his brow. “That may not be wise, Imogen. Give him time.”

  Imogen couldn’t believe this. “If he’s conscious, he’ll be concerned. It’s not right to worry him so.”

  “Worry him!” exclaimed Renald, wide-eyed. Then he shrugged. “I haven’t understood you two from the beginning, so if you want me to send a messenger, I will.”

  “I want you to.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes!” shrieked Imogen, then winced as her jaw complained. Her already shaken nerves were jittering even more at Renald’s uneasiness. Did he really think FitzRoger would charge in here and take her apart, piece by piece?

  Perhaps he did.

  Renald went toward the door, then turned, very serious. “One thing, Imogen. Don’t even think about trying to hold Cleeve against Ty. I’ll truss you and toss you over the walls first.”

  “I wouldn’t!” she gasped.

  He shrugged. “Just wanted to make it clear. I don’t know what you’d be likely to do anymore.”

  Imogen collapsed back against her pillows. She knew she should be terrified of her husband’s knowing where she was, but all she wanted was news that he was safe.

  No news came that night and Imogen settled to sleep, suddenly aware that she was sleeping in FitzRoger’s bed. Of course they would bring her to the castle solar. Where else?

  There was nothing to mark the place as his, for most of his personal possessions were at Carrisford, and the others were locked in chests. But she thought she could sense his presence lingering here.

  She hugged a pillow that presumably had cradled his head, and drifted off to sleep.

  When daylight woke her from tormented dreams, matters looked no better.

  She had to accept that for a woman to strike her husband, strike him unconscious, was a very grave matter. She wasn’t even sure it wouldn’t cost her her life.

  She couldn’t believe that FitzRoger would demand that penalty, but he could hardly allow her to go unpunished. Confinement on bread and water? A public beating? Her greatest fear was that he would cast her off entirely.

  What was she going to do if he sent her to a convent? She wondered if what she had done was grounds for divorce.

  She laid her hand over her fla
t belly. There was a small chance that she was with child. She earnestly prayed that she was. She knew, with his history, that FitzRoger would never put aside a wife who was bearing his child.

  But even if he took her back, would he ever relax with her again? Ever trust her again?

  Still she knew that in the same situation she would do the same thing if she could. She’d burn at the stake to save his life. Her thoughts trudged around and around in weary circles.

  A tap on the door brought servants, servants bearing familiar chests and even Imogen’s harp. One of the maids was Elswith, nervous but smiling.

  Imogen sat up, heart in throat Her chests? Her maid? What did this signify? Renald followed. “Ty is apparently in his bed with a fever, but alert enough to have your clothes and woman sent here.”

  Imogen swallowed. “He’s not dangerously ill?”

  “Not as far as anyone knows.”

  “Er . . . what did he say about me?”

  “He ordered your things to be sent here.”

  Imogen didn’t know if that was good or bad. “Is that all?”

  “He sent a message to me. You are not to leave Castle Cleeve for any reason.” He suddenly relaxed and smiled a little. “At least this means he’s not going to kill you in his first rage.”

  “Thank you,” said Imogen faintly.

  “And I doubt that he’ll beat you severely, Imogen. Ty would only do that in cold blood if he thought it would serve a purpose.”

  “It might,” she said bleakly, “just make him feel better.” She hadn’t missed the fact that Renald took it for granted that FitzRoger would beat her.

  Renald laughed. “Give him time, Imogen. He’ll forgive you.”

  Imogen took that prediction to heart, for surely Renald knew FitzRoger better than she, and a mild beating would be welcome as the price of forgiveness.

  That recalled to her that she still had not confessed her false oath. At least now there was no point in reparation. The oath was now true, and Lancaster was dead. All she needed was a priest.

  Heartened, Imogen rose from her bed and sent for a priest.

  Within the hour, one came up from the village. He was a simple man and she did not burden him with details, but confessed that she had made a false oath upon the cross. He was suitably horrified, but once assured of her full repentance and that there was no way to make reparation, he granted her absolution. The only penance he imposed was that she pray on her knees each night for a sennight, begging Christ’s Blessed Mother for strength to avoid sin in the future.

  Imogen welcomed it. She had a great deal to pray about.

  Imogen sent the man away with the promise that in time she would make a special gift to his church. She wondered if it would be within her power, but she knew that no matter how else other matters might work out, FitzRoger would make good her word.

  She even sang in the bright morning light, for the only act that had truly burdened her soul was now washed away.

  Elswith dressed Imogen in the clothes her husband had sent over. The young maid was distressed at Imogen’s appearance but otherwise seemed happy and unfearful. She had little news to add to Renald’s report.

  Lord FitzRoger was in his bed recovering from wounds, Elswith told Imogen. He was eating normal foods and supposed to be doing well. Rumors were flying around the castle about Warbrick, and that Imogen had struck her husband down, though few believed that possible. None of the men who had been at the scene seemed to have a clear memory.

  Imogen realized that Renald had brought all the men who had witnessed that scene here to Cleeve as her escort. The mist doubtless had made things unclear for the rest. This gave her hope. If it was just a matter between her and FitzRoger, it would go better than if it were a public scandal.

  According to Elswith no one was quite sure why Imogen was at Cleeve, but most thought that during her husband’s sickness she was setting the place in order in case the king should wish to visit.

  A clever rumor. Put about by FitzRoger? Imogen hoped so.

  The waiting was going to be the hardest part, the waiting to hear her fate. When the news of it arrived, she wanted to look the best she could, however. She was still Imogen of Carrisford, and lady to FitzRoger of Cleeve.

  She pondered dismally the question of her hair, and decided she might as well wear a veil to hide the worst of it. She draped a length of fine linen over her head. “Give me a circlet, Elswith. The gold rope one.”

  At the silence, Imogen turned. The maid had colored. “I wasn’t allowed to bring your jewels, lady. The master’s orders.”

  “None at all?” Imogen asked, chilling.

  The girl shook her head.

  “Not even my morning gift?”

  “No, lady.”

  Imogen turned away, heart sinking at this news. The absence of the special gift almost dissolved her into tears again, for it made a clear statement. Was FitzRoger even now in the process of casting her off?

  This also meant he was in complete control of her wealth, both her personal jewels and all the treasure of Carrisford. Surprisingly, Imogen found she couldn’t fret about that. In part she simply didn’t have the energy to care, but also she knew now that he wouldn’t squander their wealth. One way or another he would use it to increase their standing and power.

  If he still regarded them as a couple.

  Imogen gritted her teeth against tears and said, “Then I’d better see if I can make a headrail out of a long scarf, Elswith. Find me a longer piece of linen.”

  Imogen had no desire to go about looking as she did, and so she and Elswith spent the morning hemming the white lawn and devising ways of winding it around Imogen’s head so that it was secure and concealed most of her hair.

  Eventually they achieved the best they could, though Imogen was sure she still looked a freak. She spent the rest of the day in the solar lackadaisically practicing on her harp. FitzRoger had enjoyed her singing. Perhaps she could win back his regard with her voice.

  It took only the first day, however, to convince Imogen that sitting in her room gave her far too much time to think, and would drive her mad. On the second morning she found she could wear her sandals again, and so she set about the management of Cleeve Castle. At first she wondered if there would be some objection—after all, she was as good as a prisoner here—but, if anything, the servants were happy to have a chatelaine.

  Imogen found that under FitzRoger’s hand the castle had been well run, but that a number of womanly arts had been neglected. The needlework and preserve areas were not as efficient as they could be, and when Brother Patrick was away, medical care was chancy at best.

  Thoughts of Brother Patrick had Imogen standing in a doorway, worrying about FitzRoger’s health.

  After a moment she took up writing equipment and wrote,

  To Brother Patrick.

  Of your kindness, Brother, please send news to Cleeve if My Lord Husband should be close to death, so that I might come to him.

  Imogen of Carrisford and Cleeve

  The note was sent and brought no response. Imogen chose to take that as reassurance.

  Each day Renald sent a messenger to Carrisford. Each day the messenger returned with information, but with no word directly from FitzRoger to either of them.

  They heard that he was recovering from his fever.

  Fever, thought Imogen in panic. He had a fever?

  Next they heard that Lord FitzRoger was out of his bed, but using a staff to walk. His knee had apparently only been badly bruised.

  A few days later came the news that Lord FitzRoger was training again in armor.

  Imogen began to let go of her terror for his safety. Now, however, she had only her own future to worry about. She had to believe that someday her husband would decide what to do with her and end this limbo. At the very least, some day FitzRoger would want to visit his castle.

  At least he would find it in good order.

  She threw herself into the work at Cleeve with a vengean
ce, trying desperately to make days pass faster than nature allowed, and hoping that her husband might be mellowed by her effort and competence.

  She put more looms to work, and organized the still rooms and larders more efficiently. She ensured that all was ready for the winter stores, and set some men to whitewashing the hall to make it brighter.

  Every time she walked though the plain hall she thought of ordering flowers painted on the walls, and smiled sadly.

  Then, two weeks after her arrival at Cleeve, a spark of rebellious mischief stirred in Imogen’s mind, and she did just that.

  She had the Cleeve scribe, who knew something of illustrating, make a simple design, then worked with some of the men to use dyes to tint the whitewash. Soon after, the men were copying the design all over the walls.

  Renald came in as she was directing the workmen. His mouth fell open. “Imogen . . .”

  He shook his head. “Flowers. Pink flowers.”

  “It will brighten the place considerably,” she said. “I think the messenger to Carrisford should see our work here before he leaves.”

  Renald gaped again, but then a trace of admiration lit his eyes. “Ah, little flower, you are either mad or splendid. Quite possibly both.”

  Imogen spent the day in a nervous frenzy, anticipating her husband’s response.

  The messenger returned that evening with Father Wulfgan.

  Response, retaliation, or mere coincidence?

  The priest stalked into the hall and scanned it with a withering glance. “Daughter in Christ!” he declared. “You have done a terrible thing!”

  Imogen heard herself say, “I don’t think the flowers are that bad,” and suppressed a nervous giggle.

  “On your knees!” thundered the outraged priest. “You are a rebellious, undutiful imp of the devil!”

  Imogen almost obeyed, but she stopped herself. “Perhaps we should talk in the solar, Father,” she said, and led the way without a backward glance.

  Somewhat to her surprise, Wulfgan was behind her when she arrived there, but as soon as the door was closed he began again. “You have sinned most grievously, daughter.”

  Imogen clasped her hands demurely. “In what way, Father?” She honestly wasn’t sure which of her many crimes would be most heinous in Wulfgan’s eyes.