Dark Champion

by Jo Beverley

  “To strike down your husband, your lord in God’s sight!”

  “You never approved of him,” she pointed out.

  “He is still your lord! God’s representative for you on Earth. Your holy duty is to obey and cherish him.”

  “But I was cherishing him,” Imogen protested. “If I hadn’t struck him down he would have been killed.”

  It occurred to her that if her exile here was designed to turn her into a proper submissive woman again, it was failing miserably. Was Wulfgan going to report back to FitzRoger?

  “Death is not to be feared, my child,” he retorted. “Only dishonor.”

  Imogen lowered her eyes to think on this statement. Was it possible that FitzRoger was using Wulfgan as a messenger?

  “I am willing to do penance for my sin,” she said at last, “though I fear I cannot repent.”

  “You wicked child,” he whispered. “How can you be so lost to all sense of your duty to your lord and to God? I have told him,” he declared. “I have told him again and again that he must beat you publicly and severely, both to reclaim his honor and to save your sinful soul.”

  Imogen swallowed but managed to say, “My husband’s honor is not in doubt.”

  “He is a laughingstock if he does not punish you!”

  “It is widely known, then?”

  “Could it be otherwise?”

  Imogen supposed not. But still, she raised her chin proudly. “No matter what he does, FitzRoger could never be a laughingstock.”

  Wulfgan stared at her. “You are deep in sin.”

  “Am I?” asked Imogen. “And what of you, siding with Lancaster?”

  “Lancaster?” queried Wulfgan. “I favored the earl over the upstart. What has that to say to anything?” But for the first time ever he looked unsure of himself.

  Imogen realized that FitzRoger must have managed to keep the earl’s wickedness secret. There were still men of Warbrick’s who could reveal it, but FitzRoger had doubtless taken care of them, too.

  How?

  Were they dead?

  There was no point in worrying about that now.

  She covered her error. “You were supporting the earl over my God-given husband.”

  Wulfgan’s fiery gaze wavered. “He was a more Godly man.”

  Imogen pressed her advantage. “But my duty was to my husband.”

  Unwise tack. Wulfgan was on firm ground again. “Aye, and yet you wickedly assaulted him! What will the world come to if women can strike their lords? Why should not anyone raise his hand against his better?”

  “I have said I am willing to do penance.” She certainly wasn’t looking forward to being beaten or flogged, but she could see a certain justice in it, and if it would wipe away her sin, she would almost welcome it. “Are you come to accompany me back to Carrisford, Father?” she asked hopefully.

  Wulfgan was taken aback. “I? No. I was presenting my views to Lord FitzRoger yet again, and he told me I would have more purpose preaching to the sinner, and ordered me here.”

  Imogen’s lips twitched. She could almost imagine the scene. Not a messenger then, she thought sadly, so much as a penance. But she detected a touch of humor in the gesture, which gave her hope.

  “What does FitzRoger do with his days?” she asked the priest.

  “What any man of his type does. There is work to do in administering the castle, and he trains with his men. I suppose,” he acknowledged sourly, “that it is such a man’s duty to hone his body as I hone my spirit.”

  “A paladin,” Imogen said softly, then shrugged. “Father, you are welcome here, but I suspect you would find it easier to hone your spirit at Grimstead monastery.”

  To her astonishment, Wulfgan nodded. “You may be right. I fear you are beyond me now, daughter. I fear for you, but cannot allow my soul to be imperiled by yours. I admit, too, that in listening to the Earl of Lancaster I may have been tempted by things of the world. I will build an anchorite’s cell by the walls of the monastery and live there in penance all my days.”

  “Good,” said Imogen, hiding her astonished relief. “Perhaps you would like to go there now?” she added hopefully.

  He nodded and sketched a sign of the cross in the air. “God guide you, daughter, though I fear you are lost.”

  Imogen saw him away down the road to Grimstead, wondering if such an easy victory would count with FitzRoger.

  She went in search of Renald. “When the next messenger goes, Renald, be sure he tells people at Carrisford that Father Wulfgan has gone to be an anchorite at Grimstead.” She couldn’t help a mischievous smile at the end.

  Renald shook his head. “And for your next miracle?”

  Imogen’s smile faded and she sighed. “I would like to turn myself into a true wife, but I don’t know the secret of it.”

  She climbed to the battlements and looked wistfully in the direction of Carrisford, though she couldn’t see it from where she stood. Her instinct told her that FitzRoger was no longer in a rage, but she could not be sure that he would ever send for her. Her courses had been and gone, so there would be no child to bind them.

  She was tempted to set out for Carrisford on her own initiative, sure that face-to-face they could achieve more than at a distance. She was not closely guarded. On the other hand, she wanted to convince FitzRoger that in most respects she would be dutiful and obedient.

  The next day’s messenger brought the news that the king was at Carrisford. Warbrick’s castle had been seized and razed, and all his men dispersed, those who had not been hanged for crimes. The messenger brought wild rumors of evil and torture found in that place, and Imogen suspected that most of them were true.

  “And what of Lord Warbrick’s death?” she asked the messenger. “What do they say of that?”

  The man’s eyes grew concerned. “They say the king is not pleased, lady. I am told he said he wanted no rough justice in his land.”

  Imogen retreated to her room with a whole new level of concern. She knew she had been floating on a trust that FitzRoger would never be really harsh with her. But the king? As FitzRoger had said, Henry’s first concern was his kingdom, and he would take whatever steps necessary—no matter how brutal—to impose the kind of order he wanted.

  A penitential life in a convent seemed very likely, and a few tears escaped. How could she live without seeing FitzRoger again?

  The next day, the messenger had little to report except that the king and FitzRoger had spent much time together in discussion, and that FitzRoger had practiced the sword with Sir William—a bout so fierce that all had gathered to watch, fearing it would come to death.

  Imogen didn’t need Renald’s sober face to tell her that boded no good.

  Early the next day, a troop of the king’s men bearing his banner came to escort Imogen of Carrisford back to her castle. They were led by a stone-faced older knight, Sir Thomas of Gillerton. He would say nothing of their purpose, and would not be drawn, but Imogen had to believe that she was being taken to face the king’s justice.

  And FitzRoger had nearly killed Sir William.

  Imogen turned in panic to Renald, and he took a steadying grip on her hands. “Ty will not let anything too terrible happen to you, Imogen.”

  “But that’s what I’m afraid of!” she gasped. “Will he oppose the king for my sake? I’ll cause his ruin!”

  A flicker of concern passed over Renald’s face before it was shielded. “I can’t believe even Henry would destroy Ty to avenge Warbrick.”

  “I could flee . . .”

  His grip became firm. “No, Imogen.” It was as absolute as any statement of FitzRoger’s.

  Imogen accepted it. It was time to face the consequences of her actions. But that “even Henry” tolled in her mind as she prepared for the journey.

  She would have to find some way to prevent this new disaster, to prevent FitzRoger from destroying himself in her cause.

  But at last, at long last, she would see him again.

  Chapte
r 20

  Despite everything, Imogen couldn’t help but smile when she set eyes upon Carrisford Castle in all its beauty, pennants flapping in the brisk breeze.

  Surrounded by her escort she rode through to the inner bailey, eyes roving in search of her husband. Surely, for better or worse, he would be here to meet her. Despite her eagerness, she couldn’t help wondering what he would think when he saw her. Her bruise was almost gone, and the cut was not too horrible now the scabs had come off, but her hair was still an unruly mop which her scarf could not disguise.

  But then the atmosphere brought more serious concerns to the front of her mind. Everyone—Carrisford servants and men-at-arms—looked up in solemn silence to stare at her as she rode by. She couldn’t decide if they were angry, horrified, or concerned about her, but no one smiled.

  Then one of the men spat into the dust. She swallowed fear; it was clear what he felt.

  Her heart began to pound and she looked around again for FitzRoger. She’d give anything for him to be here to meet her and lead her to her fate, even if he was about to flog her. He was not here, nor were any of his or the king’s knights other than Sir Thomas.

  He it was who came to help her dismount, and directed her gruffly up the stairs to the hall. Imogen looked up them, knowing that something terrible awaited, but she had no choice. She raised her chin and walked steadily up to meet her fate.

  At the top of the stairs there was a short passageway leading to the great hall doors. The doors were closed and guarded, but the men there swung them open at her approach to reveal a room full of sober, frowning men.

  Imogen swallowed as best her dry mouth would allow, and walked in.

  The king was sitting in the central place behind the great table, but Imogen sought FitzRoger. He was seated to one side of the table.

  She drank in every detail. He was in black—mourning? she wondered wildly—with no jewels other than his ring. He looked unmarked by their adventure. He returned her gaze unreadably, though she thought perhaps he frowned slightly.

  “Lady Imogen!” The king’s sharp voice brought her attention to him. “Approach us!”

  Imogen took a steadying breath and walked forward to stand before the table. She curtsied deeply to Henry.

  “Ha! So you know some proper behavior,” he said. “Imogen of Carrisford, you have only been granted a hearing before this assembly because of your unusual status as overlord of Carrisford, a status which may well be rescinded.”

  There wouldn’t be much point in being overlord of Carrisford if she were in a convent; Imogen could see that.

  “You are here,” said Henry, “to face two charges of assault upon my vassals. One being your lord and husband, whom you also took prisoner; the other being Lord Warbrick, whom you killed out of hand. What say you?”

  Imogen almost panicked. She’d never thought that her actions might be seen as attacks on the king’s vassals, therefore attacks on the king himself.

  Her knees weakened, but she gathered her strength. “I admit both acts, my liege, but neither was designed against Your Majesty.”

  A hiss rumbled through the room at her flat admission. Belatedly Imogen realized that she would have been wiser to give in to collapse, preferably in tears and begging for mercy. She could have claimed madness brought on by her sufferings. . . .

  She flicked a glance at FitzRoger, but he was completely masked. He was turning his ring, though.

  “Do you have any justification for your acts, woman?” the king demanded in exasperation. She wondered if he, too, would have preferred weeping repentance. Well, if that was the case they should have forewarned her.

  Imogen considered carefully, for she feared she was fighting for FitzRoger’s life as well as her own. Despite his impassivity, she knew in her heart, in her soul, that her husband would never stand by for her brutal punishment.

  “My Lord King,” she said at last. “As overlord of Carrisford, I had the right and duty of exacting vengeance against Lord Warbrick. He had assaulted my castle, killed my relatives and people, despoiled my property and land, and attempted to rape and kill me. Being a weak woman, I could not prevail against him single-handed, and so I used my troops as proxy, as is allowed.”

  “Not your troops, Lady Imogen. Your husband’s!”

  Imogen was framing a response when FitzRoger spoke. “By your leave, sire, that is not exactly so. By the marriage contract witnessed in this hall, my wife retains the suzerainty of Carrisford, and those men were Carrisford men.”

  There was an uneasy rustling, but no outrage. Was it possible, Imogen wondered, that FitzRoger was on her side? She didn’t dare look at him.

  “So,” said Henry, rapping his bejeweled fingers on the table, “the question is whether Imogen of Carrisford, as lord of this castle, had the right to visit summary justice upon Lord Warbrick, or whether she should have arrested him and brought him to trial.”

  Imogen hoped the two men were going to debate the subject for her, but it appeared not. Henry snapped, “Well, woman?”

  “My Lord FitzRoger thought summary justice was his right, Your Majesty, and so did I.”

  Now there was an outraged stirring and muttering in the room. Imogen was coming to believe that Father Wulfgan had been right: FitzRoger would have to beat her publicly to recover from this. In view of the situation she thought that might be to get off lightly.

  “But your husband would have offered Lord Warbrick fair combat,” Henry pointed out. “You gave your enemy no chance.”

  Imogen answered proudly, “If my husband had not been wounded, sire, his skill would have given Lord Warbrick no chance.” Too late, she realized such a spirited answer was unwise.

  Henry glared at her. “Are you not aware, woman, that the hand of God settles trial by combat? The weakest in the land could prevail against the mightiest if God were on his side.”

  It was like a door opening into sunlight, though Imogen almost hesitated to walk through it, it was so tempting. She took a deep breath. “Then surely, sire, God was on my side.”

  Another stir in the room, but not quite so malicious. Imogen thought she heard a chuckle, but she could have been mistaken. It occurred to her that none of the barons could contest her right to punish her enemies without weakening his own rights in such cases. In this matter, the men might incline more to her side than to the king’s.

  Imogen saw something flash in Henry’s eyes—anger or admiration? She was almost dizzy with the pressure of this situation. Perhaps she would collapse before them after all, and completely involuntarily.

  Henry’s fingers continued their irritated rap. “You have too clever a tongue, Imogen of Carrisford, and must be schooled. Now tell me, can you talk yourself out of your attack on your husband, too?”

  Does that mean I’ve talked myself out of the first charge? Imogen thought dazedly.

  “Well?” the king demanded.

  Imogen tried, but she found no clever words. “I thought he would die,” she said simply.

  Silence rounded the room as loud as cries.

  Henry leaned back. “You thought Lord FitzRoger unable to defeat Lord Warbrick? You just said otherwise.”

  A flickering glance at FitzRoger still told Imogen nothing. The mask was complete. She lowered her head. “I thought he misjudged the extent of his wounds, sire.” She knew there was no defense in any of this, and awaited judgment.

  The king surprised her. He addressed her husband. “My Lord FitzRoger, is your wife correct? Do you think Warbrick would have killed you in that duel?”

  “As always, sire, I put my trust in God,” said FitzRoger.

  Imogen risked a glance at him. Still as hard as black iron.

  “With hindsight,” persisted the king irritably, “do you think your wounds would have made victory by ability alone unlikely?”

  “Very unlikely,” said FitzRoger flatly. “I was without effective use of both arms and one leg.”

  Imogen wished she could risk a look around to see how
the men in the hall were taking this. They were the ones that mattered here. But she knew they would never accept the idea of a woman taking matters into her own hands so forcibly, even to save a man’s life.

  The king addressed the hall. “So. On the first charge, Lady Imogen contends that as overlord of Carrisford she had the right to seek vengeance against Lord Warbrick for the crimes committed against herself and her people. Does anyone speak against that?”

  Imogen allowed herself to hope. By phrasing it that way, Henry made it unlikely that any would object. In fact, the knights and barons would support a lord’s right to act in such cases, even if the lord were a woman.

  Henry took in the silence, and said, “So be it. But be it known that it is our intent that justice be fair and equal throughout this land. If Lord Warbrick had been other than he proved to be, if there had been any doubt as to his guilt, I would have spoken out today.”

  Imogen felt relief seep into her, and it was dangerous, for it weakened her. But the major charge, surely, was removed.

  “Now,” said Henry, “we must address the other charge. Lady Imogen does not deny that she attacked her husband, my vassal, and caused him to be made prisoner. Her excuse is that she was acting for his greater good. The implication is that she thought her husband unable to manage his affairs without her assistance. Despite this, Lord FitzRoger is inclined to be merciful and make her punishment light. Out of respect for his great services to us, we are willing to overlook any offense we might have been caused.”

  Imogen was hardly breathing.

  “But,” said the king, “does this matter go beyond his personal indulgence, and ours? Does anyone wish to speak to this?”

  There was a positive roar of voices, and Imogen winced.

  Henry brought order on proceedings and the men stepped forward in turn. The words differed, but the message was the same: women could not be allowed to overrule men, nor to take charge of their lives, even for the man’s protection. Were men as infants, to be kept from sharp blades and the fire?