Dark Champion
Page 37
When she came to herself she was limp and drenched with sweat. Her heart still pounded. “I’m like a goblet shattered into pieces,” she whispered.
His hands soothed her, though they themselves trembled. “You’re quite whole, dearest one, and remarkably, so am I.”
She closed her eyes to absorb the trembling memories of her body’s ecstasy, and relive them. “I think I screamed rather loudly. Why didn’t you stop me?”
“I wanted everyone to hear you scream. If they think I’m torturing you, so much the better.”
She opened her eyes to frown at him, but then just sighed and burrowed closer to his wonderful body. “I missed you so. Don’t they know that was a far worse punishment than even a beating?”
He tugged her hair so she had to look at him. “You thought that was a punishment? Then I punished myself. Even when I wanted to throttle you, I wanted you here to be throttled.”
“Then why did you keep us apart?”
His hand explored the pleasure points of her back, touched gently on the sting where he had had to strike her. “Once you were here, I knew I’d have to deal with it, and there was always the chance it could come to combat. I couldn’t risk fighting for you until I was fit again.”
“I thought of running away to save you from that,” she said. “And from offending the king.”
He shook his head. “You are not supposed to try to save me, remember?” But he was smiling. “I guessed. That’s why I made sure you had no money, and nothing you could turn into money.”
“Oh, I thought . . .”
“You thought what?”
“My morning gift,” she said shyly.
He slid from under her and went to his chest to take out the girdle. “You thought there was some symbolism? No.” He clasped the girdle around her waist. “You are mine for all time, Imogen, never doubt that.”
The words and the action were perfect, and yet there was something . . . something suggested by the way his eyes did not meet with hers.
Anxious to make all right, Imogen scrambled out of bed and ran naked to her own chest, the ivory and amethyst girdle clacking merrily. She opened the box and took out the leather pouch. “This is my gift to you,” she said, almost shyly. “I never had the chance to give it to you.”
He spilled out the emerald chain. “By the Rood . . . !” He was clearly pleased, and yet the shadows gathered more darkly, frightening her. What was wrong?
He dropped the chain over his head so the smooth stones glittered against his brown, muscular chest.
At last he looked at her, but his eyes were serious.
Imogen sat cross-legged on the bed before him. “Ty, what is it?”
He smiled, eyes sparkling like the jewels with pleasure. “You are using my name.”
“Yes.” Imogen wasn’t deflected. “What is worrying you?”
He touched the large central emerald, then met her eyes. “I took back your promise to the men who carried the treasure. They were well rewarded, but not given all they carried. That would have been madness, and they were as happy as not to be relieved of such responsibility.”
“Very well,” said Imogen. “But I would have given it all for your safety. I hope you know that.”
“I know it, and am still amazed.”
“So,” she said. “What else bothers you?”
He smiled ruefully. “You can read me like a book, can’t you? I have given Henry one half of the Carrisford Treasure.”
“Oh.” Imogen wasn’t pleased, but she was surprised by how light the displeasure was. “Well, I suppose after the trick we played, the whole world knew about it.”
“The king and I knew about it months ago. I came to this part of the country with instructions to win your hand one way or the other. The understanding was that half the treasure would eventually go into the king’s coffers. That was the price I was to pay for you and your lands.”
“You were to buy me with my own money?”
“Yes.”
“And when I came to you at Cleeve, you were preparing to seize me, weren’t you?”
“Yes. But for your protection. In the end, though, Henry would have given you to me.”
Imogen looked down and fiddled with the ivory girdle. “I suppose I shouldn’t ask,” she said, looking up. “But will you please give me your word that you had no hand in the death of Gerald of Huntwich?”
He was surprised. “Your first betrothed? I assure you, Imogen, I had no part in it, or your father’s death, but it was Huntwich’s death that started Henry and I planning. It was too good an opportunity to miss. It’s possible that Lancaster poisoned him, or even Warbrick and Belleme, but it could have been a natural death.”
“Are there any more secrets?” she asked warily.
“Not of mine,” he said, and the shadows fled.
Imogen smiled radiantly and took his strong, callused hands, his warrior’s hands. “Nor of mine. So, what does the future hold for us, my mighty champion?”
He shook his head at the name, but said, “Under God’s will, peace in England. A long reign and strong sons for Henry, so that we and our children may live our lives as sweetly as this moment.”
He leaned forward and kissed her. “Lives guided always by love.”
She hardly dared to hope. “Are you saying you love me?”
“God’s breath, Imogen! Why else didn’t I whip you soundly down there?”
Imogen whooped with delight and set to tickling her mighty champion to death.
Author’s Note
A historical novel such as this is a blend of fact and fancy. The historical events are true, but the only real person on stage in this book is King Henry, and I have tried to be as true to his complex character as I can.
Robert of Belleme really lived and terrorized his part of England. He had at least two brothers, one of whom was called Arnulf, but little is known about the man. Arnulf of Warbrick, therefore, is mostly my own invention, though I doubt he is much worse than the real man.
Lancaster became a noble and important holding in future centuries, but at this time it was not a title. There is no link between my Earl of Lancaster and the future ones.
Imogen made frequent mention of “paladins,” likening FitzRoger to one—somewhat to his irritation.
The word paladin is ancient, and means one who lives in the palace: in other words, one close to the king.
It was applied particularly, however, to the twelve closest followers of the great King Charlemagne, who reigned in France from 768 to 814—heroes somewhat like the Knights of the Round Table. Unlike Arthur of England, there is no doubt Charlemagne existed and reigned, and did so magnificently, but the stories which grew up about his paladins are mostly myth.
Despite that, the word came to mean a truly noble knight, one who fought for right, not for his own interests. You can see why it made FitzRoger uncomfortable to be described that way.
And what does the future hold?
FitzRoger and Imogen were destined for more than thirty years of stable rule in England. Henry I was in many ways a cruel king but he was firm, and established the rule of law throughout his land.
He had many illegitimate children, but unfortunately only one legitimate son, Henry, who died when his vessel—the White Ship—sank en route from England to France. Henry tried to make his vassals accept the rule of his daughter, Matilda, but his nephew, Stephen, was more favored by the barons.
Thus began a civil war which was to trouble England for nearly twenty years.
Let us not think of that, however, but of the thirty-four years of peace ahead for Cleeve and Carrisford.
I have written other novels connected to this one, the most direct being Lord of Midnight, about Renald de Lisle, which was published by NAL in 1998. It is still available. If your bookstore doesn’t have it, they can order it for you at no extra charge.
Lord of My Heart, reissued by NAL in October 2002, is about FitzRoger’s uncle, Aimery de Gaillard. That should b
e easily available. FitzRoger makes an appearance in The Shattered Rose, which is currently out of print.
I also write romances set in the Georgian and Regency periods, and I hope the sample from my next new book, St. Raven, will make you want to read more. That book will be available soon. It follows Hazard, which was published in May 2002 and should be easy to find. You could read that while waiting for Tris and Cressida’s adventures.
You will find a list of all my books available from NAL in the front of this book, and more details on all my work on my Web page at www.jobev.com. I enjoy hearing from readers. You can e-mail me at jo@jobev.com, or write to me c/o Meg Ruley, The Rotrosen Agency, 318 East 51st Street, New York, NY 10022. I appreciate a SASE to make a reply easier.
All best wishes,
Jo