Dark Champion

by Jo Beverley

  Such times were over, however. She put aside the empty bowl and sat up straighter. It was time to assert herself as Lady of Carrisford. The first thing was to see if she could walk.

  “Martha,” she said, “let’s see if we can get these bandages off.”

  “Oh, my lady. Do you think that’s wise? Master said—”

  “Lord FitzRoger,” Imogen corrected sharply, “if you must quote him at all.”

  The woman’s eyes opened wide, but she said, “Lord FitzRoger told us they were hurt right badly and the monk who tended them said to keep off them.”

  “He said no such thing,” Imogen declared. “I want to see how they’re healing.” She reached forward and began to untie the bandages herself. Muttering, Martha came to help.

  When they came to the end they were stuck. “There, see?” said the woman triumphantly. “They need longer.”

  Imogen, on the other hand, was touching her wounds and deciding they weren’t too bad after all. The worst blisters, still red and raw, were on the sides of her feet where the knotted thongs had rubbed. Those on the soles were healing fast.

  “Soak them off,” she said. When the woman opened her mouth to argue, Imogen gave her such a glare that she hastily did as she was bid.

  With a bowl of warm water and patience, Imogen was soon free of bandages. She tentatively put her weight on her feet, then smiled. They were virtually painless. She walked across the room, delighting in mobility, once taken for granted. She had bruises and aches in other places, but none that she couldn’t ignore.

  “You still can’t put shoes on,” said Martha rather smugly.

  “Do I have any shoes left?” Imogen asked.

  It appeared she had a few. The silk slippers were gone, but the leather shoes had proved too difficult to destroy. It was soon clear, however, that Martha was right and Imogen could not bear them. They immediately rubbed on raw, weeping flesh.

  “I’ll go barefoot,” Imogen declared.

  “My lady!”

  “Not a word!” Imogen commanded. “I refuse to skulk here in my own castle waiting for someone to come and carry me around like a babe. Now,” she went on, “let’s see if there are any clothes still wearable.” Imogen was determined to appear before the people of the castle as mistress.

  First, Imogen had Martha wash her hair properly, then, as the light brightened into daylight, she and Martha sifted through the remains of her beautiful garments. Imogen felt like weeping at the sight of her favorite gowns ripped to pieces, some even soiled with urine and feces, but she wouldn’t allow herself that kind of weakness. Some could be patched and mended.

  Martha and Imogen set to work and soon they had made some garments decent, if not restored to their former elegance.

  Imogen was happy enough to discard her borrowed coarse clothing and put on a fine shift and a tawny linen kirtle, embroidered at neck and hem with gold thread. Over it she put a light tunic of rust red silk, with bands of white and red at hem, cuff, and neck. Her jeweled girdles were all gone and so she cut a sash from a ruined gown of brown samite and bound it around her waist, puffing the shimmering silk into elegant draping above it.

  “There,” she said triumphantly. “Do I not look like the lady of the castle?”

  “Indeed you do,” said a mocking voice.

  Imogen spun around to see Bastard FitzRoger studying her.

  Chapter 6

  If she looked the lady, he surely looked the lord. Where had he obtained such fine clothes? Was he deliberately trying to beat her at her own game?

  He was leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded. His tunic was of heavy dark green silk, finely worked in gold and black. The sleeves ended at his elbows, but he wore rich golden bracelets on each wrist. A leather belt was buckled with gold, and his knife hung in an engraved gold sheath. Of course he wore his heavy golden ring. For the first time he looked like a powerful lord. Imogen resented her own lack of bullion, and looked closely to check that none that he wore was familiar.

  No, it all appeared to be his own.

  An impressive collection of adornment, carelessly worn.

  There was its equal and better in Carrisford’s treasure chests, though, and Imogen itched to get to it and put this man in his place. “As soon as I can reach the king,” she said firmly, “I am going to complain of Warbrick and get my jewelry back.”

  A lazy smile creased his eyes. “I’ll give you some if you want.”

  “No thank you. I prefer my own.”

  “Warbrick will deny having any of it.”

  “How can he do that? Half the country will recognize it as soon as it appears.”

  He pushed off from the jamb and entered the room. “He’ll have it melted down. If necessary he’ll throw it in the ocean. He’ll do anything rather than give it back to you after you thwarted him.”

  That was dismaying, but again Imogen felt warm pride at the notion that she had thwarted Warbrick. It had been a hard path, set with difficult choices, but she had traveled it. Now, all she had to do was rid herself of her escort—yes, that’s how she would think of him, her escort—and rebuild her life.

  Her “escort” turned to Martha, and at a gesture the woman curtsied her way out. Imogen’s pretty bubble popped and the truth was laid clear. This man was more than escort; he’d risked his life and that of his men for her, and was now an unpredictable force in her home.

  “You must have other jewels,” he said.

  That snapped her wits back to the main point. He was sniffing on the trail of the treasure. No wonder he was being so pleasant. Well, she might be a half-wit at times, but she wasn’t as foolish as that. “No, I don’t,” she lied.

  He walked toward her. Imogen stopped herself from retreating. “The jewels given Imogen of Carrisford by her father are famous. You kept them all in your chamber?”

  “Yes.”

  Cool fingers gripped her chin. “Even if you were so foolish, your father was not.”

  “Unhand me, sirrah!”

  He did, but only to grip her shoulders. His emerald eyes blazed down at her. “Are you determined not to trust me? If your jewels are hidden in the secret passageways, there are a dozen men who know those ways now. I wouldn’t trust most of them with a shilling, never mind a small fortune.”

  “They’re your men,” she retorted. “Doubtless they take their standards from their master.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Are you challenging me?” he asked softly.

  It took effort, but Imogen kept her chin up and said, “Yes.”

  And meant it.

  Something flashed in his eyes that sent a shiver straight through her. “You are a foolish child.”

  “So it would appear. I went to you for help. I’m learning fast, though.”

  He forced her slightly closer. Thin linen and silk did nothing to protect her body from his hard warmth, and her breathing fractured. . . .

  “What are you learning?” he asked softly.

  Imogen was no longer having to fight to meet his gaze. Rather, she could not look away. His eyes, she discovered, were not particularly unkind; they were almost warm. . . .

  Fool, she berated herself, and tore her eyes away. “Not to trust men,” she snapped.

  He let her go and stepped away as if she were nothing. He turned to face her. “Am I supposed to have been your teacher?”

  Imogen refused to answer.

  “In what way have I proved untrustworthy, Lady Imogen?”

  Her wanton body wanted that moment of warmth, of closeness, back. Imogen hated the wanting. Moreover she couldn’t think of an accusation to make in answer to his challenge. She suspected him of many things, but his behavior thus far had been exemplary.

  She was forced to resort to history. “You went to Castle Cleeve to help your brother. Then, oh so conveniently, he died.”

  His face hardened. “Don’t make accusations, Ginger, unless you’re willing to back them with your life. That’s merely gossip.”

  “But it’s
true.”

  He studied her, hands on hips. “You think I intend take Carrisford from you?”

  Imogen didn’t know for sure, but only decisive statements got through to this man. “Yes,” she said.

  He raised a brow. “Then you were foolish to come to me, weren’t you?”

  “I didn’t know you then.”

  “And now you do?”

  “Yes. You’re hard, ruthless, and take whatever you want.”

  He smiled coldly and stepped closer again. “Then aren’t you a little foolish to be throwing down the gauntlet? Perhaps I want you.”

  Imogen’s nerve broke. She retreated a few steps, desperately wanting her paunch back. “You don’t.”

  His smile widened but didn’t warm. “Perhaps I find angry little cats desirable.” A few more smooth steps and she was pressed against the wall with him barring any escape.

  “I’ll scream,” she warned.

  He merely raised one sardonic brow. The castle was full to bursting with his men.

  “You won’t rape me,” she said desperately. “I’d tell the king and you’d pay the price.”

  “I don’t rape,” he said quite gently, and there was that touch of warmth in his face again. “Many men want you, Ginger, and for more than your castle. You’re very beautiful, you know, and your hair . . .”

  She and Martha had not yet formed Imogen’s hair into plaits, and his eyes traveled its silky thickness down her body. Imogen felt her knees weaken, and it wasn’t with fear.

  He leaned his arms on the wall on either side of her. Imogen found she felt strangely encompassed rather than trapped. Her heart was racing and dizziness was fogging her wits. She knew she shouldn’t let him do this, and yet, and yet . . .

  “Stop it,” she whispered.

  “Stop what?” he whispered back.

  She stared at him and he lowered his lips gently to hers. They were soft and warm. Why had she thought they would be cold and hard?

  He angled his head slightly and kissed her more firmly. Imogen raised her hands to push him away, but instinct took over and her hands slid up to rest on his shoulders—rock-hard shoulders, but flesh-warm beneath the silk.

  His lips moved gently, caressing hers. She had never been kissed like this before. She liked it more than she had thought she would.

  His tongue came out and ran along her lips like spice and fire. She gasped. His tongue moved in to run along the inside of her lips.

  Imogen jerked back. “You mustn’t! This is a dread sin!”

  “Is it?” he queried. There was genuine warm humor in him now. His right hand moved to gather a handful of her hair and cradle her head. His thumb stroked down her cheek like fire. “It’s not so evil to kiss, Imogen.”

  “Father Wulfgan says it is. . . .” Imogen knew she had to stop this before something terrible happened. The chaplain had warned her that such kisses led to lewd touching; lewd touching led to lust.

  And lust led straight to the fires of hell.

  Surely it was a brush with the fires of hell that had her so burning hot. . . .

  She ducked from between his arms and put the width of the room between them.

  FitzRoger made no attempt to stop her but merely turned to lean against the wall, arms crossed. “Is he a scrawny priest with crippled hands? The one trying to impose penances on us for taking lives?”

  She nodded and put a hand over her mouth. “Oh, but he’ll give me terrible penances. I’ll be on my knees for a week. All this killing over me. Letting you kiss me. And pretending to be . . .” She trailed off and eyed him nervously.

  “I knew it was false, Ginger.”

  That hurt her pride. “I don’t believe you.”

  “I don’t lie. Or only when it’s absolutely necessary.”

  “How did you know, then?”

  “After your adventure yesterday, it was knocked out of place. I’d wondered before. It seemed very unlikely.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  He shrugged. “I was interested to see how long you could keep up the pretense. It was a cunning disguise, well carried out. When I first saw you I really thought you were going to give birth any minute. Another idea of your seneschal’s, I suppose.”

  “No,” Imogen said proudly. “It was mine. He just helped.”

  FitzRoger’s brows raised and he gave a nod which was an accolade.

  “How is Siward?” she challenged.

  “I’ve sent for him.” He pushed off from the wall and walked toward her. “You’ve done very well, you know, whoever’s was the guiding hand. You escaped from Warbrick and suffered that disgusting disguise. At least,” he said with a twitch of his lips, “it disgusted me. You walked till your feet were in shreds and still had spirit to stand up to me—figuratively, if not literally. Yes, for an untried girl, you’ve done very well.”

  Imogen felt a new warmth start in her toes and spread up her body until it was a rosy flush in her cheeks. Pure, delicious pride. “I was terrified,” she admitted shyly. “I hated all that dirt. I hated being so alone and without protection. I hated having to make decisions. I just wanted to throw myself on your mercy and let you take care of everything.”

  “We all get terrified, and once we learn to be clean we hate dirt. Some decisions never become easy. You did very well.”

  He really wasn’t such a bad man, after all. “Were you terrified in the passageways?” she asked gently.

  All warmth fled and his eyes widened. “What?”

  “You fear close spaces. Sir William told me.”

  His eyes turned cold. “Did he? He exaggerated. Do you wish to come down to the hall for breakfast? Shall I carry you?”

  Imogen shivered and knew better than to mention what Martha had said about him being sick. “I wish to attend mass,” she said quickly. She certainly needed all the holy guidance available. “I want to go to the chapel and pray for the dead as I wait for Father Wulfgan.”

  “It’ll be a long wait. I’ve thrown your chaplain out.”

  “You’ve what?”

  “I’ll not have such a guilt-mongerer about my men. I’ll find you a more suitable replacement.”

  Heat roared into Imogen. The heat of rage. “Get him back!” she snapped. “This is my castle, FitzRoger, and he is my priest!”

  He didn’t even blink. “I am your defender, and I must do what’s best for my men.”

  Imogen leaned forward. “You doubtless want a priest who’ll pander to your evil ways,” she snarled, “and blink at all your wicked mischief. But I’ll have Father Wulfgan back and make sure he calls fire and brimstone down on your black heart!”

  He stood there unmoved, and even amused.

  He was ignoring her.

  Imogen swung back and hit him with all the force she could command.

  The sound of her hand on his face seemed to echo and the mark flared there. His face went utterly still, his eyes wide and emerald cold.

  He, the agile warrior, had made no move to evade the blow.

  Imogen couldn’t breathe. He’d kill her. . . .

  Then he relaxed. It was nothing distinct, just an easing throughout his whole body. “You must be allowed some powers, I suppose,” he said. “But I give you fair warning, do anything like that in public and you’ll rue it bitterly.”

  With that he turned and left. Imogen collapsed, legs atremble, relieved to still be alive. She’d never hit a man before in her life. Of course, she’d never encountered a man like Bastard FitzRoger, and her father would have murdered any man who so much as looked boldly at Imogen of Carrisford.

  This one had kissed her. Her breathing wavered at the remembered magic of his lips on hers. It had been uncommonly sweet. He had seemed quite different then—warmer, gentler.

  Then it had all evaporated when she’d spoken of his fear in the passageways. She supposed a man would not like it known he was afraid of such a thing. She understood that.

  Then he’d told her he’d thrown out her priest.


  Her mind began to clear. She moved beyond dalliance and pique to consider his parting words about “powers,” and “authority.”

  What had he meant, “allowed some powers”? And what authority should not be challenged? Who was in control of Carrisford?

  Did he think a kiss and a few kind words could buy her and her castle? She laughed out loud. He doubtless thought just that, but he wouldn’t make much progress when his benign mask slipped at every little thing to reveal the cold, hard tyrant underneath.

  With a start, she realized he had not said anything about getting Father Wulfgan back. When next they met she would insist on it.

  That would show who commanded in Carrisford.

  FitzRoger went through the linked rooms that led to the majestic wide staircase which ran straight down the side of the great hall. Carrisford Castle was a magnificent building, far more sophisticated than any other he had seen in England. He wouldn’t mind incorporating some of the elegancies here into Cleeve one day when he had time and funds for it.

  Funds made him think of the heiress and smile slightly.

  A spirited creature, and one with brains when she remembered to use them. But pampered to death. Still, he’d been honest when he said she had done well, especially for one so protected all her life.

  He entered the hall, which had an unusual vaulted ceiling, brightly painted walls, and a lot of narrow windows. With the shutters back in this fine weather, they allowed in the sunlight to make the room warm and bright.

  The soldier in him said they were unnecessary and hazardous, but he liked the way they brightened the room. The hall at Cleeve was always gloomy.

  The room had been cleared of the more obvious signs of carnage and looked very fine to him, but he knew from the comments of the servants that it fell far short of its former glory. There had been embroidered hangings, and displays of arms, and gold and silver on the sideboard shelves. The tablecloths had all been of woven patterns or embroidered.

  He’d seen the weaving sheds in the bailey where the looms and frames stood idle for lack of the women to work them. There weren’t that many dead, so they must be around somewhere. Presumably they could re-create the simpler hangings, though he suspected the finer ones had been imported from Italy and the East.