Dark Champion

by Jo Beverley

  There was a rumble of ayes.

  “So be it,” said Father Wulfgan in disgust, which wasn’t part of the correct procedure. “If you must, get on with it.”

  Imogen looked around and saw that the king was fighting laughter at this performance. She bit her lip. She wasn’t used to finding Father Wulfgan funny, and it felt like a sin. She glanced at her husband-to-be, but he was looking at the priest in that cool, assessing way that boded no good. Any inclination to laugh disappeared.

  The king took Imogen’s cold right hand, gave it a little squeeze, then placed it in FitzRoger’s right hand. Her husband’s touch was warm and firm. She then placed her left hand on top of both, making three arms of a cross. The cross was complete when his free hand came over to slip a plain gold ring onto her ring finger.

  “With this ring I thee wed,” he said, “with this gold I thee honor, and with this dowry I thee endow.”

  And thank you for my castle back, Lord FitzRoger. Imogen would have liked dearly to avoid the next part, but stiffly she knelt and kissed his hand. “I submit myself to your authority, my lord husband.”

  Only then did she realize how hard it would be for her to rise again without hurting her feet. She looked up in instinctive appeal.

  He put his hands to her waist and lifted her smoothly to her feet. She knew his strength, but again it startled her, for he was not a massive man. He did not release her, but held her there against him. She could feel their bodies move together as they breathed, hear the faint rustle of his gold braid brushing against her silk. She looked up, wondering what he intended.

  He lowered his head and gave her the formal kiss, the lightest possible touching of his lips to hers.

  “Do you think the old crow intends to bless us?” he asked against her lips, and with the glint of cynical amusement in his eyes.

  Trust Bastard FitzRoger to poke fun at a man of God. “That is no way to speak of a holy priest.”

  “It’s a perfect way to speak of this one,” he replied, and stepped away from her.

  It appeared Father Wulfgan did intend to bless the union, for he stood ready, hand held high. The married couple turned to face the priest, who looked as if he had swallowed gall.

  “It is better to marry than to burn,” he intoned. “Marriage is ordained for those who fail to find true union with Christ through blessed chastity. It has some virtue, however, in that through your unclean union you may create those better able to serve God in purity. Pray for it.”

  Imogen heard some stifled guffaws from the nearby men and flashed an alarmed look around. The king was red in the face, but whether from anger or the desire to laugh she was unsure. She didn’t dare look at FitzRoger.

  “You are not necessarily consigned to the fires of hell,” admitted the priest. “You may still live your lives in a manner pleasing to God. The most noble way is to herewith dedicate yourselves to holy chastity within marriage, perhaps more noble than the life of the cloister, for you must deal with the devil’s urgings every day.”

  He left a hopeful silence, then sighed. “Alas, few are capable of that great trial. Take care, then, to use your body’s lust only for procreation. Control it, lest it control you. Be abstinent on Fridays and Sundays, on all holy eves, in Lent and in Advent. Avoid one another whenever possible for fear of the devil’s urging and come not together once a child begins to grow. Above all, avoid pleasure in your carnality, for that will surely lead to the birth of monsters.”

  He gave them a final glare, now more sorrowful than angry, made a sign of the cross, and sang out, “God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, bless these young people and sow in their hearts the seed of eternal life.”

  With that he stalked into his chapel and the door clanged shut behind him.

  “By the Rood,” said the king. “If the Archbishop of Canterbury had been of that stamp at my wedding, I fear for the future of the country. I’d have been terrified to get Matilda with child.”

  “They venerate Edward for that saintly penance,” FitzRoger said dryly. “You missed your chance at sainthood, Hal.”

  “I pass it by happily every night I am with my dear Mald.” The king gave Imogen a hearty kiss that left her dizzy, and FitzRoger a buffet that almost toppled him. “And that’s how it’s done, my friend. That kiss you gave her makes me think that sour-mouthed priest has weakened your brain, or at least the parts of you most needed tonight! Going to take up holy chastity after all?”

  “Not at all,” said Fitzroger, rubbing his arm. “But my carnal urges can wait while my empty stomach can’t.” He swept up Imogen into his arms and dumped her in her chair. “To the feast!” he declared.

  The procession circled the bailey before reentering the keep. The people cheered, waved hats and scarves, and threw corn for fertility. Children and animals ran around in all directions. Whistles and drums came out to make music.

  A woman ran up with a chaplet of celandine and forget-me-not and crowned Imogen. “Bless you and your lord this happy day, lady!”

  Imogen’s heart began to dance and her doubts eased. No matter what difficulties were to come, she had done her duty by her people and they were truly happy. Her father’s death had left these people as well as herself unprotected. Death and suffering had followed. Now, however, because of her marriage they had a new lord, a strong lord, one able to protect them.

  Her people had seen FitzRoger at work in Carrisford for the past three days, first fighting, then clearing up the mess, and they were happy with her choice.

  She even gave the new lord a tentative smile and received a cool one in return.

  At the base of the steps which led up to the great hall of the keep, FitzRoger’s men were gathered. They unsheathed their swords and saluted. He took a pouch from his belt and poured a stream of silver pennies into her hand.

  “Largesse,” he said. “Since you won’t use your own money.”

  Some of her happiness drained away. The treasure again. He probably thought this marriage entitled him to help himself from the strongboxes, but that was for Carrisford, not Cleeve. She looked down and saw the bracelets on her wrists. She would return these ornaments once she had her own. She should have thought, however, to make provision for this rite.

  She threw the coins into the crowd and he did the same. The cheers and blessings intensified.

  “Many children, and sturdy!” called a woman waving a gleaming coin.

  “God bless you both!” cried another.

  “A boy in a ninemonth!”

  “Aye!” called a man. “Pound her well tonight, master! Fill her up quick!”

  Other lewd suggestions followed.

  The rude, raucous shouts swelled up, calling cheerfully of lust and violation. Imogen began to feel as if she were drowning in them. The jovial faces became screaming maws, attacking villains. Then they became Warbrick’s men laughing at their lord’s rape and awaiting their turn. . . .

  She only became aware that her hands were white on the chair when FitzRoger began to prize them off. “Let go,” he said as a quiet command. “I insist on carrying you up these stairs, wife, stubborn pride or not.”

  She was aware only of blind panic, of a desire to escape him and the marriage bed. “I can’t . . .”

  Then she was in his arms. “Yes, you can,” he said. When she squirmed he added shortly, “Don’t fight me here, Imogen, or I’ll drop you on your sweet behind.”

  She surrendered. It wasn’t his fault God had cursed womankind with such horrible duties, though she couldn’t understand why everyone was so jovial about it. Funereal solemnity would seem more appropriate than cheers.

  She would dearly like some sympathy.

  She wearily rested her cheek against the soft velvet of his tunic, but a bit of gold braid scratched her. She jerked away. “That’s typical,” she snapped.

  “What?”

  “You do nothing but hurt me.”

  He looked down with a frown, and licked quickly at the sting on her cheek. “I made you bl
eed already? And I will do so again tonight. You’re doubtless right in all your misgivings.”

  She shuddered at this heartless confirmation of her fears.

  “Stop shivering, Imogen,” he said with more than a touch of impatience. “It’s a woman’s fate to bleed on her wedding night. Others have survived it, and so will you. If you’ll just stop squabbling with me, you’ll find this marriage quite tolerable.”

  She glared up at him. “I am not a child, FitzRoger. Stop treating me as one.”

  “I will always treat you as you deserve,” he said, and it silenced her. She very much feared she was behaving like a child, but she was so frightened. Frightened of everything, but especially of the marriage bed. She shivered again as they moved into the cool of the hall.

  He settled her in a chair behind the high table. “You are quivering like an aspen,” he remarked with real concern. “I thought you had more spirit than this.”

  Imogen looked down at the table, covered now by rich cloths. “I have unfortunate memories, my lord. Is that surprising? Doubtless in time they will pass.” It was particularly bitter fate, however, that had her eat her bridal feast off the table upon which her maid had been so brutally violated.

  She thought she felt the brush of his hand against her shoulder, but perhaps she was mistaken. When she looked up, he was moving toward the bench on her left hand as the king took the chair on her right.

  Imogen looked around and had to admit that the feast appeared to have been well done. All the tables were piled with bread and a rich assortment of dishes. It was almost as fine as before Warbrick, but it bothered her that it was a strange finery, not truly that of her home.

  Her home, her past, was gone.

  Some traces of the familiar remained, however. Gray-haired Siward came forward to bow to the king and to her. Imogen smiled and reached out a hand to him. “You look well, Siward. How happy I am to see you.”

  “I’m well enough, lady.” He grinned. “And better for seeing you in your place with a strong man by your side!”

  “Thank you, my man,” said the king with a wink.

  The seneschal went red with confusion and retreated quickly.

  Imogen glanced at FitzRoger, the strong man by her side. People seemed to think she was pleasing herself this day, that she should be happy. She wanted to stand and scream at them that she was making a sacrifice for them, one equally as bad as the walk to Cleeve, and this time for a lifetime.

  Oh, stop it, she told herself. There’s no longer any point in what-ifs and regrets. You’ve made your bed, Imogen, and will have to lie on it.

  Thoughts of bed made her feel sick.

  She grasped the ruby glass by her place and drained it.

  “We were supposed to have shared the loving cup,” FitzRoger said dryly, and summoned a server to refill the handsome goblet. He put his lips to the place where hers had been and drained it in turn. “If we can’t share,” he commented, “at least we can be equal.”

  “We are hardly that.”

  “Are we not? Then entertain the king, wife, while I make do with surly Sir William. Proof of our inequality, I grant you.”

  Imogen was astonished. He thought she was saying he was her inferior? She remembered calling him a nobody; had it drawn blood? She hoped so, even though it was a weapon without an edge. In terms of property brought to this marriage it was true, but it was power that counted, not wealth, and he had all the power.

  “That reminds me,” she said, and pulled out the key. “You had best keep this, my lord. I have nowhere secure to carry it.”

  He took the key and turned it in his fingers. “No thanks for my paltry offerings?”

  Imogen felt her face flame. “Of . . . of course,” she stammered. “It was good of you to think of it.”

  “But they are not really up to the Carrisford standards? You must make allowances. I wasn’t expecting a bride quite so soon. I will commission something more worthy.”

  “There is no need,” said Imogen. “I have plenty . . .”

  “When you finally decide to open your treasure house,” he completed. “But you must at least allow me to give you a morning gift . . .”—his eyes held hers—“. . . in the morning.”

  Imogen swallowed. The morning gift would be a symbol of his dowry gift to her, but it would also be testimony that he was satisfied with his wife in all ways. She did intend to be acquiescent, but she wasn’t at all sure he would be satisfied.

  She turned with relief to the king.

  The king had brought his own musicians and was tapping a finger in time with the music. He, too, looked highly satisfied with events. Imogen pushed back a number of bitter comments she could make on the king’s care of her, and reminded herself that she was Lady of Carrisford and must be courteous to guests.

  As she washed her fingers in the bowl provided, she said, “I must thank you, sire, for coming to my aid.”

  The king too washed in the perfumed water, then allowed his attendant to dry his hands. “I came as soon as I heard of your plight, Lady Imogen. But it would have been too late, I fear, if you had not saved yourself and enlisted worthy help.”

  The first dishes were presented and the king selected a choice piece of fowl to place on her trencher. Imogen looked at it. Despite a day’s fasting, she wasn’t sure she could swallow solid food.

  “You think highly of Lord FitzRoger, sire.”

  “He is a trustworthy friend,” said Henry simply, chewing with relish, “and I have few enough of them. He will hold you safe. This is finely cooked.”

  Whether I want to be held or not. “He is very efficient,” Imogen admitted, referring as much to this feast as to anything.

  Henry laughed. “The very word! Efficient. He even kills efficiently.”

  Imogen’s appetite diminished even more. She had seen FitzRoger kill, and knew what the king meant. No question of correct knightly behavior, or of quarter, just expeditious slaughter.

  She shuddered. She had no doubt FitzRoger would slit her throat as dispassionately as he had dispatched that man in the bailey, did he have cause. How many men had he killed? Tens, hundreds? She threw off the macabre thought. A paladin had to be able to kill.

  “I am surprised Lord FitzRoger was not already betrothed elsewhere, sire,” she said, and attempted a nibble of the chicken.

  “Are you? Until recently he was a landless man, and said to be a bastard. He was my friend, but I was a landless man, too. We have both found good fortune, Lady Imogen, and good wives.” He toasted her and she felt obliged to smile.

  It was strained. Her taunt that FitzRoger was nobody had more edge than she’d thought. A glance to the side showed her FitzRoger engaged in talk. She wished she knew more of his history.

  Imogen spoke softly to the king. “For a landless man, he has done well.”

  “For a landless bastard, he has done remarkably well, and all by the use of his sword, lady. He won his knighthood by merit alone, and survived for years as a mercenary and tourney champion. You have gained one of the foremost soldiers of the age.”

  Imogen flicked another glance at her husband, but she was not really surprised by that description. She could believe that everything Tyron FitzRoger did, he would do well.

  “That’s why I want him strong in this part of the country,” Henry continued. “He came here with orders to secure Cleeve and make alliance with your father. Matters have turned out even better.”

  Imogen wanted to protest that dismissal of her father’s death and all that had followed, but she knew the king was looking at matters simply in the light of cold strategy. With his brother still likely to try to seize the Crown, Belleme engaged in insurrection, and the Welsh always restive, a loyal power base in the west was essential.

  Had FitzRoger made approaches to her father in the last months? It was likely, and she would not necessarily have been informed.

  It was strange to think that FitzRoger might consult more with her than her father had.

 
“If my husband were to fight Warbrick,” Imogen asked the king, “would he win?”

  “In single combat? Such matters are in the hands of God, Lady Imogen, but Ty hasn’t been bested since he became a man.”

  “And how old is he?” She needed to know.

  The king seemed amused by her questions, but indulgent. “Twenty-six. Perhaps I should have been more specific. He hasn’t been bested since he was eighteen.”

  “And who defeated him then, sire?”

  “I did,” said the king. “It’s how we met.”

  Imogen fiddled with her food, trying to come to terms with her husband.

  Twenty-six and one of the foremost soldiers of the age.

  Undefeated in single combat, efficient in military matters.

  She had called him a nobody. She had challenged him.

  She might have to again if he tried to violate their agreement.

  She shivered slightly, and he turned, alert.

  “You are not eating, Imogen. You should.”

  Fearing to be forced, Imogen took another bite of saffron chicken and made herself chew and swallow it, though her nervous stomach rebelled.

  He frowned slightly and laid a warm hand on her cold one. It felt comforting, but she saw it as imprisonment, and pulled away. He filled the ruby cup again and pushed it toward her.

  “Drink, at least.”

  Imogen obeyed. Her restless anxiety was gaining his attention, and she did not want that, so she tried to look calm and happy as she listened to the musicians and watched the tumblers. She recognized two of the entertainers as the couple that had crossed the causeway into Cleeve that day so long ago—four days ago.

  They had been free then, and still were.

  She was not free, and had not been free from the day of her birth.

  The effort to smile soon made her cheeks ache. She wished this farce of a feast was over except for what must follow.

  Two of the king’s hounds lay at his feet. When Imogen was faced with a large chunk of beef on her trencher, she slid it down to be snapped up by them. The king noticed, but merely quirked a brow and stopped serving her food.