by Jo Beverley
She let it fall. It was not suitable for FitzRoger.
She checked through soft leather bags, knowing what she sought. At last she had it: a magnificent chain of heavy gold set with smooth cabochon emeralds. It was perhaps the most precious item in the treasure and little worn, for it had not suited Lord Bernard’s looks. It would be magnificent on FitzRoger, though.
She hesitated. When she gave it to him, he would know she had been here to her treasure.
So be it. He’d know anyway when she paid her debts.
She put her collection in a pouch made of her tunic skirt and locked up carefully behind herself. She made her way back along the muddy passage and left it, disturbing the cobwebs as little as possible.
Letting her breath out with relief, she hurried back along the passageways and returned the key to its place. Then she went on to where she had to leave the lantern. From there, however, she took a slightly different route, for she didn’t dare exit in the buttery, where it was hard to tell if someone was close by.
She came out instead in a garderobe near the hall. She slipped out of there and headed up to her room. To the room she shared with FitzRoger.
As she turned into the tower stairs, she heard a voice call her name. Lancaster. God rot the man. She ignored the call and ran up to the solar. She dropped her treasure into her chest and locked it, then quickly brushed away the cobwebs.
She had just finished when Father Wulfgan stalked into the room without a knock.
“Daughter, where have you been?”
Imogen almost said, That’s none of your business, which startled her considerably. She remembered then that she’d promised to get rid of the priest, and felt her knees knock.
Under FitzRoger’s eyes it had seemed easy enough. Face-to-face with Father Wulfgan, it was almost impossible.
“I was inspecting some of the storerooms, Father,” she said.
“You were looked for, and not found. My Lord of Lancaster seeks to speak with you. You owe him that.”
“Do I?” Why on earth would Wulfgan be on Lancaster’s side?
“He is a godly man,” said Wulfgan. “He does not lust after war. He is generous in support of holy works. If he had become your lord, he would have founded a new monastery on this land, one truly dedicated to a life of mortification.”
Imogen sighed. So even Wulfgan was not above bribery. Was he to be abbot of this foundation? It did offer a possible solution to her dilemma, though. “Perhaps Lord FitzRoger will found one such,” she offered.
“He would corrupt everything he touches! Do you know your husband has brought foul women into this place?”
Oh dear. “They are for the king, Father.”
“Impious king. He has a wife, so does not even have that excuse for his depravity!”
“At least FitzRoger is not so depraved.”
“He has you upon whom to slake his foul lust.” He fixed her with a penetrating gaze. “Did you stay pure in heart, daughter? I witnessed him dragging you from the company before the sun had decently set.”
“We played chess!” she said in quick defense.
“Chess?” His eyes sharpened.
“Yes.” Imogen couldn’t endure another inquisition and prayer session. She’d rather face the earl. “I will speak with Lord Lancaster in the garden,” she said. “Please tell him that.”
Wulfgan narrowed his eyes at the command, but blessed her and obeyed.
Lord, how was she to dismiss Wulfgan when he reduced her to a child so easily? It was tempting to let FitzRoger do it, but she knew it was for her to do. But first she must face Lancaster.
It was interesting and dangerous that Lancaster had moved to bring Wulfgan on his side. The earl clearly had not accepted defeat. Could he suspect the truth? Had she said anything to WuIfgan to make him believe that the marriage was unconsummated?
She didn’t think so.
So now she had to convince Lancaster.
Imogen wiped damp palms on her skirt and called for Elswith. The girl came running, and Imogen had her check that there were no smudges on her cheeks or marks on her skirts. First thing in the morning Elswith had woven Imogen’s hair into two fat braids twined with silk ribbons, but now, to make a point, Imogen put on a veil and anchored it with a heavy gold circlet.
Then she made her way with stately grace down to the garden.
This garden had been started by Imogen’s mother in a walled square next to the keep. Lord Bernard had cherished it carefully in his wife’s memory, and Aunt Constance had tended it, too. Imogen loved it, but knew better than to tamper with it, for she had no skill with plants at all.
She needn’t have bothered. This enclosure had escaped her scrutiny up till now, and she was appalled. Why had she thought the garden would have escaped Warbrick’s spite?
The precious roses were stripped of blooms and most of the branches were bent or broken. She suspected that only the thorns had deterred the invaders from ripping them up as they had ripped up some other bushes. The smaller plants—flowers and herbs—had been trampled into the earth.
Two men were working there, trimming away destruction and easing plants free of mud.
“It will have to wait until next year to be remade,” she said sadly to one of them. “And even then it will be years until it regains its glory.”
The man bowed and smiled. “Nay, lady. Give it weeks, even. It looks rough, but there’s little loss. We can survive this and be as good as ever, if not better.”
When Imogen looked closer she saw that the man was right. Plants appeared fragile, but had their own strengths. Many could bend rather than be broken. Warbrick’s men had clearly been in too much of a hurry to do the job thoroughly and most of the plants would survive.
Here and there, roses bloomed valiantly, even if short of half their petals and drooping on a bent branch. Not all the leaves were gone, and she saw buds which would bloom later. The trampled plants were already straightening under their own power and putting up new growth, new blooms.
Imogen leaned and broke off a bent sprig of rosemary. She brought it to her nose and inhaled the rich aroma, stronger when it was crushed.
The garden was a symbol of the future. Carrisford could revive from brutality, and so could she. Was she not called the Flower of the West? Flowers were not weak. She would be stronger for having been crushed. . . .
“Ah, there you are!”
Imogen turned with a grimace to see Lancaster striding toward her, rested and groomed into his usual sleek magnificence, his thinning fair hair curled around his face. She moved away from the gardeners, knowing this would not be a pleasant interview.
The earl surprised her. The arrogant anger she had heard in his voice disappeared as he said, “Imogen, my dear child. How you have suffered.” He held out his fleshy, beringed hands, and she felt obliged to put hers into them.
He squeezed them. His hands were soft, warm, and sweaty, very unlike other hands. . . .
“I was stunned when I heard the news of Lord Bernard’s death, my dear. I had thought it merely a sickness, and was sure that my physician would soon have him on his feet again. . . .” He touched his eyes, though she could see no tears. “As soon as Master Cornelius brought word of the terrible event, I hastened here.”
“It came as a shock to all of us,” she said, leading the way to a marble bench that her father had said dated from Roman times.
It had been his favorite seat.
She sat, and Lancaster sat beside her, his girth so wide that his leg pushed against hers. They had sat thus before and she had not been so aware of such things. Now she wished she could sidle away.
“A great shock,” he agreed, patting her thigh. “And even more of a shock to hear that you were invaded. How did they force you to marry such a man, child?”
“It was the Lord of Warbrick who invaded.” Imogen gestured angrily at the ruined garden. “He wrecked Carrisford.”
Lancaster’s eyes narrowed, and she reminded herself that h
e was not a stupid man. “Carrisford is nigh impregnable, Imogen. How did Warbrick take it?”
“Do you think we let him in? That would have been madness. There was clearly treachery.” She saw no reason not to tell him of their suspicions. “We think some monks who were resting here might have been false, and overwhelmed the guards at the postern gate.”
He frowned. “But when Lord Bernard wrote to me, he said that during his illness he had ordered Carrisford sealed.”
“So he did. But the monks were already here when my father was wounded. Had been here for some days. They were traveling to Westminster but one of their party fell sick. It seemed to cause the man great pain to be moved, so Father gave them permission to rest here instead of Grimstead. He was always . . . always kind in such matters.”
“Indeed he was,” said Lancaster, but absently. “But, my dear girl, this surely means the whole tragedy was planned.”
Imogen looked up sharply. “Planned? How could it have been planned?”
Lancaster was frowning at a broken-stemmed lily. “It means your father’s death was no accident.”
“No accident? But it was just a minor arrow wound. Even if the wound was given with malice, how could anyone count on the infection?”
He turned to look at her. “Master Cornelius was puzzled by the course of the illness. He suggested that a wound from an arrowhead dipped in excrement would be more likely than not to fester. Whose arrow was it?”
Her father had been murdered? Imogen’s thoughts were scrambled by this. “We never found out, and lacked time to search thoroughly. A poacher, we supposed, but a sweep through the forest turned up no one.”
“Long gone. And paid for by whom?”
Thoughts steadied and focused. “Warbrick,” Imogen spat. “He was the one ready to move. May his soul rot in hell for eternity!”
“Or FitzRoger,” countered Lancaster oozingly. “He, after all, is the one who has benefited.”
“No.” It was an instinctive response. Imogen sought to shield it by giving reasoned arguments. “That makes no sense, my lord. If the Lord of Cleeve had murdered my father, he would have been quicker off the mark to seize the advantage. I assure you, my husband is very efficient in such matters.”
“So I understand,” said Lancaster sourly. “But he might not have realized great speed was required. He possibly intended a less brutal wooing than Warbrick. Your father had refused his suit, you know.”
“He had?” Imogen wanted to clap her hands over her ears and run, but she was stronger now. She would not flee.
“Yes. Would Lord Bernard have joined you to one of such suspect birth? I see Beauclerk’s hand in this. With Duke Robert a constant threat, and Belleme gathering power here in the west, Henry needs a secure base hereabouts. He sent FitzRoger to dispose of that weakling brother and secure Cleeve. Their next move was to acquire Carrisford. I’m sure they would have preferred to accomplish their ends in more ordinary ways, but once your father rejected FitzRoger’s suit, he had to die. Interesting, isn’t it? Henry’s brother, King William, died of an arrow wound while out hunting, and here we have the same method again. . . .” He looked at her sadly. “I fear your father would have been most disappointed with you, my dear.”
Imogen felt sick. His words made a great deal of sense, struggle as she might not to believe them. Hugh of Cleeve’s death had been looked at askance, and the whole country had its suspicions about the death of King William Rufus. She couldn’t suspect her husband having a hand in the death of her father, though. She’d go mad.
She must have given away some hint of her feelings. Lancaster took her hand. “All is not lost, Imogen. I am sure this marriage can be broken. A claim of force, perhaps. Or abduction.”
Imogen shook her head. “There are many to swear that I consented freely, as I did.”
She saw the angry frown, quickly concealed, and reminded herself that no matter what FitzRoger was, the earl had his own self-centered motives for all this. She tried to sift through all he had said. . . .
He watched her carefully. “The women say there was no blood on the sheet.”
Imogen’s mouth dried. She should say what FitzRoger had said, that it was a matter of position and care. What if Lancaster asked for details, though?
“Well, Imogen? Are you a true wife, or has FitzRoger proved unable . . .”
Imogen met his eyes. “He is completely able.” That was no lie.
He studied her and she hoped her mask was good. “Is that the truth?”
“Yes.”
Perhaps her mask was not very good, for he said, “And do you vow that the marriage is complete?”
“What else would I mean?” Sweet Mary, help me. She had never given a false oath in her life.
“Imogen, you mustn’t be afraid of such a man. But for the king’s favor, he is nothing, and I can protect you from the king. It is by no means certain anyway that Beauclerk will hold his throne.”
“That’s treason!” she declared, hoping to distract him.
“That is merely a wise man’s opinion. Father Wulfgan seems to think you have not, as he puts it, been corrupted.”
Imogen realized that Lancaster had disastrously misinterpreted the priest on that and felt an insane urge to giggle. If only FitzRoger would appear to handle this.
Scenting blood, Lancaster pulled out a jeweled cross from his pouch. “Make a solemn vow to me on this, Imogen of Carrisford, that you are a true and complete wife to Bastard FitzRoger.”
She tried to pull away, but he took a vicelike grip on her wrist. Despite his sleek softness, he too was very strong.
“You have no right to demand such a thing, my lord. I have told you—”
“Say it,” he hissed, “or I will put the matter before a Church court and have you placed in a nunnery until the matter is decided. An examination will soon determine the truth.”
Imogen froze. She could scream for help and receive it, but the threat would remain. If she admitted the truth, she could end up wed to Lancaster; Henry could not thwart him forever. The very best that could happen was that she and FitzRoger would be given another chance, and her husband would force her ruthlessly.
She’d rather that than the other, but it would destroy them.
She begged God’s forgiveness, then placed her hand upon the cross. “I avow on the cross that I am a true and complete wife to Tyron FitzRoger, Lord of Cleeve.” She pulled away again and this time Lancaster let her go.
No thunderbolt shot down from the sky to shrivel her, but she felt soul-dead.
Imogen stood unsteadily and straightened her skirts with shaking hands. “That was not well done of you, my lord. You know I was gently raised and such matters embarrass me. I am sorry you are disappointed in your wish to marry me, but if you serve him honestly, I am sure the king will make good his word and find you a prize even greater.”
Lancaster stared at her hotly. “There is no prize in England greater than you, Imogen of Carrisford. When I think of the care I have taken these last months . . . I treated you like the Blessed Lady. I should have thrown you down and raped you.”
She stepped back from the hot malevolence in his eyes. “My father would have killed you.”
He sneered. “Your dear father was a pragmatist and I was his equal in power. There would have been nothing he could have done other than get us married.” He rose to tower over her. “One way or another, Imogen of Carrisford, you will be mine.”
With that, he turned and stalked away.
Imogen felt sick. That last threat had been against FitzRoger as well as herself, and she knew now that healthy, powerful manhood was no proof against premature death.
Her father had been murdered.
And now she had made a false oath.
She wanted to race to the chapel to pray for guidance and for forgiveness, but she suspected Lancaster would be watching her, looking for just such evidence of deceit.
She wanted to confess to Father Wulfgan, but that would be
even more disastrous.
But what if she should die with such a sin on her soul?
She paced the garden fretfully. What was she to make of her father’s death? She couldn’t, wouldn’t, believe that FitzRoger had had a hand in it, but perhaps the king had brought it about.
It was more likely Warbrick.
She grasped that with relief. Yes, if anyone had murdered her father, it was Warbrick. After all, if it were the king, FitzRoger was tarnished by association.
But Henry had surely brought about the death of his brother. By an arrow, out hunting.
And now Lancaster was enemy to FitzRoger. Would her husband be the next to suffer an accident? He was out hunting now. . . .
She made herself stop such thoughts before she went mad. He’d hunted yesterday.
Lancaster hadn’t been here then.
But now she was suspecting Lancaster of treacherous murder! He couldn’t be guilty, or he’d not have sent his physician, or taken so long to come here. . . .
Imogen saw the gardeners glance at her curiously and knew she couldn’t show her terror like this. Nor could she do as she wished and ride madly in search of FitzRoger.
She forced calm on her skittering mind and went to work on the accounts.
With effort she could put away thoughts of murder and treason, and of betrayal of the worst kind, but she could not wipe away the knowledge that she was in a state of terrible sin. She had sworn a false oath on the cross.
At first her jangled mind could make no sense of the records and tally sticks, but in time she settled. Together with Siward and Brother Cuthbert she went over the records, glad to have something to do.
She didn’t do very well at it, though, for the oath swamped her mind. Nothing good could come of such perjury, but what else could she have done?
“Perhaps this is too much for you, Lady Imogen,” said Brother Cuthbert kindly.
Imogen forced herself to concentrate. She would seek forgiveness, but not of Wulfgan. Startlingly, she didn’t trust him with the truth now that there was an alliance between him and Lancaster. That alliance, combined with his rabid hatred of FitzRoger, made the situation perilous.
