by Jo Beverley
Nor, she realized chillingly, could she confess her sin at all until the marriage was consummated. She would be expected to rectify it by telling the truth. That she couldn’t do.
Sweet Mary, aid her.
“Lady Imogen,” prompted Siward. “Do you approve the purchase of new hangings?”
“What?” Imogen forced herself to think. “Oh, yes. And send to London to see if we can find some like the ones we had from Italy.”
“That will be very costly, lady.”
“We can afford it. I want Carrisford to be restored.”
“Perhaps we should consult with Lord FitzRoger. . . .”
“No,” said Imogen, affronted. “I rule Carrisford, and I decide how my wealth will be used.”
She saw the two men exchange a glance, and foresaw trouble. She almost surrendered, for this was petty compared to the real problem shadowing her life. But she didn’t.
They returned to the records.
Fortunately, Siward had managed to hide Carrisford’s record book and tally sticks, and the chest of deeds and documents. Imogen had been trained to understand such matters, so once she disciplined her mind, she could easily see what had been going on since her father’s death.
Nothing untoward. There was no sign that FitzRoger had taken any money out of the estate, and many records of his paying for needed supplies. Imogen made a careful tally of the amounts. She checked Siward’s records of things required for the domestic management of Carrisford and resolved to demand an accounting of the other senior officers. Beeswax and brooms, salt and cinnamon; they needed almost everything.
She calculated how much Siward required for immediate expenses and added in the debts for supplies provided by the local people—wool, dairy goods, poultry and such. After a moment’s consideration, she added the money owed to FitzRoger. She would prefer that Siward pay it back.
The immediate debts took nearly all the coin she had brought up from the treasure chamber.
At last she felt that she had gone over everything, that she was beginning to take control. She had even seen the records of her half brothers and sisters, though Siward had tried to conceal them, and was pleased to see they were being well raised by a merchant’s family. Whether she should do more for them was a matter for the future.
It unsettled her, though, that such a significant part of her father’s life had been kept entirely from her. She would have thought, at the least, that there was honesty between herself and Lord Bernard.
What was illusion and what was real?
Having finished that task, she took the midday meal in the hall. With the hunting party out, and many men on guard, the company was thin. Lancaster was there, however, watching her like a hawk. Even Wulfgan was present, and he too seemed to be trying to strip her down to her soul. She couldn’t stand another session with him, but nor could she gather the courage just yet to banish him to Grimstead.
With relief, she suddenly remembered her intention of visiting the Abbey at Grimstead to check on the wounded men and learn something of the treatment of wounds. Perhaps she could also speak to the abbot there—about lust, and about false oaths. Perhaps there was a way to receive absolution for the oath without telling the truth.
She needed an escort. Today, Renald was also out hunting, and big Sir William was in command of the castle defenses.
“An escort, Lady Imogen?” he said suspiciously. “But why would you be wanting to go to the monastery?”
Imogen could tell that the stupid man suspected her of trying to escape. Where on earth did he think she had to go? “To visit the wounded,” she said. “It is my duty to ensure their welfare.”
“They are being cared for, my lady, and I am not sure if such a journey is wise.”
“Sir William, it is scarce more than a league! Hardly out of sight of the watchcorn. With an adequate escort, what harm can possibly befall me?”
“I do not like it.”
Imogen’s patience snapped. “Sir William,” she hissed through her teeth, “if you do not provide an escort, I will ride out alone. Unless you are willing to restrain me forcibly, you will not be able to stop me.”
He looked as if he’d be delighted to restrain her forcibly, and lock her up as well, but his nerve failed him. With great ill will he selected six men to ride with her.
It was a small victory, but it heartened her. Imogen found it refreshing to be out in the countryside and in charge of her own mount. The horse she was riding was not her own sweet Ysolde, but a rather large, rawboned dun. It was well behaved, though, and her spirits lifted.
Halfway through the short journey, she had a momentary qualm as to whether her riding would give away her virgin state. She assured herself that any soreness from her wedding night would surely have passed. She hoped that was true. She wanted to give Lancaster no reason to revive his doubts.
At the abbey the porter greeted their patron’s daughter, now their patroness, with great warmth. Imogen was disappointed to hear that Abbot Francis was in Wells engaged in Church business and so not available for counsel, but she could pursue the other part of her plan.
Brother Miles, the infirmarian, was a little doubtful about the wisdom of Lady Imogen’s visiting the wounded men. He clearly remembered her father’s days, so recently passed, when she was not to be exposed to any unpleasantness. Imogen was gently insistent and he gave in, if skeptically.
He guided her around the ten beds which contained those wounded in taking Carrisford. One man had lost a leg which had been crushed by a barrel.
He was pale and haggard, but said cheerfully, “Don’t you fret, lady. ’Twer my own fault, not yours. Just careless, I was.”
“Still,” said Imogen, “it happened in my service, and I will see you have a livelihood.”
“ ’Tis gracious of you, lady, but Lord FitzRoger will care for me. He’s said so.”
“He’s been here?” she asked of both the monk and the soldier.
“Assuredly, lady,” said Brother Miles. “Nigh every day.”
“For sure,” said the man, showing a broken tooth. “Right scathing, too, about me being in such a fix, but he’ll see to me.”
She wondered when her husband had found the time, and felt like a useless good-for-nothing in comparison.
Imogen went on to a worse case where fever had taken hold. The man tossed and turned in delirium and a novice sat by gently sponging him.
“Will he live?” she asked quietly, remembering her father. They had kept her from him until the last. . . .
“It is in God’s hands, but there is hope.”
“And the best treatment is to wash him thus?”
“And herbs to balance the humors and keep away devils.”
“Vervaine and betony?”
The man looked at her with more respect. “Aye, lady. And pimpernel.”
They moved on past other men recovering well, though one would not see through his right eye again.
“I hoped there was a man here called Bert.” Imogen saw no sign of Bert. Had he died of the stab wound—the wound caused by her insistence that they join the fighting in Carrisford?
She turned to the infirmarian.
“Ah, we have him in a small room apart, lady. Do you wish to see him? I fear it is not a pleasant case.”
Poor Bert. “Yes,” said Imogen. “I want to see him.”
The room was a small, cool cell with white walls and a crucifix over the bed. An old monk made vigil by the bed, praying quietly. The once hearty Bert was shrunken down, and his skin was the color of old ivory. He made a strange, gurgling sound with every arduous breath.
“Chest wound,” said Brother Miles quietly. “Poignard. It festers deep. Very little hope, but he lingers. Sometimes I think it would be kinder . . . But then sometimes they rally. Or a miracle can happen. And after all, his sufferings will reduce his time in purgatory. It is in the hands of God.”
There was a sickly smell which sharply reminded Imogen of her father’s death cham
ber. The smell of pus and decaying flesh. “He looks to be unconscious.”
“Most times he is, and when he revives, I doubt he knows where he is. When men recover from such things they rarely remember them, which gives me hope that he does not truly suffer.”
Just then Bert heaved in the bed and groaned incoherently. The old monk prayed louder as if to mask the sounds. Imogen instinctively went forward and laid a hand on the wounded man’s shoulder. He was burning with fever. “Lie still, Bert,” she said soothingly. “You won’t get better if you move around so much. Would you like a drink?”
He said nothing, but looked at her, and delirious or not she knew that he recognized her and that he suffered. For her. If she’d not insisted on going into Carrisford while the fighting was in progress, Bert would be drinking and whoring up at the castle with the rest.
He hadn’t answered her question, but Imogen poured water from a pitcher to a wooden beaker. She raised the man’s head slightly and trickled some fluid into his mouth. Most of it spilled down his bristly chin, but she saw him swallow some.
Imogen looked up at Brother Miles. “I am going to stay here a little.” She meant, until he dies.
“It could be well into the night, lady,” the monk said dubiously.
“So be it. Send one of my escort back to the castle with word.”
The monks conferred and then the elderly one bobbled away, leaving his stool for Imogen. Brother Miles drew her out of the room for a moment. “There is little to do other than to wipe his brow with the infusion there now and then. I will bring a soothing draft at compline.” He was still eyeing her dubiously.
“I have little experience with wounds, Brother, but I have sat with the sick.”
“Aye, lady, but as I said, it could be long. And sometimes such cases turn violent near the end.”
“Then I will call for help. It is my fault he is in such a state, and I must aid him as best I can.”
The monk shrugged and left. Imogen took her seat by the dying man’s bed. Herbs on the floor could not disguise the smell of putrefaction and death, but in a way she welcomed it. She would do vigil here as she had not at her father’s deathbed.
They had kept her from Lord Bernard throughout that brief illness, assuring her everything would be well. Only at the end had she been allowed to see him. Her father had been bathed and shaved, and his room had been heavy with perfumes, but all that failed to conceal the agony and decay.
He had looked a lot like Bert—a strong man collapsed to lumpy, pasty, suffering flesh. After his gasping instructions she had been hurried away, and back then—in another life, as it seemed—she had not had the resolution to object.
Imogen took up the cloth and wiped it around the man’s head and neck. “If I had it to do over again, Bert,” she said, “I can’t see much to change, but I would have stayed up in the woods until we got word all was safe.” She put the cloth back in the bowl and took Bert’s heavy-jointed, callused hand in hers. A sixth sense told her he might be hearing her words.
“Do you know all’s gone well? Warbrick got away, of course, and left the castle in a terrible mess, but Lord FitzRoger has done a lot to straighten things up, and now I’m taking charge. I should have done so from the first, but I’m not used to this sort of thing, and that’s the truth . . .”
She drifted off into her own troubled thoughts, but then the flaccid hand in hers moved in what could have been an attempt at a squeeze. She looked at Bert’s face, which showed nothing but the weight of suffering and gathering death, and heard each agonized, wheezing breath.
She picked up the story. “Did you know we’re married, and the king’s come . . . ?”
Chapter 14
Late that afternoon, FitzRoger strode across the monastery courtyard to the infirmary, running his leather hawking gauntlets through his hands. This hadn’t been one of his better days.
He’d had to handle Henry’s irritation about the lack of bloody sheets to wave in front of Lancaster, knowing all the while that his unpredictable bride could expose the situation with a word, knowing too that he shouldn’t have left her alone all day with the earl. She’d shown distinct preference for the sleek, older man. Doubtless he reminded her of her beloved father.
FitzRoger had no great opinion of fathers.
He’d had to wonder at the way he was handling this situation. Why hadn’t he simply taken the girl’s virginity and put an end to this? Doubtless many gently bred brides wept and fought at the crucial moment, but soon recovered from the experience. Perhaps many of them tightened so that force was required.
He knew in the same situation, he would do the same thing.
It worried him.
Thank God Henry didn’t suspect the truth or he’d mate them at swordpoint, or claim droit de seigneur and do it himself. Henry was capable of anything in pursuit of his goals.
The king had been justified, however, in his irritation that FitzRoger had not artificially stained the sheets. That omission worried FitzRoger deeply. Imogen of Carrisford seemed to have stolen his wits.
And what in the name of the chalice was she up to now?
He and Henry had returned from an unsatisfactory and acrimonious day’s hunting to receive a message that Imogen was staying at the monastery. Henry had been brief and forceful on the subject. The marriage must stand, and he wanted Imogen back at Carrisford acting the proper wife to be sure of it.
Her actions made no sense. If she were seeking refuge, surely she wouldn’t come to the monastery, nor would they allow her to stay, even though Carrisford was their patron. Their rule forbade the presence of women overnight.
The porter had said Imogen was in the infirmary, but had assured him she was not ill or injured. FitzRoger was going there to find her, and if necessary to drag her home by her long beautiful hair. He was very inclined to beat her.
Halfway across the garden courtyard, music stopped him in his tracks.
It was compline, and the soothing sound of the monks’ voices swept over the herbs and flowers. The flowing chant blended sweetly with the hum of insects and the joyous singing of birds. In this world of order and tranquility, he became discordantly aware of the stink of blood on his clothes, memento of their one kill of the day.
Perhaps he should have taken time to bathe.
The brothers sang of their fear of the night, and their fear of a sinful death—the everlasting night. They begged God’s loving protection against the shadows of darkness.
FitzRoger had spent a brief time in a monastery as a boy. His mother’s family had sent him to a monastery in England, though, and Roger of Cleeve had heard. He had compelled the monastery to throw him out.
That was when he’d gone to Cleeve, and his present life—for better or worse—had begun.
Roger of Cleeve had ordered his unwanted son thrown in the oubliette with the appropriate intention of forgetting all about him. In that hellhole a terrified child had tried to use the prayers of compline to drive away the dark and the monsters it held.
To no avail.
That time of horror still lingered in the one weakness he had never truly conquered: the fear of tight, dark spaces.
By tooth and claw he had made a place for himself in the light, but now he had this new darkness in his life, centered on a troubling girl whom he could break but could not compel to his mold, and who could beat him at chess.
Which reminded him of his purpose. He strode on.
Brother Miles was not in the chapel, but just coming into the infirmary from a corridor. “Good evening, my lord.”
“Good evening, Brother. I believe my wife is here.”
They both spoke softly in the presence of the dozing patients.
The monk’s expression became wary, doubtless a response to FitzRoger’s tone. “Indeed, Lord Cleeve. She sits with Bert of Twitcham.”
“Why?”
“I believe she feels some responsibility.”
“By the cross, if I sat by every man I sent to his de
ath, I’d have blisters.”
“Yet you have visited every day, my lord.”
The men’s eyes locked—one strong in body and war skills, the other in the spirit and in knowledge of human frailty.
FitzRoger spoke first. “You look as if you’re guarding that corridor from me, Brother Miles.”
“I doubt I could stop you did you care to overwhelm me, but if you intend to beat your wife, Lord Cleeve, I ask that you do so elsewhere.”
“Why should I beat her?”
“Why indeed, and yet your expression speaks of it.”
FitzRoger consciously relaxed. “I merely intend to escort her home. The king cannot be ignored in this way.”
Brother Miles stood aside.
FitzRoger went forward and heard his wife’s soft voice. Soft and a little hoarse. What on earth was she doing?
Imogen had long since exhausted recent events, but if she stopped talking Bert’s hand would make that feeble movement that seemed to urge her to continue. He was noticeably worse, and fever was being replaced by a clammy sweat. Brother Miles had come and worked a little of a soothing draft into the man’s mouth. He had indicated that Imogen’s presence and talk might be easing the man’s last hours.
Bert’s breathing was now even more labored and sometimes she thought it had stopped, but then, with excruciating effort, it would take up again like an old creaking bellows. The noise, she had realized, came not from his throat but from the air whistling in and out of the hole in his chest. She found herself praying for him to die—for his sake, not hers. But she kept talking.
“I had a puppy when I was little. Such a roly-poly creature, and golden brown. I called him Honeycake, which was very silly when he grew, but he would answer to nothing else. He was a fine bird dog and a dear friend. I last had his daughters, and they were good dogs, but not like their father. Warbrick must have killed or stolen them. My father’s hounds too . . .” Her voice faltered as unwelcome memories seeped back.
So much death, though she had seen little of it. But here it was in front of her.
