by Jo Beverley
“At least one of us will be safe, and you can alert Renald.”
“Then what?”
“Then you and Renald think of a way to rescue me,” he said lightly. “I have great faith in my virago. I have a few suggestions, though . . .”
Chapter 17
As the light outside faded, Imogen lay in FitzRoger’s arms. They could not be silent, and so he spoke restfully and openly of his life, and she responded with her own simple experiences. They did not compare in any way with his, but she offered them all the same because she knew that he was, in a way, saying farewell.
She prayed that it not come to that, but he had laid out the facts with steely precision. Warbrick would keep him alive and largely uninjured as long as he was a weapon to force her compliance. He would, however, make sure he was powerless, and such things were easy to achieve.
If anything was to be done, she would have to do it, and though they had worked through a number of possibilities, there were too many unknowns to make firm plans.
She would have to act, and react, alone, and he would simply have to wait.
The faith he was showing in her was terrifying. She wanted to protest that a sennight ago her most taxing decision had been whether to wear blue silk or red; her closest brush with violence had been the loosing of her merlin.
But she didn’t, because she was their only hope, their only chance of defeating Warbrick and surviving.
“As a boy, I enjoyed the challenge of rough active games but had no taste for brutality. Are you surprised?”
“No. I don’t think you have a taste for brutality now.” Imogen let a finger trace a raised vein on his strong arm. She couldn’t seem to help touching him.
“True,” he said. “If I kill, I kill quickly.”
It was a somewhat bleak definition of kindness, but she understood. “How did you come to be a warrior, then?”
“I met my father. That convinced me that I never wanted to be in such a man’s power again, or leave those in my charge in such a man’s power. That is why I say I am failing you.”
“Some things cannot be avoided. Perhaps it is God’s will.”
“There is nothing of God’s will in this,” he said flatly. “Would it surprise you to know I was destined to be a monk?”
She twisted to look up at him in the gloom. “A monk? You must have hated it.” Imogen couldn’t imagine FitzRoger under monastic rule. Poverty, chastity, and obedience?
“I loved it,” he said softly. “I was happy there as I have never been since. Everything was order and discipline, and there was the opportunity for learning.”
Happy as he had never been since. That hurt, though why she should think he might have found happiness in the few chaotic days since they had met, she couldn’t imagine. “Why didn’t you stay, then?” she asked.
“The monastery was in England. My mother’s family, quite understandably, had sent me as far away from home as possible. Unfortunately this put me in my father’s sphere. He didn’t want me nearby, and ordered the abbot to send me back to France. The abbot had little choice but to obey.”
“How old were you then?”
“Thirteen. A difficult age. I was furious at the injustice of it. Instead of going back to France, I set off for Cleeve to confront my nemesis, full of righteous indignation.”
Imogen winced. “Oh dear. What happened?”
He smiled slightly. “Exactly what anyone with sense would expect. Roger was not as bad a man as Warbrick, but rock-hard to the core and without a drop of compassion. When I confronted him he had me whipped. When I wouldn’t shut up, he had me thrown in the oubliette.”
It was said quite calmly, but Imogen felt the tension that spread through him. “What did he hope to gain?”
“I think he quite literally intended me to rot there, forgotten. I wonder now whether he was trying to forget what I represented. He had only one acknowledged son—weak, vicious Hugh. Roger could be vicious, but he was never weak. His second wife was barren and cold, but not likely to die soon. He was not a happy man.”
“Are you feeling sorry for him?”
“No.” It was said flatly and followed by an eloquent silence.
Imogen wondered if he would stop speaking, now he had come to the dark heart of his story. She hoped not. She was gathering these scraps of his life into her heart.
He shifted her in his arms a little and carried on. “My childhood had not been easy, but at home and in the monastery I had been fed and cared for. The oubliette . . . the oubliette was a sudden descent into hell.
“They threw me in—ten feet down—so I was bruised. It was like a well, not even wide enough for me to stretch my arms out. The floor was damp earth and foul. My own excrement soon made it fouler. I was sure I would suffocate in the smell, but I didn’t. It was pitch-dark, and though I knew the hatch was far above my head, I was terrified that it was pressing down on me to crush me. . . .”
He shuddered. Imogen touched him gently, not sure what to say.
“I wept. I screamed. I begged for mercy. I was not at all brave.”
“You were thirteen years old,” she said. “At that age I still made a fuss over a cut finger.”
“And yet at fourteen, when you broke your arm, you endured the setting without a whimper.”
She stared up at him. “How did you know that?”
His finger traced the line of her jaw. “I have made it my business to learn about you.”
She didn’t know how she felt about that. What had been his purpose? “The arm hurt too much to make a fuss,” she said. “Does that make sense?”
“Yes, and the fact that you knew people were trying to heal you. I knew Roger wanted me dead.”
“How is it that you didn’t die?”
He shrugged slightly. “The people there decided to feed me. They all hated Roger and Hugh, and one man I’ve met since then said they recognized a look of the family and knew I was his true son. Whatever their reasons, they weren’t about to risk setting me free, but they fed me.”
“Dear Jesus. How long were you there?”
“An eternity. I had no sense of time. I gather it was just less than a month. Eventually Roger left the castle to travel to London. They freed me then, putting in the carcass of a pig, hoping that would fool Roger if he ever cared to look. Apparently, he never did.” She felt him stir as he said, “The bones were still there when I checked the hole a few months ago.”
The callousness of it stunned her. “He never thought of the son he had condemned to a lingering death? Never even checked his fate? He must have known in his heart that you were his son.”
“Who knows what he thought? I would dream sometimes in later years of forcing him to tell me. . . .” He took a deep steadying breath.
“What did you do when you were free? Go home?”
“No. There was nothing for me there. I set out to become a warrior.”
Imogen twisted to peer at him in the dark. “That can’t have been easy.”
“No, but I had a purpose. I wasn’t quite clear on my purpose,” he said ruefully, “but I knew it necessitated being strong and powerful so I could have vengeance on Roger of Cleeve. And, of course, never be in such hands again.”
Their present situation came to hover like a dark miasma.
He sighed. “Most people thought I was mad, and laughed at my dreams, of course.”
“You didn’t laugh at mine,” she said softly.
His fingers played gently with her plaits. “I know the power of dreams.”
“How did you achieve it without wealth or sponsors?”
“Luck. I fell in with a mercenary troop in need of servants. I watched and studied as they trained, and then began to copy them. I realized I needed strength, and my natural build was scrawny. I set out coldbloodedly to create muscle. Arno, the mercenary captain, saw what I was doing and encouraged me when he was in the mood. He even let me train with the troop, until I beat one of his best and biggest men.”
/> Imogen smiled. “Then he realized he had one of the greatest warriors of the age.”
His lips twitched. “Then he realized I’d injured one of his best men. He flogged me.”
“What? That’s not fair.”
“Amazingly, Ginger, life frequently isn’t fair.”
“Like now,” she said.
“We can’t blame life for this one,” he said dryly. “This is wickedness combined with stupidity—mostly mine.”
Imogen protested this, and he retaliated by kissing her, which led to kisses that passed a lot of time. Eventually, however, he made her stop her hungry assault, and took up his story.
“Arno was interested in me, though, because he realized I had the gift. He trained me, but he made it clear he’d take it out of my skin again if I did serious injury to any of his men. I learned to fight with a great deal of control.”
That brought a gurgle of laughter from her. “I’m sure you did. How did you become a knight, though?”
“Arno took us into Flanders to fight, and I showed up well. He persuaded the count to knight me. Arno paid for my horse, armor, and weapons, and then set me to fight in the tourneys. That had been his plan all along.”
“Tourneys? As in mock battles?”
“Not so mock. Men die. That is why it is not permitted in England. But a man can become very wealthy on the tourney circuit.”
“And you were good at it.”
“And I was good at it. Arno just sat back and managed my prisoners, splitting the ransoms.”
“That wasn’t fair either,” she grumbled.
“Yes it was. I was paying him back for his training and the start he’d given me. In time I decided I’d paid the debt. There wasn’t much Arno could do about our parting.”
“What happened then?”
“I met Henry.”
“The king?”
“Not king then. Just the Conqueror’s youngest, landless son. Henry wanted England. He has always felt, very strongly, that as the only son born in England it is his by right.”
Felt strongly enough to kill for it? Imogen wondered. But she kept the question to herself.
“Henry likes tourneys,” said FitzRoger, “and is rarely beaten. I took him prisoner before I knew who he was. He didn’t like it at all and demanded single combat to settle it. His freedom if he won. A hundred marks extra if I won.
“I let him win, but did it skillfully enough that I don’t think he has ever realized. If he has, he will not acknowledge it. He boasts of being the only man to down Tyron FitzRoger.”
“I cannot like him,” said Imogen. “He is ruthless.”
“A weak king is no benefit to anyone. I must serve someone, and Henry has qualities I admire, not least intelligence and efficiency. But I wish he had more scruples.”
“When I first met you,” said Imogen, “I didn’t think you had scruples either.”
“Good. That’s what I want people to think.”
There was something strained in his voice. Imogen glanced at the entrance and saw that the light was beginning to go, and she guessed his deepest fears were gathering. Probably this talk was distracting him. “So you joined Henry’s court?” she prompted.
“Yes. And thus came to England. And to Cleeve.” He touched the tip of her nose. “And to you.”
“Via the death of William Rufus.” Then Imogen bit her lip. This was no time to be raising disputes.
“Via the death of William Rufus,” he agreed calmly. “Are you determined to rake all the coals?”
“If Henry killed his brother, it can’t have been right,” she insisted.
“Who can determine right? Rufus was bringing the country to the brink of ruin. Henry in his own way loves England, and he is efficient. Order will be established and ruthlessly enforced.”
She remembered FitzRoger speaking lovingly of the order and discipline of the monastery. “And you want to be part of that.”
“And I want to be part of that.”
She saw it come to him that he probably wouldn’t be. That instead, his personal dream would die today. And that if Warbrick took the treasure, it might be the turning point in the struggle for the control of England.
“What sort of king would Duke Robert be?” she asked. She had not heard much good of King Henry’s brother.
“Disastrous.” He rose to his feet, pulling her up with him. “Time for me to gird for battle again, I think. I hope,” he added. “It’s getting dark in here.”
Imogen assisted him, but her whole body trembled. It was like arming him to ride out to a hopeless cause. And though it was he who armed, it was she who would have to act if they were to survive.
A short while later, the guard called for them to come out, and FitzRoger murmured, “Praise be.” At the entrance to the cave, however, he paused. “I have a request to make.”
“What?” Imogen asked, hearing last request.
“I’d like to hear you call me by my given name.”
She flushed with guilt. “I find it hard to think of you as anything other than FitzRoger.” She reached up and kissed him. “God be with you, Tyron.”
He swept her in for a hard, hungry kiss. “May God be with us both.”
They walked out into the gloom of dusk to find Warbrick and his company already mounted. Imogen was pulled away and passed up to Lig. FitzRoger—Imogen tried to think of him as Ty, and failed—was led to his own horse. It was a well-trained animal and there would be little to stop him from breaking away and riding free, other than the fact that she would suffer for it.
They were each hostage for the other.
Imogen knew now she was bound by love. What bound her husband?
A certain fondness, she thought, and strong desire. But mostly it was duty. As he’d admitted twice, he would have done almost as much for any woman he married, and he had married for wealth and power.
Imogen had been raised to be practical in these matters, but she was aware of a painful emptiness in her heart where FitzRoger’s love would fit like a precious jewel.
Imogen composed herself and began another earnest litany. Surely, if God cared about man’s purposes at all, He must be on their side in this dispute. Warbrick was clearly a tool of the devil.
An hour later, they stopped in the dark woods within sight of Carrisford. All looked normal. Imogen wondered what everyone there thought of the disappearance of the lord and lady, and the slaughter of their escort. Had Lancaster and his men been found? The watch at the castle would be strict, and surely, as FitzRoger had supposed, Renald would keep some watch on the entrance to the passageways.
FitzRoger had based his plan on the assumption that Renald would not try to block the entrance, but would watch it. When the invaders were within, he would strike, probably from the first joining passage. Imogen would have to be ready to escape then, and avoid inadvertent danger.
If that did not happen, she was to escape anyway at the first opportunity. If she got an opportunity.
FitzRoger had pointed out that most luck was made, and that she should create an opportunity.
She still had her small eating knife, and in case anyone thought of it, she had concealed it beneath her garter against her thigh. She was in danger of cutting herself, because she had not dared to move the sheath from her belt and FitzRoger had sharpened the blade on a stone. She had bound the blade with more strips torn off her garments, and hoped.
What use such a small blade would be, she did not know, but it felt better to have some weapon than nothing.
The horses were tethered well back among the trees. Imogen now told Warbrick what she had once told FitzRoger. “The entrance is narrow. Only the lighter built men will be able to pass through, and only without armor.”
“What?” Warbrick almost bellowed. “You mean I will not be able to enter?” He slapped her so her head rang. “You lie!”
She heard a commotion and knew FitzRoger must have reacted and was being overwhelmed. The briefness of the struggle told her he
had regained control. She prayed that he keep it. She could not imagine what it must be like for him to have to stand passively by, but he must. They could not risk his being more seriously hurt before he was needed.
“No lie,” she said to Warbrick, swallowing blood from her cut cheek. “Come up if you want and see.”
“I will,” snarled Warbrick, “and if you have lied, you’ll pay.”
He began to arrange which men would climb the cliff, which would stay behind.
Imogen risked a glance at FitzRoger. He was backed against a tree caged by six swords wielded by terrified but purposeful men. He had a swelling at his temple and his left hand bled, but she didn’t think it was serious.
His look was the calm one of his greatest efficiency, but she could tell the effort behind it. Their eyes met briefly, and she smiled for him, but he could doubtless tell the effort and pain it cost her.
Warbrick grasped her arm bruisingly. “I’m pleased you’re fond of him, Lady Imogen. You’ll not risk damaging him, will you?” He turned to the men imprisoning FitzRoger. “Let him free.”
The swords moved, but FitzRoger didn’t.
“Frozen?” sneered Warbrick.
It was as if FitzRoger was a statue. Imogen knew he was at his most dangerous like this, but there was nothing he could do. Nothing. Any resistance would be paid for by her.
Warbrick smiled. “Tie him to the tree,” he said to his men, “and make it tight.”
FitzRoger’s arms were dragged back to be bound behind the tree, and Imogen saw him catch his breath as his wound was tortured. She felt tears gather. Even if he were unwounded that position would be agony.
Warbrick checked the bonds and nodded. “Make some cudgels,” he said to his men. “Any trouble, any trouble at all, splinter his ribs. Mail can’t guard against that, and with luck, he’ll take a nice long time to die.”
FitzRoger didn’t so much as blink, but Imogen felt sick panic. How could she risk that?
How could she not?
Warbrick saw her feelings. “Don’t distress yourself, Lady Imogen. As long as you behave, I see no benefit to myself in killing either of you. When we are back here with the treasure, I will allow you to buy your husband’s life by pleasuring me in front of him. You have only been married a few days, but I’m sure he has taught you something.”
