Dark Champion (14 page)

The priest eyed her suspiciously. “And there is no lust in your heart for him?”

Now they were at the point. “I don’t know,” Imogen whispered.

Down in the hall, Renald and FitzRoger were playing chess. The raised voice of the priest could be heard now and then.

“Are you going to let him harangue her all night?” Renald asked.

“She demanded him back,” said FitzRoger, moving a bishop. “Perhaps she’ll think better of the idea.”

“Very clever. But he’s doubtless exhorting her to give up the marriage and you’ve nothing signed and sealed.”

“It’s your move.”

Renald pushed a pawn over a square and FitzRoger took it.

“I wouldn’t leave her alone with that fanatic,” Renald persisted.

“The priest won’t turn her off the marriage,” said FitzRoger, twirling the silver pawn in his fingers. “The Flower of the West is getting everything she wants. Including me.”

Renald laughed. “You’ve melted her already? No wonder you promised her the earth. She’ll be too befuddled to insist on it.”

FitzRoger dropped the pawn into the box. “No, my friend. I haven’t melted her, and if I’m any judge, she’ll demand every letter of her rights. Are you not interested in the game?”

Renald recognized his friend’s tone and dropped the subject. He looked at the board and grimaced as he realized how little chance he had of saving his king.

Up in Imogen’s room, Father Wulfgan was sitting on the bed so that, pressed back against the wall though she was, Imogen’s eyes were still only inches from his. He stank, but she should be used to that—he mortified his flesh through uncleanliness as well as starvation and flagellation.

“It is good that you do not recognize lust, my child.”

That wasn’t the problem. Imogen wished she could tell Father Wulfgan that she had witnessed lust at its most foul, and have the memory wiped away like the sins in confession. The words wouldn’t come, though. To speak of it would make it more real.

“But… but how do I avoid it, Father,” she whispered, “if I do not know what it is?”

He laid his twisted hand over hers. “The easiest way, daughter in Christ, is to be celibate.”

“But I am to marry.”

“Married couples have lived a pure life. Holy Edward, king of this land not fifty years since, took a wife and yet kept himself free of all vileness.”

How fortunate his wife was, thought Imogen, imagining a comfortable world of hugs and kisses which never progressed to vileness.

But then she remembered her father’s scathing comments about King Edward. It was that celibate marriage which had left England without a clear heir and ripe for plucking by Normandy.

Somehow, she couldn’t imagine FitzRoger praying his wedding night away. “I… I think Lord FitzRoger will want children, Father.”

“Then let him get them as he was got,” snarled Wulfgan, “on women whose feet are already set on the path to hell.”

Imogen felt a spurt of pure outrage at the idea and kept her lashes lowered, her face as still as possible. If FitzRoger could read her like a book, doubtless Father Wulfgan could too.

“I believe it will be my duty as a wife to bear my lord’s children.” And I want to, she thought, even at the price of pain. The image of presenting FitzRoger with his first child turned her innards warm with longing.

The priest sighed. “Few have the strength for a chaste marriage,” he conceded.

Imogen looked up. “So how do I fulfill my duty to bear children, Father, but yet avoid lust?”

Wulfgan sat back, looking as if he had bitten into a green apple. “It is simple enough. You must avoid pleasure in the marriage bed, my child, and things that might lead to pleasure. Remember always that your vile flesh is the enemy of the spirit. Reject it. Mortify it. When your flesh takes pleasure, you know you are in sin.”

“Pleasure?” Imogen asked blankly. The fires of lust were one thing, but where was the danger of pleasure in the marriage bed? He must mean the kisses. This was all very confusing.

Wulfgan patted her cheek with a gnarled hand. “Your very bewilderment shows you to be pure, my child. I have told you in the past of those acts you must avoid if you are to escape damnation—the tongue in the mouth, the hand on the breast…”

Imogen looked down, wishing her face would not flare with heat.

Wulfgan sighed. “I soil your innocence by talking of such things, and now I fear I must distress you further, dear child. I have wished to save you from all this, but you are right in saying it is your duty to wed. The path of duty is often set with the fiery pits of temptation. Let me tell you now of other fearful things the devil may put before you…”

Imogen hardly slept that night for thinking of the extraordinary things Father Wulfgan had spoken of, things that went far beyond anything she had seen or imagined. Some practices revolted her, and she certainly couldn’t imagine FitzRoger wishing to behave so ludicrously, but she had to acknowledge that the devil was cunning. Some of the acts described had created in her a tangled excitement which might be the dreaded lust.

And lust would not only condemn her to hell; it would mark her offspring and ruin all enterprises of the family. Men, according to Father Wulfgan, were weak in the face of lust. It was for women to avoid leading them into temptation.

Imogen wasn’t clear how, except that she wasn’t to flaunt her naked body before her husband or touch him in one of the wicked ways described.

As if she would.

Imogen greeted the rising sun with sick anxiety, and set herself willingly to the prescribed day of fasting and prayer. Martha protested this, saying Imogen needed her strength, but the ribald look in the woman’s eyes just increased Imogen’s resolve. She must be spiritually resolute, not physically.

Martha went away muttering.

Though Imogen tried hard to concentrate on purity and prayer, strange images kept intruding on her prayers.

FitzRoger’s long-fingered hands, and the feel of their callused strength on her body.

The taste of his mouth joined with hers.

The sick ache inside when he held her.

That gentling warmth that had come into his austere face just once or twice in tender moments.

Surely that couldn’t be a sign of damnation, could it?

She prayed harder.

In the afternoon, she heard the clamor of the king’s arrival and greeted it with relief.

It marked the beginning of the end.

As this was going on, Imogen studied the king, wondering what would have happened if she had left her fate completely in his hands.

Henry Beauclerk was in his thirties and not a particularly handsome man, but he had the presence of a king. He was stocky and strong, with thick dark hair hanging in fashionable curls on his shoulders and over his brow, and vivid dark eyes. Crisp dark hair grew on his brawny arms, too, and down onto his strong, short-fingered hands.

Though he clearly enjoyed fine dressing, he was no more ostentatious than any other nobleman. If she could get at her treasure, Imogen decided, she could easily cast him in the shade. Then she remembered her father’s warning that it was not wise to flaunt wealth before princes.

Perhaps that was why FitzRoger was dressed in a simple linen tunic of red woven with black, with only one bracelet and his ring by the way of ornament.

The king was in a good humor, and his eyes gleamed merrily as he teased her and FitzRoger about the coming wedding.

When he spoke of Warbrick, however, his expression turned cold and hard as a blade. Henry Beauclerk, born fourth in line and landless, had struggled to survive, and had fought to grasp and hold the throne of England. He was not a man to cross.

Then Imogen noted something else.

For all the difference in their ages, FitzRoger and the king were as close as brothers. Henry leaned on FitzRoger’s shoulder, teasing and being—very judiciously—teased back. They addressed each other as Hal and Ty.

Then, like a bolt from heaven, she remembered that when the king had commanded a man to rescue her, it had been FitzRoger who had been called to serve.

It was as good as a declaration that FitzRoger was to be her husband.

She wondered bitterly why he had bothered to woo her. All the concessions she had so carefully written down were as words written on water, for the king would never take Imogen’s side against his beloved “Ty.” And what
was
her future husband’s full name? It seemed absurd that she alone did not know it or dare to use it.

She was just the fool FitzRoger had once called her, pacified by illusory powers like a babe pacified by a sucket.

She eyed the two jovial men bitterly. Perhaps she would delight Wulfgan’s ascetic heart after all and take her body and her treasure to the convent at Hillsborough. That was the one option the king could not oppose.

Perhaps FitzRoger read her like a book again, for when the king left, he stayed behind, a watchful expression in his eyes. A hint of cold humor there made Imogen grit her teeth.

She challenged him directly. “Why did you pretend I had a choice? The king would have trussed me like a Michaelmas goose and presented me to you on a platter.”

He leaned against a wall, arms folded, and didn’t deny the charge. “You might have chosen Lancaster. That would have been a mistake, but he’s sufficiently influential to have made problems. Henry would not want to offend such a powerful baron while his hold on the Crown is still uneasy.”

“I could still choose Lancaster. I’ve agreed to nothing publicly.”

“No. He sent a message pressing his claim. I replied that you are now promised to me.”

Imogen gasped. “Without a word to me?”

“There was no need to consult you. You had already given your word to marry me. You will marry me, Imogen. Resign yourself. You won’t find it too arduous if you behave yourself.”

Fury swept through her. He was dismissing her again, and he was too far away to hit. Imogen beat the bed with her fists. “Doesn’t it bother you to be marrying someone who hates you so?”

He said nothing, but he did shield his eyes with his lids for a betraying moment.

Imogen scented blood. “What makes you safe from a knife in the night or poison in your cup, FitzRoger?”

“The fire on which they burn a woman who kills her husband?”

“I’m sure I could be cunning enough to avoid that.”

“I’m sure you could, too. The truth is that I will be vulnerable to your malice as you will be vulnerable to mine.”

Imogen shivered. “Is that a threat?”

“It is a fact. Tonight I will sleep by your side, Imogen. If you wish to use a blade on me, there will be little I can do about it.” He slipped his knife out of its sheath and tossed it gleaming on the bed. “In case you don’t have one sharp enough. Novices go for the chest, which is far too chancy and well protected. If you want to kill me, Ginger, slice open my belly or cut my throat. But cut deep the first chance. You won’t get a second.”

With that he was gone.

Imogen picked up the long knife with shaking fingers and carefully tested the blade. Despite her care, she still cut her thumb. The knife was wickedly sharp—a hunting knife, not a table knife. She imagined slashing it through skin and muscle…

She sucked her own salty blood thoughtfully. What was she to do? What choices did she realistically have? None but the convent, and honesty told her that wasn’t for her.

She wished this wasn’t her wedding day. She wished her father were alive to look after her. She wished FitzRoger would at least
pretend
to be gentle.

Fine chance there was of that. But at least he didn’t pretend to virtues he could never possess. He had, in his own way, been honest, and she had decided to marry him for good and logical reasons. Those reasons had not changed.

And his first gift to her had been a knife to kill him with.

Imogen placed the knife neatly on a chest by her bed. Perhaps if he were ever vile enough, she would find the courage to use it.

Imogen spent the rest of the day mending the dress she had chosen for her wedding and trying to think no further than that. She could not help but regret, however, that her finery was so limited. Only a mended gown to wear, and no jewelry at all.

Ridiculously, that trivial problem did bring a few tears to sting at her eyes. Perhaps she should weaken and tell FitzRoger where her jewels were hidden.

Just then Martha bustled in with a carved chest in her hands, her eyes glittering with excitement. “For you, lady!” the woman exclaimed as she put the box on the bed. “From the master!”

Imogen eyed the box suspiciously. She was wary of anything sent by FitzRoger, and reminded of the story of the ancients and the gift that had conquered Troy.

This gift, at least, could not conceal an army. It was a domed chest about two hands long, finely carved with woodland scenes and bound in silver. It had a lock, but the key was in it. She turned it and lifted the lid to expose leather pouches. She opened one to spill a golden girdle.

Another contained a bracelet, another rings. Soon the bed was covered with a flashing carpet of earrings, fillets, collars, brooches, and even ancient fibulas. There was every kind of metal and design—filigree, ribbon work, chains, stones.

Martha was gasping and oohing, but Imogen turned the ornaments thoughtfully. This haphazard collection was all of women’s pieces, and as FitzRoger had not had time to purchase them, they must be loot. They were all good pieces, but it was a collection without pattern or meaning. Doubtless whatever had been up for grabs at the time.

A mercenary’s loot.

Even so, she was touched by the lavishness of the gift, and that FitzRoger had thought of her problem. Perhaps the chest had contained an army of invasion after all, an army designed to invade her heart.

Imogen laughed at that. Probably such riches would turn the heads of most women, but when FitzRoger finally saw her true jewelry, he would realize these were mere trinkets.

All the same, she was touched, and could approach her wedding a little easier in her mind.

Imogen stood for the first time in over a day. Her feet did not hurt much and she discovered that FitzRoger had been right again. The world did look better when she was standing on her own.

Martha helped her into a cream silk kirtle and the darned red silk tunic. Imogen investigated the loot and clasped a girdle of gold filigree set with ivory flowers around her waist and a collar of gold and garnets around her neck. There were two narrow gold bracelets of ancient design and she slipped them onto her wrists. That was enough. There was no need for ostentation and she reminded herself that it was not wise to flaunt wealth before princes.

She replaced the rest of the jewelry, locked the chest, and then tucked the key under the girdle. She had nowhere else secure to keep it.

Martha combed out her long hair. “Oh, but it’s so pretty,” the woman said as it crackled along the comb. “And so long. It’s a wonder for sure. I don’t know what color it is, lady. Gold? Copper?”

“Lord FitzRoger says it’s ginger.”

“He never did!” The woman chuckled. “I’ll be bound he says something else tonight, lady.”

Imogen stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“Men say these things when they’re wooing, lady. They like to tease. But when they’re all hot and bothered, they say the truth.”

Imogen turned to look at her. “Hot and bothered? In lust, do you mean?”

“If you like, lady. Turn ‘round do, so I can finish this off.”

Imogen turned. Martha was a married woman and might be able to advise her. “Er… is it hard in the marriage bed to… to be good, Martha?”

“Good, lady?”

Imogen licked her lips. She found she couldn’t speak of the practices described by Father Wulfgan. “To do right. You know… Not to offend.”

Imogen felt the woman’s hand stroke her head briefly. “Don’t you fret, lambkin. He won’t expect you to be clever. It’ll be all right.”

Clever
? Imogen’s heart thumped. What had clever to do with it? She abandoned questions which only seemed to make matters worse. She knew she had been cossetted and protected, and Father Wulfgan had told her only what she
shouldn’t
do. What if there were things she was supposed to know that she didn’t know?

She would hate to give FitzRoger another reason to call her a silly child.

When it was time to go down, Imogen’s nerves were on edge and her legs felt unsteady. She tried her softest shoes but found they immediately galled the sides of her feet. She would have to go down barefoot and this made her feel even worse, as if she were entering the great hall only half dressed.

There was no help for it. Imogen reminded herself that she was Imogen of Carrisford, great heiress of the west, and set out to her wedding.

Alone, for she had no female attendant of stature, Imogen walked through the rooms and began to descend the wide staircase into the great hall. Her head felt fogged. It could be because of her sore feet, or the fasting.

She thought it was fear.

She was amazed to find that the hall looked ready for royalty and a wedding. There were hangings on the walls—not as fine as those destroyed by Warbrick, but better than nothing. The trestle tables set up for the meal were covered with snowy cloths. The rushes on the floor were clean and, she detected, strewn with rosemary and lavender to sweeten the air.

The large oak high table was not yet laid, for it was covered with the betrothal documents, but the nobles gathered around it were drinking wine from fine silver and gold vessels. The empty sideboards now held plates and even some precious glass.

It must all have come from Cleeve.

Something alerted the men. Silence fell as they turned to look at her.

Imogen’s steps faltered under all those assessing eyes. Hard eyes, mercenary eyes. To them she was just wealth and power on legs.

She gave thanks at that moment for FitzRoger’s trinkets, which allowed her at least the appearance of a great heiress. She regretted, however, that she had not agreed to be carried down to her betrothal; her dizziness was growing worse. She put a steadying hand against the wall.

Then she steeled herself. She was strong, and must prove it. By God, she would need to be strong as the wife of Bastard FitzRoger.

She saw him.

In the few brief days since they had met she had seen FitzRoger half naked, in armor, in gory leather, and in silk, but she had never seen him in such finery as this. He clearly had plenty more loot of a masculine sort.

He was sleek and hard in the green and gold of his colors. His dark hair glittered in a beam of light, and heavy gold ornaments glowed so that he outshone even his prince. He dominated the room, the King of England included. So much for not flaunting wealth before princes. It was as well he and Henry were friends or such unconscious arrogance could cost him his head.

And she had called him a nobody. He clearly was anything but.

She had learned to read him a little. She knew that just now he was concerned that she would fail to complete the walk she had set herself.

The concern didn’t hearten her. It was the same coolheaded concern he gave to his men’s fighting fitness, his animals’ good health, and his weapons’ edge. Everything Bastard FitzRoger possessed was expected to fulfill its purpose perfectly. He made no move to help her.