Dark Champion (19 page)

He sensed her at the last moment and spun around, a knife flashing in his hand, halted inches from her body.

He let out a hissing breath. “Don’t ever creep up on me, Imogen.”

“I’m sorry,” she said shakily. “I didn’t think…”

She could swear he was shaken too. “Start thinking,” he said sharply.

Imogen bit her lip. She wanted to speak of things that had to be said, but not when he was angry, and not where the watchcorn would hear every word.

He must have caught her anxious glance at the studiously oblivious guard, for he moved away from the battlements, silently leading the way to the stairs, back down to their room.

Imogen grabbed his arm—she couldn’t go back there yet—then jerked her hand away from his hard flesh as if burned.

He stopped and looked at her. In the chill moonlight he seemed to be carved of stone, cold stone. Then he moved. Almost hesitantly, he put a hand on her waist, and the hand was warm. When she made no retreat, he drew her gently against him, his arms encircling her.

Imogen shuddered as she leaned her head against his shoulder. She hadn’t known how much she needed to be held.

Tears swelled in her, and she knew it would do her good to weep here within the strong encompassment of his arms, but her tears would surely hurt him and she had hurt him enough. She won the aching battle with them.

It was comfort enough just to be held. She hoped it was comfort for him to hold her…

It was only when he softly said, “There is a perfectly good bed below,” that she realized she was drifting off to sleep. Perhaps had slept.

She stirred and saw from the position of the moon that quite some time had passed.

“You need sleep, too,” she said, and realized it was an invitation of sorts. She hoped it was not an invitation to disaster.

She couldn’t read him. He was more relaxed than before, but guarded. Without a word, he guided her toward the stairs with his hand on her back, then went down their blackness ahead of her.

The castle was quiet now. The carouse must finally be over.

The solar seemed strangely normal when they reentered it, though eerie in the moonlight. She had expected it to be marked by what had occurred.

Still he didn’t speak, so Imogen braced herself to break the silence. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t behave at all well.” ,

He was standing calmly in the center of the room. “What has that to do with it? I’m sorry I couldn’t make it easier for you.”

His flat tone bruised her. She wished she could explain some of the devils he hadn’t been able to exorcise, but the words would choke her. “I’m sure it will be better next time,” she offered.

She saw rather than heard the sigh. “Go to bed.” He turned toward the door.

“Where are you going?” she cried in alarm.

He turned back. “It’s all right. You hardly ate at the feast, and I’d forgotten that you probably took that business of fasting seriously. You’ll feel better with some food in you.”

“You mean you didn’t fast?” she asked in dismay.

“No,” he said, and she could almost feel his effort at patience. “And if you give birth to rabbits, Imogen, I vow I’ll make pilgrimage to Jerusalem on my knees.”

“Oh, don’t say that!”

“Imogen, women do not give birth to rabbits.”

“With God all things are possible.” She wondered if he were heretic enough to deny
that
.

“Doubtless. But I’m sure God has better things to do with his omnipotence.”

Imogen bit her lip. That sounded both true and sacrilegious. “And the monsters?” she asked.

He moved back, a step closer to her. “Imogen, women do give birth to strange children—crippled, even lacking limbs. I once saw a babe like a Cyclops, with only one eye. You must have seen some unfortunates, even in Carrisford. But I don’t believe God made them that way as punishment for adultery or unseemly pleasure. I’ve seen animals similarly deformed. Did they also enjoy themselves too much?”

Imogen couldn’t think what to say to that. She
had
once seen a lamb with six legs.

He touched her cheek very gently, and she could swear there was a trace of a smile on his face. “My biggest crime, I think, is to forget how young and naive you are. Sometimes you are so brave and strong. Go to bed. I’ll be back shortly.”

When he’d gone, Imogen made a light and lit a candle, then remade the bed. She distastefully brushed all the crushed rose petals onto the floor. A perfume rose from them but it didn’t please her; she preferred the other smell, the musky one which she recognized as his.

She stood looking at the bed, hands clasped tight. He thought her problem was just religious scruples, but she knew in her heart it wasn’t. It was that other, darker, fear that lay between them, only exacerbated by Wulfgan’s preaching.

She didn’t want the fear, but she didn’t seem to be able to control it. Such a thing should surely be under her control. When she was clearheaded, like now, she knew FitzRoger was no Warbrick, that he was not trying to rape her, that she wanted to be joined with him.

At the time, however, it had been like rats. No amount of thought could stop her fleeing a rat. Nothing could make her willingly touch one. She was sure that it was that fear that had caused the pain. Was it possible that nothing could make her welcome his invasion of her body?

She covered her face with her hands. That would surely be hell.

It
had
to be within her control.

Imogen gathered her courage and slipped out of her clothes and between the cool sheets, clearing her mind so that she would behave properly this time.

She brought to mind some holy martyrs. If Saint Catherine could endure the wheel, and Saint Agatha having her breasts cut off… Too late, she remembered that these stories supported Wulfgan’s preaching, for the martyrs had been punished—and sanctified—for refusing to sully themselves with men.

She thought instead of the walk to Cleeve, which had been horrible and frightening, but it had to be done and so she had done it. This too was something that had to be done.

FitzRoger came in with a piled trencher, a flagon, and two goblets. Thoughts both noble and philosophical were swamped by simple hunger. Imogen’s stomach rumbled and she sat up in the bed eagerly. With a quizzical smile, he placed the food before her. She grabbed a piece of cold saffron chicken and bit into it with a sound in her throat that was almost a purr.

It was gone quickly and she began on an almond honey cake, ending by licking the crumbs from her fingers. Suddenly embarrassed by her greed, she looked up at him. He was watching her, catlike, but did not seem to be displeased. He offered her a goblet of wine.

She tried a smile as she reached for it. “Thank you, my lord.”

He held on to the silver goblet when she would have taken it. ‘Tyron,“ he corrected. ”Or Ty. Or even Bastard, if you wish.“

She tentatively allowed herself to tease. “Bastard,” she said.

His lips twitched and he gave up the goblet.

“Do you not mind?” she asked, watching him over the rim.

“I’ve been called that all my life behind my back, but I’ve killed men who used it to my face.”

She considered him. He was being pleasant, but the mask was firmly in place. She wished he’d let it drop again. “What will you do to me, then, if I use it?”

“I’ve given you permission, haven’t I? And if you need someone to mortify your flesh, I’m sure Wulfgan will oblige.” She saw him catch himself on that spurt of irritation. He went on calmly, almost lightly. “However, if you call me Bastard in public, wife, you can explain the ramifications of my mother’s relationship with Roger of Cleeve.”

Imogen felt as if she were tiptoeing through daggers, but that deliberate use of the word
wife
strengthened her. He was not rejecting her. “What are the ramifications, then?” she asked.

He moved to lie on the bed, his back to one of the foot-posts, facing her. His shoes almost touched her knees. “My mother married Roger of Cleeve and I have documents to prove it, though he sought to have them destroyed. When the marriage became inconvenient, he had it annulled on the grounds that I wasn’t his child. I was born a month early and he could prove that nine months before he had been in England.”

“Were you small?”

“Very. That didn’t concern him, or count with the Church court he took the case to. The bishop found a generous donation to his coffers much more interesting.”

“But now your birth is validated.”

“Yes. Money and power now weigh the other side of the scale.”

Imogen almost protested that sounded remarkably irreverent, but she held her tongue.

He carried on. “It was made easier, of course, by the fact that there is no contesting heir.”

“Your half brother Hugh being conveniently dead.” Then she wished she
had
held her tongue. It was said Hugh choked at the table, but there were rumors…

It was a particular look in his eyes that distracted Imogen. She realized she was sitting up naked in the bed for this meal and conversation. With a squeak she moved to slip under the covers, but—lightning fast—he snared the sheet.

She remembered her good intentions and froze. Her heart was pounding, and she knew she must be rose-red, but she didn’t fight him.

“You’re lovely,” he said. “There’s no reason to hide from me.”

“Modesty,” she countered, then bit her lip.

A momentary lowering of his lids was all the evidence of the impatience she knew he felt. “It isn’t immodest for you to be naked before your husband,” he said in that same calm, authoritative voice he had used before. Situation and memory combined to render Imogen miserably self-conscious.

He tossed the sheet over her and left the bed. Imogen knew she’d failed again. What on earth was she to do about all this? Despite good intentions, she feared that if he tried again to consummate the marriage, the same terrible thing would happen.

But without it, they were not truly wed.

He was standing by the narrow window looking out at the bailey, his arm raised against the wall. It was shadowy in that dark corner of the room, but the muted moonlight deepened the angles of his body and made him appear even harder than he was.

But she had seen tonight that he was not hard.

“I wish you would come to bed,” she whispered into the gray half-light. “Please.” She knew it might sound like an invitation to repeat his act and she didn’t want that. But she knew it would be disastrous if he stayed by that window all night long.

She thought he would refuse, but then he stripped off his clothes and joined her. He lay on his side again, and played with a strand of her hair. “What would you do if I started all over again, I wonder?”

Imogen swallowed. “Submit,” she said bravely.

“That’s what I thought. Go to sleep, Ginger. We both need our sleep.”

When Imogen awoke it was bright daylight outdoors and she was alone in the bed. She leaned up to scan the room, but he was not there. Dread leaped into her. An unconsummated wedding night. What was going to happen to her now?

She heard men and horses in the bailey and shot upright in the bed. He was leaving!

Before she could act, the door opened and FitzRoger came in. Imogen grabbed for the sheet, then stopped herself, trying not to mind her nakedness, absorbing the vast relief that he was still here.

Unless he had come to announce his departure.

He picked up her shift from the floor and tossed it to her. As soon as she was in it, he opened the door wide and two servants came in to lay a cloth on a table and spread meat, bread, and ale.

When they were gone, her husband said, “Good morning. You look well rested.”

“Yes.” Then she wondered if that was the wrong answer. Should she have lain awake worrying? Had he? The idea seemed ridiculous, and he looked his usual unruffled, austere self.

He gestured to the table and she climbed out of bed and joined him there. She picked up a bread roll, wishing she could think of something light and clever to say. The fresh, warm bread reminded her of the bread she had eaten at Cleeve. If she hadn’t traveled there, what would have become of her?

Warbrick, perhaps. She’d be dead in that case, for she would have killed herself. On this sweet, sunny day with birds singing and the smell of the warm earth in the air she was glad to be alive.

She might have made it through to the king, though. Then she would have been delivered to FitzRoger without the chance to make terms.

Perhaps she could have insisted that there had been an agreement that she wed Lancaster. She thought of Lancaster in the marriage bed. His hands were fleshy and clammy. He licked his lips a lot so they always appeared moist, and bad teeth made his breath foul. She knew with certainty that scream as she might, Lancaster would not have halted the consummation…

“What’s the matter?” FitzRoger asked her alertly.

“Nothing.”

She could see he didn’t believe her. All his formidable attentiveness was now focused on her; she was a problem to be solved. It unnerved her.

“Are people up yet?” she asked.

He poured her some ale and she downed it in a gulp.

“A few bleary servants and the unfortunate guards who pulled duty last night. I gather,” he added dryly, “everybody except them had an excellent time.”

Except us, thought Imogen, and concentrated on her bread. “I suppose I should go down and organize things…”

“Hardly. We are allowed some indulgence. Or at least, you are. Hal is already up and raring for a hunt.” He took a piece of meat and bit into it.

Imogen looked up, feeling she was being pushed into her pampered corner again. “I like to hunt,” she challenged.

“Not today you don’t.”

“Am I to be confined to my room, then?”

He made a sudden movement, abruptly controlled. “Imogen, Carrisford is yours. Go where you want. Do as you wish. Hunt if you wish. I’m sure my reputation can stand the implications, and you obviously don’t care about yours.”

Then she understood and blushed. If she rode all day, people would know the marriage had not been consummated, or would think that she had not been a virgin. “I won’t hunt,” she said.

“As you will.”

She shook her head miserably. Those moments of warmth before the disaster had been brief but potent. She could not forget them, and she wanted them back. She wanted to discuss what had happened, now, in the safety of daylight. She wanted to tell him of her demons, and apologize for her silliness. She couldn’t think of words that wouldn’t choke her.

“What you need,” he said briskly, “is some women. Do you have relatives who would come to live with you?”

She shook her head. Since he was looking away, she had to force words out. “No. There was just my… my aunt. My father has… had relatives in Flanders, but they are strangers…”

“I will arrange something. For the immediate, I will ask for some nuns from Hillsborough. I’m sure you will be comfortable with such companions.”

“Very well.” Imogen was more concerned with ways to melt FitzRoger’s icy shell than with companions.

She wanted the teasing, relaxed companion back. The longing was a physical pain in her chest, deepened by the fact that she had doubtless made it impossible. He would not seek such a disastrous scene again.

He would have to.

Unless he abandoned subtlety and raped her.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said sharply. “I’m not going to attack you again.” He rose from the table, flipped open a chest and grabbed a pair of hawking gloves and a whip, then headed for the door. “Rest.”

Trying for humor, Imogen said, “Is that an order?”

He was already at the door. He looked back and shook his head. “Do as you wish. Carrisford is yours. You’ve earned it.”

From her window Imogen watched the hunt leave. The king must have a hard head, for he and FitzRoger appeared to be the only ones really relishing a day in the saddle. The rest hauled themselves onto their horses as if their muscles were string and their heads fire. Imogen couldn’t help but giggle, especially when one knight mounted only to topple off the other side.

As if sensing her, FitzRoger looked up. His face assumed an appropriately fond expression and he blew a kiss. Imogen didn’t have to force a smile as she shyly waved.

The king said something. She guessed from his gesture that he was offering to allow her husband to stay behind. FitzRoger refused and made a remark that caused humor among those nearby. Imogen knew it would have been something lewd, but that was expected of a bridegroom.

The falconers came out with the hawks and some men took their own on their wrists. Her husband did. It was a fine peregrine, and the cruel head sought his voice, the neck curved under his gentle touch.

In what condition were her mews? And what of her own merlin? There were so many parts of Carrisford she still had not even considered. She feared the worst.

Leashed hounds strained, pulling their handlers toward the gate and the open country. There had been no sign of her father’s fine dogs since the sack. They must have been stolen or killed.

The king gave the signal and the party streamed out.

And the horses. What of the horses? She sighed, having little hope that her snow-white palfrey, Ysolde, had escaped Warbrick.