Dark Champion (20 page)

Trapped by her feet, and by her tangled obsession with FitzRoger, she had not even begun to face her responsibilities. Now it was time. It was also time to go to her treasure store and put the administration of Carrisford on the right footing. It was not so much a distrust of FitzRoger anymore as a desire to prove herself responsible and worthy.

Worthy of him.

On the other hand, she had to admit that she didn’t want to give him free access to the treasure.

Could she both trust and not trust a man at the same time?

Yes. She trusted him in personal matters, but she didn’t trust him not to put his interests and those of the king before hers. Both FitzRoger and the king were new men and power-hungry. Her husband wanted to make Cleeve great, and the king wanted a power base in this part of the country. Imogen didn’t oppose those aims, but her first priority was to restore Carrisford.

She scowled down at her feet, for she didn’t want to go through the dusty passageways to the treasure chamber barefoot. Again she tried a pair of shoes but could feel the pressure on sensitive spots. She
could
wear them for a while, but the price would be to undo most of the healing. She muttered a few curses that would have gained her a scolding from her aunt and a severe penance from Father Wulfgan.

Where was Martha? She wasn’t much of an attendant, but she was all Imogen had. The woman was doubtless still sleeping off the carouse.

Imogen decided she could do without Martha. Though she had never done such a thing before in her life, she dressed herself. It was no difficulty to get into a simple kirtle and tunic, though it was hard to arrange the garments pleasingly when she could not see herself.

She brushed out her hair, but trying to plait it proved beyond her; it was too long and thick. When she tried, the plaits did not look right at all. She would have to leave it loose.

As a married lady she was entitled to wear a veil on her head, but she didn’t have such a thing or anything to hold it on. A check of FitzRoger’s jewel chest proved that it contained no circlets. She could use a circle of cloth, as serf women did, but that seemed to be more lowering than going bareheaded.

She had plenty of circlets in the treasure chamber.

She clicked her tongue with frustrated impatience.

In the end she abandoned the effort to look matronly and went down the hall barefoot, with her hair uncovered and loose to her thighs. If anyone cared to make a scandal out of it, they could. She knew no one would even try to make a scandal out of anything Bastard FitzRoger’s wife did. There was pride in that thought.

When she took in the scene in the hall, she bit her lip on laughter. There was such an air of fragility. Judging from the condition of the survivors, it certainly had been a magnificent debauch. Renald de Lisle was sprawled at the high table, his head in his hands.

Imogen walked up behind him. “Good morning, Sir Renald.”

Even though she’d spoken quietly, he jerked as if she’d yelled, but then he gathered his manners and stood unsteadily to seat her.

“Good morning, little flower.” He looked at her rather closely and said, “You appear none the worse for wear.” Then he winced at his own words.

“I am none the worse, thank you,” said Imogen, then colored at the admission that could be. Surely he wouldn’t take it as such. She did not want to give anyone a hint that her wedding night had been incomplete. “In fact,” she added quickly, “I would have said that I am in better shape than most of the castle today. You chose not to hunt?”

“I am left behind in command. I’m not sure if that was a kindness or not. My whole body rebels at the thought of riding, but those men will come back from a day in the open air in a better state than I will be.”

A woman sauntered into the hall, hitching her loose gaudy gown up over lush breasts. She strolled over to a table and poured herself a goblet of ale, running a casual hand over the shoulder of a nearby guard. Just as casually the guard put an arm around her and pulled her close.

“Who is that?” Imogen demanded. “That woman isn’t from Carrisford!”

Renald sat up sharply, then cursed and clutched his head. “Visitor,” he said. “I’ll send her on her way.”

“But who… ?” Imogen realized there were a few other strange women about and none of them seemed to be doing any work. “The lazy sluts!” She was half on her feet when Renald tugged her down.

“Hush! Don’t make a fuss.” He looked slightly harassed. “They’re whores from Hereford.”

Imogen gaped. “
In my castle
? Is this FitzRoger’s doing?”

“Keep your voice down!” he hissed, wincing in pain.

“Yes, but you don’t know Beauclerk. He’s a lusty man, and those with him follow his style. If you didn’t want every woman in Carrisford unable to walk today, we had to bring some in.”

Imogen opened and shut her mouth a few times. “Very well,” she said at last, “but I won’t have them in my hall, king or not.”

“Of course not. I’ll see to it, but without a fuss. Ty should have…” He slid her a look. “He’s not quite himself this morning.”

Imogen kept her face calm. So the efficiency had slipped a little. She was pleased to know it. She lowered her eyes demurely. “It doubtless takes some getting used to, being a married man.”

“I’m sure it does. And how do you feel about being a married woman?”

She glanced at him, wondering at his tone. But even between her husband and Renald there must be some secrets. “What choice did I ever have?” she asked, standing and shaking out her skirts. “At the moment I am more concerned about being Lady of Carrisford. Remove those women from my hall, Sir Renald. And you will make it known that if the servants are not busily about their work within the hour, I will be after them with a whip.”

A spark of admiration lit his bloodshot eyes. “Yes, my lady!”

Imogen stalked out of the hall to the steps that led down to the bailey, but was brought to a frustrated halt. She couldn’t go down there barefoot.

Raging at her feet, she went through the wooden buttery and down steps to the storage rooms and cellars. These were cleaner, but not kind to her bare feet.

In the lowest floor of the keep she was met by the dismaying sight of empty shelves, broken containers, spilled goods, and the stink of leaked wine and ale. Though she had been told, she hadn’t expected it to be quite this bad.

FitzRoger had brought in supplies for the wedding. Could he not have had the mess cleared up too?

She quickly brushed aside that peevish thought. He had been busy and shorthanded, and this was her work, not his.

But to put all right would be a tremendous amount of work. She needed people and money.

She had money aplenty but could not reach it. The passage to the treasure vault was deliberately unwelcoming—dank and muddy, and in some places inches deep in water. It was made to appear a part of the secret ways which had been abandoned. It would be insanity to attempt it in bare feet.

With a sigh, Imogen gave up all thought of reaching her treasure until she could wear good solid shoes. She climbed a narrow circular staircase to her tower chamber.

It was only when she entered the room and saw how little it contained that she realized it wasn’t her chamber anymore. Unless, that was, FitzRoger chose not to share his quarters. She didn’t know how she felt about that. She knew it would not be wise for them to advertise their problems by sleeping apart, and yet she feared that if they were together it would come to that terrible intimacy again.

She gripped her hands tightly. It had to be done. Without consummation, the marriage was incomplete. It was voidable.

She suddenly realized her virginity provided the means of escape. Of course, while she was totally in the power of FitzRoger and the king there was nothing she could do, but if the situation were to continue for a period of time, and if the balance of power should shift…

Imogen went over to the gaping space where her beautiful window had been and looked over her castle and her land.

Did she want to escape the marriage?

Her husband was a hard man, and not one she was sure she could entirely trust. His power was uncertain, for the issue of the crown was not settled between Henry Beauclerk and his brother. If Henry fell, FitzRoger would fall too, and perhaps take Carrisford with him.

A wise woman would flee Bastard FitzRoger, and yet the thought brought a shadow of pain. In some strange way he was already a part of her life; his leaving would cause a gaping hole.

Before Imogen could tussle with the problem further, Martha burst in. “There you are, my lady! What’re you doing here? I’ve been that worried! There’s a man here for you. I’ll go get him.”

She was gone before Imogen had time to question her.

Imogen didn’t know who she expected to appear, but it certainly wasn’t the slight, middle-aged tradesman who bowed in. “Lady Imogen of Carrisford?”

Imogen agreed this was so.

“Cedric of Ross, master shoemaker,” he announced with pride. “Your husband ordered footwear for you.” He opened his pack and spilled out a half dozen pairs of rather incomplete shoes. Mere sandals, really.

Bemused, Imogen picked up one which was all heel and toe with nothing in between. “How would it stay on, Master Cedric?”

“None of these are complete, lady. Lord FitzRoger sent a pair of your shoes for measure and a description of your… er… problems. I have prepared as best I could. Now we can try them and I will put on the fastenings so they won’t cause you further hurt.”

Imogen could have wept with gratitude. Amid all the chaos and work, FitzRoger had thought of this. No, she did not want to escape the marriage.

Master Cedric tried on various styles, marking, cutting and measuring. At last he held up one pair which were mere slender straps and sole. ‘These would be best for in the castle, lady, for they will protect the soles of your feet and come nowhere near your sores. I can affix the laces speedily.“

Imogen nodded. “But I need something a little more solid,” she said. “In case I have need to go into the bailey.”

The man pursed his lips then picked up the one that was toe and heel. ‘This one, lady. See, I can add a little extra soft leather along the sides, which should give protection and not pain you. With a raised cork sole, you would be above any foulness.“

“How long will that take?”

“The sandal you can have within minutes, lady, but the other will take until tomorrow.”

Imogen sighed but agreed. “It is a shame you didn’t come a few days earlier, Master Cedric, rather than working on these efforts at a distance.”

The man looked up. “But I was told not to come until today, lady. Your feet were doubtless not ready for shoon.”

Imogen’s bubble of contentment burst. FitzRoger, as usual, had thought of everything. He wanted her mobile—doubtless so she could take up her duties in the castle—but had not intended that she have the freedom of her castle until she was securely bound to him.

It was completely in character. Kindness, but always judicious kindness.

Her calculating husband hadn’t counted, of course, on the marriage still being unconsummated today.

For the first time, Imogen wondered why it wasn’t.

She remembered thinking that Lancaster would have completed the act no matter how she screamed. Men did take women by force, so why hadn’t her husband?

She must remember, though, that FitzRoger acted always in his own ambitious interests. He’d achieved his main purpose; they were married. He doubtless knew she wouldn’t announce her failure to the world. So, he probably thought it would benefit him more to treat her gently than to force her. After all, she’d be unlikely to loosen her purse strings for a rapist.

She sighed. She was very tired of brutal reality.

When the sandals were finished and on her feet, Imogen praised Master Cedric for his work and dismissed him, telling Martha to find him a place to work. She walked around her room, rejoicing in the simple security of a layer of leather between her skin and the floor.

Then she set out to explore. At last she had the freedom of her keep, and by walking along the walls she could survey most of the castle.

Imogen spent the day investigating and planning.

Considering the situation and the lack of servants, Carrisford was in surprisingly good condition. Even the pens of livestock were beginning to be replenished. New hens were laying, new milch cows had heavy udders, and in the dairy butter was being churned. She inspected and made a few changes in the arrangements, but had to acknowledge that matters were well in hand.

As the stables had burned, there was only a lean-to roof to shelter the horses, but that should be adequate in summer. Even with men out hunting, the stables were full, but peering down from the wall Imogen saw no familiar horses. She summoned a stable groom up onto the wall to speak with her, and he confirmed that her father’s and her horses were gone.

“Don’t rightly know if they be dead or not, lady,” the man confessed. “I fled the castle, and by the time I came back, things were much as you see ‘em.”

“And what of the mews and kennels?” Imogen asked.

“The same, lady.” But his eyes shifted in a way that told her there had been corpses. He was protecting her, as everyone did, but she let it pass, thinking sadly of her hounds, Gerda and Gelda, and her fine merlin.