Dark Champion (25 page)

Her nerves trembled, but warily she rose and obeyed.

When she was standing by his knee, he took her hand. He played with her fingers. “Tell me what you fear. The pain of losing your maidenhead, if there’s pain at all, will be soon over.”

“I don’t fear the pain.” Imogen wanted to tell him, but could not find the words. Could he explain why he feared closed spaces?

“You cannot persuade me that you do not like to be kissed and fondled.”

Her cheeks were burning. “No, I like it well enough. From you, at least.”

“A compliment!” he declared. “We progress! Who else has kissed and fondled you, though?”

The edge in his voice made her nervous, but she answered. “My betrothed kissed me on the lips now and then, and Lancaster once. His breath is foul.”

Still, he played with her fingers in a mesmerizing way. “So, why are you afraid, Imogen? I don’t bite. Or only,” he added, raising her hand and nipping her fingers, “in the nicest ways.”

She snatched her hand away. “That! That’s what I fear. Your urges are wicked!” It was a paltry, lying evasion, and she knew it.

He shook his head slightly and considered her. The silence stretched until she felt fit to scream. What was he planning?

“For this night,” he said eventually, “I give you my word, I will do only what you wish. If you say stop, I will stop.”

He held out a hand. Tentatively, Imogen placed hers in it. He pulled her down onto his lap.

“What are you going to do, then?”

“Kiss you,” he said, and did.

His lips were soft and warm, and his hand played gently at her neck. Imogen easily put all the words of Father Wulfgan away and relaxed. She snaked her hands about her husband’s neck and submitted happily.

Even when his hand wandered over her breasts she stifled any protest. If she just kept her attention on the kiss, perhaps she could keep dark thoughts at bay…

The mere idea caused them to hover around her like a storm cloud. It was as if she were afraid of being afraid. No, she wouldn’t give in to this insanity. There was nothing here to stir her fears. Warbrick had never touched Janine’s breasts. There was no connection.

She kissed her husband fiercely, trying to drive the shadows away. This could not be too hard a thing to do, especially when she could tell that her body wanted what he offered. The wanting was like warmth trickling through her and coiling sweetly in her belly.

He said she’d tightened against him. She didn’t think she was tight now.

He murmured something approving and unclasped her precious girdle to let it slither to the floor. It clattered carelessly in a way that made her wince. His hand invaded her tunic to be one layer closer to her skin.

Her body moved with desire. Her mind said this was right.

The terrors, though, the terrors screamed,
Stop
!

She blocked them and said, “Yes,” even though her heart was pounding with fear.

He was studying her and she looked into his eyes for strength. He captured her hand and held it to his chest. “Yes?” he asked.

She nodded, fighting the demons with every fragment of strength she could find.

Who was in control of her body and her mind, she or them?

She
could
do this. She could.

“You look frightened,” he said on an unsteady breath, “but we’ll go very slowly, and I’ll stop if you want.”

“I’d rather it were fast,” she protested. “I know it can be fast. I’ve heard—”

He put his fingers over her lips. “It will be easier for you if we take our time. Trust me, Imogen…”

He was slow as he took her hand and slid it down his hard body until it touched where he was harder. She flinched, but he held her there gently. “Don’t be afraid of it,” he said. “It won’t hurt you, or at least, only the first time. You are made for this, Imogen. Accept it.”

Yes, she told herself. Women are made for this. She remembered the needlewomen and their anticipation.

No
! shrieked her fears. Remember the pain. Violation. Blood. Screams.

Martha, she reminded herself fiercely. Dora. Those whores down in the hall taking ten men a night. Her mother and father.

Janine!

Women have endured this since time began. It is natural. I can be calm and let him do his duty.

I can. I can. I can.

Her heart was speeding so, she feared he must hear it.

In her effort to gain control she clutched at him. He jerked under her hand and swelled. She looked into his eyes and saw the power of his need.

Her control broke. She pushed away violently. His hold was lax so she fell bruisingly to the floor.

At the look on his face, she scuttled backward. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “I tried…”

He buried his head in his hands. “Then don’t.” He surged to his feet and turned toward the door.

“Please don’t leave me!” Imogen cried, then she shook her head. “Oh, I’m sorry. Go, if you want. Go to a whore. I won’t mind. It’s all my fault.”

He was like an ebony statue, except his face, which was ivory-pale. “I will never use a whore in your house, Imogen. I will only be gone for a short while. If you wish to be kind, get into bed, but keep your shift on.”

Imogen watched the door click shut, heartsick. How could something she wanted so much be so impossible?

She obeyed him, though. Trembling, she used the water left for washing, then climbed into the bed in her shift.

She was discovering that life wasn’t a chess game. She couldn’t plan the moves, and she needed more than her brain to win. Despite all her good intentions, she wasn’t in control of her body and couldn’t will herself to behave as she wished.

It was like rats. No willpower on earth could make her pick up a rat, even a dead one.

How could it be resolved?

But FitzRoger had gone into the secret passageways to save his friends.

How did that help her? She’d tried to be brave tonight, and it had been nothing but disaster.

He had vomited when he came out of the passageways.

Would she vomit if they consummated the marriage? What would that do to him? Perhaps, after all, she should go to the nunnery.

She didn’t want to. She wanted to stay with FitzRoger.

He returned, calm in a way that was not natural. It made the hairs raise on Imogen’s skin, though not with a sense of danger.

Father
, she begged,
what do I do now
?

There was no answer.

FitzRoger stripped down to his drawers, then climbed into the bed. He did not touch her, but lay on his side, looking at her. She met his eyes. She owed him that.

“Imogen,” he said, “it would help, I think, if you could send Father Wulfgan away. The monks at Grimstead would take him in and doubtless some of them would appreciate his brand of piety.”

Imogen knew Father Wulfgan wasn’t the major problem, but just the mask she was using to hide from the dark. Sending the priest away, however, was a little enough thing to ask. “Very well,” she said.

He nodded. “And I would like a promise from you.”

“What?”

“That you will never endure anything from me in lovemaking. If you feel at all uncomfortable, let me know. It is… extremely hard on me to be misled in these matters.”

Imogen swallowed. “But I’m not sure if…”

“We can at least try.”

She searched his eyes and told herself that he knew what was what. “Very well. I promise.”

“Good. Now, go to sleep.” He turned, and cut off communication with absolute finality.

Imogen turned wearily in the other direction, wondering how this was to unravel.

When she ventured down to the hall she learned that FitzRoger and the king were again out hunting. They were insatiable, and in the king’s case, inexhaustible. The hall gave silent evidence of another wild night, but at least there were no whores in sight.

Imogen intended to continue her organization of Carrisford, but when she was told that the Earl of Lancaster had pleaded the exhaustion of the journey and declined to hunt, she grew wary. She retreated back to her room to avoid a meeting. Any meeting between them was bound to be unpleasant, but it could also be dangerous.

What would Lancaster do if he suspected the marriage was unconsummated? He would do something, and it was clear the king did not want to move directly against the earl. Henry’s position was still precarious, and he could not afford to offend such a powerful man.

Considering the possibilities, Imogen wanted, quite desperately, to be in a consummated marriage with FitzRoger. Everything then would be relatively simple, both for her and for the kingdom. Here, in the calm of the moment, she couldn’t understand why it was impossible to achieve. If FitzRoger had been available, she would have dragged him to the bed to try again.

She laughed at the thought.

For the moment, however, she had plenty to occupy herself. If she couldn’t be a full wife to him, at least she could manage their properties properly. Today she would tackle the accounts and pay all her debts.

That meant a trip to the treasure vault.

The shoemaker had sent the new shoes, and she found the man was good at his work. The shoes did not rub any sore place, and fitted snugly. The raised cork soles would protect her from any mud.

She wasn’t looking forward to the trip, for the passages were dark, damp, and noisome in places, and she had never gone to the treasure vault alone. This, however, was just a fear, and one she could face, unlike the other. The main hazard was that she might encounter a rat, but she had never met a rat there. They tended to avoid the lantern light.

Keeping an eye open for Lancaster, Imogen made her way to the lower floor by a tower staircase that led to the buttery. After ensuring that the paneled corridor was deserted, she moved one carved panel and slipped into a stone alcove behind, easing the wood back in place. The alcove did not look unusual to the uneducated eye, but a push swiveled the wall, causing an opening.

Imogen slipped through and let the stone swing heavily back, enclosing her in the musty damp. Panic choked her for a moment, for there was only the glimmer of light through small openings in the wall designed for just that purpose. She had expected this, though. She fought her fear and waited for her eyes to grow accustomed to the dimness.

Her ears sought betraying scratching noises but heard only blessed silence broken by the drip of water in the distance. Her heart rate began to settle.

The floor here was smooth stone and she walked quickly to her left to where the lantern was kept. What would she do if it wasn’t there? Go on, she told herself. Go on to the next one closer to the treasure room.

The lantern was there, along with flint and tinder. She lit the candle inside with hands unsteady with relief. The thin light seemed startlingly bright, but only showed stone walls striped by green dampness, and a lot of cobwebs. Now she had a light, however, Imogen’s fears receded.

She went through the passageways purposefully, coming to forks and turns, but always knowing the way to go. She stopped at one unmarked place and loosened a stone. From behind she took the key to the treasure room.

She pressed on, feeling the way slope downward. The passage became damper, the floor slippery.

Now two clear passageways lay before her, and one that appeared hopeless. Thick cobwebs curtained the entrance, indicating that no one had passed that way for years. Beyond the ground sloped apparently into deep water. Imogen ducked as low as possible under the cobwebs and skirted the slimy little pool which, in fact, was only ankle-deep. Beyond was mud, but it was only a thin layer. It squished unpleasantly under her cork soles, though, and at least one garderobe discharged deliberately down the outside of the nearby wall, filling the place with a foul smell.

Looking ahead, one would swear the passage soon dead-ended in rough-hewn rock, but she went forward. At the rock face, a narrow turn was revealed which widened into a space blocked with an ironbound door.

With a relieved breath, Imogen slid in the key and turned the well-oiled lock. The door was open to the treasure of Carrisford.

There were chests, bags, boxes, and—on shelves—golden plates and goblets.

It was tempting to take some of the splendor up to the hall to restore the magnificence of her home, but with the king here it would be unwise to produce new treasures. She needed coin for her debts, and a few of her jewels, that was all. She went to a box and took out two bags of coin.

From a chest she selected a few favorite jewels, including two circlets. That reminded her that she had given FitzRoger no gift. She wanted to give him something.

She opened her father’s jewel chest. Everything was here, for all his jewels had been brought down after his death, brought by herself, Siward, and Sir Gilbert, the only ones who knew the full secrets of Carrisford.

Tears pricked her eyes at the sight of these familiar ornaments, last seen on Lord Bernard’s person. She lifted a magnificent egg-sized ruby on a chain, remembering how she had loved to catch the sun in it as a child. Aunt Constance had said she’d cut her teeth on it.

She let it fall. It was not suitable for FitzRoger.

She checked through soft leather bags, knowing what she sought. At last she had it: a magnificent chain of heavy gold set with smooth cabochon emeralds. It was perhaps the most precious item in the treasure and little worn, for it had not suited Lord Bernard’s looks. It would be magnificent on FitzRoger, though.

She hesitated. When she gave it to him, he would know she had been here to her treasure.

So be it. He’d know anyway when she paid her debts.

She put her collection in a pouch made of her tunic skirt and locked up carefully behind herself. She made her way back along the muddy passage and left it, disturbing the cobwebs as little as possible.

Letting her breath out with relief, she hurried back along the passageways and returned the key to its place. Then she went on to where she had to leave the lantern. From there, however, she took a slightly different route, for she didn’t dare exit in the buttery, where it was hard to tell if someone was close by.

She came out instead in a garderobe near the hall. She slipped out of there and headed up to her room. To the room she shared with FitzRoger.

As she turned into the tower stairs, she heard a voice call her name. Lancaster. God rot the man. She ignored the call and ran up to the solar. She dropped her treasure into her chest and locked it, then quickly brushed away the cobwebs.

She had just finished when Father Wulfgan stalked into the room without a knock.

“Daughter, where have you been?”

Imogen almost said, That’s none of your business, which startled her considerably. She remembered then that she’d promised to get rid of the priest, and felt her knees knock.

Under FitzRoger’s eyes it had seemed easy enough. Face-to-face with Father Wulfgan, it was almost impossible.

“I was inspecting some of the storerooms, Father,” she said.

“You were looked for, and not found. My Lord of Lancaster seeks to speak with you. You owe him that.”

“Do I?” Why on earth would Wulfgan be on Lancaster’s side?

“He is a godly man,” said Wulfgan. “He does not lust after war. He is generous in support of holy works. If he had become your lord, he would have founded a new monastery on this land, one truly dedicated to a life of mortification.”

Imogen sighed. So even Wulfgan was not above bribery. Was he to be abbot of this foundation? It did offer a possible solution to her dilemma, though. “Perhaps Lord FitzRoger will found one such,” she offered.

“He would corrupt everything he touches! Do you know your husband has brought foul women into this place?”

Oh dear. “They are for the king, Father.”

“Impious king. He has a wife, so does not even have that excuse for his depravity!”

“At least FitzRoger is not so depraved.”

“He has you upon whom to slake his foul lust.” He fixed her with a penetrating gaze. “Did you stay pure in heart, daughter? I witnessed him dragging you from the company before the sun had decently set.”

“We played chess!” she said in quick defense.

“Chess?” His eyes sharpened.

“Yes.” Imogen couldn’t endure another inquisition and prayer session. She’d rather face the earl. “I will speak with Lord Lancaster in the garden,” she said. “Please tell him that.”

Wulfgan narrowed his eyes at the command, but blessed her and obeyed.

Lord, how was she to dismiss Wulfgan when he reduced her to a child so easily? It was tempting to let FitzRoger do it, but she knew it was for her to do. But first she must face Lancaster.

It was interesting and dangerous that Lancaster had moved to bring Wulfgan on his side. The earl clearly had not accepted defeat. Could he suspect the truth? Had she said anything to Wulfgan to make him believe that the marriage was unconsummated?

She didn’t think so.

So now she had to convince Lancaster.

Imogen wiped damp palms on her skirt and called for Elswith. The girl came running, and Imogen had her check that there were no smudges on her cheeks or marks on her skirts. First thing in the morning Elswith had woven Imogen’s hair into two fat braids twined with silk ribbons, but now, to make a point, Imogen put on a veil and anchored it with a heavy gold circlet.

Then she made her way with stately grace down to the garden.

This garden had been started by Imogen’s mother in a walled square next to the keep. Lord Bernard had cherished it carefully in his wife’s memory, and Aunt Constance had tended it, too. Imogen loved it, but knew better than to tamper with it, for she had no skill with plants at all.

She needn’t have bothered. This enclosure had escaped her scrutiny up till now, and she was appalled. Why had she thought the garden would have escaped Warbrick’s spite?

The precious roses were stripped of blooms and most of the branches were bent or broken. She suspected that only the thorns had deterred the invaders from ripping them up as they had ripped up some other bushes. The smaller plants—flowers and herbs—had been trampled into the earth.

Two men were working there, trimming away destruction and easing plants free of mud.

“It will have to wait until next year to be remade,” she said sadly to one of them. “And even then it will be years until it regains its glory.”

The man bowed and smiled. “Nay, lady. Give it weeks, even. It looks rough, but there’s little loss. We can survive this and be as good as ever, if not better.”

When Imogen looked closer she saw that the man was right. Plants appeared fragile, but had their own strengths. Many could bend rather than be broken. Warbrick’s men had clearly been in too much of a hurry to do the job thoroughly and most of the plants would survive.

Here and there, roses bloomed valiantly, even if short of half their petals and drooping on a bent branch. Not all the leaves were gone, and she saw buds which would bloom later. The trampled plants were already straightening under their own power and putting up new growth, new blooms.

Imogen leaned and broke off a bent sprig of rosemary. She brought it to her nose and inhaled the rich aroma, stronger when it was crushed.

The garden was a symbol of the future. Carrisford could revive from brutality, and so could she. Was she not called the Flower of the West? Flowers were not weak. She would be stronger for having been crushed…

“Ah, there you are!”

Imogen turned with a grimace to see Lancaster striding toward her, rested and groomed into his usual sleek magnificence, his thinning fair hair curled around his face. She moved away from the gardeners, knowing this would not be a pleasant interview.

The earl surprised her. The arrogant anger she had heard in his voice disappeared as he said, “Imogen, my dear child. How you have suffered.” He held out his fleshy, beringed hands, and she felt obliged to put hers into them.

He squeezed them. His hands were soft, warm, and sweaty, very unlike other hands…

“I was stunned when I heard the news of Lord Bernard’s death, my dear. I had thought it merely a sickness, and was sure that my physician would soon have him on his feet again…” He touched his eyes, though she could see no tears. “As soon as Master Cornelius brought word of the terrible event, I hastened here.”

“It came as a shock to all of us,” she said, leading the way to a marble bench that her father had said dated from Roman times.

It had been his favorite seat.

She sat, and Lancaster sat beside her, his girth so wide that his leg pushed against hers. They had sat thus before and she had not been so aware of such things. Now she wished she could sidle away.