Dark Champion (26 page)

“A great shock,” he agreed, patting her thigh. “And even more of a shock to hear that you were invaded. How did they force you to marry such a man, child?”

“It was the Lord of Warbrick who invaded.” Imogen gestured angrily at the ruined garden. “He wrecked Carrisford.”

Lancaster’s eyes narrowed, and she reminded herself that he was not a stupid man. “Carrisford is nigh impregnable, Imogen. How did Warbrick take it?”

“Do you think we let him in? That would have been madness. There was clearly treachery.” She saw no reason not to tell him of their suspicions. “We think some monks who were resting here might have been false, and overwhelmed the guards at the postern gate.”

He frowned. “But when Lord Bernard wrote to me, he said that during his illness he had ordered Carrisford sealed.”

“So he did. But the monks were already here when my father was wounded. Had been here for some days. They were traveling to Westminster but one of their party fell sick. It seemed to cause the man great pain to be moved, so Father gave them permission to rest here instead of Grimstead. He was always… always kind in such matters.”

“Indeed he was,” said Lancaster, but absently. “But, my dear girl, this surely means the whole tragedy was planned.”

Imogen looked up sharply. “Planned? How could it have been planned?”

Lancaster was frowning at a broken-stemmed lily. “It means your father’s death was no accident.”

“No accident? But it was just a minor arrow wound. Even if the wound was given with malice, how could anyone count on the infection?”

He turned to look at her. “Master Cornelius was puzzled by the course of the illness. He suggested that a wound from an arrowhead dipped in excrement would be more likely than not to fester. Whose arrow was it?”

Her father had been
murdered
? Imogen’s thoughts were scrambled by this. “We never found out, and lacked time to search thoroughly. A poacher, we supposed, but a sweep through the forest turned up no one.”

“Long gone. And paid for by whom?”

Thoughts steadied and focused. “Warbrick,” Imogen spat. “He was the one ready to move. May his soul rot in hell for eternity!”

“Or FitzRoger,” countered Lancaster oozingly. “He, after all, is the one who has benefited.”

“No.” It was an instinctive response. Imogen sought to shield it by giving reasoned arguments. “That makes no sense, my lord. If the Lord of Cleeve had murdered my father, he would have been quicker off the mark to seize the advantage. I assure you, my husband is very efficient in such matters.”

“So I understand,” said Lancaster sourly. “But he might not have realized great speed was required. He possibly intended a less brutal wooing than Warbrick. Your father had refused his suit, you know.”

“He had?” Imogen wanted to clap her hands over her ears and run, but she was stronger now. She would not flee.

“Yes. Would Lord Bernard have joined you to one of such suspect birth? I see Beauclerk’s hand in this. With Duke Robert a constant threat, and Belleme gathering power here in the west, Henry needs a secure base hereabouts. He sent FitzRoger to dispose of that weakling brother and secure Cleeve. Their next move was to acquire Carrisford. I’m sure they would have preferred to accomplish their ends in more ordinary ways, but once your father rejected FitzRoger’s suit, he had to die. Interesting, isn’t it? Henry’s brother, King William, died of an arrow wound while out hunting, and here we have the same method again…” He looked at her sadly. “I fear your father would have been most disappointed with you, my dear.”

Imogen felt sick. His words made a great deal of sense, struggle as she might not to believe them. Hugh of Cleeve’s death had been looked at askance, and the whole country had its suspicions about the death of King William Rufus. She
couldn’t
suspect her husband having a hand in the death of her father, though. She’d go mad.

She must have given away some hint of her feelings. Lancaster took her hand. “All is not lost, Imogen. I am sure this marriage can be broken. A claim of force, perhaps. Or abduction.”

Imogen shook her head. “There are many to swear that I consented freely, as I did.”

She saw the angry frown, quickly concealed, and reminded herself that no matter what FitzRoger was, the earl had his own self-centered motives for all this. She tried to sift through all he had said…

He watched her carefully. “The women say there was no blood on the sheet.”

Imogen’s mouth dried. She should say what FitzRoger had said, that it was a matter of position and care. What if Lancaster asked for details, though?

“Well, Imogen? Are you a true wife, or has FitzRoger proved unable…”

Imogen met his eyes. “He is completely able.” That was no lie.

He studied her and she hoped her mask was good. “Is that the truth?”

“Yes.”

Perhaps her mask was not very good, for he said, “And do you vow that the marriage is complete?”

“What else would I mean?” Sweet Mary, help me. She had never given a false oath in her life.

“Imogen, you mustn’t be afraid of such a man. But for the king’s favor, he is nothing, and I can protect you from the king. It is by no means certain anyway that Beauclerk will hold his throne.”

“That’s treason!” she declared, hoping to distract him.

“That is merely a wise man’s opinion. Father Wulfgan seems to think you have not, as he puts it, been corrupted.”

Imogen realized that Lancaster had disastrously misinterpreted the priest on that and felt an insane urge to giggle. If only FitzRoger would appear to handle this.

Scenting blood, Lancaster pulled out a jeweled cross from his pouch. “Make a solemn vow to me on this, Imogen of Carrisford, that you are a true and complete wife to Bastard FitzRoger.”

She tried to pull away, but he took a vicelike grip on her wrist. Despite his sleek softness, he too was very strong.

“You have no right to demand such a thing, my lord. I have told you—”

“Say it,” he hissed, “or I will put the matter before a Church court and have you placed in a nunnery until the matter is decided. An examination will soon determine the truth.”

Imogen froze. She could scream for help and receive it, but the threat would remain. If she admitted the truth, she could end up wed to Lancaster; Henry could not thwart him forever. The very best that could happen was that she and FitzRoger would be given another chance, and her husband would force her ruthlessly.

She’d rather that than the other, but it would destroy them.

She begged God’s forgiveness, then placed her hand upon the cross. “I avow on the cross that I am a true and complete wife to Tyron FitzRoger, Lord of Cleeve.” She pulled away again and this time Lancaster let her go.

No thunderbolt shot down from the sky to shrivel her, but she felt soul-dead.

Imogen stood unsteadily and straightened her skirts with shaking hands. “That was not well done of you, my lord. You know I was gently raised and such matters embarrass me. I am sorry you are disappointed in your wish to marry me, but if you serve him honestly, I am sure the king will make good his word and find you a prize even greater.”

Lancaster stared at her hotly. “There is no prize in England greater than you, Imogen of Carrisford. When I think of the care I have taken these last months… I treated you like the Blessed Lady. I should have thrown you down and raped you.”

She stepped back from the hot malevolence in his eyes. “My father would have killed you.”

He sneered. “Your dear father was a pragmatist and I was his equal in power. There would have been nothing he could have done other than get us married.” He rose to tower over her. “One way or another, Imogen of Carrisford, you will be mine.”

With that, he turned and stalked away.

Imogen felt sick. That last threat had been against FitzRoger as well as herself, and she knew now that healthy, powerful manhood was no proof against premature death.

Her father had been murdered.

And now she had made a false oath.

She wanted to race to the chapel to pray for guidance and for forgiveness, but she suspected Lancaster would be watching her, looking for just such evidence of deceit.

She wanted to confess to Father Wulfgan, but that would be even more disastrous.

But what if she should die with such a sin on her soul?

She paced the garden fretfully. What was she to make of her father’s death? She couldn’t, wouldn’t, believe that FitzRoger had had a hand in it, but perhaps the king had brought it about.

It was more likely Warbrick.

She grasped that with relief. Yes, if anyone had murdered her father, it was Warbrick. After all, if it were the king, FitzRoger was tarnished by association.

But Henry had surely brought about the death of his brother. By an arrow, out hunting.

And now Lancaster was enemy to FitzRoger. Would her husband be the next to suffer an accident? He was out hunting now…

She made herself stop such thoughts before she went mad. He’d hunted yesterday.

Lancaster hadn’t been here then.

But now she was suspecting
Lancaster
of treacherous murder! He couldn’t be guilty, or he’d not have sent his physician, or taken so long to come here…

Imogen saw the gardeners glance at her curiously and knew she couldn’t show her terror like this. Nor could she do as she wished and ride madly in search of FitzRoger.

She forced calm on her skittering mind and went to work on the accounts.

With effort she could put away thoughts of murder and treason, and of betrayal of the worst kind, but she could not wipe away the knowledge that she was in a state of terrible sin. She had sworn a false oath on the cross.

At first her jangled mind could make no sense of the records and tally sticks, but in time she settled. Together with Siward and Brother Cuthbert she went over the records, glad to have something to do.

She didn’t do very well at it, though, for the oath swamped her mind. Nothing good could come of such perjury, but what else could she have done?

“Perhaps this is too much for you, Lady Imogen,” said Brother Cuthbert kindly.

Imogen forced herself to concentrate. She would seek forgiveness, but not of Wulfgan. Startlingly, she didn’t trust him with the truth now that there was an alliance between him and Lancaster. That alliance, combined with his rabid hatred of FitzRoger, made the situation perilous.

Nor, she realized chillingly, could she confess her sin at all until the marriage was consummated. She would be expected to rectify it by telling the truth. That she couldn’t do.

Sweet Mary, aid her.

“Lady Imogen,” prompted Siward. “Do you approve the purchase of new hangings?”

“What?” Imogen forced herself to think. “Oh, yes. And send to London to see if we can find some like the ones we had from Italy.”

“TTiat will be very costly, lady.”

“We can afford it. I want Carrisford to be restored.”

“Perhaps we should consult with Lord FitzRoger…”

“No,” said Imogen, affronted. “I rule Carrisford, and I decide how my wealth will be used.”

She saw the two men exchange a glance, and foresaw trouble. She almost surrendered, for this was petty compared to the real problem shadowing her life. But she didn’t.

They returned to the records.

Fortunately, Siward had managed to hide Carrisford’s record book and tally sticks, and the chest of deeds and documents. Imogen had been trained to understand such matters, so once she disciplined her mind, she could easily see what had been going on since her father’s death.

Nothing untoward. There was no sign that FitzRoger had taken any money out of the estate, and many records of his paying for needed supplies. Imogen made a careful tally of the amounts. She checked Siward’s records of things required for the domestic management of Carrisford and resolved to demand an accounting of the other senior officers. Beeswax and brooms, salt and cinnamon; they needed almost everything.

She calculated how much Siward required for immediate expenses and added in the debts for supplies provided by the local people—wool, dairy goods, poultry and such.

After a moment’s consideration, she added the money owed to FitzRoger. She would prefer that Siward pay it back.

The immediate debts took nearly all the coin she had brought up from the treasure chamber.

At last she felt that she had gone over everything, that she was beginning to take control. She had even seen the records of her half brothers and sisters, though Siward had tried to conceal them, and was pleased to see they were being well raised by a merchant’s family. Whether she should do more for them was a matter for the future.

It unsettled her, though, that such a significant part of her father’s life had been kept entirely from her. She would have thought, at the least, that there was honesty between herself and Lord Bernard.

What was illusion and what was real?

Having finished that task, she took the midday meal in the hall. With the hunting party out, and many men on guard, the company was thin. Lancaster was there, however, watching her like a hawk. Even Wulfgan was present, and he too seemed to be trying to strip her down to her soul. She couldn’t stand another session with him, but nor could she gather the courage just yet to banish him to Grimstead.