Dark Champion (34 page)

He reached up and pulled her down for a kiss. “Would you rather I do it?”

It became a test. “No. I can do it, but cover my mouth. I’m afraid I’m going to cry out.”

“Bite me,” he said, and put his hand edgewise between her teeth.

Imogen set her teeth against his flesh and reared up a bit to push down. The pain blossomed, but she kept pushing. The pain just got worse, but she wouldn’t stop even though there were tears running down her face. She pushed and pushed even though she thought she could not bear any more pain. Then with a small explosion of agony, the pressure broke and left only a burning soreness.

She tasted blood and realized she had bit him. She hastily released his hand. He sucked it. “That certainly hurt me as much as it hurt you,” he said almost soberly. “You must have had one of the toughest hymens in Christendom. No wonder you made such a fuss before.”

Imogen was just sitting, full to bursting with him, rather sore, and miserable. She felt a kind of triumph, though, that she’d gone through with it, and knew that if she’d been under him, it would have been worse. She’d have screamed and blamed him. “It’s not like that for everyone?”

“I don’t think so. Is it very bad?” His voice was controlled, but Imogen could tell it was hard for him to just be lying there. She could imagine from last night, from the pleasure without the pain, how he felt.

“I’m all right,” she lied bravely, moving, trying to adjust to the pressure inside and the soreness that remained. “What now?”

He pushed up so he was sitting against the wall and brought her legs behind him. The pressure eased a bit.

He began to touch her again, and kiss her, to suck at her and pleasure her, even as his hips rocked gently. She could sense the awesome control in him, the tension, and she almost wanted to beg him to do it, to release that pressure before he exploded.

And yet she feared it. Feared more pain.

Tears ran again.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, touching her cheek. “We’d better talk again anyway.”

‘I’m not doing this right, am I?“

“You’re doing wonderfully, but we’re going to have to finish it. Try to come with me, dear heart.”

She didn’t know what he meant, but he began to move her hips around him. At first she tensed from the soreness, but then it eased a little and she saw what she was doing to him.

She moved on her own despite the discomfort, watching him, loving him, wanting to give him this in case there was no tomorrow.

He closed his eyes and stretched back, but his hand found her, and touched her again so she shuddered around him.

“Christ’s wounds,” he muttered, and pressed harder.

They were supposed to be talking, but she couldn’t. She could scream, though. She wanted to scream. She couldn’t. That would bring the guard in for sure. She thrust her own knuckles in her mouth and moved faster, watching his every reaction.

He was gasping, his head moving restlessly.

Was it wrong for her to rejoice that here, at this moment, he was not in control at all?

He clutched at her and thrust up into her.

His eyes opened and she was sucked into them, lost in them. She felt his seed burst deep inside her and choked onto her knuckles.

Then he relaxed to stillness, and she settled against him. She knew what he had meant the night before. She was left unsatisfied, but she had loved giving him that pleasure.

Then he pulled out of her, and rolled her onto her back in the dirt. His mouth caught her cries as his hand carried her forward and into a madness of her own. She shattered, more violently than last night, shattered to the point of agony and destruction, beyond the point intent would take a sane person. She was left weak, trembling, and dazed in his arms.

“Oy, you in there! I told you to keep talking.”

“Oh, shut up!” shouted Imogen. “I’ll scream if he tries to kill me, all right?”

“You need a fist in your mouth,” grumbled the guard back, but he left them alone.

FitzRoger was helpless with silent laughter beside her. Imogen thumped his chest. “What’s so funny?”

“At this moment, everything.” He gathered her into an embrace more tender than she could ever have imagined. “I can at last die happy.”

That brought her back to reality. “Well I’d rather not,” she said, pulling out of his embrace severely. “It seems to me you are falling apart, FitzRoger.”

“Am I?” he said, sitting up and hugging his knees. He was tousled and still happy. She hardly recognized him.

“Will it always be like this?” she asked.

“I hope not. I want to make love to you slowly and gently, in peace and security. If we sacrifice a little of the wild pleasure for it, I’ll be content.”

Imogen looked down at her tattered skirt. For the first time she wondered what she looked like, but it didn’t seem important. “Do you mean that?”

“You think I want to love you always in a damp cave in peril of our lives?”

She looked up. “Do you mean love?”

He sobered. “Ah,” he sighed. “Imogen, I don’t know. If such a thing exists, it is not familiar to me. You are very precious to me. I will guard you with my life.”

“You’d have married me if I’d been a hag,” she accused again.

“Yes.”

“You’d have guarded me with your life.”

“Yes.”

“You’d have consummated the marriage.”

“Yes. But probably rather sooner.”

Imogen gazed into his eyes and crawled into his arms. “I’m getting scared again.”

He held her. “Try not to. It doesn’t do any good.”

She shook her head against his chest. “We have to make plans.”

“Do you have any plans?”

“Yes.” She moved back purposefully. “We’re going to go through the passageways…” Then she remembered what this meant to him. “Oh.”

“Oh,” he echoed. “I’m trying hard not to think about that.”

“It doesn’t do any good to be scared,” she repeated back at him mischievously.

“I could probably take my mind off it quite well by beating you.” But there was warmth in his eyes and he wasn’t denying his frailty.

“The guard would think you were murdering me.”

“But when he found I was just blistering your skin, he’d cheer me on. You heard him. He doesn’t approve of saucy women.”

Another gurgle of laughter escaped her. “Oh, stop it. I don’t want to laugh just now.”

“I want to make you laugh.” But then he sighed. “Go on, then. What plan have you come up with, my virago?”

“Warbrick doesn’t know it yet, but he’ll never fit into the passageways.”

“True,” he said with interest. “Will he trust any of his men in without him? Yes, because there’ll only be the one way out for them.”

“So, we’ll have a better chance.”

He shook his head. “He’ll keep me with him as warranty of your good behavior. On the whole, I’m grateful.”

“You can’t be!”

He met her eyes. “The fear, Imogen, is overwhelming. Death seems light by comparison.”

“But you went in after Renald…”

“Yes, and it’s probably the bravest thing I ever did. As it was I made a short distance on my feet, then crawled, shouting until they came back for me.”

Imogen just stared at him. She would never have believed he would open himself to her like this. She couldn’t think what to say, so just placed her hand over his.

“I wanted, desperately, to crawl out again,” he said, “but I think they thought I’d fall down the cliff. Which was probably true. Renald did the kindest thing, and knocked me out. They didn’t dare leave me in case I came around, so they carried me and I still have some bruises to show for it. I came around before the end but managed not to go mad by keeping my eyes shut and telling myself I was in a large bright hall. As soon as I was out, I was vilely sick.”

“I know,” she said gently. “Some of the servants saw you.”

Amazingly, he flushed. “I’m surprised I have any credit left.”

‘They just thought you’d eaten something bad.“

“And you?” he asked. “What do you think?”

“Am I supposed to think less of you?”

He pulled her closer and kissed her. “I am very fortunate in my wife. Now, listen to my plan.”

“Yes?”

“Warbrick will have to divide his forces. You will presumably lead the way for the men who go into the passages to get the treasure, and he’ll send his more experienced and trusted minions. If you can persuade them to do without a light, or if you can kill the light, you should be able to slip away from them in those passageways. I presume you can find your way in the dark?”

“But…” Then Imogen decided not to mention rats. If he could go into the passageways—certain terror—she could risk rats. “Yes I can. But you’ll still be in Warbrick’s clutches.”

“At least one of us will be safe, and you can alert Renald.”

“Then what?”

“Then you and Renald think of a way to rescue me,” he said lightly. “I have great faith in my virago. I have a few suggestions, though…”

She prayed that it not come to that, but he had laid out the facts with steely precision. Warbrick would keep him alive and largely uninjured as long as he was a weapon to force her compliance. He would, however, make sure he was powerless, and such things were easy to achieve.

If anything was to be done, she would have to do it, and though they had worked through a number of possibilities, there were too many unknowns to make firm plans.

She would have to act, and react, alone, and he would simply have to wait.

The faith he was showing in her was terrifying. She wanted to protest that a sennight ago her most taxing decision had been whether to wear blue silk or red; her closest brush with violence had been the loosing of her merlin.

But she didn’t, because she was their only hope, their only chance of defeating Warbrick and surviving.

“As a boy, I enjoyed the challenge of rough active games but had no taste for brutality. Are you surprised?”

“No. I don’t think you have a taste for brutality now.”

Imogen let a finger trace a raised vein on his strong arm. She couldn’t seem to help touching him.

“True,” he said. “If I kill, I kill quickly.”

It was a somewhat bleak definition of kindness, but she understood. “How did you come to be a warrior, then?”

“I met my father. That convinced me that I never wanted to be in such a man’s power again, or leave those in my charge in such a man’s power. That is why I say I am failing you.”

“Some things cannot be avoided. Perhaps it is God’s will.”

“There is nothing of God’s will in this,” he said flatly. “Would it surprise you to know I was destined to be a monk?”

She twisted to look up at him in the gloom. “A monk? You must have hated it.” Imogen couldn’t imagine FitzRoger under monastic rule. Poverty, chastity, and obedience?

“I loved it,” he said softly. “I was happy there as I have never been since. Everything was order and discipline, and there was the opportunity for learning.”

Happy as he had never been since
. That hurt, though why she should think he might have found happiness in the few chaotic days since they had met, she couldn’t imagine. “Why didn’t you stay, then?” she asked.

“The monastery was in England. My mother’s family, quite understandably, had sent me as far away from home as possible. Unfortunately this put me in my father’s sphere. He didn’t want me nearby, and ordered the abbot to send me back to France. The abbot had little choice but to obey.”

“How old were you then?”

“Thirteen. A difficult age. I was furious at the injustice of it. Instead of going back to France, I set off for Cleeve to confront my nemesis, full of righteous indignation.”

Imogen winced. “Oh dear. What happened?”

He smiled slightly. “Exactly what anyone with sense would expect. Roger was not as bad a man as Warbrick, but rock-hard to the core and without a drop of compassion. When I confronted him he had me whipped. When I wouldn’t shut up, he had me thrown in the oubliette.”

It was said quite calmly, but Imogen felt the tension that spread through him. “What did he hope to gain?”

“I think he quite literally intended me to rot there, forgotten. I wonder now whether he was trying to forget what I represented. He had only one acknowledged son—weak, vicious Hugh. Roger could be vicious, but he was never weak. His second wife was barren and cold, but not likely to die soon. He was not a happy man.”

“Are you feeling sorry for him?”

“No.” It was said flatly and followed by an eloquent silence.

Imogen wondered if he would stop speaking, now he had come to the dark heart of his story. She hoped not. She was gathering these scraps of his life into her heart.

He shifted her in his arms a little and carried on. “My childhood had not been easy, but at home and in the monastery I had been fed and cared for. The oubliette… the oubliette was a sudden descent into hell.

“They threw me in—ten feet down—so I was bruised. It was like a well, not even wide enough for me to stretch my arms out. The floor was damp earth and foul. My own excrement soon made it fouler. I was sure I would suffocate in the smell, but I didn’t. It was pitch-dark, and though I knew the hatch was far above my head, I was terrified that it was pressing down on me to crush me…” . He shuddered. Imogen touched him gently, not sure what to say.

“I wept. I screamed. I begged for mercy. I was not at all brave.”

“You were thirteen years old,” she said. “At that age I still made a fuss over a cut finger.”

“And yet at fourteen, when you broke your arm, you endured the setting without a whimper.”

She stared up at him. “How did you know that?”

His finger traced the line of her jaw. “I have made it my business to learn about you.”

She didn’t know how she felt about that. What had been his purpose? “The arm hurt too much to make a fuss,” she said. “Does that make sense?”

“Yes, and the fact that you knew people were trying to heal you. I knew Roger wanted me dead.”

“How is it that you didn’t die?”

He shrugged slightly. “The people there decided to feed me. They all hated Roger and Hugh, and one man I’ve met since then said they recognized a look of the family and knew I was his true son. Whatever their reasons, they weren’t about to risk setting me free, but they fed me.”

“Dear Jesus. How long were you there?”

“An eternity. I had no sense of time. I gather it was just less than a month. Eventually Roger left the castle to travel to London. They freed me then, putting in the carcass of a pig, hoping that would fool Roger if he ever cared to look. Apparently, he never did.” She felt him stir as he said, ‘The bones were still there when I checked the hole a few months ago.“

The callousness of it stunned her. “He never thought of the son he had condemned to a lingering death? Never even checked his fate? He must have known in his heart that you were his son.”

“Who knows what he thought? I would dream sometimes in later years of forcing him to tell me…” He took a deep steadying breath.

“What did you do when you were free? Go home?”

“No. There was nothing for me there. I set out to become a warrior.”

Imogen twisted to peer at him in the dark. “That can’t have been easy.”

“No, but I had a purpose. I wasn’t quite clear on my purpose,” he said ruefully, “but I knew it necessitated being strong and powerful so I could have vengeance on Roger of Cleeve. And, of course, never be in such hands again.”

Their present situation came to hover like a dark miasma.

He sighed. “Most people thought I was mad, and laughed at my dreams, of course.”

“You didn’t laugh at mine,” she said softly.

His fingers played gently with her plaits. “I know the power of dreams.”

“How did you achieve it without wealth or sponsors?”

“Luck. I fell in with a mercenary troop in need of servants. I watched and studied as they trained, and then began to copy them. I realized I needed strength, and my natural build was scrawny. I set out coldbloodedly to create muscle. Arno, the mercenary captain, saw what I was doing and encouraged me when he was in the mood. He even let me train with the troop, until I beat one of his best and biggest men.”

Imogen smiled. “Then he realized he had one of the greatest warriors of the age.”

His lips twitched. “Then he realized I’d injured one of his best men. He flogged me.”

“
What
? That’s not fair.”

“Amazingly, Ginger, life frequently isn’t fair.”

“Like now,” she said.

“We can’t blame life for this one,” he said dryly. “This is wickedness combined with stupidity—mostly mine.”

Imogen protested this, and he retaliated by kissing her, which led to kisses that passed a lot of time. Eventually, however, he made her stop her hungry assault, and took up his story.

“Arno was interested in me, though, because he realized I had the gift. He trained me, but he made it clear he’d take it out of my skin again if I did serious injury to any of his men. I learned to fight with a great deal of control.”

That brought a gurgle of laughter from her. “I’m sure you did. How did you become a knight, though?”

“Arno took us into Flanders to fight, and I showed up well. He persuaded the count to knight me. Arno paid for my horse, armor, and weapons, and then set me to fight in the tourneys. That had been his plan all along.”

“Tourneys? As in mock battles?”

“Not so mock. Men die. That is why it is not permitted in England. But a man can become very wealthy on the tourney circuit.”

“And you were good at it.”

“And I was good at it. Arno just sat back and managed my prisoners, splitting the ransoms.”

“That wasn’t fair either,” she grumbled.

“Yes it was. I was paying him back for his training and the start he’d given me. In time I decided I’d paid the debt. There wasn’t much Arno could do about our parting.”

“What happened then?”

“I met Henry.”

“The king?”

“Not king then. Just the Conqueror’s youngest, landless son. Henry wanted England. He has always felt, very strongly, that as the only son born in England it is his by right.”

Felt strongly enough to kill for it? Imogen wondered. But she kept the question to herself.

“Henry likes tourneys,” said FitzRoger, “and is rarely beaten. I took him prisoner before I knew who he was. He didn’t like it at all and demanded single combat to settle it. His freedom if he won. A hundred marks extra if I won.

“I let him win, but did it skillfully enough that I don’t think he has ever realized. If he has, he will not acknowledge it. He boasts of being the only man to down Tyron FitzRoger.”

“I cannot like him,” said Imogen. “He is ruthless.”

“A weak king is no benefit to anyone. I must serve someone, and Henry has qualities I admire, not least intelligence and efficiency. But I wish he had more scruples.”

“When I first met you,” said Imogen, “I didn’t think you had scruples either.”

“Good. That’s what I want people to think.”

There was something strained in his voice. Imogen glanced at the entrance and saw that the light was beginning to go, and she guessed his deepest fears were gathering. Probably this talk was distracting him. “So you joined Henry’s court?” she prompted.

“Yes. And thus came to England. And to Cleeve.” He touched the tip of her nose. “And to you.”

“Via the death of William Rufus.” Then Imogen bit her lip. This was no time to be raising disputes.

“Via the death of William Rufus,” he agreed calmly. “Are you determined to rake all the coals?”

“If Henry killed his brother, it can’t have been right,” she insisted.

“Who can determine right? Rufus was bringing the country to the brink of ruin. Henry in his own way loves England, and he is efficient. Order will be established and ruthlessly enforced.”

She remembered FitzRoger speaking lovingly of the order and discipline of the monastery. “And you want to be part of that.”

“And I want to be part of that.”

She saw it come to him that he probably wouldn’t be. That instead, his personal dream would die today. And that if Warbrick took the treasure, it might be the turning point in the struggle for the control of England.

“What sort of king would Duke Robert be?” she asked. She had not heard much good of King Henry’s brother.

“Disastrous.” He rose to his feet, pulling her up with him. “Time for me to gird for battle again, I think. I hope,” he added. “It’s getting dark in here.”

Imogen assisted him, but her whole body trembled. It was like arming him to ride out to a hopeless cause. And though it was he who armed, it was she who would have to act if they were to survive.

A short while later, the guard called for them to come out, and FitzRoger murmured, “Praise be.” At the entrance to the cave, however, he paused. “I have a request to make.”

“What?” Imogen asked, hearing
last request
.

“I’d like to hear you call me by my given name.”

She flushed with guilt. “I find it hard to think of you as anything oilier than FitzRoger.” She reached up and kissed him. “God be with you, Tyron.”

He swept her in for a hard, hungry kiss. “May God be with us both.”

They walked out into the gloom of dusk to find Warbrick and his company already mounted. Imogen was pulled away and passed up to Lig. FitzRoger—Imogen tried to think of him as Ty, and failed—was led to his own horse. It was a well-trained animal and there would be little to stop him from breaking away and riding free, other than the fact that she would suffer for it.

They were each hostage for the other.