Dark Champion (35 page)

Imogen knew now she was bound by love. What bound her husband?

A certain fondness, she thought, and strong desire. But mostly it was duty. As he’d admitted twice, he would have done almost as much for any woman he married, and he had married for wealth and power.

Imogen had been raised to be practical in these matters, but she was aware of a painful emptiness in her heart where FitzRoger’s love would fit like a precious jewel.

Imogen composed herself and began another earnest litany. Surely, if God cared about man’s purposes at all, He must be on their side in this dispute. Warbrick was clearly a tool of the devil.

An hour later, they stopped in the dark woods within sight of Carrisford. All looked normal. Imogen wondered what everyone there thought of the disappearance of the lord and lady, and the slaughter of their escort. Had Lancaster and his men been found? The watch at the castle would be strict, and surely, as FitzRoger had supposed, Renald would keep some watch on the entrance to the passageways.

FitzRoger had based his plan on the assumption that Renald would not try to block the entrance, but would watch it. When the invaders were within, he would strike, probably from the first joining passage. Imogen would have to be ready to escape then, and avoid inadvertent danger.

If that did not happen, she was to escape anyway at the first opportunity. If she got an opportunity.

FitzRoger had pointed out that most luck was made, and that she should create an opportunity.

She still had her small eating knife, and in case anyone thought of it, she had concealed it beneath her garter against her thigh. She was in danger of cutting herself, because she had not dared to move the sheath from her belt and FitzRoger had sharpened the blade on a stone. She had bound the blade with more strips torn off her garments, and hoped.

What use such a small blade would be, she did not know, but it felt better to have some weapon than nothing.

The horses were tethered well back among the trees. Imogen now told Warbrick what she had once told FitzRoger. “The entrance is narrow. Only the lighter built men will be able to pass through, and only without armor.”

“What?” Warbrick almost bellowed. “You mean I will not be able to enter?” He slapped her so her head rang. “You lie!”

She heard a commotion and knew FitzRoger must have reacted and was being overwhelmed. The briefness of the struggle told her he had regained control. She prayed that he keep it. She could not imagine what it must be like for him to have to stand passively by, but he must. They could not risk his being more seriously hurt before he was needed.

“No lie,” she said to Warbrick, swallowing blood from her cut cheek. “Come up if you want and see.”

“I will,” snarled Warbrick, “and if you have lied, you’ll pay.”

He began to arrange which men would climb the cliff, which would stay behind.

Imogen risked a glance at FitzRoger. He was backed against a tree caged by six swords wielded by terrified but purposeful men. He had a swelling at his temple and his left hand bled, but she didn’t think it was serious.

His look was the calm one of his greatest efficiency, but she could tell the effort behind it. Their eyes met briefly, and she smiled for him, but he could doubtless tell the effort and pain it cost her.

Warbrick grasped her arm bruisingly. “I’m pleased you’re fond of him, Lady Imogen. You’ll not risk damaging him, will you?” He turned to the men imprisoning FitzRoger. “Let him free.”

The swords moved, but FitzRoger didn’t.

“Frozen?” sneered Warbrick.

It was as if FitzRoger was a statue. Imogen knew he was at his most dangerous like this, but there was nothing he could do. Nothing. Any resistance would be paid for by her.

Warbrick smiled. “Tie him to the tree,” he said to his men, “and make it tight.”

FitzRoger’s arms were dragged back to be bound behind the tree, and Imogen saw him catch his breath as his wound was tortured. She felt tears gather. Even if he were unwounded that position would be agony.

Warbrick checked the bonds and nodded. “Make some cudgels,” he said to his men. “Any trouble, any trouble at all, splinter his ribs. Mail can’t guard against that, and with luck, he’ll take a nice long time to die.”

FitzRoger didn’t so much as blink, but Imogen felt sick panic. How could she risk that?

How could she not?

Warbrick saw her feelings. “Don’t distress yourself, Lady Imogen. As long as you behave, I see no benefit to myself in killing either of you. When we are back here with the treasure, I will allow you to buy your husband’s life by pleasuring me in front of him. You have only been married a few days, but I’m sure he has taught you something.”

And, sick though it made her, Imogen knew she would pay the price. But she tried another tack. “I am very religious,” she said primly. “Pleasure in the body is a mighty sin.”

Warbrick guffawed and destroyed any hope of the ploy working. “I don’t give a piss if you get pleasure or not, so your soul won’t be jeopardized by me. If you don’t know what to do, I’ll teach you, and relish it all the more if you hate it.” He smirked at FitzRoger. “Perhaps you’ll thank me for what I teach her, Bastard, if you can bear to touch her afterward.”

Still FitzRoger didn’t react. Warbrick walked forward and slapped him so his head snapped to the side and his lip split, gushing blood. “Are you alive?” Warbrick taunted. “Or are you paralyzed by fear?”

The green eyes blazed, but otherwise FitzRoger did nothing. Warbrick laughed, but there was a touch of uneasiness in it now. “You’ll react, Bastard. I’ll use your woman until you do. I want you
begging
.”

Then he seized Imogen and dragged her toward the edge of the woods. He halted suddenly and glared at her. “I hope you know what’s wise.”

“Yes,” whispered Imogen. “I know what’s wise.” She knew they had no chance other than to try their plan.

He nodded, satisfied, and towed her onward.

Imogen thought she knew what FitzRoger felt like. The hate, the desire to destroy, were overpowering, but they were deep and cold. They would last forever, or until satisfied.

She had thought she hated Warbrick before, but she had not known true hate until today.

They moved in short bursts, darkly. Warbrick was a massive black shape, but Imogen knew that from the castle he would be just a shadow. The tightest watch was not kept on this side because apart from the passageways it was impossible to assault this sheer, blank wall. She wondered if Renald was keeping special watch tonight, though.

FitzRoger had tried to guess how his friend would think, but they couldn’t be sure of anything, which was why it was all up to her. She kept an eye on the walls. She saw nothing except the shadowy shape of a patrolling guard who seemed oblivious. She prayed that continue. No good could come of an alarm at this point.

Once at the cliff face, they all stopped to relax for a moment.

“Where?” grunted Warbrick.

Imogen looked up. “It can’t be seen from here, but we climb.” She looked down at her ruined skirts. Some torn tendrils had tangled her feet as they’d crossed to here. “I need a knife to cut my skirts.”

He gave her a hunting knife with insulting lack of concern. She wondered what would happen if she stabbed him.

To begin with, it seemed impossible that the blade reach any vital spot in his great bulk.

She trimmed her skirt neatly at the knees and passed the knife back. “Shall I lead?”

“You know where we’re going.” But he produced a length of rope and tied it around her waist. He gave the end to the ever-obliging Lig. “Keep hold of her leash. We wouldn’t want to lose the Treasure of Carrisford, would we?”

Imogen began the climb, giving thanks for the knife pushing at her thigh. Nothing was certain, but at least, if the occasion arose, she could cut the tether.

Despite the appearance of the cliff, it wasn’t a hard climb. There were ledges which made it almost like climbing steep stairs. Imogen had done it only once, at her father’s insistence, and remembered from then how new muscles had complained, but it still was not particularly difficult.

She could feel the pull now, and the scrapes on her hands from gripping the rough rock. She doubted she had any unbroken nails. She was aware all the time of a soreness between her legs, but that pleased her. That was a reminder of the fact that she was Tyron FitzRoger’s wife in every way.

She even smiled against the rock as she remembered. She had made him her husband.

After a while she began to worry that she had missed the way, that she would never find the entrance, but then she spotted the arrowhead rock and breathed a sigh of relief. In moments she was in front of the narrow black shadow that was the secret entrance to Carrisford.

More than three men couldn’t gather by the entrance, and Warbrick had brought twelve. Most had to find their own resting places on the nearby rocks like birds of prey. Warbrick pushed forward to join Imogen and Lig.

He scowled at the narrow space. “This is the only entrance?”

“Yes.”

She could see he’d love to hit her, throw her down the cliff even, but as he’d said, he had control when he needed it.

“Then I will wait here, Lady Imogen. If you are not out with the treasure by the first hint of dawn, I will go down to amuse myself with your husband. Do you understand?”

She shuddered but said steadily, “I am not stupid, Lord Warbrick.”

“All women are stupid and good for one thing only.” He seized her throat and kissed her. The foul taste made her want to gag, his tongue choked her, but worse than that was the sense of smothering in his bulk and sweaty miasma. When he released her she crumpled to her knees.

He dragged her up by her plaits. “Get on with it.” He pushed her toward the entrance and Imogen scurried into it with relief. Anything to be away from him. She felt the rope tighten then slacken as Lig followed. She went a little way and waited.

She heard someone striking flint. “It’s better to do without a light,” she said, her voice echoing in the passageway.

Lig reeled in the rope until she was close to him. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? No, I want to see what you’re up to.”

The man with the lantern was three back, so Lig wouldn’t be able to see very much. Imogen couldn’t help but be grateful for the light, which would keep away rats.

She began to lead the way, which required no thought, as the narrow passage offered no alternatives. The next opportunity would be at the trap.

She could undoubtedly cross over without warning Lig, and send him hurtling down into the oubliette, but even if she cut the rope and so wasn’t dragged down with him, the other men would not be caught. They would go back to Warbrick, and even with the alarm sounding, Warbrick would have time to return to the woods and kill FitzRoger slowly before anyone could interfere.

When they came to the trap, she carefully explained it. It had one good effect. Lig relaxed, convinced that she was too frightened to try any tricks.

She led the way on, keyed up and ready to act. She didn’t know if her state of mind was healthy or not. Her heart was racing, and her limbs felt almost weak, but she could sense that her body was prepared for action. She wished the slowing would come on her again, but she didn’t sense it.

They were still passing through solid rock, but soon they would enter the castle and the walls would be stone. She wouldn’t point it out to them. Shortly after, there was the first adjoining passage, a narrow one designed for the ambushing of intruders.

It had been on the drawing she had so reluctantly done for FitzRoger a lifetime ago, but she hadn’t emphasized it. The chance of it being used then had been remote.

If Renald had found the map, would he recognize the passage for what it was? And would he use it?

She eased the knife out from her garter, praying that the shadows concealed her. She felt the sting as she cut herself, but it didn’t matter. She had the knife in her hand now.

She gripped the rope and began to cut at it against her waist, trying not to let the motion travel back to Lig so close behind her.

She was only half through when they reached the passage.

It was empty.

Imogen swallowed a mixture of disappointment and relief. She wasn’t really ready yet, but she was afraid of time and hovering disaster. How much time had passed? How soon till daybreak?

She forced herself to consider her real dilemmas. Ahead, the passage would soon branch. One arm led toward the treasure but also through out-of-the-way passages. The other led up, closer to the hall, where Renald might have watchers.

If she went up, though, it would take much longer to get to the treasure and carry it out. She’d give Warbrick her wealth, every last coin, to buy FitzRoger’s life.

She paused for a moment, then headed up. FitzRoger had wanted her to get help, so she’d try. Another advantage was that the higher passages had more intersections. She passed two more junctions without any sign of help and knew she was going to have to act on her own.

“How much farther?” whispered Lig, and she heard his fear. Strange, she’d been so absorbed in her plans, any fear of these dark ways had left her.

“Not far,” she said back, and worked at the rope a bit more.

“What’re you doing?”

“The rope galls me,” she complained.

“It’ll do more than gall you in a moment. Move on.”

“I need a key,” she said, thinking he’d have to hear her thundering heart. “It’s here somewhere. Bring up the light.”

Surely her breathy, tremulous voice would give her away. But then she understood that he expected her to be terrified, and would hear only fear.

There was a sidling and a shifting as the lantern was passed forward. Imogen took the opportunity to slash the last threads of the rope, keeping hold to maintain the tension.

She realized with joy that the slowness had come. The men were moving as if in water, against pressure. Her mind was clear and fast, and able to choose between a score of options. When Lig slowly reached forward with the lantern, she had all the time in the world to smash it into the wall, plunging them into darkness, and to leap away and run.

But her guard flailed and caught one of her long plaits, yanking her back. Again she had time to think.

She gripped the imprisoned plait near her head and slashed it off.

She ran, hand lightly on the wall for guidance, hearing the clamor behind speak of panic.

She even laughed for the joy of the first victory.

But she needed more.

She twisted left, the map in her mind, then up some narrow stairs. She pushed the wall and it swung, flinging her out into the space beneath the hall stairs.

Voices.

Sudden caution.

Instead of rushing around the wall to burst into the hall, she crept, all senses alert, to check if further disaster awaited.

Renald was there with a bunch of men, arguing, worried.

She ran in. “Renald! There are men in the passageways, and we have to block their return. Now. I know how. Come.”

They gaped then obeyed. She led them fleet-footed down the hall stairs and across the bailey to the guardhouse by the gate. There she commanded four bemused armed men to follow, too.

She opened a way there into the passage. “Go down,” she said crisply. “Go forward. There are no turnings. Your passage will meet another. Wait there. Men will come back. Stop them. Kill them if you have to. Try to be as quiet as possible.”

The dazed men looked to Renald for confirmation. “Do it,” he said. “Stephen. Go with them.”

One of the younger knights immediately obeyed.

As soon as they were gone, Imogen collapsed against a wall, shaking, all the power drained from her. She became aware of a sting on her face and her hand found a cut there. Her mind ran back over the last little while and she recalled a shard of the lantern horn hitting her as Lig grabbed for her…

Renald picked her up and carried her to the wooden table and sat her on a bench there. He poured some of the mead the men had been drinking and held it to her lips.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “Hell’s fires. Who cut your hair?”

“I did.” Imogen wanted time to mourn that, but didn’t have it. She drank the mead and let the strength of it seep into her. Then she looked at them. “Warbrick has FitzRoger.”

“Warbrick!”

“He has him tied to a tree not far into the woods, and Warbrick is waiting at the entrance to the passageways.

That’s why I had to stop the men getting back to him. He would have gone straight back to kill FitzRoger. Now he’ll wait until first light unless he suspects trouble.“

Renald glanced at a window slit. “About three hours, perhaps.”

Imogen sucked in a deep, calming breath. “We have to rescue FitzRoger before that. Heaven knows what they’re doing even now…” She caught herself up. That way lay madness.

“If we come on them unawares…” said Renald.

“It still might not be enough. Warbrick’s men have cudgels, and orders to break his ribs at any sign of trouble. They’re more afraid of Warbrick than of death itself, and with reason. There’s about fifteen of them in the camp, four with orders to do nothing but guard FitzRoger. Warbrick intends to kill him anyway, I’m sure of it, but he’s keeping him as a sword to hold over my head.” She suddenly covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Mary, I’m so frightened!”

Renald gathered her into a firm embrace. “With me by your side? Come, little flower, you have done well. We will find a way.”

Imogen steadied herself. “FitzRoger had a plan.”

“Then how can we not succeed?” asked Renald with a cheery grin that summoned a watery smile from Imogen. “Tell us what we are to do.”

“We are to take some of the treasure and slip out of the postern. Then take it back to the camp, saying it’s the first of the load and they are to begin to share it out. We’re hoping that the sight of such wealth will distract even Warbrick’s men for the moment it takes for you to free him.”

“Is that it?” asked Renald, dismayed.

“It’s all we could come up with at the time,” she snapped. “However, Warbrick is waiting at the passage entrance with only four men. Perhaps we can take him to bargain with.”

“On a cliff face? I doubt it. We could probably kill him, but who’s to say what his men will do then?”

“We could wait for Warbrick to go down at first light.”

“And risk the attack being seen by the men holding Ty. No. We’ll have to try your plan, though I’ve heard better. Are you sure Ty came up with this one?”

“It’s not easy,” Imogen pointed out, “making plans for unknown situations when in fear of one’s life. We did think,” she added bitingly, “that you might already be in the corridors, expecting something like this.”

“By the cross,” said Renald admiringly, “you’re even beginning to sound like Ty. I’m sure he will have words to say. But we didn’t even know there was a problem till noon, and certainly never expected an attempt to enter the castle. It…” He rubbed his nose. “It didn’t exactly surprise us that you and Ty were dallying on your way home.”