Dark Champion (36 page)

Imogen colored. “Are the men in the corridor taken care of?”

He stood with a wink. “I’ll check.”

Within moments, Sir Stephen was back, a little rumpled but uninjured. “Those men fight like wild animals. We’re bringing up three prisoners, but the rest are dead or close to it. We lost one. Kevin.”

Renald just nodded, but Imogen felt her hard purpose waver. So thoughtlessly she’d ordered a man to his death, a man who’d been sitting here drinking his ale and scratching his fleas… But then she thought of FitzRoger, waiting bound for her to act.

Lig was one of the survivors. He snarled at her. “I’ll get you! And your man’ll die screaming once Warbrick hears of this.” Behind it all was sheer terror.

“Don’t worry,” said Imogen sweetly. “Warbrick won’t live to make you pay. Strip and secure them,” she told her man. “We need their armor, and men of ours who can impersonate them. Three should be enough.”

The men cursed as they were forced to strip, so she ordered them gagged. She had no time at the moment for any trace of compassion. Their white naked bodies reminded her of maggots and she waved them away to a dungeon.

Three men-at-arms of the right build put on the leather armor and conical helmets, and she assessed them. “It will do in the dark for the few moments we need. The nasal helms obscure your faces. But remember, as soon as we get into the camp you are to flaunt the treasure. We want everyone’s attention on it.”

She turned to Renald. “The rest of you will be ready to take advantage of whatever happens.”

“Of course.” But she saw the bemused look in his eyes. In all their eyes.

She heard herself giving crisp orders and almost felt she should apologize. But she stopped herself. Survival was all that mattered.

She led the way at a run to the best entrance to the passageways, not caring anymore who knew of them. She plunged into the darkness without a thought for rats, lit the lantern with steady hands, and went quickly to the key.

Then, followed by the clanks and bumps of the clumsy men, she led the way to the treasure. She realized the gift was still with her. She could weave through a nest of blades without hurt.

But then she remembered FitzRoger caged in just such a nest of blades and faltered for a moment, offering a prayer. She collected herself and hurried on.

She struck straight through the curtain of spiders’ webs, waded the shallow pool, turned into the corridor, and clicked open the lock.

Once in the chamber she stood back. “Take what you think most tempting.”

The men, even Renald, gaped at the glittering hoard.

“Move!” she snapped, infuriated by their slowness. “Take what you would most want. If FitzRoger comes out of this whole, you can have it.”

“Imogen…” said Renald hesitantly.

“Do I care?” she overrode him, and swung on the bemused men-at-arms. “Well?” She flung open a chest full of silver pennies, and another containing gold. She opened her father’s jewel chest and pulled out pouches, spilling chains, rubies, and pearls.

She remembered the chain she had selected for FitzRoger. Dear heaven, she had never given it to him.

The men suddenly scrambled into action. One grabbed an armful of golden platters, another the whole chest of jewels. The third took the chest of gold coins.

“Imogen…” Renald said again, but she just said, “Are we ready?”

The men nodded.

She led the way back into the castle. The idea of giving FitzRoger the emerald chain, of putting it on his live, healthy body, had become an obsession.

They had not been secretive about all these activities, and rumors of events were beginning to spread through the castle. Renald hastily assembled his force of men, dressed for quiet dark work in the woods. Another party was to watch for Warbrick coming down the cliff. There were not that many men in the castle, though. About the same number as Warbrick had had to begin with.

To Imogen it took so long, but the rescuers must be ready when she created her diversion.

She suddenly thought of something. “Renald, I want a good knife. A useful one.”

Without a question he brought her a long blade in a sheath and she fixed it on her girdle. It would not be noticed in the time they had, and she needed something.

Knives made her think of her hair, and in the midst of all this turmoil, that almost caused her to weep. She felt the stubby end of it… She stopped being maudlin when she realized it could be noticed by someone. The short end came just past her shoulders. She tucked it into the neckline of her tunic.

At last, at long last, they were ready. They all moved quietly out of the postern gate. They would have to work their way around to the east through the woods, which would take time. Imogen looked anxiously at the sky, but there was not even a hint of morning grayness.

The woods were full of night life, and they slipped quietly through, trying not to cause a disturbance that might alert their quarry.

Imogen was sure it was growing lighter and whispered so to Renald.

“We have at least an hour, Imogen. It’s just that your eyes are growing accustomed to the dark.”

Her eyes might be growing accustomed, but her body wasn’t. There seemed to be a limit to how long she could hold the power, and it was leaching away, leaving only fear. Sweet Lord, what would they find when they got to the camp?

She was assailed with visions of FitzRoger bleeding, bruised, perhaps already dying of splintered bones.

Then came the time when Imogen and her three men would have to part from the larger force, so as to appear to be coming from the castle. Renald grasped her and kissed her. “For luck, little flower. Don’t worry. We’ll do it.”

She clung to him a moment before heading out of the woods, down the open slope. This was the time when they were most likely to be seen, but the approach of morning was bringing a hint of concealing mist.

Then they began to climb again, heading toward where she thought the camp must be. Now the mist was a hazard. They could miss entirely.

A sharp whistle from the left.

They headed toward it and found one of Warbrick’s men peering at them in the gloom. “What’s going on?”

This was the tricky part. It would be more logical for one of the men to speak, but their voices would give them away.

“You have your treasure,” said Imogen angrily. ‘That’s what. So much treasure that Lord Warbrick wants more men to carry it down the cliff.“

“That right?” asked the man of her “guards.”

Her men grunted in agreement.

“Don’t expect much of them,” she sneered. “They’re too busy clutching the choice items.”

The man moved nearer, eyes glittering. “Let’s see then…”

“I want to see that my husband is safe,” snapped Imogen. “Out of my way!”

The man swung a fist at her, but halted it. “You’ll get yours from Warbrick, you shrew. I’m going to enjoy that, I am.”

With a start, Imogen recognized the voice of the man who had guarded them at the cave, and almost broke into nervous giggles. Instead she plunged ahead to the camp, her men following. A quick glance showed her the guard following too. He was trying to keep an eye out behind as well, but clearly the lure of the glinting gold was too much for even a man of Warbrick’s.

She silently praised the man who had picked up the platters. Those shining disks of gold were lures of the most potent kind.

They stepped into the camp. There was a small, carefully shielded fire and it gave just enough light for her to see Warbrick’s men sitting around, and FitzRoger by the tree still guarded by the four club-wielding men.

He was slumped. Mary, Mother of all, don’t let him be unconscious.

The man carrying the plate let one drop with a clang. It spun, flashing gold, near the fire. The second man tripped, and his chest of gold spilled. The third clutched his part of the treasure like a true miser.

For a moment, no one moved, then one of Warbrick’s men reached to pick up a gold piece. Another man moved. Then another. In moments a madness took them.

But the four guards by FitzRoger didn’t move. They twitched. They yearned. She could almost see their need to scramble for some of that gold, but they stayed by FitzRoger.

Imogen spun on the last of her men. “Give me that chest, you oaf. That’s my father’s jewel chest. You shan’t have it!” She pulled it out of his suddenly lax grasp and it spilled, by her careful design, toward the guards.

She had taken the time while they waited in the castle to empty all the pouches, knowing those men wouldn’t know how unlikely it was that such ornaments be all jumbled together. Precious gems sparkled through the air toward them.

She scrambled after them, wailing.

They lunged to get there ahead of her.

Renald and his men stormed in.

One man was cutting FitzRoger’s bonds before Imogen got there, but her husband was hardly free before a guard realized what was happening and swung viciously with his club. FitzRoger twisted and caught it awkwardly on the back of his shoulder, falling to his knees. After hours of bondage he lacked his natural, fluid grace and Imogen feared that blow must have done even more damage.

She ran forward to defend him, pulling out her poignard.

The guard swung again, this time going for the ribs. FitzRoger’s men were all around, but seemed so slow, and Imogen had all the time in the world to choose her spot. She remembered FitzRoger saying once, “Go for the neck.” She plunged her long knife to the unguarded side of the man’s neck. He screamed and arched as blood fountained out onto her.

FitzRoger staggered to his feet and pulled her into his arms before the man hit the ground.

“Truly a baptism of blood, my virago,” he said with a shaky laugh.

Imogen used her tattered tunic to wipe blood and tears from her face, telling herself it was not so different from pig-killing time, but she was shaking head to toe. She stayed in her husband’s arms as the fighting swirled around them. She needed his comfort and protection, but she was also protecting.

Like a vixen with one cub, she would let nothing happen to him.

Renald ran by, laughing, and tossed FitzRoger a sword. He caught it left-handed, but awkwardly. Just how badly injured was his shoulder? He made no move to join the fight, but stood guarding Imogen and flexing his body carefully to overcome the stiffness.

As the fighting dwindled, he released her to stretch more thoroughly, working his damaged body as best he could. He said just one word. “Warbrick?”

“Is on the cliff or coming down.” The sky was definitely beginning to lighten. “We set some men to guard the way.”

Those of Warbrick’s men not defeated were realizing that they had no chance, and were surrendering. FitzRoger’s men were efficiently disarming and binding them. They had brought torches and now lit them from the fire to light the scene of carnage.

FitzRoger walked forward, arm around her as if he could not let her go.

Renald came over. “Your crazy plan worked after all, Ty.” His joy at his friend’s safety rang through the prosaic words.

“Greed works every time.” There was something flat in FitzRoger’s voice that made them both look at him.

“Warbrick?” asked Renald, almost with a sigh.

“Where is he?”

“I hope our other party has stopped him. He must have heard this.”

“I hope so too.”

“Ty, we can take him for justice,” said Renald. “Henry will see to him.”

“Henry will probably only dispossess and exile him.”

‘That’ll get rid of him.“

FitzRoger made no reply to that. He let Imogen go and walked forward toward the edge of the woods.

Imogen looked at her husband with clear sight for the first time and saw what Renald saw. FitzRoger’s face was a mess; he had clearly received a few more blows after she’d left him. That wasn’t the important thing, though; his movements were awkward. The arrow wound must be hurting his right arm, and it would be a miracle if that cudgel blow to the left shoulder hadn’t cracked something. He was also favoring his right leg.

He was in no condition to fight anybody, least of all Warbrick.

She knew it would be pointless to say that. She prayed that someone had had the sense to kill Warbrick as they took him prisoner. If she’d anticipated this, she would have ordered it.

She peered into the dense wispy grayness at the base of the cliff, but it was impossible to tell what was happening there. Nor could she hear. The activity in the camp blocked out more distant noises.

They began to descend the slope. Imogen stayed anxiously at FitzRoger’s side, Renald just one step behind. Some of the men brought torches, creating pearly pools of light.

“That was a nasty blow on the shoulder,” Renald said.

FitzRoger ignored him.

“Is something wrong with your leg?”

“Mere stiffness.”

“You seem to have some stiffness in your sword arm, too.”

FitzRoger ignored that, as well.

“He has an arrow wound in it,” Imogen said.