Dark Champion (38 page)

Imogen sat up, heart in throat Her chests? Her maid? What did this signify? Renald followed. “Ty is apparently in his bed with a fever, but alert enough to have your clothes and woman sent here.”

Imogen swallowed. “He’s not dangerously ill?”

“Not as far as anyone knows.”

“Er… what did he say about me?”

“He ordered your things to be sent here.”

Imogen didn’t know if that was good or bad. “Is that all?”

“He sent a message to me. You are not to leave Castle Cleeve for any reason.” He suddenly relaxed and smiled a little. “At least this means he’s not going to kill you in his first rage.”

“Thank you,” said Imogen faintly.

“And I doubt that he’ll beat you severely, Imogen. Ty would only do that in cold blood if he thought it would serve a purpose.”

“It might,” she said bleakly, “just make him feel better.” She hadn’t missed the fact that Renald took it for granted that FitzRoger would beat her.

Renald laughed. “Give him time, Imogen. He’ll forgive you.”

Imogen took that prediction to heart, for surely Renald knew FitzRoger better than she, and a mild beating would be welcome as the price of forgiveness.

That recalled to her that she still had not confessed her false oath. At least now there was no point in reparation. The oath was now true, and Lancaster was dead. All she needed was a priest.

Heartened, Imogen rose from her bed and sent for a priest.

Within the hour, one came up from the village. He was a simple man and she did not burden him with details, but confessed that she had made a false oath upon the cross. He was suitably horrified, but once assured of her full repentance and that there was no way to make reparation, he granted her absolution. The only penance he imposed was that she pray on her knees each night for a sennight, begging Christ’s Blessed Mother for strength to avoid sin in the future.

Imogen welcomed it. She had a great deal to pray about.

Imogen sent the man away with the promise that in time she would make a special gift to his church. She wondered if it would be within her power, but she knew that no matter how else other matters might work out, FitzRoger would make good her word.

She even sang in the bright morning light, for the only act that had truly burdened her soul was now washed away.

Elswith dressed Imogen in the clothes her husband had sent over. The young maid was distressed at Imogen’s appearance but otherwise seemed happy and unfearful. She had little news to add to Renald’s report.

Lord FitzRoger was in his bed recovering from wounds, Elswith told Imogen. He was eating normal foods and supposed to be doing well. Rumors were flying around the castle about Warbrick, and that Imogen had struck her husband down, though few believed that possible. None of the men who had been at the scene seemed to have a clear memory.

Imogen realized that Renald had brought all the men who had witnessed that scene here to Cleeve as her escort. The mist doubtless had made things unclear for the rest. This gave her hope. If it was just a matter between her and FitzRoger, it would go better than if it were a public scandal.

According to Elswith no one was quite sure why Imogen was at Cleeve, but most thought that during her husband’s sickness she was setting the place in order in case the king should wish to visit.

A clever rumor. Put about by FitzRoger? Imogen hoped so.

The waiting was going to be the hardest part, the waiting to hear her fate. When the news of it arrived, she wanted to look the best she could, however. She was still Imogen of Carrisford, and lady to FitzRoger of Cleeve.

She pondered dismally the question of her hair, and decided she might as well wear a veil to hide the worst of it. She draped a length of fine linen over her head. “Give me a circlet, Elswith. The gold rope one.”

At the silence, Imogen turned. The maid had colored. “I wasn’t allowed to bring your jewels, lady. The master’s orders.”

“None at all?” Imogen asked, chilling.

The girl shook her head.

“Not even my morning gift?”

“No, lady.”

Imogen turned away, heart sinking at this news. The absence of the special gift almost dissolved her into tears again, for it made a clear statement. Was FitzRoger even now in the process of casting her off?

This also meant he was in complete control of her wealth, both her personal jewels and all the treasure of Carrisford. Surprisingly, Imogen found she couldn’t fret about that. In part she simply didn’t have the energy to care, but also she knew now that he wouldn’t squander their wealth.

One way or another he would use it to increase their standing and power.

If he still regarded them as a couple.

Imogen gritted her teeth against tears and said, “Then I’d better see if I can make a headrail out of a long scarf, Elswith. Find me a longer piece of linen.”

Imogen had no desire to go about looking as she did, and so she and Elswith spent the morning hemming the white lawn and devising ways of winding it around Imogen’s head so that it was secure and concealed most of her hair.

Eventually they achieved the best they could, though Imogen was sure she still looked a freak. She spent the rest of the day in the solar lackadaisically practicing on her harp. FitzRoger had enjoyed her singing. Perhaps she could win back his regard with her voice.

It took only the first day, however, to convince Imogen that sitting in her room gave her far too much time to think, and would drive her mad. On the second morning she found she could wear her sandals again, and so she set about the management of Cleeve Castle. At first she wondered if there would be some objection—after all, she was as good as a prisoner here—but, if anything, the servants were happy to have a chatelaine.

Imogen found that under FitzRoger’s hand the castle had been well run, but that a number of womanly arts had been neglected. The needlework and preserve areas were not as efficient as they could be, and when Brother Patrick was away, medical care was chancy at best.

Thoughts of Brother Patrick had Imogen standing in a doorway, worrying about FitzRoger’s health.

After a moment she took up writing equipment and wrote,

To Brother Patrick.

Of your kindness, Brother, please send news to Cleeve if My Lord Husband should be close to death, so that I might come to him.

Imogen of Carrisford and Cleeve

The note was sent and brought no response. Imogen chose to take that as reassurance.

Each day Renald sent a messenger to Carrisford. Each day the messenger returned with information, but with no word directly from FitzRoger to either of them.

They heard that he was recovering from his fever.

Fever
, thought Imogen in panic.
He had a fever
?

Next they heard that Lord FitzRoger was out of his bed, but using a staff to walk. His knee had apparently only been badly bruised.

A few days later came the news that Lord FitzRoger was training again in armor.

Imogen began to let go of her terror for his safety. Now, however, she had only her own future to worry about. She had to believe that someday her husband would decide what to do with her and end this limbo. At the very least, some day FitzRoger would want to visit his castle.

At least he would find it in good order.

She threw herself into the work at Cleeve with a vengeance, trying desperately to make days pass faster than nature allowed, and hoping that her husband might be mellowed by her effort and competence.

She put more looms to work, and organized the still rooms and larders more efficiently. She ensured that all was ready for the winter stores, and set some men to whitewashing the hall to make it brighter.

Every time she walked though the plain hall she thought of ordering flowers painted on the walls, and smiled sadly.

Then, two weeks after her arrival at Cleeve, a spark of rebellious mischief stirred in Imogen’s mind, and she did just that.

She had the Cleeve scribe, who knew something of illustrating, make a simple design, then worked with some of the men to use dyes to tint the whitewash. Soon after, the men were copying the design all over the walls.

Renald came in as she was directing the workmen. His mouth fell open. “Imogen…”

He shook his head. “Flowers. Pink flowers.”

“It will brighten the place considerably,” she said. “I think the messenger to Carrisford should see our work here before he leaves.”

Renald gaped again, but then a trace of admiration lit his eyes. “Ah, little flower, you are either mad or splendid. Quite possibly both.”

Imogen spent the day in a nervous frenzy, anticipating her husband’s response.

The messenger returned that evening with Father Wulfgan.

Response, retaliation, or mere coincidence?

The priest stalked into the hall and scanned it with a withering glance. “Daughter in Christ!” he declared. “You have done a terrible thing!”

Imogen heard herself say, “I don’t think the flowers are that bad,” and suppressed a nervous giggle.

“On your knees!” thundered the outraged priest. “You are a rebellious, undutiful imp of the devil!”

Imogen almost obeyed, but she stopped herself. “Perhaps we should talk in the solar, Father,” she said, and led the way without a backward glance.

Somewhat to her surprise, Wulfgan was behind her when she arrived there, but as soon as the door was closed he began again. “You have sinned most grievously, daughter.”

Imogen clasped her hands demurely. “In what way, Father?” She honestly wasn’t sure which of her many crimes would be most heinous in Wulfgan’s eyes.

“To strike down your husband, your lord in God’s sight!”

“You never approved of him,” she pointed out.

“He is still your lord! God’s representative for you on Earth. Your holy duty is to obey and cherish him.”

“But I
was
cherishing him,” Imogen protested. “If I hadn’t struck him down he would have been killed.”

It occurred to her that if her exile here was designed to turn her into a proper submissive woman again, it was failing miserably. Was Wulfgan going to report back to FitzRoger?

“Death is not to be feared, my child,” he retorted. “Only dishonor.”

Imogen lowered her eyes to think on this statement. Was it possible that FitzRoger was using Wulfgan as a messenger?

“I am willing to do penance for my sin,” she said at last, “though I fear I cannot repent.”

“You wicked child,” he whispered. “How can you be so lost to all sense of your duty to your lord and to God? I have told him,” he declared. “I have told him again and again that he must beat you publicly and severely, both to reclaim his honor and to save your sinful soul.”

Imogen swallowed but managed to say, “My husband’s honor is not in doubt.”

“He is a laughingstock if he does not punish you!”

“It is widely known, then?”

“Could it be otherwise?”

Imogen supposed not. But still, she raised her chin proudly. “No matter what he does, FitzRoger could never be a laughingstock.”

Wulfgan stared at her. “You are deep in sin.”

“Am I?” asked Imogen. “And what of you, siding with Lancaster?”

“Lancaster?” queried Wulfgan. “I favored the earl over the upstart. What has that to say to anything?” But for the first time ever he looked unsure of himself.

Imogen realized that FitzRoger must have managed to keep the earl’s wickedness secret. There were still men of Warbrick’s who could reveal it, but FitzRoger had doubtless taken care of them, too.

How?

Were they dead?

There was no point in worrying about that now.

She covered her error. “You were supporting the earl over my God-given husband.”

Wulfgan’s fiery gaze wavered. “He was a more Godly man.”

Imogen pressed her advantage. “But my duty was to my husband.”

Unwise tack. Wulfgan was on firm ground again. “Aye, and yet you wickedly assaulted him! What will the world come to if women can strike their lords? Why should not anyone raise his hand against his better?”

“I have said I am willing to do penance.” She certainly wasn’t looking forward to being beaten or flogged, but she could see a certain justice in it, and if it would wipe away her sin, she would almost welcome it. “Are you come to accompany me back to Carrisford, Father?” she asked hopefully.

Wulfgan was taken aback. “I? No. I was presenting my views to Lord FitzRoger yet again, and he told me I would have more purpose preaching to the sinner, and ordered me here.”

Imogen’s lips twitched. She could almost imagine the scene. Not a messenger then, she thought sadly, so much as a penance. But she detected a touch of humor in the gesture, which gave her hope.

“What does FitzRoger do with his days?” she asked the priest.

“What any man of his type does. There is work to do in administering the castle, and he trains with his men. I suppose,” he acknowledged sourly, “that it is such a man’s duty to hone his body as I hone my spirit.”