Dark Champion (5 page)

But neither was he a man to make idle threats…

Fear and confusion about the nature of her paladin—not to mention the bulk of the unaccustomed paunch and her sore feet—should have kept Imogen from sleep, but exhaustion was stronger. She slept deep and dreamless and was only reluctantly roused at dawn by a serving woman.

Imogen discovered she was in a worse state than the day before. She ached all over and the sores on her feet protested at the lightest touch. She briefly thought of changing her mind and staying there in comfort until her home was secure again, but she could not. She was Imogen of Carrisford and her duty called her there. Lord knows what FitzRoger would get up to if she was not with him to protect the interests of herself and her people.

It was awkward to dress, even with two women to help her, but she managed it. Then she ate a breakfast of bread, cold pork, and ale while her hair was worked into two fat plaits. By the time this was done her spirits had improved. With movement some of her stiffness had eased, and she was cheered by the thought that soon her home would be secure once more, and she safe in it.

The clothes provided were simple garments of linen and wool, but clean and colorful, as opposed to the rags she had worn for her flight. The women brought some large shoes which would fit over her bandages, but they hurt, and after one tentative attempt at standing Imogen found Brother Patrick had been wise to suggest she stay off her feet entirely. The slightest weight on them was excruciating. If she wasn’t going to stand, never mind walk, she had no need of shoes.

One of the women was bold enough to venture a protest. “You shouldn’t go anywhere today, lady. You bide here with us, and let the master handle matters.”‘

Imogen gritted her teeth. “I will be able to ride.”

When she was ready to travel, one of the maids went to find someone to carry her. Imogen braced herself for another encounter with FitzRoger.

However, it was a stranger who entered her room. He was a handsome young man of high rank, already dressed in mail but with brown curls uncovered. “Lady Imogen,” he said, and bowed. “I am Renald de Lisle who has the honor of carrying you to your horse.” His expressive dark eyes suggested he had fought the hordes of darkness for the right to be her porter.

He was clearly French, not Norman. It showed in the way he spoke the language, and in his mannerisms. Imogen could not help but smile in the face of his unconcealed delight at his task. Why could not all men be as appealing?

Though not quite as tall as FitzRoger, he was of more massive build, with heavy shoulders and a broad chest. He picked her up without effort. Imogen leaned at ease against his mailed chest. She noticed that though he had the same strength as FitzRoger, Sir Renald didn’t cause her to turn giddy.

It all went to show it had just been exhaustion and hunger.

Sir Renald smelled slightly of herbs, perhaps from his clothing. She tried to remember what FitzRoger had smelled like. But then her stink would have blotted out any odor more subtle than vinegar. What a way to be first seen by a man, she thought with despair. He would probably never forget her standing there in grimy rags, eight months gone, and half crippled.

Sir Renald broke into her thoughts. “Such a pleasant duty,” he said cheerfully. “I thanked my brother-in-arms most warmly for appointing me his deputy.”

“You refer to Lord FitzRoger?”

“Indeed. We are brothers of the heart, demoiselle. We were poor together as we sold our swords. We vowed that if we became rich we would be rich together. And here we are.”

The warmth in his voice was startling. How extraordinary to think of cold FitzRoger having any friend, especially such a friend. Sir Renald carried her out of the keep and Imogen savored fresh morning sunshine and a light breeze that caught at the edge of her skirts. A good day for victory.

“And what do you do for the Lord of Cleeve, Sir Renald?” she asked as they began the descent to the crowded, noisy bailey.

“At the present I am his master-at-arms as he shapes up these lazy rogues he has inherited from his brother. One day, as his riches increase, he will give me land of my own. Me, I do not care. I have food, a roof over my head, fine clothing, and enough fighting to dispel boredom. I am in Paradise.”

Just then he carried her past the blood-darkened whipping post. The previous day’s scene returned to her mind, and she saw again Bastard FitzRoger wielding that whip. She heard the men screaming. And their only crime had been a bit too much to drink.

Imogen shuddered. Paradise? Only the coarsest type of man would find Castle Cleeve a paradise. Just let these warriors wrest her castle back—it was all they were good for—and she would seek out a sensitive, civilized husband, another man like Gerald of Huntwich.

Instead of being put on a horse of her own, Imogen was settled to ride pillion behind a solid, middle-aged soldier. He told her gruffly his name was Bert, and it was clear he wasn’t too pleased with his role in this day’s events. Imogen wasn’t too pleased with the arrangement herself, but within moments she had to admit that she would have found it hard to manage a horse. Stirrups would have been out of the question. Sitting sideways on the pillion seat, she found her feet gave her no pain. She hooked her hand over Bert’s leather belt and resigned herself.

Sir Renald kissed her hand gallantly before he left to mount his gray destrier. FitzRoger rode past bareheaded. His squire rode behind bearing his shield and helmet.

FitzRoger’s eyes traveled over his force, taking in every detail. Without hesitation or hurry they passed over Imogen. She could imagine his mind ticking off: “… one heiress, mounted…” Then they were off at a steady pace which should bring them to Carrisford, she reckoned, by late afternoon.

It was a pleasant day for riding and without even the work of guiding a horse, Imogen settled to enjoy it. The Castle Cleeve lands appeared to have given good crops and fat kine were in the meadows. There was much unused land, though. She had heard that FitzRoger’s brother, Hugh, had not been a good lord, so perhaps these lacks could be laid at his door.

The people were busy with the last of the harvest. They looked up and watched their lord as he passed. There were no friendly cheers such as had regularly greeted Lord Bernard, but nor was there sullen resentment. It was as if they took their tone from him and were cool.

FitzRoger occasionally rode away from the line of troops to speak to a group or inspect something. Always checking, she thought sourly. Nothing was allowed to escape his perceptive green eyes.

Her father had been a good lord and had been deeply loved. She didn’t think that was the case with Bastard FitzRoger, which was hardly surprising. Who would love such a harsh man? But she saw that he was respected. She thought how significant it was that they all called him “the master.” Discipline among his men was as tight as the shine on every visible piece of metal, and yet the soldiers sang as they rode and any grumbles were humorous ones.

Imogen decided with irritation to put aside this obsession with her paladin—her champion. He was nothing more to her than a tool.

She’d help him to take Carrisford, even show him the secret entrance if necessary, then she would settle to restoring her home and holding it safe. She would, of course, give him a suitable reward for his help and that would be that. She’d make sure the next message to the king got through. Henry would crush Warbrick as he deserved, and then Imogen would carefully select a husband.

She began to run her previous suitors through her mind. To her surprise, she found them an unsatisfactory lot. From safe within her father’s protection they had seemed well enough, but now it was clear that one had been too stupid, another too cruel, another too clumsy, another too vain, another too old…

FitzRoger was making one of his periodic rides along the line and he pulled up his chestnut beside her. “You frown, lady. Are you in pain?”

“No, my lord.”

“Tired? If so, I’m sorry for it but we cannot stop.”

“I have no problem except tedium, Lord FitzRoger.”

“Some people pray daily for a tedious life, Lady Imogen. I’m afraid you must wait for excitement until the fighting starts.”

Annoyingly, he was gone before she could think of a fitting response. She twisted to follow his progress down the column. He stopped here and there for a word or a joke. Or a rebuke. Imogen saw one man turn pasty white after a few quiet words.

Despite FitzRoger’s saying they could not stop, they did stop three times—to rest and water the horses. The comfort of the horses, after all, was much more important than that of a mere heiress. At each halt Sir Renald carried her to a shady spot and settled her on a blanket there.

He never lingered, however, but was off with FitzRoger making another round of men and mounts, checking, encouraging, admonishing. Imogen had never had anything to do with warfare before, and she began to suspect it was as much a matter of organization and planning as violent action.

At the third halt food was served—bread, cheese, and ale. Sir Renald brought Imogen her portion, but then went off with his friend on the usual inspection. After a while, however, the two men came and threw themselves down beside her, sharing a skin of ale and a loaf.

It was past noon and the day had turned hot. Sir Renald pushed back his mailed hood to reveal damp hair. “I hate summer fighting,” he grumbled.

“Lose some fat,” said his friend unsympathetically.

“I am not fat,” Sir Renald rebutted. “Only an inhuman monster such as yourself would not feel the heat with thick felt, heavy iron, and a surcoat on.”

“I feel the heat,” said FitzRoger. “But I enjoy a campaign whatever the weather.” He turned to Imogen. “I hope you are not overheated, lady.” His tone implied that the sentence could be completed “… for I’m not going to do a plague-ridden thing about it.”

“Since I have on only two thin garments, my lord, it would be churlish of me to complain.”

He deliberately eyed her swollen body. “Women in your condition tend to feel the heat.”

Imogen knew her cheeks were flaming as if she roasted. She needed to get the conversation on a different track. “Can you tell me what has become of my seneschal, my lord?”

“Strange,” he mused, “how any mention of your impending motherhood seems to bring him to your mind. I wouldn’t have thought such an elderly man to your taste, but women are strange creatures…”

Imogen was about to protest this fiercely when she detected a glint of humor in his eyes. The wretch was daring to tease her! The only response to such impudence was to ignore it. “He is my trusted servant,” she said coldly.

“Then your trusted servant is back at Cleeve in safe but considerate captivity.”

Imogen stared at him. He was holding Siward hostage. “It would be dishonorable to mistreat an old and faithful retainer.”

“If you behave yourself he will not be mistreated,” he countered blandly. At his signal the camp began to prepare to leave—gathering up scraps and tightening girths. As FitzRoger uncoiled to his feet, he asked, “Who, then, is the father of this most inconvenient child?”

Imogen looked down. “I cannot tell you that,” she answered with perfect honesty.

He grasped her chin and raised it so she had to face him. “You are not secretly married?”

“If I had a husband I would have no need of
your
protection, would I?”

“That would depend on the husband.” He let her go and strode away to supervise the reassembly of the fighting force. Imogen wanted to hurl a lethal projectile at his arrogant back.

Renald de Lisle bent and lifted her into his arms.

“Sir Renald,” said Imogen tartly, “though you doubtless feel your friend has all the virtues, I find him uncivil and unkind.”

She felt his rumble of laughter as a wave through her body. “Of course I don’t think he’s a paragon of virtue. He’s a rogue like me. But he’s a man of his word. What promises he makes he will keep, and that’s more than can be said for most men.” He deposited her once more in the pillion saddle.

Imogen shivered. When she thought of some of the promises Bastard FitzRoger had made to her, de Lisle’s words offered no comfort at all.

Imogen’s throat tightened at the sight of her home, whole and unblemished on its rise of land near the river. Wisps of destructive smoke rose from the nearby village, though, which looked deserted though not entirely wrecked.

She turned her gaze back to the castle, seeking signs of damage. The tall, square keep and two mighty walls forming an inner and an outer bailey were unbroken, and still fused smoothly with the scrubby rock of the hill upon which they sat. The main entrance, approached by a long, sloping path up to the lowered drawbridge, was watched over by two gate towers. The portcullis was invitingly raised.

She had prepared herself for a gutted ruin, but it was as beautiful as ever.

“He’s gone,” she murmured.

FitzRoger turned to look at her. “Or he’s set a trap for you or anyone else who seeks to claim the place.”

Imogen bit her lip. If she had returned here alone, she would have ridden up to the castle, rejoicing in recovering it. How naive she was.

“What do we do, then?” she asked.

“Observe and scout.”

They all moved slightly back, and the whole force dismounted and looked to their horses. When Sir Renald lifted her down, she persuaded him to make her a place to sit up on the rise where she could see her home. He ensconced her behind some undergrowth, but she was still able to see quite well. She would still swear the place was empty.

A short while later a few men rode off, doubtless to seek news throughout the neighborhood. A few more slipped away on foot, venturing closer to the castle. FitzRoger came forward, and without a word to Imogen sat quietly against a tree and watched the castle like a hawk.

Imogen found herself spending more time watching her paladin than the silent castle. There was little to choose between them, she thought sourly. He was as still and as cold as a stone fortress. What an ability he had to be immobile. Even in the shade it was still hot and she was sure armor was not the most comfortable dress, and yet he sat as still as a statue.

His profile had a carved quality, she thought. Very clean, severe lines—

A disturbance behind them, down near the encampment, interrupted her study. In a second he was gone, heading toward the voices.

Imogen wriggled around and saw that one of the soldiers had returned with a peasant who instantly fell to his knees before the Lord of Castle Cleeve. Imogen instinctively moved to join them, then hissed with pain and sat again, cursing her feet. She
hated
being tied to a spot like this.

As if he’d heard, FitzRoger returned to her, picked her up, and carried her back down the slope. He came to stand before the peasant, who was now on his feet but shaking with fear. Imogen thought he might be the local hurdle maker but wasn’t sure.

“Who is this?” FitzRoger demanded of the man.

“That be Lady Imogen,” the man gabbled. “Lord Bernard’s daughter. The Treasure of Carrisford. O, my lady, right glad I am to see you safe. Such a time—”

“Enough,” FitzRoger said, and the man fell silent. “The lady will be returned to her rights in Carrisford, and order will be restored. You have nothing to fear, but you must stay here until all is settled.”

The man was led off, bowing and scraping—rather more to FitzRoger than to her, Imogen thought.

FitzRoger carried her back and set her down again on her blanket. He looked her over all afresh. “So, Lady Imogen. You undoubtedly have a tale to tell. When is the babe due?”

Imogen swallowed. “Late September,” she said, thinking another month seemed about right.

“Hmm,” he said with a raised brow. “You must have had a merry Yuletide.”

Before she could think of an appropriately scathing retort he walked away and settled back to his watching post.

Imogen kept an eye on him as she tried to think of a tale to tell which would account for her supposed state. It was impossible to imagine that her father would not have noticed such a bulging waistline and arranged her marriage. In fact, she realized with concern, just about anyone in the locality would be able to tell FitzRoger she’d been properly indented in the middle only two days since. Her deception could not last long, but she needed to be out of FitzRoger’s power before he learned the truth.

She looked over and wondered just what his reaction would be to having been fooled. The thought sent shivers down her spine.

He tensed and she turned to see what he had seen. Nothing.

“What is it?” she whispered.

He ignored her. She had an urge to crawl over to him and demand his attention, but she hated to think of the sight she’d be at the end of it. She turned instead to stare at the castle with as much intensity as he. Finally she saw it. A slight movement as someone, emboldened by dusk, peered over a battlement. It could be a nervous servant, but it could be a concealed guard.

“If Warbrick and his men had left,” she said, half to herself, “and there were servants still in the castle, there’d be no reason for them to conceal themselves.”

“Exactly.” He slid sinuously from his watching post and came to loom over her, thumbs tucked into his sword belt. “Time for you to tell me all your secrets, Imogen of Carrisford.” A slight hand signal brought Sir Renald and two other men. “Well?” he said.

She hated being tied to the ground at his feet like this. He was deliberately using her incapacity to terrify and control her, and she loathed him for it. “It is a family secret,” she said firmly, meeting his eyes, even though it hurt her neck to do so.

“Then consider me family,” he said with a cold smile.

“Hardly.”

He dropped to one knee so that at least their eyes were level. “You claim to want Warbrick out of Carrisford, demoiselle.”

“I do.”

“Then prove it.”

Imogen found having those cold green eyes on a level with hers, and barely a foot away, was even worse than having him towering over her. Like an icy wind, his intent gaze numbed her senses, stole her voice.

“Ty,” said Sir Renald humorously, “stop glaring at the girl. You’ll scare what wits she’s got out of her entirely.”

Imogen expected FitzRoger to gut the man for his impudence, but instead he collapsed back to sit on the ground, arms around his knees. His expression was still unfriendly toward her, but it did not have that numbing power. “You think she’s a half-wit?” he asked his friend dryly. “It would explain a great deal.”

“I have all my wits!” Imogen burst out. “Though if I’d been using them, you are the last person I would have gone to for aid.”

“Where then?” he asked sweetly. He was even smiling.

Imogen decided his glare was horrible, but his smile was worse. She was sure he smiled at his enemies before he ran his sword through them.

“To the king,” she said boldly.

He raised one brow. “If you’d thought there was any chance of reaching Henry, you’d have gone east yesterday.”

She frowned at a sudden thought. “Since Warbrick was at Carrisford, I should have gone east, through his land!”

The men all looked at her with disbelief. “I think half-wit is generous, Renald,” said FitzRoger, and Imogen had to admit that had been a stupid thing to say.

“Still,” FitzRoger continued, “she presumably has the knowledge of the secret passages in her muddled head somewhere. The question is how to get at it.”

“There’s a key to every person,” said Sir Renald.

“Mess up her feet a bit more,” said a massive blond-haired man casually, making Imogen instinctively scuttle backward. She saw the man’s eyes widen. A nervous turn of her head showed a chilling expression on FitzRoger’s face as he gazed at him.

Again, Sir Renald was the peacemaker. “Use
your
wits, Will. This is the sweet demoiselle we are rescuing from the vile monster. Save your nasty streak for him. I’m sure when Lady Imogen has considered the matter she’ll see sense.”

Imogen rather thought there was a warning in those last words, but she couldn’t seem to think straight. Though Bastard FitzRoger had willingly come to her aid, her instincts screamed that she shouldn’t trust him entirely. After she was in control of her property, she didn’t want him knowing its secrets.

She swallowed and licked dry lips. “It’s clear there are few people left in the castle, even if they are soldiers. If there were many, they wouldn’t be able to stay invisible. It should be no great matter to take the place.”

“Of course not,” said FitzRoger amiably. “Why don’t you lead the way up to the gate?”

She stared at him. As soon as she became aware it was open, she closed her mouth with a snap. “I am not a soldier.”

“Whoever leads the way is going to get killed, soldier or not,” he remarked pleasantly. “Don’t you think the honor should be yours, since it’s your castle?”

He twisted everything she said. The world didn’t make any sense anymore. “But I’m the whole point of this,” she heard herself say. “If I’m dead, Carrisford will revert to the Crown.” It sounded terribly selfish.
Was
it her duty to lead the force? She supposed if she were a man it would be…

“How true,” FitzRoger said with a sigh. “What a shame. In that case, Lady Imogen, perhaps you should nominate a deputy. Who would you like to see killed in your place? Myself? Renald? The nasty man who wants to mangle your feet?”

She had been right to distrust his smile. When it focused on her, she felt her face flame. “I don’t know,” she mumbled sullenly.

“The decisions are all yours,” he said implacably. “Perhaps you would prefer that we turn around and return peacefully to Castle Cleeve. That way nobody need so much as prick his finger.”

Imogen buried her head in her arms, fighting an urge to weep, an urge to scream. If she had a weapon she would have tried to silence that mocking voice in any way she could.

The worst thing was that he was right. He didn’t have to bludgeon her over the head with it. A direct attack would be successful but would cost lives. A sneak attack through the secret entrance could well be bloodless, at least on their side.

She raised her head and gave him a stare she hoped would blister his soul. “Get me some ink and parchment.”

It was there so quickly she knew it had been waiting to hand. Stony-faced she began to sketch in the failing light, explaining as she went.

“The entrance in the cliff is very hard to find. Even when you’re close you won’t be able to see it. It’s above an arrowhead rock, however, and if you just follow the way the arrow points, you will come to it. It’s the merest slit and the very largest men will not fit through.” She looked at him and said with relish, “Even you will probably not be able to go through in armor.”

He was silent and impassive.

“The passage is dark and very narrow,” she continued. “But any man who can squeeze through the entrance can make it through the passage. It would be best to use no light as it is awkward enough to sidle along without extra things to hold, and there’s nothing to see. The floor is smooth, and there are no outcroppings or other hazards. You just have to have faith that all is well ahead of you.” She shuddered slightly at the memory of the few times she had gone through the deepest passages. Total dark. The feeling that one was in an ever-narrowing space without end.

She looked up and saw something strange. His eyes were not so green. No, that was not it. His pupils were unusually large. “Go on,” he said a little sharply.

“The darkness does end,” she said. “When the entrance joins the castle passageways, there is light through narrow slits in the walls. Or at least,” she added doubtfully, “there is during the day. Light or not, you’ll know you’re there because the passage widens slightly and the walls are dressed stone, not rock. There is a door at that point into the castle proper. It opens into the storage cellars.”

She looked around. She had their close attention.

“If you continue in the passage there are steps up. Over the top step there is another door, a trapdoor into the floor of the garderobe off the solar. It should push open but has been little used…”

She carried on drawing and explaining until all the secret ways were laid out for them. Then she handed the parchment over to FitzRoger. “After this is all over, the entrance will have to be sealed,” she stated.

“Undoubtedly,” he said, but her words seemed to amuse him, which worried her.

“I think I should lead the party to take this route,” said Sir Renald, and reached for the parchment.

“No.”

There was a cold, hard edge to the word which sounded strange to Imogen, but she was past trying to make sense of all this. She just wanted her home and security back.

The men left her alone as they waited for darkness to fall. Cold meat and ale were passed around and she was given some, but otherwise she was ignored. Clearly she was now of no further use. She fretted about her decision to reveal the secret passages. But what else could she have done?