Dark Champion (10 page)

That would show who commanded in Carrisford.

FitzRoger went through the linked rooms that led to the majestic wide staircase which ran straight down the side of the great hall. Carrisford Castle was a magnificent building, far more sophisticated than any other he had seen in England. He wouldn’t mind incorporating some of the elegancies here into Cleeve one day when he had time and funds for it.

Funds made him think of the heiress and smile slightly.

A spirited creature, and one with brains when she remembered to use them. But pampered to death. Still, he’d been honest when he said she had done well, especially for one so protected all her life.

He entered the hall, which had an unusual vaulted ceiling, brightly painted walls, and a lot of narrow windows. With the shutters back in this fine weather, they allowed in the sunlight to make the room warm and bright.

The soldier in him said they were unnecessary and hazardous, but he liked the way they brightened the room. The hall at Cleeve was always gloomy.

The room had been cleared of the more obvious signs of carnage and looked very fine to him, but he knew from the comments of the servants that it fell far short of its former glory. There had been embroidered hangings, and displays of arms, and gold and silver on the sideboard shelves. The tablecloths had all been of woven patterns or embroidered.

He’d seen the weaving sheds in the bailey where the looms and frames stood idle for lack of the women to work them. There weren’t that many dead, so they must be around somewhere. Presumably they could recreate the simpler hangings, though he suspected the finer ones had been imported from Italy and the East.

He would like to restore Imogen of Carrisford’s home for her. He began to plan the restoration work. Food, supplies, tableware, hangings, table linen…

The trestles were still set up for breakfast—bare of cloths—but the meal, such as it was, was over and the hall was deserted. FitzRoger hefted a jug, found it still had some ale in it, and filled a wooden beaker. He added ale and wine to his list of requirements. Carrisford had some ale, and the brew house had already started operation again, but Warbrick had opened the cocks on all the casks of wine. Heaven knows when the stink would leave the cellars.

Even with supplies, living would be sparse here for a while…

His thoughts were interrupted by Renald de Lisle’s jovial voice. “Unless that’s a maidenly blush, my friend, the lady slapped your face. I thought you said she’d be easy to persuade.”

“I haven’t tried to persuade her of anything yet.” He poured ale for Renald.

“Then why did she hit you?”

FitzRoger’s lips twitched. “She wouldn’t like to admit it, but I think it was because I stopped kissing her.” His friend choked on the ale. “Her excuse was something else. That priest, Renald, the one who was screaming about us doing penance for each life taken.”

De Lisle nodded.

“Get him back.”

Renald looked over in surprise. “Why? He doubtless believes in hair shirts and flagellation.”

“The Flower of the West commands.”

“Ah,” murmured Renald. “You think to buy her favors with sweets? Buy her favors with her own sweets? When are you going to tell the luscious little blossom that she hasn’t been rescued so much as plucked?”

“You make her sound less like a rosebud and more like a scrawny hen. If I’m going to marry her, I might as well make it as easy on her as I can. Perhaps she’ll just think of it as being transplanted into new earth.”

“At least with her carrying a child, you have plenty of time to confuse and persuade her. And kill the man who made her that way.”

“It was her seneschal,” said FitzRoger, taking another draft of ale.

“That old man!” de Lisle exclaimed, his hand flying to his sword. “I’ll gut him.”

FitzRoger put a hand over Renald’s. “I think you have a taste for flowers too,” he said, quite pleasantly. “Lose it, my friend. She’s mine.” He removed his hand and refilled Renald’s mug. “The seneschal is being brought here to take over the running of the castle.”

“You’ll overlook such behavior?” exclaimed Renald, his fine eyes flashing. “I most certainly will not.”

“Lady Imogen assures me it was done with her consent,” said FitzRoger blandly. “Was, in fact, her own idea. She’s very proud of the achievement, and if she isn’t unhappy, who am I to take offense?”

De Lisle was staring at him as if he’d grown an extra head. FitzRoger glanced up and drew his friend’s attention to the stairs. Imogen was gingerly descending them, startlingly beautiful in bright silks, and remarkably shapely for one so far gone with child. And obviously not the victim of a sudden miscarriage.

“It was all a hoax?” Renald asked blankly. “I’m surprised you didn’t beat her for it.”

“I don’t crush such a lovely blossom, not even for perfume. I’d guessed,” he said softly, “and it really didn’t make any difference except that it gave her a false sense of security.” He walked forward and offered his arm to Imogen of Carrisford.

Imogen eyed him warily, but he seemed calm. She was pleased to see that her handprint on his lean cheek had faded, though she couldn’t help wishing that the full strength of her arm could make a more lasting impression.

“How are your feet?” he asked kindly. “I will see if there’s a cobbler available to fashion some kind of footwear for you.”

“I can walk for short distances.”

Imogen had been concentrating on the stairs and FitzRoger as she descended, but now she looked around the hall and could have wept. There was little sign of mayhem except for some raw gashes on woodwork, but the place was stripped naked. The beautiful hangings were gone, the floor was bare, the sideboards held no goblets and dishes, and there were so few people. Only the three of them in here at the moment, and no sound of bustle nearby.

Where was everyone?

Afraid. They would return.

The sight of four hounds curled near the table was reassuring, until she realized they weren’t her father’s familiar hounds, or her own pair, but strange dogs belonging to strangers.

This place scarcely seemed like her home at all.

She would restore Carrisford, she promised herself, restore it as it had been such a short time ago. For that she would need a little help from FitzRoger, but she must make it clear that he was her instrument in this, and that was all.

She addressed him in a brisk, authoritative tone. “There is obviously a great deal of work to be done, my lord. After breakfast I will inspect the castle and interview what people are still here. I must see what can be repaired and what needs to be ordered. If there are military needs, Lord FitzRoger, you must tell me of them and I will see if they can be met.”

Though she kept her voice firm, Imogen’s heart was pounding as she threw this challenge down. She was as good as relegating him to captain of the guard.

“Of course,” he said as he escorted her to one of the two large chairs. “Your main requirement is men-at-arms, Lady Imogen. I’m afraid none of your father’s garrison survived.”

It was like a blow. “All? All dead?”

He nodded and poured her ale. “Warbrick was thorough.”

“As were you!” she replied angrily. “I saw you kill that man after you had him at your mercy.”

“As am I,” he agreed, and continued, “You will, of course, make some provision for the families of the dead men.”

“Of course,” she said, though it hadn’t immediately come to mind. So many things to be borne in mind.

“I have rather more men than I need at present,” he said. “I would be willing to hire twenty to you for a period. Twenty men is an adequate garrison for Carrisford, and should be able to hold it against everything but a long siege.”

Imogen flicked him a wary glance. He was politely impassive and impossible to read. With his men garrisoning the castle, she’d be as good as a prisoner in her own home, but what alternative did she have? Until the king came, or sent his agent, she was at FitzRoger’s mercy. Her only hope was the dubious one of his good intentions, and the rather better one that he—unlike Warbrick—would not want to cross the king.

“Thank you, Lord FitzRoger. I will take the garrison until other arrangements can be made.”

He nodded. “This place should be impregnable. Warbrick must have been given access to the castle.”

“I know,” said Imogen with a frown. “I don’t know who would do such a thing.”

“Possibly one of the garrison. If so, Warbrick has taken care of the problem for you.”

“Impossible,” Imogen protested. “They had all been my father’s men for years. I cannot believe one would suddenly turn traitor.”

He sat in the other chair and sliced a half loaf and some cheese, passing it to her. “Lady Imogen, the survivors’ stories suggest that most of the garrison was drugged before the invasion.”

“So it
must
have been someone in the castle. I can scarce believe it…”

“Were there any strangers here?”

“No,” she said as she nibbled the cheese. “There were no travelers those last days. Only some monks from Glastonbury Abbey. And once my father was known to be dying, the castle was sealed.”

She saw FitzRoger and de Lisle share a glance and then the darker man slipped away. “Monks!” she exclaimed. “That cannot be.”

“You have a remarkable reverence for religion, Lady Imogen. A habit is easy enough to put on.”

“But they were here from before my father’s injury, even. And they had tonsures, I am sure of it.”

“And were the tonsures as brown as their faces?”

“I don’t know,” she confessed. There had never been any need in Carrisford to inspect strangers closely, or doubt people’s goodwill. At least not that she had been aware of. She looked up at him. “Am I never to trust anyone again?”

He tore off part of the crust, but turned it in his fingers rather than eating it. “At least learn to give your trust sparingly, Lady Imogen. You’ve made a good beginning,” he added with a dry smile. “You don’t trust me.” He at last took a crisp bite of the bread and chewed it. “What you need is to marry, demoiselle, then your husband will take care of all these things for you.”

Here it comes, thought Imogen, and stiffened her spine. “I don’t want to be taken care of anymore, Lord FitzRoger.”

“You want to fight your own battles?” he asked skeptically. “Drill your own soldiers? Command your own executions? Squeeze information out of your own traitors?”

How did he always make her seem a fool? Imogen glared at him. “I will petition the king for a husband, then.”

He laughed out loud. “He will be enchanted. He has any number of debtors to pay.”

Imogen had already realized that, but what was the alternative? None of her suitors appealed.

“My father left me to King Henry’s care,” Imogen said, trying to sound more assured than she felt. “It is my duty to wait on his will.”

“Very likely,” said FitzRoger, “but it is one thing to leave the choice to the king, and another to go to him and ask his consent to your wedding a particular man. As long as your choice is reasonable he has no right to object and can only demand a fee for his blessing.”

Imogen eyed him uncertainly. His words made sense, but he had already admitted that she was wise not to trust him.

“I know Henry and his current situation,” he added. ‘To gain the approval of the English of his claim to the Crown, he has had to promise much relief from taxes. If you leave the choice to him, Lady Imogen, he will sell you to the highest bidder. Even Warbrick is possible.“

Imogen paled. “He couldn’t. Not after everything.”

“It’s not very likely, I admit, because that whole family is out of favor. They chose to back Normandy in the recent conflict. But it all depends on what Warbrick is willing to pay, or promise. Warbrick might think it worth a lot to have the Treasure of Carrisford in his grasp, and Henry could well see it as desirable to suborn Belleme’s brother.”

Imogen considered this scenario. Robert de Belleme was using the unrest, the conflict between the Conqueror’s sons over England, to try to carve out a fief for himself here on the borders. King Henry would definitely consider any means to weaken the man, but she doubted he’d be fool enough to trust Warbrick with the power represented by Carrisford.

She called FitzRoger’s bluff. “You’re deliberately trying to frighten me,” she said, and saw that she had scored a hit. “What do you want, Lord FitzRoger? State it clearly.”

Again there was that gleam of admiration in his eyes, and he nodded. “Your welfare.”

She would not be wit-softened again. “I find that hard to believe.”

He showed no disappointment at her tone. “As you will. Whom then do you wish to marry, demoiselle?”

She was relieved that he accepted the situation so calmly, and he had been correct in advising that she face the king with the choice already made. After all, there doubtless were other men
like
Warbrick seeking a rich bride. Imogen reviewed her discouraging list of suitors.

Finally she said, “It will have to be Sir Richard of Yelston or the Earl of Lancaster.”

“Really?” he said.

He hadn’t given up. He wanted her to choose him. She couldn’t bear this cat-and-mouse game. “I will not marry you,” she said firmly.