Dark Champion (11 page)

Not even a twitch. “Negative decisions are not very productive, Lady Imogen. Whom then will you marry?”

She had to put an end to this. “The Earl of Lancaster,” she declared. “He has power enough to see to my security, and has stood friend to our family for many years. He even sent his personal physician—a man of great skill—to tend my father…” To no avail, she thought sadly.

“Then you had best send him a message to tell him of his good fortune, demoiselle.”

Imogen had expected more protests. Thrown off balance, she began to retreat. Perhaps with time a better prospect would occur to her. “I need to have Carrisford restored to its glory,” she said, “before I can hold a wedding.” She rose to her feet.

“As you will, Lady Imogen,” he said amiably. “Just tell me when you need a messenger.”

“I can find my own messenger,” she declared. He raised a brow and she realized she couldn’t.

She was tempted to hit him again. How did he bring out the very worst in her? She realized in time that there were servants in the hall now.

“Very wise,” he murmured.

“Let me make it clear,” Imogen said with icy precision. “You, My Lord of Cleeve, are the last man in England I would ever consider marrying.” With that, she stalked back up the stairs, even though it hurt her feet.

De Lisle returned in time to catch the end of this. He looked amused. “The monks were here when Warbrick got in, but they were among the dead.”

“Warbrick wouldn’t balk at killing his own tools.”

Renald watched Imogen disappear around the bend at the top of the stairs. “You do have a way with women, don’t you?”

FitzRoger cut more cheese. “What of the priest?”

“I’ve sent some men to trace him. He can’t have traveled far. Apparently he’s crippled in the feet as well as the hands. Made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, was captured and crucified by some infidels. The people ‘round here regard him as a regular saint. They don’t
like
him, but they revere him. By the way, he would have nothing to do with the monks. Said they were vicious and ungodly.”

“Vices, not habits,” mused FitzRoger. “When you find the priest, bring him back slowly.”

“What’s going on? First you throw him out, then you want him back. Now you want him back, but not soon.”

FitzRoger turned his great golden ring thoughtfully. “I think I’m going to have to seduce my future wife. The last thing I need is a resident thorny conscience.”

Renald hooted with laughter. “I think you’ve got a long way to go, Ty, before you get Imogen of Carrisford soft and rosy beneath you. You heard her. You’re the last man in England she would consider marrying, and she said it like she meant it.”

FitzRoger just smiled. “She did, didn’t she?”

She sent Martha to find youngsters who would not be needed for other work and set them to being her eyes and ears.

Soon she had reports of who was dead or injured, and who just missing. As FitzRoger had said, all the garrison were dead, along with five servants, the monks, and Janine.

“Is there news of my aunt?” Imogen asked the boy who was reporting.

“Laid to rest in the chapel vault yesterday,” said the lad cheerily.

“Dead?” It hit her like a blow. She had just assumed that Aunt Constance had been spirited away too, and would soon return. Why would anyone kill such a kind lady? “Buried?” she asked. “Without a word to me?” Anger rose to drown grief. “How
dare
he?”

The boy took a step back. “You were sick, lady.”

“He could have waited.”

The boy kept wisely silent. She waved him away and grief returned. She was truly, truly alone.

She pressed her hands to her face. She would not cry.

She had promised herself she would not cry. Constance had gone to her heavenly reward, as had her father, Janine, all the soldiers. They were much happier now than before, or so the Church would say. She called up Father Wulfgan’s teaching. This life was just a brief moment of pain and sorrow. It was the afterlife that we should long for.

It didn’t, she discovered, ease the grief of those left behind alone.

The sense of loss almost overwhelmed her, but she knew that if she once gave in she could drown in it. She remembered a village woman who had lost all her children to a fever. The poor soul had wandered mindlessly about the area, and then one day had been found in the millpond. Imogen could not afford that road; too many people depended upon her. She pushed all thoughts of her losses away and set her mind to restoring her home.

She reminded herself to ask if Brother Patrick was around. She probably needed more salve for her feet. That reminded her of Lancaster’s physician. What had become of him? He had trained in Spain, and was much more skilled than a soldier’s monk.

Enquiries merely discovered that he had disappeared during the sack, but that no body had been found. It was assumed that he and his servants had escaped.

So Imogen asked for Brother Patrick’s help. The monk applied a salve to her sores and again recommended that she keep off her feet as much as possible. “I understand your impatience, Lady Imogen,” the man said, “but each adventure delays the healing. And if you were to venture into the bailey I fear infection.”

Imogen had to accept that lying in bed for a few more days was her fate. She continued her administration from there.

She discovered that a handful of Carrisford servants had weathered the siege by hiding, and that they were being helped with essential tasks by FitzRoger’s men. Imogen sent lads out to the nearest villages to spread the news that she was in control of Carrisford once more, and that everything should return to normal. Her people should return to their places, and the village headmen should send supplies.

Carrisford had always been good to its people and she knew they would rally to her support now.

Her little messengers told her that the wine in the cellars had been drained, and that Lord FitzRoger—or the master, as her people would keep calling him—had already brought in some supplies from Cleeve and sent for more.

Frowning, she made notes on waxed tablets, keeping tally of what she owed him. Once she was mobile again, she would find a way to slip down to the secret treasure vault and bring up enough coin to pay him off.

It would be very dangerous to be in that man’s debt.

She would also bring up some of her jewels. He must be brought to realize that Imogen of Carrisford was not a poverty-stricken suppliant but a great lady.

The grains had fortunately only been spilled out of the bins and much had been recovered, so bread was in production, but what joints had been available had gone. There was meat, however, for the slaughtered stock had been butchered for use.

Then she was told FitzRoger had gone off hunting. That hardly seemed necessary with so many carcasses around. She curled her lip at the thought that he was off amusing himself when there was so much work to be done.

All the same, Imogen was surprised at how the knowledge that he was out of the castle affected her. She was keyed up for another assault on her. Now, with him gone, she felt freer, but also nervously vulnerable. What if Warbrick returned?

She stopped in her record keeping and sucked on the end of her stylus. Freedom or security. It was a choice.

I choose freedom, she thought firmly, but wondered if the secret entry had been sealed. That was a task FitzRoger could delegate; he would not need to enter the passages himself. She made a note to check on it. It made her very nervous to think of the secret ways lying open now they were known.

Her precious supply of spices was apparently missing, along with the fine carved chest that held them. Her chests of cloth—the silks and sendals, samites and tissues—had been spilled out into the bailey and stamped into the dirt. Curse Warbrick. One day she’d see him dead for what he had done. As soon as there were enough servants, she would have some women do the best they could in cleaning the lengths of cloth. She would surely need new clothes from somewhere and she wasn’t sure she should spend coin on adornment just yet.

Though most of the stock would soon have been slaughtered before winter, some would have to be replaced. She would prefer to offer coin directly but had none. She sent for laying hens and milch cows anyway. Surely Imogen of Carrisford’s word was good.

Every time she looked up she was aware of her missing window and her bare walls, and was reminded of the destruction wreaked throughout the castle. She put it behind her. Time enough for elegance later. For the moment it was the necessities of life which concerned her.

Feeling as if she trespassed, she sent a boy to report on the state of the soldiers and armory, and on the progress of repairs. He brought back reassurance of security. The men all knew their business and were well armed. Those not on guard duty spent their time in repairing weapons.

She should have known FitzRoger would not have left the castle vulnerable. She remembered that time after the castle had been taken, when the men—unsupervised—had acted efficiently. He kept a well-trained force.

And they had been unsupervised because their leader was spewing up his terror of closed dark spaces in the arms of his lieutenant.

Imogen pushed that image away. It softened her to think of FitzRoger’s point of vulnerability, and that was dangerous. He would give no quarter in this fight, and anyway, look how he had reacted when she had mentioned it.

She frowned over the problem her supposed champion represented. He had his fingers into everything in Carrisford, and his men were her guards. He had all the people thinking of him as the master, and he’d even buried her aunt without Imogen’s authority or presence.

She had better winkle the man out of Carrisford before he put down roots!

The only way to do that, however, was through the king, and that would lead to her speedy marriage to a man of King Henry’s choosing.

She found she had chewed the end of her wooden stylus almost to a pulp. She threw it down in disgust.

Henry Beauclerk had only been on the throne of England for a year and Imogen had no idea what to expect from him. FitzRoger claimed he would sell her to the highest bidder, and FitzRoger was said to be close enough to the king to know. King Henry’s right to the throne was being challenged, and he was also plagued by Belleme and a number of other restless barons. He doubtless did have wavering supporters to buy.

But surely he would never sink so low as to try to buy Belleme or his brothers with her?

Then she remembered her father discussing the rumors that Henry Beauclerk had been behind the death of his brother, King William Rufus, who had so conveniently died of an arrow while hunting. Lord Bernard had been warily watching the new king, withholding judgment. If a man would kill his brother, would he balk at anything?

Imogen felt as if her mind were whirling in circles. If she didn’t want to submit to the king’s whim, she had only two alternatives. She could offer herself to one of her established suitors—probably Lancaster—or accept the unspoken proposal of Bastard FitzRoger.

She collapsed back against her pillows and tried to think straightly about her choices. The king was a gamble and Imogen was not a gambler.

Lancaster then.

Lancaster was many years her senior, but that was not unusual, and not a matter to take into consideration. She knew her duty as Lady of Carrisford. She should not look for someone pleasing, but for a strong and just lord for her people.

It was as well, she thought dryly, that she could put aside her own tastes if the choice lay between Lancaster and FitzRoger. Neither appealed to her. One older, and seeking always the easy way, not the right. One younger, hard, and frightening.

But, whispered a tiny part of her mind, he would not seek the easy way.

Then she sat up straight.

As wife to Lancaster she would have to live at his principal castle in the north of the country. She would rarely return to Gloucestershire. After all, Lancaster owned Breedon, which lay in this part of the country, and had scarcely ever visited there even when he had come to Carrisford to court her.

Marriage to Lancaster would mean leaving Carrisford.

How could she care for Carrisford from so far away? How could she know if all was well, if justice was fair, if succor was given in times of hardship?

These questions had never arisen when her father was alive to care for his land. He had not been an old man, and it had been assumed that Lord Bernard would live to see a son of hers hold Carrisford after him. Now, however, everything was different. Having just taken Carrisford in her grasp, having suffered to save it, was Imogen now to abandon it?

She saw a hateful decision rearing up to face her.

After all, every mighty lord in England—king’s choice or her own—had the same disadvantage. They would expect her to live on their estates far away from Carrisford.

Every lord except Warbrick and FitzRoger, whose principal estates bordered hers.

Warbrick was out of the question.

The Castle Cleeve land adjoined hers. Moving between the two would be easy.

Though she disliked him, FitzRoger had impressed her with his competence. If handled properly, he would keep both estates safe, and she was certain he would not shirk his duties through indolence.

Imogen wiped damp palms on her skirt as her mind skittered around the point.

Martha came in with a pile of laundry.

“What do the people think of Lord FitzRoger?” Imogen asked the woman.

Martha laid her load down and considered it. “He’s got a hard edge on him, that’s for sure, lady. People ‘round here have had it soft, and many a one’s tried to shirk or whine, but they soon found it better to work.” She began to sort the wash. “He’s a fair man, though,” she said, “and keeps his men in line. I’ve not had so much as a pinched bottom.” She sounded a little regretful.

Imogen licked her lips. “And… and has he whipped anyone?”

“Whipped?” asked the woman in surprise. “Not that I’ve heard of, my lady. Not but what that Sir Renald don’t carry a lash and sting a body here or there if they try to malinger. Some people ‘round here are bone idle.”

Imogen felt dizzy. “Sir Renald?” She’d thought him so gentle. But that wasn’t the biggest surprise. “Axe you saying my father was lax in the running of Carrisford?”

Martha looked up in alarm. “Lord, no, lady! Sir Bernard were a fine man and a great lord. But times have changed. Under your father everything had gone along smoothly for, well, for nigh on twenty years. There were people aplenty and everything always kept in first order. Now everything’s in disarray and half the people are missing.” She shook out a sheet that still had boot prints on it. “Look at this. See what I mean? Lazy work.” She threw it on the floor to go back to the laundry. “All have to work twice as hard and many don’t like it much, lady. It wouldn’t surprise me if some of those that fled just aren’t hearing that all’s well, hoping most of the work’ll be done by the time they return to claim their place.”

Imogen knew her people and that had the ring of truth. Life had been soft and easy at Carrisford—for her and for everyone.

Suddenly she knew what FitzRoger was out hunting. He’d never waste his time chasing deer when they had too much meat. He was chasing her missing servants. She remembered that terrible whipping post.

“By the Grail,” she muttered, “if he bullies my people…”

She commanded that her bed be moved over to the window so that she could observe the goings-on in both baileys. She’d see exactly what FitzRoger was up to when he returned.

She put aside her momentous decision, waiting to see what would be revealed next.

FitzRoger returned alone. She noted that he had ridden out bareheaded in only a leather jerkin sewn with metal rings. She supposed with disgust that it would stop an arrow if he were lucky.