Dark Champion (12 page)

Then she wondered why she was worried about his safety.

Because he was her temporary bulwark against the world?

No, because she’d decided to marry him.

All unconsciously, the decision was made.

She studied the man with new eyes. He was hers. He was her strong right arm. He should protect himself better for he would be no use to her wounded.

It was all very practical.

Why, then, was her mouth dry, her heart pounding? Was it fear? It didn’t feel like fear.

He tossed his reins to a man and walked briskly toward the main tower with a smooth, easy grace which denied hours in the saddle. By the Virgin, she’d
like
to see him weakened, at least limping!

She bit her lip when she realized that directly contradicted her previous thought. He was going to drive her mad.

He passed out of sight but not out of mind. He would be a good lord to Carrisford, she admitted, but would he be a good husband?

Would he be kind? She thought he would if she didn’t cross him. Would he beat her? The answer was yes if she did something to deserve it. She shivered, but was surprised not to feel great fear. She realized she believed him just.

She hoped to heaven she was right. He could kill her with one blow.

Would he allow her some hand in the running of Carrisford?

Yes, he would, she decided, because that would be her condition for the marriage. She must remember her worth and set her price high.

And what, she thought hesitantly, of the marriage bed?

She remembered Janine and pressed a hand over her eyes, fighting nausea. It would not, could not, be as bad as that for her.

There would be a bed, not a table. She would not fight and so no one would have to hold her down. FitzRoger was surely not so… so gross as Warbrick, she told herself, remembering that huge, engorged phallus.

It was a normal thing, after all, and necessary for children. She could endure it as other women had since Eve. She had broken her arm once and had it set without one cry. It was simply a matter of closing the eyes and thinking of something else.

It would merely be another taste of the gall.

Now, the sooner she told him, the sooner it would all be done, and she could settle to restoring Carrisford. She listened for his brisk footsteps.

After a little while Imogen realized he wasn’t coming hotfoot to report to her. That annoyed her, but she controlled her irritation. Letting FitzRoger catch her constantly on the raw was to play into his arms.

She tapped her finger and considered strategy. She could send for him and acquaint him with her decision. It was tempting to get it over with, but Imogen knew it would be wiser to wait and make him try some more of his dainty maneuvers. Then she would be able to settle on better terms.

It was just like bargaining with an itinerant merchant, and Imogen had always been good at that. The first rule was not to show how interested one was in the goods.

She became aware of noises and looked out to see FitzRoger’s men on horseback driving some of the castle people into the outer bailey like a herd of sheep. At least the people didn’t look to be beaten or frightened. She set herself to watch.

FitzRoger came out again and waited as the group progressed to the inner bailey. They were filed toward him. He spoke to each and consulted a listing in his hand.

She caught her breath. That was the record of the castle staff. He had no right to be using it without a word to her!

Each one was given something and sent off to their job. When the sun shot a gleam from one of the items being handed over, Imogen realized he was giving them a silver farthing each. It could be seen as a rehiring fee. It was a crafty move designed to soothe any grievances, but she felt herself seething. It meant that as far as they were concerned they had been hired by
him
!

More people who saw him as the master.

She felt her teeth ache from the pressure she was exerting on them and muttered a few unpleasant curses in his direction. She imagined she had a bow and was sighting on his back. No, not his back—that was still protected by that leather jerkin. His neck. Could she hit his neck at this distance? She was a good shot with her small bow and thought she could.

She imagined an arrow hissing through the air to strike—

He suddenly turned and looked up at her. She almost cowered back as if she really had sent that arrow. Then he raised a hand in salute and turned back to the servants.

They, however, had followed his look and now set up a cheer. “Hail to Lady Imogen! Hail to Carrisford!”

She grinned and waved back.

That for you, Bastard FitzRoger. They know their true liege.

Their genuine pleasure at her safety heartened her, but it still galled her that he was down there acting as her deputy, perhaps even seen already as her lord, while she was trapped here by her cursed blistered feet.

She lay back and shut her eyes.
Oh, Father
, she prayed silently to her earthly father, not her heavenly one,
am I doing the right thing? Why did you not prepare me better? I always expected to choose a husband under your guidance, and then live for many years with the knowledge of your protection
.

What would you think of Bastard FitzRoger? He frightens me, Father; but I think you’d like him. He’s good at what he does and you always liked people who are good at what they do.

I wish I didn’t have to marry him, Father; but I have to marry someone. You always made it clear that was my duty, and now I find he seems the obvious choice, the only choice. It’s very strange. It’s as if I’m impelled toward him. Is this the instinct you always spoke of or is it madness?

Watch over me, Father. Guide me…

She heard the door open and her eyes flicked open to see Bastard FitzRoger in the doorway.

“Were you sleeping?” he asked. “I’m sorry if I woke you.” He’d taken off his jerkin and was dressed only in braies and a fine linen shirt, belted at the waist. The unlaced neck revealed his finely muscled chest glossed by sweat.

Imogen hastily sat up and grabbed for her wits. “I was thinking of my father.”

He perched on the end of her bed. It seemed shockingly intimate and she almost protested, but there were enough important things to fight over without descending to the petty.

“You have scarce had time to grieve, have you?” he said. “From the stories of how Lord Bernard doted on you, you must miss him.”

“Of course I miss him. But he didn’t
dote
. He… he loved me.” Her voice almost broke and she took a deep breath, praying that she wouldn’t let the tears escape.

“It is acceptable to cry, you know, when someone so close dies.”

Imogen won the battle. “I’ll
never
cry before you, FitzRoger. That I vow.”

That stillness came over his face that she knew was anger, tightly controlled. “I hope at least that you never cry because of me,” he said quietly, “though I suspect you will.” He rose. “If you’re in the mood for grieving, I should leave you in peace.”

He was halfway to the door before she cried, “Stop!”

He turned, mildly surprised, but not as surprised as she. Imogen had no idea why it seemed so important to keep him here. This wasn’t the time to tell him she’d marry him.

“Surely we have things to discuss,” Imogen said.

“Do we?”

She remembered her grievances. “You buried my aunt without me.”

“It was necessary.”

“You could have waited a day. I wanted to say farewell. She was very dear to me.”

Imogen couldn’t read his expression, but it wasn’t inimical. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It seemed better to get it over with.”

She could hardly demand that poor Aunt Constance be disinterred. “What about the people you have just rounded up and herded back here like sheep?”

He relaxed and humor glinted in his eyes. “They seemed to have forgotten the way home. I merely guided them.”

“I won’t have them punished,” she told him.

“Not at all? No matter what they do?”

He was laughing at her again. “I mean, I won’t have any flogging at Carrisford. I don’t forget what I saw at Cleeve.”

“Ah,” he said, sobering. “You feel compassion for those two wretches, do you? That
is
Christian charity.”

Imogen was being made to feel in the wrong, when she knew she wasn’t. “Being drunk is not praiseworthy, but hardly calls for such brutal punishment.”

He was no longer laughing, but very serious. “Imogen, I am at times harsh, but never brutal. I permit no man of mine to drink more than weak ale on duty, and they all know it. Those men were not only drunk, but guilty of rape while wine-mad. One of their victims was a mere child, who died of it. I would have been in my rights to hang them, but I wanted the lesson to the other men of like mind to be more memorable.”

Imogen didn’t know what to say. Rape. A child. How young a child?

He shrugged, misinterpreting her silence. “Unless you see the victim, I suppose such punishment does seem cruel. I assure you, I have no intention of punishing those people I just brought in. That would be to dissuade the others.”

“They will come as soon as they hear,” she protested. “Doubtless the news of events here is slow to travel.”

“News of events here is traveling faster than wildfire, Lady Imogen. I hardly feel you need to send a message to the king. He’ll already have heard. Doubtless your more optimistic suitors will be pounding on the door any day, too, including the worthy Lancaster. Am I to admit them?”

That was dragging the conversation to the point with a vengeance.

“What alternative is there?” she asked dry mouthed, hoping to make him take the first step.

She saw recognition flash in his eyes like green fire and her nerve almost faltered. “Me,” he said softly. “Better the devil you know…”

He was still very controlled and yet she could tell from his eyes, from a minor change in his breathing, that he wanted her—or more precisely, wanted Carrisford—very badly indeed.

That put her in a position of power.

She took a deep breath. “I want Carrisford,” she said, striving with all her will to match his control.

He came closer, three steps, to stand at the end of her bed. “What do you mean?”

“I rule in Carrisford after we are wed.”

He considered it and her intently. “Will you raise your own force?” It was not a taunt. It was a straightforward negotiating question. At last he was taking her seriously.

“No,” she said crisply. “As my husband you will do that for me, and command it. But it will be paid separately out of Carrisford income. Land grants will be Carrisford land. Everything will be kept separate, and here I will administrate.”

He nodded slightly as he considered. “Are we to live together?”

She heard “sleep together” and knew she had colored. “Of course. It is no great distance between our castles. I expect we will move between them. It will be easy to go from one to the other in time of need.”

Imogen’s heart was pounding, but it was with excitement, not fear. He was listening, really listening. He was not angry that she was setting terms. The power was like wine to her senses.

“And I want vengeance,” she said. “Vengeance against Warbrick.”

“His head on a platter?” he queried, then shrugged. “I’ll kill him for you, Imogen, never fear.”

“Kill him?” Imogen echoed, taken aback.

“You don’t want him dead?” he asked. “You do have a forgiving nature, don’t you?”

“It’s not that,” Imogen said, unsure how to put her concern into words.

She could swear a smile hovered on his face before being controlled. “You’re worried about my safety,” he declared. “That’s quite endearing. I can’t think who last has been concerned about me in that way.”

“You’re not much use to me dead,” Imogen said defensively, though in truth she had been appalled at the thought of him facing mighty Warbrick, and was touched by the genuine pleasure he had almost shown at her concern.

No one had cared… ?

“How true,” he said, without apparent offense. “So those are your conditions. That you administrate Carrisford, and that I kill Warbrick for you.”

It sounded so cut-and-dried. “Yes,” said Imogen, “but I don’t expect you to kill Warbrick immediately. I’ll take your word on it.”

“Good, because I can’t find him at the moment.”

“You’re looking?”

“Would I ignore such an enemy? He hasn’t returned to his castle, nor does he appear to be close by. It’s possible that he’s gone to Belleme at Arundel. There’ll be fighting soon between the king and Belleme. I have to point out that it’s possible that the matter of your vengeance will be taken out of my hands, or that Warbrick and Belleme will flee beyond my reach.”

“You’re being very honest,” said Imogen, almost suspicious at this goodwill.

“I told you, I always am honest if I can be. I intend to deal honestly with you if you will allow it.”

That was reassuringly convincing. “Then I won’t hold you to your word about Warbrick if circumstances make it impossible.” She was amazingly comforted by her decision now it was done. “Now,” she said briskly, “if we’re to wed, there are a number of matters to be seen to. We must discover how Carrisford was invaded and punish the traitors. Have you made any progress? And, of course, the entrance to the passages must be sealed—”