Dark Champion (15 page)

She would marry him for his strength and hardness, and be grateful she knew it was war she entered, not love.

But one does not go into war alone. As she walked down the long staircase, Imogen wished she had someone familiar by her side. Her father and aunt were dead. Janine had met her bloody end in this very hall but five days past.

Unwise thought.

The memory burst back on Imogen and she faltered. She immediately picked up her pace again, though her heart was pounding and bloodred shadows were threatening her vision. She would
not
faint in front of them.

Now, however, instead of a richly dressed wedding party she saw brutes in armor, blood dripping from sword points, and Janine…

She saw the woman held stretched across the table. She heard her guttural screams for mercy as her rapist thrust into her, grunting in rhythm. Grunt, grunt, grunt—

Dear God, it was the same table!

She came to the present frozen with horror, staring at the oak boards spread with documents. Was it her imagination that there were bloodstains?

A hand took hers, burning hot against the chill of her flesh. She looked up into the sympathetic dark eyes of FitzRoger’s friend, Renald de Lisle.

“You should not have walked, Lady Imogen,” he chided gently. “Now you must sit.” He guided her to the great chair set by the table. She glanced at the king, but he waved a negligent hand.

“No, no, Lady Imogen. I insist. Ty has told us of your stubborn pride. I commend you, but it would be foolishness to take it too far.”

Stubborn pride? Her eyes met FitzRoger’s. Was that really what he saw? How strange. She felt feeble, so unable to take charge of her own destiny. After all, this wedding was an admission that without some man at her side she was like a rabbit flung among wolves. She was grateful to sit, however. It lessened the chance that she would faint.

Renald poured her wine, but before she could drink, a long brown hand removed her cup and replaced it with a goblet of water. “We are supposed to fast,” said FitzRoger. “Remember? If we don’t, all our works will turn to evil and you’ll give birth to rabbits.”

Imogen looked at him in shock. “What?”

His smile was cool. ‘That’s what Father Wulfgan says. The priest you value so.“

Imogen looked over at Wulfgan, huddling darkly over his psalter, clearly dissociating himself from this event. Was that why FitzRoger sounded angry?

She sipped the water to ease her dry mouth.

The king stepped forward into the silence. “As your father entrusted you to my care, Lady Imogen, I am honored to guide you in this matter of your marriage. Perhaps you would like me to explain all these documents.”

“She knows them well, sire,” said FitzRoger. “She was the scribe.”

“Indeed.” The king looked at her with more respect. “You have won a gifted bride, Ty, as well as a beautiful one. But does she understand what she has written?”

They spoke as if she wasn’t there. “She does!” snapped Imogen, and then looked at the startled king in horror. “I beg your pardon, sire.”

Again he waved a hand. “No matter. This has been a hard time for you, Lady Imogen, and we make allowances. It is our wish to see you safe in the protection of the Lord of Cleeve. Tell me, then, what is in the documents, so that we may all give testimony that you enter this betrothal with full understanding.”

So that she couldn’t seek annulment later on the grounds that she had been forced or deceived.

Imogen clasped her hands on the table and said, “I agree to marry Lord FitzRoger of Cleeve. I will retain overlordship of Carrisford for myself and it will pass to one or more of my children excepting only the eldest son, who will inherit Castle Cleeve and whatever other properties my… my husband may gain in his life.” She looked up and found her eyes locked with FitzRoger’s. In a painful way it was welcome. She had noticed this before. His cool gaze strengthened her where sympathy would make her crumble. She’d do anything rather than snivel before him.

“My husband,” she said as if to him alone, “on my behalf will defend Carrisford and provide the knight’s fee due to you, sire, for the estate.” Meaningless possession, in other words.

“I, through my officers,” she continued, “will be responsible for the civil administration of Carrisford and its holdings, and for all costs incurred there.”

“Under your husband’s guidance,” prompted the king.

“I beg pardon, sire?”

“It does say”—he pushed forward a document and pointed to a section with a bejeweled finger—“you are responsible et cetera ‘under the guidance of Lord FitzRoger, my husband.’ That should say ‘Tyron FitzRoger.’ Where’s my clerk?”

A monk came forward, scraped off the word
Lord
, and wrote in
Tyron
. So now she knew his full name.

“Do you agree to this, Lady Imogen?” the king continued. “It would hardly be acceptable for a girl of sixteen to rule her own estate, but we must be sure you understand all this. These words do sharply limit your authority.”

Imogen looked up again at Bastard FitzRoger. “I know it.”

“And accept it?” queried the king.

“And accept it.”

“Is there a dower property?” asked one of the other men. “It is irregular that there not be.”

FitzRoger answered that. “Since the lady comes to this marriage more well endowed than I,” he said dryly, “it seemed superfluous. The granting of her title to her lands constitutes her dower, since I have just won them back for her.”

Crudely put, but accurate. “I accept it as such,” Imogen said flatly.

“Good,” said the king jovially. “Then I see no impediment and it remains only for all to witness this betrothal.”

Imogen took the offered pen and signed her life away, adding the cross that made it a holy vow. She watched as FitzRoger put his signature and cross below hers, and then all the witnesses followed suit, with mark, seal, or letters. She was now committed, for a betrothal was binding and she had freely consented before witnesses. It was a relief of sorts to have no further choice. She felt light-headed and detached from the action and the cheerful voices around her.

She was snapped out of her thoughts when FitzRoger took her hand. “Now you must swear fealty for Carrisford to Henry.”

Henry sat, and Imogen rose to kneel before him and place her hands in his, vassal to liege. It was a solemn moment, and one she found joy in, for she had won this honor for herself by courage as great as any knight in the field.

When that was complete, it was time for the oath taking. Her wedding.

FitzRoger eyed her with that same impersonal concern. “It would not be wise to walk across the bailey with open sores on your feet. There is a chair here which can be carried.”

Imogen looked bemusedly at the chair he indicated. A simple seat with a back had been attached to two long poles. Two sturdy men stood ready to carry her on them. A sudden relief told her how much she had dreaded having to step out into the mud and dung.

“Thank you,” she said. For all he’d done for her, it was the first time she had truly felt grateful.

“Renald arranged it,” he said.

She should have known FitzRoger wouldn’t have wasted time on her problem when she could always be carried in someone’s arms, probably his. She’d had her fill of that. Imogen smiled at the other man and went to sit in the chair.

She clutched the sides as it was hoisted up, then they were on their way in a bizarre kind of procession. Father Wulfgan walked at the front bearing a crucifix and looking as if he wished he were anywhere else in the world but here.

Imogen could sympathize.

Her porters managed to carry her down the steps from the doorway of the great hall to the castle bailey without tipping her out, and there the inhabitants of Carrisford were crowded to witness the nuptials of their lady and their liberator.

They let out a cheer as the procession appeared. Imogen heard her own name, the king’s, and FitzRoger’s, but she noticed how few of the crowd were Carrisford people. Many were doubtless busy preparing the feast, but a great number of her people had not yet returned to the castle. The bulk of the crowd around her now were FitzRoger’s small army and the king’s escort.

It made it clear how illusory any notion of choice had been.

Wulfgan disappeared into the chapel and her porters put the chair down by the church door where a cloth had been laid for her to stand on. More of Sir Renald’s thoughtfulness? She saw with a sigh that it had once been a fine embroidered depiction of a hunt which had hung in her father’s chamber. It covered the ground adequately enough, but was slashed almost to ribbons. How long would it take to bring her savaged home back to the richness it had once known?

The king came to stand beside her, and FitzRoger took his place on Henry’s other side.

Wulfgan reappeared. He had merely put his stole over his patched black robe and looked more suited to a funeral than a wedding, especially in view of his expression. He proceeded to read out the betrothal documents in his deep and sonorous voice, making them sound like a list of crimes awaiting punishment.

“Tyron FitzRoger of Castle Cleeve,” he intoned at last. “Do you agree to these dispositions and attest to this being your true and honest mark?”

“I do.”

“Imogen of Carrisford. Do you agree to these dispositions and attest to this being your true and honest mark?” He made it sound like the most heinous accusation.

Imogen swallowed. “I do,” she whispered.

“And are all here present willing to stand witness to this agreement having been freely made?”

There was a rumble of ayes.

“So be it,” said Father Wulfgan in disgust, which wasn’t part of the correct procedure. “If you must, get on with it.”

Imogen looked around and saw that the king was fighting laughter at this performance. She bit her lip. She wasn’t used to finding Father Wulfgan funny, and it felt like a sin. She glanced at her husband-to-be, but he was looking at the priest in that cool, assessing way that boded no good. Any inclination to laugh disappeared.

The king took Imogen’s cold right hand, gave it a little squeeze, then placed it in FitzRoger’s right hand. Her husband’s touch was warm and firm. She then placed her left hand on top of both, making three arms of a cross. The cross was complete when his free hand came over to slip a plain gold ring onto her ring finger.

“With this ring I thee wed,” he said, “with this gold I thee honor, and with this dowry I thee endow.”

And thank you for my castle back, Lord FitzRoger. Imogen would have liked dearly to avoid the next part, but stiffly she knelt and kissed his hand. “I submit myself to your authority, my lord husband.”

Only then did she realize how hard it would be for her to rise again without hurting her feet. She looked up in instinctive appeal.

He put his hands to her waist and lifted her smoothly to her feet. She knew his strength, but again it startled her, for he was not a massive man. He did not release her, but held her there against him. She could feel their bodies move together as they breathed, hear the faint rustle of his gold braid brushing against her silk. She looked up, wondering what he intended.

He lowered his head and gave her the formal kiss, the lightest possible touching of his lips to hers.

“Do you think the old crow intends to bless us?” he asked against her lips, and with the glint of cynical amusement in his eyes.

Trust Bastard FitzRoger to poke fun at a man of God. “That is no way to speak of a holy priest.”

“It’s a perfect way to speak of this one,” he replied, and stepped away from her.

It appeared Father Wulfgan did intend to bless the union, for he stood ready, hand held high. The married couple turned to face the priest, who looked as if he had swallowed gall.

“It is better to marry than to burn,” he intoned. “Marriage is ordained for those who fail to find true union with Christ through blessed chastity. It has some virtue, however, in that through your unclean union you may create those better able to serve God in purity. Pray for it.”

Imogen heard some stifled guffaws from the nearby men and flashed an alarmed look around. The king was red in the face, but whether from anger or the desire to laugh she was unsure. She didn’t dare look at FitzRoger.

“You are not necessarily consigned to the fires of hell,” admitted the priest. “You may still live your lives in a manner pleasing to God. The most noble way is to herewith dedicate yourselves to holy chastity within marriage, perhaps more noble than the life of the cloister, for you must deal with the devil’s urgings every day.”

He left a hopeful silence, then sighed. “Alas, few are capable of that great trial. Take care, then, to use your body’s lust only for procreation. Control it, lest it control you. Be abstinent on Fridays and Sundays, on all holy eves, in Lent and in Advent. Avoid one another whenever possible for fear of the devil’s urging and come not together once a child begins to grow. Above all, avoid pleasure in your carnality, for that will surely lead to the birth of monsters.”

He gave them a final glare, now more sorrowful than angry, made a sign of the cross, and sang out, “God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, bless these young people and sow in their hearts the seed of eternal life.”