Dark Champion (18 page)

Imogen took in a great shuddering breath. An ache was growing within her, bringing a fever to her mind. Her hips moved of themselves and she clutched more desperately at him.

He kept sucking and nibbling as his hand wandered, dizzying her. Her hips heaved as if possessed. Her whole body was hot, writhing, and twitching.

“I’m tormented by devils!” she cried.

He looked up, eyes dark and bright. “And you know how we have to drive them out, don’t you, sweeting?” His hand slid between her thighs, which opened wide at his touch. Imogen instinctively closed them, but he was already within.

“Truly?” she gasped. She stared at him as her hope of salvation. “I can’t bear this.”

“They’ll torment you forever unless we do. Now it’s time to open your legs.”

She obeyed and his fingers moved against her. She whimpered.

“Do you feel a pain here?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, but hesitantly, for she wasn’t sure it was exactly a pain, but whatever it was was getting worse.

She stared at him. His eyes were darkened, his cheeks flushed with color. He looked warm and soft again, and the change she saw in him seemed to make the devils in her dance more wildly.

His fingers slid up within her a little, rotating. “And here?” he whispered.

Imogen closed her eyes and it was as if she could see inside herself to a swirling pit of demons, cavorting and jabbing at her with fiery brands. Something cramped beyond where his fingers moved. “Higher,” she gasped.

“That’s why I’m equipped to go higher, Imogen. To rid you of your devils.”

Oh, now it all made sense. She thrust up urgently against his hand. He moved it against the throbbing ache, but the torment just intensified. Instinct, not duty, drove her to stretch herself wider to him. “Do it then,” she gasped. “I’m going to die!”

“No you’re not,” he said huskily. “Your paladin is going to save you.”

He was between her legs and she felt that hardness against her ache. “Yes,” she said. “Oh yes.”

“Yes,” he said, as breathlessly as she. “You’re a hard woman to save from the devils, Imogen of Carrisford.”

The devils were spreading throughout her body. She clutched him. “Hurry!” she cried out. “Hurry!” She felt him begin to fill her, stretching her. The tightness was astonishing and came close to pain, but it was promising relief from the greater torment. “So good,” she muttered. “So good.”

“Yes,” he groaned and kissed her. With his mouth hot and soft over hers he breathed, “My flower, my treasure, my ultimate pleasure…”

That shocked her eyes open. “
Pleasure
!” It was as if Wulfgan himself loomed over the bed. “No!” she shrieked, and pushed against him with all her might. “Think of our children!”

His jaw clenched and his eyes shot green fire. “Wulfgan is dead,” he promised grimly, and pushed into her.

Pain, excruciating pain, struck. God’s judgment!

Imogen kicked and squirmed. “You’re a devil yourself! Sweet Savior, help me!”

Now she knew why Janine had screamed.

She beat at him, crying. “Stop. Please stop.” It was like trying to move a boulder. She went for his eyes. He seized her wrists and stilled her breathlessly.

“Imogen. Stop this.”

His voice came from a distance. She saw only Warbrick thrusting into her screaming maid, felt only a monstrous imprisonment and invasion, and terrible, terrible pain. Powerless before his great strength, Imogen echoed Janine’s plea, with the same tearful despair. “Sweet Mary, aid me!”

She was free.

Imogen rolled out of the bed and huddled on the floor, shaking so she feared she was rattling the castle walls. She couldn’t bring herself to look to see if the monster was coming after her.

Then she heard the click of the latch. It was like a key turning, bringing back sanity, bleak sanity, to her tangled mind. Fearfully she uncurled from her defensive position enough to peer over the bed at the room.

It was empty.

He had gone. FitzRoger had gone.

Imogen broke into soul-shaking sobs that spoke of relief, and anguish, and a deep mysterious loss.

When Renald de Lisle finally found his small wall chamber—a somewhat difficult matter after the quantity of wine he’d drunk—he found the bridegroom lying on the narrow bed, hands behind his head, staring at the beams. In the small amount of dying sun slicing in the slit window, it was hard to see anything except Ty’s shape.

Renald struggled for his wits but still couldn’t think of anything safe or sensible to say.

It was Ty who spoke. “I said I didn’t bruise flowers,” he said. “I lied.”

Renald looked at the flagon of wine he was carrying. There wasn’t much left, but he sloshed it into a wooden cup and set it by the bed. “Went hard, did it?” he said, not really believing it. Ty had tricks enough and the girl had been practically eating out of his hand these last few days.

Ty was completely immobile, which was a very bad sign. Renald hoped it wasn’t the little bride his friend wanted to kill, for he supposed he’d have to try to save her, which was to greet death himself.

“You were right about the priest,” Ty said at last, quite calmly. “I was too clever by far there.” After a long, heavy silence, he added, “Keep him out of my sight.”

So that’s who he wanted to kill. Renald hadn’t the slightest idea what had happened in the marriage bed, but dealing with Father Wulfgan seemed a simple enough matter. “I’ll sh-send him on his way tomorrow.”

Silence.

“Now?” Renald queried, knowing himself incapable.

“He will stay as long as Imogen wishes him to stay.”

Renald gave up and let his wine-sodden legs buckle so he was sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed. “There’sh wine by your head. Plenty more below… Get drunk. I am.”

“That’s obvious.” Two strong arms hooked under Renald’s and hauled him onto the narrow bed. Ty’s steps moved away.

Renald couldn’t keep his eyes open and it was too dim to be a useful effort anyway, but he struggled to use his brain. He knew he was needed here and wished to Jerusalem he hadn’t drunk so deep.

He’d thought a full-blooded celebration was in order.

“Wha‘ happened?” he asked.

There was no audible emotion in his friend’s voice when he replied. “Nothing extraordinary. Go to sleep, Renald. I may be lacking in many respects, but I’m still capable of handling a military emergency if one should arise.”

Renald heard the curtain rustle as his friend left.

By the wounds, he wished he hadn’t drunk so deep. But the drink took him anyway.

Imogen didn’t know what had happened to her, except that time had passed. Had she slept? Fainted?

The room that had been bloodred with the setting sun was now silvered by the moon. It was her father’s room, where she had always been safe; the place she’d played as a child, and come to as she grew to ask questions and discuss problems.

Now, however, it was no longer safe. It was tainted by an alien smell and troubling memories.

Violence. Death. Corpses…

Memory clicked in.

Bastard FitzRoger. Her husband.

She shuddered as she remembered what had occurred. She remembered it all, the pleasure and the pain.

Pleasure? Yes, she remembered pleasure. She remembered, too, her husband’s face when matters had been right between them. He’d let his mask fall for her, and she’d seen the man, and the soul within the man.

So briefly sweet.

Then she’d fought him, and screamed. She’d seen him as Warbrick, monstrous and vicious.

He’d left her.

She was sure the mask was back firmly in place.

She covered her face with shame.

What had she done?

She could try to blame FitzRoger for the disaster. She could say that he should have waited, given her longer to grow accustomed, but he’d been gentle with her. She remembered begging him to do what he was doing and do more of it.

Until the pain.

Had it been the pain she’d fought, or the pleasure? The pain had been far worse than she’d imagined, but the pleasure had frightened her too. Frightened her into her worst nightmares.

Father Wulfgan was right. Pleasure did lead straight to hell.

FitzRoger seemed to think that pleasure in the marriage act was not wrong, but he had not been to the Holy Land and been nailed to a cross for his faith. He did not fast most days of the year and whip himself with metal-tipped thongs.

And now FitzRoger was proved to be wrong, for the terror and pain that had come between them must be a punishment for their lust. If he’d simply entered her, it would surely have gone much better.

Imogen knew she had virtue, harsh virtue, on her side—but still, her instinct said that she had done very badly this night.

What must FitzRoger have felt, with her screaming and fighting beneath him as he did only as he thought best?

Could she do otherwise next time?

Imogen rested her head on the bed. She wished she had someone, anyone, to advise her, or even just to hold her. “Father, Father,” she moaned. “Why did you have to die? It was so… so
careless
of you! I need to talk to you.”

She gave a choke of laughter. She could almost hear her practical father pointing out that if he hadn’t so carelessly died she would not be in this predicament.
And, Imogen, my darling, you must grow up, and quickly
.

Imogen sat up straight. It was almost as if she
could
hear her father, here in the room where they had shared their most precious private times.

You have been plunged into a torrent of the evils I tried so hard to spare you. But you have chosen your course
—
not a bad course
—
and you must see it through
.

Was she going mad? Imogen didn’t know, but this moment of communication was too precious to risk with skepticism. She closed her eyes tightly and framed a question.
Do you approve of him, Father
?

He is not what I would have chosen for you, my child. I confess I had a father’s distaste for giving you to a lusty young stallion. But he will serve you well if you let him. And remember that you must serve him.

In the marriage bed?

Not only in that. Perhaps least of all in that, daughter.

No man is so strong as to be able to stand alone. Look to your husband’s needs.

Needs? Imogen tried to imagine how FitzRoger might need her other than as bed partner and mother to his children. He had perhaps hinted that she should manage the domestic arrangements at Cleeve, and as his wife that was now her duty.

That must be what her father meant, but this did not address her current problem. She must learn to tolerate the marriage bed.

What of Father Wulfgan
? she asked.
Is he right about lust
?

She could swear she could hear the worldly humor that had marked Bernard of Carrisford.
Saints are sent to irritate our tenderest spots rather than ease us, Imogen, and Wulfgan is very good at irritating. That is why I brought him to Carrisford, for I was always a worldly man, but I had heed to my soul and knew I needed the goad of a stern conscience. But even saints do not always know the truth, daughter. Have you forgotten your lessons? Listen respectfully to all who have the authority to advise you, but take the decision from within your own heart. And then accept the consequences
.

Accept the consequences.

“Sweet heaven,” she murmured. “Consequences.”

What would be the consequences of this night’s work?

She had to do something.

She leaped up and pulled on her clothes. She didn’t know what she should do, except that she must find her husband.

Where was he?

She went to peep out of the door, hoping that he would be hovering there. He wasn’t. She could hear raucous celebration still going on in the hall. There seemed a remarkable amount of feminine squealing, but she couldn’t be distracted by that. She supposed the castle women were enjoying themselves, too.

Where would FitzRoger have gone? Surely he wouldn’t have rejoined the carouse below on his wedding night. That would be to shame her terribly.

Perhaps she deserved that shame. She rubbed away tears and made herself think. There were other rooms and wall chambers, but on instinct she took the narrow circular staircase which led up to the battlements.

She found her husband there, standing by the battlements, looking out as if on guard at a landscape washed white by the large low moon.

FitzRoger was not on guard. On the far side of the square space the watchcorn was keeping watch, horn and bell at the ready to sound alarm.

FitzRoger was still and calm, but something about him stabbed a pain near Imogen’s heart, a pain that was largely guilt.

She didn’t want to deal with this. She wanted to creep away and let someone else sort everything out, but she was done with such weakness. She said a brief prayer to her father and walked over to her husband.