Dark Champion (23 page)

That annoyed her and she twisted, but only succeeded in hurting herself. His grip tightened to the point of pain as he gave no quarter. Held as she was, the only way to avoid his green eyes was to close hers. She didn’t. “What am I then?” she asked bitterly. “A doll for your amusement?”

“What do you want to be?”

His body was still invincible on hers, but his eyes were wanning. That gave her courage. “I want to be your equal,” she said, and thought he would laugh.

He didn’t. “Then work toward that goal.” He released her carelessly and picked up the shirt. Imogen shivered and rubbed the white pressure marks on her wrists. Looking at the power of him, she despaired.

“I am to practice with the sword?” she asked bitterly. “Try to grow muscles like yours?”

He pulled on the shirt and turned. “It’s your dream. Achieve it how you wish. I was a puny eight-month child, after all, and called a bastard.” He tied the laces at the neck of his shirt and pulled on the tunic. “But that is not necessary. I am stronger than the king, and could kill him in single combat. Does that make me his superior, or even his equal? No. I am his to command. I will fight on his behalf.”

Imogen looked over his impressive body with new, thoughtful eyes. “You will fight for me, too?”

A brow rose. “I thought I had already done so.”

“Yes, you have…” Imogen was completely confused. “Why do you serve the king?”

“He has helped me to climb off the dung heap, so I owe him my allegiance. He can also reward me.”

“Why will you serve me?”

He looked at her from under his lashes. “Perhaps for the same things.”

Reward. That set the alarm bells ringing. “I can see that I have helped you climb, but what reward did you have in mind, FitzRoger?”

He turned away to take a gilded belt out of a chest. Dryly, he said, “I’m sure the Treasure of Carrisford has something to offer a dung-born bastard.” When he turned back, she caught her breath. He looked magnificent and formidable in black and gold, and his words were laughable.

“Wherever you started, Lord FitzRoger, you have no need of pity now.”

“The last thing I have ever wanted is pity, Ginger.” He gestured ironically toward her clothing. “Are you not going to seek to equal me in display?”

“I have little.” Imogen’s thoughts were all on the man. Now and again she glimpsed something, something her heart yearned for, but that mask was between them and she didn’t know if what she saw was foolish illusion or guarded treasure.

He started to sift through the pile of clothing she had brought—making a mess of it in typical male fashion. He chose a mauve gown and a gold silk tunic which she had only kept because of the magnificence of the material. “Wear these.”

“The tunic’s torn down the side and I don’t think it can be mended. Look at the way it frays.”

He tossed it to her. “Wear it anyway. With enough jewels on top no one will mark the tear. I want people to see the Treasure of Carrisford tonight.”

Imogen rose. “See what you have won?”

“Exactly.” He slid two bracelets of gold on his wrists and then took a pouch out of his chest and gave it to her. “Your morning gift.”

Color flooded her cheeks. “But…”

“I am not dissatisfied, Imogen.”

She gazed into his eyes and saw only truth.

She opened the pouch and out spilled a girdle of amethyst and carved ivory. The work was exquisite and it equaled anything she had ever owned. She knew that this was a political move—he had to give her the gift or explain the lack—but tears pricked at her eyes anyway. “Thank you.”

“Dress,” he said. “The king will be in the hall soon.”

He sat back on the bench and stretched out his legs.

He was going to watch? Imogen froze.

“Your naked body will not inflame me with lust, Imogen. Dress.”

Imogen began to take off her tunic, then paused. She let it drop again, and faced him, dry mouthed. “No.”

His face was completely still. “Why not?”

“It may be right before the law, it may be right before God even, but it does not feel right to me.”

He rose and walked toward her, menace radiating from him.

Imogen flinched. She had finally gone too far. With hopeless defiance she held her ground and met his eyes.

Then he relaxed and real warmth glinted in his eyes. “Well done,” he said, and left the room.

Her legs gave way and she crumpled to kneel on the ground, trembling as if with an ague. How had she done that? She would never have denied her father in that way, never mind FitzRoger.

It was as if she were impelled to make these stands, to assert her rights, when she wasn’t even sure she had rights.

The only person who had advised her to stand firm on an issue was Father Wulfgan. Everyone else would surely advise her to be submissive to her lord in all things.

Especially in bed.

Except that her lord appeared to be encouraging her to rebel.

When Imogen descended to the hall, she wore the clothes FitzRoger had chosen and the beautiful girdle. She had summoned Elswith to plait her hair as a gesture toward her married status, but still could not wear a veil without a circlet.

The hall full of men fell silent. She saw in their eyes that they did indeed envy her husband, and she was pleased for it. He came forward to escort her to the high table, to sit beside the king.

“You are radiant,” said Henry with a leer. “Perhaps Ty does know his business after all.”

Imogen looked down, knowing her face was red.

“Ah, the charm of innocence. Pity it so quickly passes. I warrant you’ll be more eager to leap into bed this night, eh? No need to push you.” Imogen could have crept under the table for shame. “Sets up a fine appetite in us all, this kind of thing,” the king went on. “Where’s—” He broke off what he had been saying and Imogen could swear FitzRoger’s hand had moved in some sort of sign.

The whores were not in evidence and Imogen realized the king was willing to bend in this matter. It was all an interesting reflection of powers. The king was FitzRoger’s liege lord, but he would modify his behavior to humor him and her.

Why?

Everything was a question of who needed what most.

Henry needed FitzRoger on his side. A king needed powerful men to act for him in the land, and preferred ones he could trust. He would humor and reward those who served him well.

And punish those who didn’t.

Could the same be said of FitzRoger? What did he need of her? Eventually he would need sons, but for the moment he had everything he required unless she told the world that the marriage was incomplete.

For his part, he would humor and reward her if she were dutiful, and punish her if she were not.

He had implied the situations could be reversed. But that meant she should reward him for his service, which presumably meant the treasure. She didn’t think that punishing FitzRoger entered into it. It was all very well for him to be drawing analogies between her and the king, but the fact was that she had no power to oppose him even if she wanted to.

She accepted it. It was the way of the world.

Thinking on these issues recalled what had started their disagreement. Her medical skills. He was justified in upbraiding her. In that respect, she needed to do better.

She had been well trained is such matters, but had never been allowed to practice on serious war wounds or the more noxious diseases. Perhaps her father had been at fault in that, though his aim had merely been to protect her.

She was certainly sure that if FitzRoger were carried home from battle wounded, she would want to be able to care for him properly.

Where were the men wounded in the taking of Carrisford? Doubtless they had been taken to Grimstead monastery nearby, and the number should include Bert, injured by her recklessness. Tomorrow, she would go there and begin learning.

“Why do I think you are plotting something?” FitzRoger murmured.

Imogen started. “I? I am not plotting. Just thinking.” She didn’t want to tell him of her plans just yet. She wanted to surprise him.

His eyes seemed to read her secrets. “Thinking of what?”

She turned to face him. “Are my thoughts not to be private, even?”

“How can they be otherwise, now you have learned to wear a mask?”

“Have I?”

“What?”

“Learned to mask myself from you?”

“Apparently.” He washed his hands in the bowl between them, and dried them.

Imogen did the same, wondering at the implications of his words.

The food was served and talk veered safely to the successful hunt. Two roebuck had been found and killed, as well as a number of smaller venison. As the musicians played in the background the moves of the chase were retold with vigor by the men, the virtues of hawks and hounds were debated.

It was all like, and yet unlike, the way it had been so few days ago. A melancholy swept over Imogen, and she had to fight tears. She kept looking up to speak to her father, but he was not there. There was a stranger in his place. She expected to hear Aunt Constance’s voice, and yet the only female voices were the muted ones of servants.

FitzRoger rose abruptly, and Imogen looked up, startled. Her first alarmed thought was that he was going to take her to their room for marital matters, but he went to the musicians. He relieved one of them of his harp and carried a stool over to the middle of the room.

Conversation ceased as everyone paid attention to him.

He sat, and tested the instrument. He glanced around almost humorously. “You rogues doubtless expect my usual style, but tonight I sing for my bride.”

He did not have an exceptional voice, but he sang competently, and amazingly it appeared that the song might have been composed for her.

Treasure incomparable, such is my lady,

Set among roses, played to by love-birds,

Nourished on honeydew, and finest wastel bread

Such is my lady, flower of the west.

Let her step softly, over the smoothest ground,

Let her sing lightly, only of pleasant things,

Let her weep tears of joy, and touch me gently, Sweet is the treasure she brings to my chest.

The men were pleased by this appropriately sentimental offering. Imogen was just amazed he was capable of it, and wondered if he had hired a jongleur to compose the piece for him. She had not missed that last line, however.

Treasure. Always the treasure.

He stood and bowed.

She smiled.

She rose in her turn and came to take the harp from him.

“You will sing?” he asked, almost warily.

“I will sing lightly, and only of pleasant things, my lord.”

He gave her the instrument, reluctantly, but kissed her hand as he passed it over, unsettling her.

Imogen sat and summoned her wits. She and her father, along with the professional musicians brought to train her, had played these improvisational games, making up long interwoven poems. She was very good at it.

She struck a note. “I sing for my husband,” she said to the men.

The treasure of Carrisford, rescued by courage, Safe in her true home ever shall be. Tending her people, nourishing, guiding, Sharing the wastel and honeydew, she. I sing of the courage of Tyron FitzRoger I sing of his honor in coming to aid me, My tears are of joy, my touch will be gentle A treasure preserved just where it should be.

She could swear she saw a flash of genuine humor in his eyes in response to the last line.

“Very pretty!” declared Henry, “and a lovely voice. Come, Lady Imogen, sing us some other piece now you have done your duty.”

“Oh, it wasn’t duty, sire, but pleasure, I assure you.”

Imogen went obligingly into a song of Charlemagne’s knights, a Provencal piece of more elegance than martial. It was only as she sang of the great king’s twelve paladins and their adventures with the beautiful princess, Angelica, that she wondered why that particular song had come to mind. She glanced at her own darkly thoughtful paladin.

Why was he frowning? The company seemed well pleased with her offering, and she knew that in this one respect at least, her husband could not find her lacking.

She resumed her seat at his side.

“You sing beautifully,” he said. “Doubtless a result of many years of expensive training.”

Imogen raised her chin. “And many years of arduous practice, my lord. Doubtless you were engaged in other matters.”

“Yes. Many years of arduous practice. Did I sneer? I beg your pardon. It is merely envy. I hope you will sing privately for me from time to time.”

She glanced at him, and though he was cold as ice she judged him serious. She should have realized his strength and skills had not come easily, especially to a puny eight-month child. “Of course,” she said, even though his words carried implications of unbearable intimacy.

One of the knights was singing now, in a fine bass voice, and they paid attention.