Dark Champion (30 page)

He was fighting for his life and guarding her at the same time. It was impossible.

Then the rump of his nearest opponent’s horse swung into Imogen’s leg, bruising her. With relish, she stabbed it deeply with her arrows.

The horse bucked wildly. The rider was not thrown, but for a moment he was beyond defense.

Still it was so eerily slow.

The opening at his neck between the flaps of his mailed coif was as clear to Imogen as the bull’s-eye on a target. FitzRoger’s sword found it with deadly precision. Before the man realized he was dead, FitzRoger swung brutally at his other opponent and broke his arm. The man howled and fell.

FitzRoger flashed her a grin. “Well done!”

Her heart sang.

Three other men were coming at him now, but they reined in for a moment. Why?

Not surprising if they feared to face FitzRoger.

Arrows hissed.

One glanced off Imogen’s helmet, jarring back her head, making her yell with fright. Most hit FitzRoger on his right, shieldless side.

At least seven of them. He looked like a hedgehog.

He cursed fluently even as Imogen realized again that they hadn’t done much damage. But they were stuck there, sharp points surely cutting through into his skin, crippling his right arm. He switched his sword to his left.

The last of their guard went down and the two attackers turned to join the three waiting. She saw one grin expectantly.

Everything stopped.

She saw the three men ahead blocking the way to Carrisford.

She saw the two men behind, beginning, so slowly, to move toward them.

She saw the blood oozing from FitzRoger’s many cuts.

When he turned toward the trees and said quite calmly, “Into the woods,” she had already thrown away her burdensome shield and quiver of arrows and was beginning the only possible movement.

They raced their horses recklessly into the woods, leaping them over fallen trees, gathering them from almost disastrous stumbles. To slow was death for him, and worse for her.

He was with her, but she knew that in this race he could not help her or they would lose.

She could hear the crash of pursuit behind them, but fading.

Her helmet went, caught by a branch that would have knocked her out. After that she rode low.

Her skirts were snagged and ripped, but she thanked God they were frail so the entangling branches didn’t drag her off.

He swerved down a deer track and she followed, the way easier now.

Twisting, climbing, then down a mad slope she’d never have attempted sane, almost falling.

A stream.

He hauled up his foam-mouthed horse. “Can you jump it?”

“Yes. How are you?” Most of the arrows had been broken or pulled out entirely, but there seemed so much blood!

“Go!” was all he said.

She set her horse at the stream and leaped it cleanly, pulling in to wait for him. He leaped his horse after her.

The pause gave Imogen a moment to think.

“Up ahead!” she gasped. “There are caves. We can hide.” Then she wondered if that was cowardly. “Or I know the way to Carrisford from here.”

“The caves,” he said.

She led the way up a gradual slope toward the hummocky hills where the stone often broke through the greenery. She began to fear that she couldn’t find the caves, for it was years since she’d visited them. Then she saw some rocks and remembered. She urged the tired horse on, up to the cliff.

She slid off her horse to lead the beast through the narrow opening into the chill gloom. FitzRoger did the same behind her.

“Is this wise?” she asked as she shivered in the sudden dampness. “It seemed like a good idea, but it’s like a child hiding under the bed, isn’t it? We’re trapped here if they find us.” Her voice echoed slightly, though the cave was not very large. For better or worse she’d chosen a cave that .did not link into the warren that riddled these hills.

“We’ve lost them,” he said, “and I can defend this place for quite some time.”

The peculiar slowness was still there. It was fading, but still there. And an unnatural calm held her in its grip. Surely she should be shaking with terror. “Let me look to your wounds,” she said.

“Leave them,” he said, assessing their refuge and pulling out arrowheads like someone pulling off teasels.

One he didn’t touch.

She saw that arrow was much deeper. It had managed to go through the mail and into the flesh of his arm. Most of it had broken off, or he had broken it off, but it moved as he moved and must be extremely painful.

It was also causing bleeding with each movement. “We can’t leave that one,” she said.

“We have no choice. The mail won’t come off with it there and I can’t grasp it well enough to pull it out.”

“Then I’ll have to do it.” Imogen prayed that she could.

He looked at her, one quick, doubting glance, then presented his arm.

Only a little-finger-length protruded from the mail and it was both sticky and slippery with blood. Imogen took hold of it as best she could and tugged. Nothing happened except a hiss of pain from him and a new welling of blood.

“I’m sorry,” she said miserably.

“It’s barbed, and will snag on the mail.” His voice was steady. “You’ll have to pull with all your strength.”

Imogen took a deep breath. It had to be done and she
could
do it. Still, she first explored as gently as she could to see if she could somehow work the mail over the shaft. “Perhaps I could cut the shaft,” she offered.

“I suspect that would hurt more and take a lot longer.”

Imogen looked at the shaft again, one part of her mind clearly telling her that she could not do this, that if she left it everything would turn out all right, that someone else would take care of it. Another part of her knew that this had to be done if he were to have any chance of fighting with that arm without losing more blood than he could afford.

“Lie down,” she said at last, startled by the commanding tone of her voice.

He looked at her. “Why?”

It seemed ridiculous to be giving FitzRoger orders, but she said, “The only way I’ll be able to do it is with you on the floor. Just lie on your front.”

He eased down without protest. Now the arrow shaft poked straight up. Imogen put the ball of her left foot on his forearm and the whole of her right foot on his shoulder. “Does that hurt?”

“Not particularly,” he said, and added with a trace of humor, “In some places it is considered amusing to have a woman walk over a man’s back…”

“What sort of places? Or should I not ask?”

“Probably not.”

Imogen bent and wiped off as much of the blood as she could, as gently as she could, willing her hands to be steady and her strength to be adequate.

His voice was warm with humor when he said, “I’m willing, as you must have noticed, to let you walk all over me…”

She ignored his nonsense and wrapped a tattered piece of her skirt around the stub for better grip.

“It is said to loosen tightened muscle—
God
!”

The arrow was out. She had felt it sickeningly tear through muscle and skin, and grate against metal. The force she had used toppled her backward and she sat there fighting the urge to be sick.

He rolled up and grasped his arm, breathing roughly. “I don’t feel particularly loose at this moment.”

“I’ll have to practice…” She choked on a sob and crawled over to his side. “I’m sorry.”

His eyes spoke of pain but were warm as well. “I’ve had worse treatment. We can work on the other at some more convenient time.”

She took refuge in a minatory look. “Let’s have the mail off you.”

That was painful too, but they managed it, and the leather haqueton as well.

He was covered with blood.

Most of it oozed from the small gashes made by the arrows. The wounds were not dangerous, and some had already stopped bleeding, but they must be painful.

The deeper wound was a mess of torn, bleeding and swollen flesh, and she knew most of the damage had been done in ripping that arrow out. “Dear Lord,” muttered Imogen. “It has to weaken your arm.”

He flexed, causing a new gush of blood.

She grabbed him. “Stop it!”

“It’s not too bad, and I can use a sword left-handed.”

“I hope you won’t have to fight anymore. After all, the castle will send out a party to look for us.” Imogen ripped her skirts to make a pad and bandage, cursing the fact that they didn’t have so much as a drop of water to tend to the wound, never mind herbs. She thought briefly of going to look for something, but knew it wasn’t wise.

“What am I going to do if you die?” she muttered as she pulled the bandage tight.

“I won’t die from this, Imogen.”

“My father didn’t expect to die from his wound,” she pointed out forcibly, then added, “Lancaster said that the wound must have been poisoned.”

He turned to look at her. “So it occurred to him too, did it?”

She stared. “You thought of it? Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“To what purpose? You needed no extra reasons to hate Warbrick.”

She gave the knot an extra, angry tug. “Just because I had a right to know! How many other things have you kept from me?”

He moved warily away from her ministrations to lean against a wall. “We all have things we hoard.”

Imogen sucked in a breath. “Oh, the treasure again. Are we going to fight about the treasure again, FitzRoger?”

“I don’t think it would be wise to fight about anything at the moment,” he said calmly. “I made enquiries about your father’s wound, Imogen, and there was no reason for it to putrefy as it did. There must have been poison involved. The obvious culprit is Warbrick, since he was ready to attack.”

Imogen controlled her irritation. He was right. This was no time to squabble. “Lancaster accuses you, or the king.”

“Does he? And what do you think?”

She glanced at him, then said, “That it couldn’t have been you.”

“Why not?”

Because my heart says so. But she wouldn’t say that. “You’d have moved faster. You’re nothing if not efficient.”

“I’m glad you appreciate something about me.” He leaned his head back against the wall and gripped his arm in a way that admitted the pain.

Her anger faded. “Does it hurt very badly?”

“As much as one would expect. The bleeding should stop in a while. Then the only real problem will be stiffness. We’ll have to hope I don’t have to fight.”

Reaction was setting in, or perhaps it was just the chill of the cave. It was a warm summer’s day outside, and Imogen was dressed only in the remains of light linen and silk. She shivered. “Why didn’t we head straight for Carrisford? It isn’t that far. You could get better help there.”

“Instinct.” She saw him studying her. “If that attack was Warbrick’s work, how did he know we were at the monastery?”

“If he had us watched…”

“That’s possible, though I’ve had patrols through the woods here daily to at least disrupt any serious activity. But how then would he arrange for the tainted wine?”

“If someone gave it… But Gareth said Lancaster’s men had it with them!”

“A detail that escaped me at that moment. I apologize.”

“I don’t expect you to be infallible.”

“That’s good, since you seem to turn my brain to a dumpling.”

It was said so flatly, she didn’t take it in at first. Then she giggled at the absurdity. “I do?”

“Yes, particularly now.” He was looking at her, though she couldn’t read his shaded face.

“Now?”

“Now that I’ve seen the fire in you.”

“You mean last night?”

“Then a little. I mean today. Come sit by me.”

Wondering, she inched over until she was by him. He used his good arm to lift her onto his lap. “Do you realize you were screaming the most foul insults back there, and cheering every death?”

She closed her eyes in shame. “Yes.”

His strong left arm held her close. “You are a virago, my wife, a warrior woman. And if it wasn’t for my arm, and the danger, I’d ravish you here as a virago deserves to be ravished when all bloody from battle.”

Imogen realized she was blood-splattered, and he was worse. It hadn’t bothered her before.

“I feel terrible,” she whispered. “How could I have—”

He kissed her hard and fast. “Don’t bemoan it. It excites me as nothing else has ever done.” He put her hand against his neck and she could feel the speed and power of his blood, hot beneath the skin.

“It’s the wound,” she said.

“No.”

The beat of his blood beneath her hand seemed to be pounding into her. “I feel strange too. All shaky and excited, and wanting more. But not more danger…” Then she remembered the night before, and knew what she wanted. She turned his head to hers.