Dark Champion #2

Chapter 5

I mogen lay back and fought tears. She wished she were dead. A week ago her world had been one of beauty, joy, and safety and nothing had prepared her for change.

She could never take her father’s place. She lacked the appropriate knowledge. She lacked the fortitude. She lacked the harshness. Who was she to drive men to suffering and death, to send them to face their private demons?

She knew what it was to have an irrational fear; she was terrified of rats. True, rats could bite, which darkness couldn’t, but still she imagined how it would feel to be in a room full of rats, to go into a room full of rats of her own accord. Could she do that to save a friend? She honestly didn’t know. She was in a fine sweat just thinking about it.

And what kind of father, she wondered, threw his son into an oubliette?

She reviewed the gossip about Roger of Cleeve and the FitzRoger bastard. Old Sir Roger had married and sired a number of children, all sickly, most dying young, until he found himself with one sickly heir and no chance of better as long as his wife lived. On a visit to Normandy he’d got a girl with child—a daughter of a poor knight, it was said, and of birth enough for marriage if he’d been free.

And then he was free. The story went that he’d received news that his wife was dead and promptly married his concubine two months before the babe was due.

Then he’d returned to England and found the king was offering him a rich heiress as a reward for his service. Bitter at having to miss such an opportunity, he’d returned to Normandy to try to buy his way out of his hasty marriage. When he found his wife had delivered an eight-month babe, he’d promptly had the marriage annulled on the grounds that he had not consummated it, which was technically true, and that the child was not his, which was generally held to be doubtful.

Much good it had done him, thought Imogen, who had never liked the brutal man. His rich second wife had proved even more unfruitful than his first and never even conceived.

If the tale was true, it would seem that Bastard FitzRoger was not really a bastard. He surely must have proved his birth to have inherited from his half-brother.

As for the rest, she could imagine old Roger of Cleeve throwing an unwanted child in an oubliette, but she had not thought he and his supposed son had ever met. The Bastard had been raised by his mother’s family in Normandy. Perhaps that family had been the one who had caused his fear. Such a family disgrace would not have been treated kindly.

Again she knew how fortunate she had been in her birth and upbringing, and she was touched with pity for that unwanted child, denied and mistreated by both sides of his family....

Activity jerked her upright, and she looked at the castle. The first dim wisps of dawn lit the sky, but a brighter light came from a fire blazing in the outer bailey of Carrisford Castle.

“They’re in,” she said with relief. The alarm had not been triggered. FitzRoger must have overcome his fears.

Her excited hope returned. “We’ve won!”

“We hope.” Sir William grunted and called for his horse. “You stay here,” he barked at Imogen as he pulled up his mailed coif and jammed his helmet on top. He swung into the saddle and gathered his men with the cry, “FitzRoger!”

The mounted force swept over the rise and down toward the castle crying their leader’s name, desperate to get involved before the fighting was over.

Imogen watched, kneeling up straight, her heart pounding with excitement and fear. The soldiers hurtled down the incline, then began the longer and more dangerous ride up to the open gate. This was the time when arrows or pitch could rain down. She bit her lip and prayed....

Nothing.

The men charged into the castle without opposition.

“It’s safe!” Imogen cried, and looked around for Bert. “I have to be there. Please. It’s all clear. Can’t we go?”

The stolid man didn’t move. “Sir William said to wait for word.”

“But what did Lord FitzRoger say?” Imogen asked with cunning.

The man scratched his thinning hair. “Don’t know as he did, lady,” he admitted. Imogen could see how much he, too, wanted to be in the action.

“Then I think we should go down. After all, it’s clear the castle is taken.” He was weakening. She looked around at the six men and extra horses. “We’re more at risk here now. If Lord Warbrick is prowling around, he could take us easily.”

The men eyed one another and conferred briefly, but the issue was never in doubt. One of them lifted Imogen onto the pillion, and they set off jauntily to the castle.

Imogen was practically bouncing with excitement. At any moment she would be back in her home, and she hadn’t had to wait for Bastard FitzRoger to come and get her.

Even though she knew her side must be victorious, Imogen’s nerves prickled as they rode up to the gaping maw of Carrisford’s entrance. She had never before viewed her home’s defenses with the eyes of an attacker, and it was all too easy to imagine a hail of arrows from the two mighty gate towers, or an ambush waiting in the long, dark, narrow tunnel.

And at the end of the tunnel was a scene from hell. Armed men were lit by the blood red of dancing flames. Riderless horses milled about, plunging. There were shouts, crashes and the occasional scream of agony.

It was as bad as Warbrick’s raid.

Euphoria fled and memory made her teeth chatter—why had she thought this would be bloodless? She tugged on Bert’s belt and croaked a demand that he turn back, but the battle fever had caught him. He was already spurring in, yelling, “FitzRoger!”

Imogen closed her eyes and held on for dear life.

Then they were in the middle of hell. Clash of arms. Yelled instructions. Roaring flames. Smashing wood. She opened her eyes to see a frenzied, riderless horse pulverize a corpse with its steel-shod hooves.

She shut them again. “Not ours,” she prayed. “Please God, not ours.”

“Nay, they’re not ours,” Bert reassured her. He didn’t sound too bothered by the state of affairs, but he said, “For all that the fun’s over, I’m not rightly sure you should be here, lady.”

Tumult lessened. Imogen dared another look and found matters much improved. Bert had steered his fretful horse back close by the wall, away from the mayhem. He was stretching to look around and she knew he was looking for his master.

He still didn’t seem anxious, however, and his calm eased her fears. “I’m safer here than up in the woods,” she said firmly, as much to herself as to him. She set to taking in what was happening.

As her senses organized the chaos, she saw that most of the frenzied action was directed to putting out the fire and catching the loose horses. They were milling about because the stable sheds were on fire. The fighting was mostly over.

Where was FitzRoger?

That brought an alarmed thought.

Was he already taking possession of the keep? Her keep. She looked up and saw it standing square and strong on the motte, apparently untouched and uninhabited. She should be the first one there.

“Perhaps we should go to the inner bailey,” she suggested.

“Nay,” said Bert flatly. “We’ll stay here.”

And that was that, Imogen supposed. What it was to be deprived of the use of one’s feet. Here she was, perched like a queen on her throne and unable to do anything useful at all, while FitzRoger could be ransacking her home.

Someone ran by and Bert called out. “Is it all clear, Nathan?”

“Pretty well!” was the cheerful reply. “Fine bit of action, that. Go see if you can drive those horses there into the inner bailey, Bert, away from the flames. They’re going to bash someone’s head in, elsewise.”

“Where’s the master?”

“Dunno. Him nor Sir Renald. It’s every man for himself, but it’ll still be hell to pay if we don’t act smart.”

Bert muttered to himself but began to work his mount toward a bunch of wild-eyed horses.

“Hold tight, lady. I’m just going to encourage ’em that way a bit.”

Every man for himself. Looking around, Imogen saw the chaos this implied. Most of the men had laid down their weapons and were trying to put out the fire which roared and sent flaming banners up into the sky. It had spread to a number of storage sheds, but she didn’t think it could do much harm unless it grew so hot it burst the walls.

A few men were still dashing in and out of wall chambers and nooks, looking for lurking enemies. A few others were gathering up the loose horses. The men were doing useful things, but there was no apparent command. She was surprised. It was not what she’d expected from FitzRoger’s force after the control and planning she’d witnessed so far. So this was what it came to once the fighting began.

Bert began to herd four horses toward the wide gate leading to the inner bailey. He started to whistle. Jokes were shouted back and forth. Everyone seemed pretty happy with the state of affairs, despite a number of gruesome corpses.

Imogen assumed none of them were theirs.

Imogen, however, was increasingly dismayed. She was just beginning to take in the shambles of what had once been her beautiful home. The walls might still be standing, but within, it was a wreck. Among the corpses of men and horses, she saw the domestic animals—sheep, pigs, milch cows, poultry. All wantonly slaughtered.

She reminded herself that Warbrick had been the invader, and he and his men were doubtless responsible for the killing, as well as for the broken doors and smashed barrels. When she saw one of FitzRoger’s men rip the remains of a door off its hinges, however, she swore silently at all men, her rescuers included.

As Bert’s large horse walked placidly on, herding the agitated horses toward the inner bailey, Imogen shut out the scene around her and began planning the recovery of Carrisford. Soon she would have it peaceful and happy again, just as it had been in her father’s day.

Where were her people?

She prayed none of the corpses were of castle people. Surely they would have fled to safety? If not, Warbrick would not have killed them all .

Would he?

She was not at all sure there were limits to that brute’s evil.

Had he ransacked the place? She looked up again at the keep. After two battles had been fought over it, how much would be left of the elegant home created by her father?

She would build it again, she told herself firmly. There was ample treasure hidden in a secret strongroom. Stock and provisions would have to be purchased, and—

A black shape flew out of a wall chamber and lunged at them. Imogen screamed. Bert was carried off the horse. Imogen had relaxed her hold on his belt and so she stayed on, sprawled facedown over the saddle. She clutched the pommel for dear life as the horse sidled and plunged around the two men struggling beneath its hooves. Imogen groped for the dangling reins.

She couldn’t reach them.

The attacker plunged a dagger into Bert. His cry of agony clashed with her own scream: “ No! Help! ”

Her fingers touched leather at last, and she grabbed the reins. She fought to get astride the plunging horse, cursing the awkward saddle and her skirts, screaming for help, hearing her voice swallowed by the racket all around.

Another hand on the reins. Someone else was trying to mount, fighting her for the horse. A frantic, grimacing face was thrust at hers, then a hand grabbed her ankle. “The heiress, eh? You’re coming with me.”

Imogen smashed a fist into his nose. She almost fell off, but her attacker howled and lost his grip. She grabbed the saddle with one hand and held on to the reins for dear life with the other.

She hit out with her elbow and screamed, “ Help! Help! Carrisford! FitzRoger! ”

“Hell-born bitch!” The attacker raised his dagger and stabbed viciously at her hand on the reins. She snatched it back just in time and the blade went into the horse. It screamed and reared. Imogen was flung stunned to the ground.

She came to her wits when hooves reared above her in the demonic red firelight. She rolled away, covering her head with her arms. When she rolled to sit, the horse had plunged away, but the man was coming at her again, drawing his sword. “Hell-born bitch!”

She scuttled back on her behind and yelled and yelled, hoarser and hoarser. It was no good. She prayed instead. “Angels and saints above, aid me—”

She bumped up against something soft and glanced down. Shrieked when she saw she was sitting on a corpse. Looked up to see her attacker looming over her with his sword high. “If I’m going to rot, I’ll take you with me!” howled the man.

She grabbed the shield lying by the corpse’s hand and dragged it over herself.

The sword smashed down on the shield so her ears rang. The force of the blow seemed to bruise her whole body, and it drove her down onto the corpse beneath her. The dead man gave an eerie whistle as air was forced out of his lungs.

The breath was knocked out of her own. She wanted nothing more than to huddle beneath the long, solid piece of wood and metal like a snail in its shell, but that would be to die for sure. She forced herself to look up to anticipate the next blow.

There was no other blow. Even as her attacker grinned and prepared to kill her, Bastard FitzRoger launched himself at him.

The man whirled to meet the new threat.

Imogen cried out a useless warning. FitzRoger wore no armor and carried only a light sword, while the other man wore mail and wielded a great sword. It was suicide.

The great sword whistled down. It would slice the lighter man in two. Her paladin blocked it. The mighty clang made Imogen’s ears ring and her arms ache in sympathy. Had she truly blocked a blow such as that? No wonder she felt as if she had been trampled.

How many more such blows could her defender take? A touch on any part of his unarmored body would mean death.

Why was she just lying here?

She heaved off the shield and pulled herself up to her knees, shrieking, “ To FitzRoger! FitzRoger! ”

At last, men heard. They turned and ran toward them, but it was too late. FitzRoger ducked a swing and his sword bit deep into his opponent’s unguarded leg. As the man howled and went down, FitzRoger stamped on his sword hand and kicked him in the head. The man reeled onto his back. FitzRoger thrust his blade into the man’s throat. The scream turned to a gurgle, and then to silence.

FitzRoger wrenched his sword free.

Imogen rolled over and was violently sick. She retched on and on even after her stomach was raw and empty. When the heaving stopped, she looked down. She had spewed up all over the corpse. She screamed as she scuffled backward.

She bumped against something and swiveled, her arms raised in futile protection.

FitzRoger hunkered down beside her. “It’s all right,” he said quite gently. He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Are you badly hurt?”

She jerked away. “You killed him!”

“That’s my job, Lady Imogen,” he replied levelly. “Where are you hurt?”

“You kicked him.” Knights weren’t supposed to kick one another in the head. She began to tell him so. “You’re not supposed to do that. I’m sure you’re not...”

She shook her head and couldn’t seem to stop. While she was shaking her head she couldn’t think, and she didn’t want to think—

A sharp slap on her cheek jerked her back into her wits and she stared at him.

“I’m going to lift you,” he said. “If it hurts too much, let me know.”

He swung her up. After a pause in case she wished to tell him of a hurt, he began to pick his way across the bailey with Imogen in his arms.

“You shouldn’t have kicked him,” she repeated earnestly.

“You’re probably correct. I’ll do a penance.”

With that settled, Imogen shut her eyes and blocked them against the leather of his jerkin. Then she flinched away. He stank of blood. “Just get me away from here,” she begged.

“Of course. You had no business being here.”

She heard the chill in his voice and thought of poor Bert. Would he live to face his master’s displeasure?

“It was my fault,” she confessed. “I told Bert we’d be in danger up there. It could have been true.” Noises were lessening and she judged they had passed through into the inner bailey. She opened her eyes a crack.

Yes, they were out of hell. This looked more like the home she knew. There was no firelight, but the misty dawn light was picking out details from shadow. Horses, resting now they were away from the fire. Men doing quiet, purposeful things.

Then she saw more bodies. Some women.

“Who are they?” she asked in a whisper. “The dead.”

“Some yours, mostly Warbrick’s,” he answered. “I haven’t had time to check. I had scouted the area, Lady Imogen. Wherever Warbrick is, he isn’t around here. You were perfectly safe where I left you. We would all be better off if you would learn to do as you are told.”

He was probably right. He would have sent for her when the fire was out, order had been restored, and all the bodies were neatly stored, if not buried. Just like her father, he would have shielded her from this unpleasantness.

Imogen found she resented it.

“My father protected me too well,” she said. “I was never allowed to see violence or cruelty. But this is all for me, isn’t it? I should be part of it. I don’t want to be shielded anymore.”

“A worthy notion but don’t overstrain yourself. Reality can be too much for some people and you get in the way. Where is your room?”

She wanted to fight him, to object to the way he was dismissing her as a useless burden. But she was so tired, so heartsick...

“In the southeast corner of the keep,” she said.

Was it possible that her room was still there, undisturbed, with its silken hangings, its precious glass window, her lyre and books? She prayed it might be so.

“There’s a stairway up the side of the keep,” she said, “but it might be easier to use the wider stairs in the great hall.”

Despite her words he headed for the narrow door which led to the stairs built into the wall, and she remembered the scene she had witnessed in the hall. Was it really only two days ago? Was the room still running blood? No, of course, it would at least have dried by now.

She closed her eyes again. If there were horrors, she didn’t want to see.

Only when she felt the familiar contours of her bed did she open her eyes. It was her room, but it didn’t look right. The walls were bare. The place was littered with debris. The light was wrong.

The rising sun should have been glinting through red, yellow, and blue, but instead it washed in without interruption. She gave a little cry as she saw only scraps of her precious window clinging to the frame.

Miserably, she took in the rest of the destruction. The wall hangings had been torn down and shredded, her chests spilled out and the gowns ripped apart. Wanton destruction. She could imagine the enraged Warbrick rending her garments with his bare hands.

FitzRoger nudged one pile with his foot. “You really did upset him, didn’t you?” he said, and smiled at her.

And Imogen found herself echoing the smile, even if weakly. Suddenly the destruction seemed a prize of victory, not a defeat. She scrubbed away the tears which had trickled down her cheeks. “Clearly I did.”

He went to the window and she guessed he was checking the state of affairs in the castle. Always checking, always alert for trouble. “I haven’t seen many castle people,” he said. “Most of the dead are Warbrick’s. We lost two as far as I know.”

“Is my aunt here?”

“I’ve seen no sign of a lady.”

Imogen wanted to ask about Bert, but didn’t dare. If he was dead, it was all her fault.

“Once your pennant flies again,” FitzRoger said, “your people should return.” He turned back. “Until then, we’re all going to eat sparingly, and you are going to have very rough handmaids. Are you injured?”

“No,” she said with surprise. “I ache even more after taking that blow on the shield, but I don’t think I’m hurt at all.”

“You did very well. You didn’t try to hold the shield away from you or you’d have broken your arms, and the corpse cushioned the blow.”

Imogen wanted to deny that she’d planned to use a dead body for such a purpose, but it seemed too much effort.

He leaned out of the window and called something, then turned back. “Is there anything you need?” he asked, adding, “Urgently.”

Imogen decided that a cool drink and clean clothes weren’t what he had in mind and shook her head. She wondered again where he had been earlier while his men coped alone.

Her heart missed a beat. Plundering her secret treasure chamber?

“The men lacked leadership out there,” she probed. “Shouldn’t you have been organizing matters?”

He flashed her a guarded look. “They did well enough. What’s the matter? Afraid this laborer isn’t worthy of his hire? But then, Lady Imogen, we haven’t discussed payment yet.”

Her instinct shrieked that she’d just hit a nerve, but before she could pursue it, he said, “I’ll leave a guard on the door. This time stay where you’re put. I’ll come for you when we have the place in some kind of order.” With that he was gone before she could object or ask further questions.

She found she had little desire to do so. She was home and Bastard FitzRoger, despite his many shortcomings, would take care of things. She was exhausted, not just from a night with little sleep, but from all the terror and stress of the last two days.

She surrendered her world for a time into stronger hands. As she drifted into sleep she took surprising comfort from that crisp voice saying, “You did very well.”

Yes, she had done very well. She had, after all, got her castle back. Perhaps her father would have been proud of her.

Imogen awoke parched, weak, and with a headache, surprised to find it was still early morning. The sun was just beginning to fully light the room. A noise made her sit up quickly and a woman came to her bedside.

“Martha?” queried Imogen, recognizing one of the castle women. She was a particularly skillful weaver. Had it perhaps all been a terrible dream? But then she looked around and saw that though her room had been tidied, there was still an open space where her window had been, and bare walls which had so recently been hung with silk.

That meant Janine had been real, and the corpse, and FitzRoger plunging his sword in that man’s throat....

“There, there, Lady Imogen,” said the middle-aged woman soothingly, stroking back Imogen’s hair. “It’s all right now, lovey. Likely you’ll want a bit of something. You’ve slept a whole day. The master said to have soup for you when you woke so we’ve kept it warm on the fire here.” She bustled over to the brazier and scooped liquid from a pot into a wooden bowl.

“Everything got broken,” the woman said with a shake of the head. “All the pottery smashed. All the glass. The fine silver goblets crushed flat—” She broke off. “But then, you don’t want to worry your head about such things now, lovey. We still have the woodenware.” She placed the bowl in Imogen’s hands and gave her a wooden spoon. “There you are, my lady. You eat that and you’ll feel better. Master’ll take care of everything.”

Master. Master. Master. It hammered in Imogen’s aching head. She looked up at the woman. “FitzRoger is not master of Carrisford.”

“Well no,” the woman said. “Not exactly. But he’s taking care of things right well, lady, now he’s over his sickness.”

“Sickness?” Imogen asked in alarm, with vague notions of plague striking to add to her miseries.

“Threw up like he’d eaten bad meat, he did,” confided Martha. “Some of us were hiding in the back end of the stores when Lord FitzRoger and his men came out of a wall. Gave us a right turn, I can tell you, but we soon saw it weren’t more of Warbrick’s louts. He were white and shaking, though, and the others were virtually carrying him. Then he threw up something terrible. We didn’t know who he was, so we didn’t let on we were there. He seems well enough now.”

Imogen began to eat the soup and digest this information. Bad meat? Or just being in closed, dark spaces? She knew she’d throw up if obliged to make her way through a room full of rats. She felt some sympathy, and increased admiration for the courage that had sent him after his men.

However, she also saw a weapon, and she might need one in the coming days. She didn’t delude herself that Bastard FitzRoger would prove easy to handle.

She worked on eating all the soup, determined to have her faculties working as soon as possible. How could she have slept away such a crucial day and left him in control?

She wondered how much food was left in the castle, and what damage Warbrick’s men had done to the land nearby which would supply more.

More important, had FitzRoger discovered her father’s treasure store? From his talk of payment, it would appear not, and yet only a fool would assume the obvious with that man. She took comfort from Martha’s story. If he had been so badly affected by the passageways, he wouldn’t be inclined to explore further, and she didn’t think he would entrust such a mission to another.

Once she had access to her gold, she could pay him off, no matter what price he put on his services. She was very, very rich. Her grandfather had married a great heiress, and neither her father nor her grandfather had disdained trading ventures. Though not the most powerful, Carrisford was probably the wealthiest holding in the land.

Which was as well, given the state everything was in. Once FitzRoger was dealt with, Imogen would make good any damage and buy new supplies. She couldn’t do any of this, however, until she could get to the treasure chamber by herself. She, too, wouldn’t entrust such a mission to another.

Since FitzRoger seemed to want to be in charge, she thought sourly, let him use his own resources to put things right for now.

The next most important thing was her marriage...

That was when Imogen realized she was no longer pregnant. Her shape was flat and smooth under her shift. “Where did it go?” she demanded, her hands on her abdomen.

The woman looked at her and understood. “That thing you were wearing, my lady? We took it off to make you comfortable. Whatever it was for, there’s no need for such anymore and it isn’t right, you pretending such a thing. What your poor father would say!”

Her defense against hasty marriage was gone!

“Does Lord FitzRoger know?” Perhaps she could resume it and persuade the women to keep silent.

“He came to look in on you a couple of times. He didn’t say anything.” The woman chuckled. “Did you let him think you was with child, my lady? Well, I never. Naughty girl.”

Imogen moaned slightly at this new twist in the tangled skein of her life. Now how was she to prevent a forced marriage if he decided on it?

Martha hurried over. “Poor hinny,” she crooned. “There, there. Don’t you worry. Everything’s going to be all right, you’ll see. The Lord of Cleeve will look after you right well.”

Imogen opened her mouth to object, and then shut it again with a snap. The woman’s indulgent tone was infuriating, but it wouldn’t be fair to blister her for it. It was the way everyone had always treated her—with proud, kindly indulgence. Imogen of Carrisford, the Flower of the West, her father’s greatest treasure.

And like most treasures, protected, ornamental, and largely useless.

Siward, in knocking her out and taking her away from the castle against her will, had been acting as usual. Then she’d just done as everyone suggested and gone to FitzRoger, who’d carried her to the capture of her own castle like an unwanted bundle. No wonder he was doing exactly as he wished now with no notion of seeking her approval.

Not true, her conscience argued. She had petitioned him to take back her castle and to man it until she could make other arrangements. She’d even asked him to take her away from the fire and the blood and the death.

Such times were over, however. She put aside the empty bowl and sat up straighter. It was time to assert herself as Lady of Carrisford. The first thing was to see if she could walk.

“Martha,” she said, “let’s see if we can get these bandages off.”

“Oh, my lady. Do you think that’s wise? Master said—”

“Lord FitzRoger,” Imogen corrected sharply, “if you must quote him at all.”

The woman’s eyes opened wide, but she said, “ Lord FitzRoger told us they were hurt right badly and the monk who tended them said to keep off them.”

“He said no such thing,” Imogen declared. “I want to see how they’re healing.” She reached forward and began to untie the bandages herself. Muttering, Martha came to help.

When they came to the end they were stuck. “There, see?” said the woman triumphantly. “They need longer.”

Imogen, on the other hand, was touching her wounds and deciding they weren’t too bad after all. The worst blisters, still red and raw, were on the sides of her feet where the knotted thongs had rubbed. Those on the soles were healing fast.

“Soak them off,” she said. When the woman opened her mouth to argue, Imogen gave her such a glare that she hastily did as she was bid.

With a bowl of warm water and patience, Imogen was soon free of bandages. She tentatively put her weight on her feet, then smiled. They were virtually painless. She walked across the room, delighting in mobility, once taken for granted. She had bruises and aches in other places, but none that she couldn’t ignore.

“You still can’t put shoes on,” said Martha rather smugly.

“Do I have any shoes left?” Imogen asked.

It appeared she had a few. The silk slippers were gone, but the leather shoes had proved too difficult to destroy. It was soon clear, however, that Martha was right and Imogen could not bear them. They immediately rubbed on raw, weeping flesh.

“I’ll go barefoot,” Imogen declared.

“My lady!”

“Not a word!” Imogen commanded. “I refuse to skulk here in my own castle waiting for someone to come and carry me around like a babe. Now,” she went on, “let’s see if there are any clothes still wearable.” Imogen was determined to appear before the people of the castle as mistress.

First, Imogen had Martha wash her hair properly, then, as the light brightened into daylight, she and Martha sifted through the remains of her beautiful garments. Imogen felt like weeping at the sight of her favorite gowns ripped to pieces, some even soiled with urine and feces, but she wouldn’t allow herself that kind of weakness. Some could be patched and mended.

Martha and Imogen set to work and soon they had made some garments decent, if not restored to their former elegance.

Imogen was happy enough to discard her borrowed coarse clothing and put on a fine shift and a tawny linen kirtle, embroidered at neck and hem with gold thread. Over it she put a light tunic of rust red silk, with bands of white and red at hem, cuff, and neck. Her jeweled girdles were all gone and so she cut a sash from a ruined gown of brown samite and bound it around her waist, puffing the shimmering silk into elegant draping above it.

“There,” she said triumphantly. “Do I not look like the lady of the castle?”

“Indeed you do,” said a mocking voice.

Imogen spun around to see Bastard FitzRoger studying her.