Dark Champion #2

Chapter 9

M artha rushed in, excited and glad to be doing something, and tidied Imogen’s appearance. Soon the king arrived in her room, accompanied by FitzRoger and Henry’s personal physician. The man examined her feet and pronounced them to be as well as possible, and fit for walking if she were careful. He applied his own healing salve, then left.

As this was going on, Imogen studied the king, wondering what would have happened if she had left her fate completely in his hands.

Henry Beauclerk was in his thirties and not a particularly handsome man, but he had the presence of a king. He was stocky and strong, with thick dark hair hanging in fashionable curls on his shoulders and over his brow, and vivid dark eyes. Crisp dark hair grew on his brawny arms, too, and down onto his strong, short-fingered hands.

Though he clearly enjoyed fine dressing, he was no more ostentatious than any other nobleman. If she could get at her treasure, Imogen decided, she could easily cast him in the shade. Then she remembered her father’s warning that it was not wise to flaunt wealth before princes.

Perhaps that was why FitzRoger was dressed in a simple linen tunic of red woven with black, with only one bracelet and his ring by the way of ornament.

The king was in a good humor, and his eyes gleamed merrily as he teased her and FitzRoger about the coming wedding.

When he spoke of Warbrick, however, his expression turned cold and hard as a blade. Henry Beauclerk, born fourth in line and landless, had struggled to survive, and had fought to grasp and hold the throne of England. He was not a man to cross.

Then Imogen noted something else.

For all the difference in their ages, FitzRoger and the king were as close as brothers. Henry leaned on FitzRoger’s shoulder, teasing and being—very judiciously—teased back. They addressed each other as Hal and Ty.

Then, like a bolt from heaven, she remembered that when the king had commanded a man to rescue her, it had been FitzRoger who had been called to serve.

It was as good as a declaration that FitzRoger was to be her husband.

She wondered bitterly why he had bothered to woo her. All the concessions she had so carefully written down were as words written on water, for the king would never take Imogen’s side against his beloved “Ty.” And what was her future husband’s full name? It seemed absurd that she alone did not know it or dare to use it.

She was just the fool FitzRoger had once called her, pacified by illusory powers like a babe pacified by a sucket.

She eyed the two jovial men bitterly. Perhaps she would delight Wulfgan’s ascetic heart after all and take her body and her treasure to the convent at Hillsborough. That was the one option the king could not oppose.

Perhaps FitzRoger read her like a book again, for when the king left, he stayed behind, a watchful expression in his eyes. A hint of cold humor there made Imogen grit her teeth.

She challenged him directly. “Why did you pretend I had a choice? The king would have trussed me like a Michaelmas goose and presented me to you on a platter.”

He leaned against a wall, arms folded, and didn’t deny the charge. “You might have chosen Lancaster. That would have been a mistake, but he’s sufficiently influential to have made problems. Henry would not want to offend such a powerful baron while his hold on the Crown is still uneasy.”

“I could still choose Lancaster. I’ve agreed to nothing publicly.”

“No. He sent a message pressing his claim. I replied that you are now promised to me.”

Imogen gasped. “Without a word to me?”

“There was no need to consult you. You had already given your word to marry me. You will marry me, Imogen. Resign yourself. You won’t find it too arduous if you behave yourself.”

Fury swept through her. He was dismissing her again, and he was too far away to hit. Imogen beat the bed with her fists. “Doesn’t it bother you to be marrying someone who hates you so?”

He said nothing, but he did shield his eyes with his lids for a betraying moment.

Imogen scented blood. “What makes you safe from a knife in the night or poison in your cup, FitzRoger?”

“The fire on which they burn a woman who kills her husband?”

“I’m sure I could be cunning enough to avoid that.”

“I’m sure you could, too. The truth is that I will be vulnerable to your malice as you will be vulnerable to mine.”

Imogen shivered. “Is that a threat?”

“It is a fact. Tonight I will sleep by your side, Imogen. If you wish to use a blade on me, there will be little I can do about it.” He slipped his knife out of its sheath and tossed it gleaming on the bed. “In case you don’t have one sharp enough. Novices go for the chest, which is far too chancy and well protected. If you want to kill me, Ginger, slice open my belly or cut my throat. But cut deep the first chance. You won’t get a second.”

With that he was gone.

Imogen picked up the long knife with shaking fingers and carefully tested the blade. Despite her care, she still cut her thumb. The knife was wickedly sharp—a hunting knife, not a table knife. She imagined slashing it through skin and muscle....

She sucked her own salty blood thoughtfully. What was she to do? What choices did she realistically have? None but the convent, and honesty told her that wasn’t for her.

She wished this wasn’t her wedding day. She wished her father were alive to look after her. She wished FitzRoger would at least pretend to be gentle.

Fine chance there was of that. But at least he didn’t pretend to virtues he could never possess. He had, in his own way, been honest, and she had decided to marry him for good and logical reasons. Those reasons had not changed.

And his first gift to her had been a knife to kill him with.

Imogen placed the knife neatly on a chest by her bed. Perhaps if he were ever vile enough, she would find the courage to use it.

Imogen spent the rest of the day mending the dress she had chosen for her wedding and trying to think no further than that. She could not help but regret, however, that her finery was so limited. Only a mended gown to wear, and no jewelry at all.

Ridiculously, that trivial problem did bring a few tears to sting at her eyes. Perhaps she should weaken and tell FitzRoger where her jewels were hidden.

Just then Martha bustled in with a carved chest in her hands, her eyes glittering with excitement. “For you, lady!” the woman exclaimed as she put the box on the bed. “From the master!”

Imogen eyed the box suspiciously. She was wary of anything sent by FitzRoger, and reminded of the story of the ancients and the gift that had conquered Troy.

This gift, at least, could not conceal an army. It was a domed chest about two hands long, finely carved with woodland scenes and bound in silver. It had a lock, but the key was in it. She turned it and lifted the lid to expose leather pouches. She opened one to spill a golden girdle.

Another contained a bracelet, another rings. Soon the bed was covered with a flashing carpet of earrings, fillets, collars, brooches, and even ancient fibulas. There was every kind of metal and design—filigree, ribbon work, chains, stones.

Martha was gasping and oohing, but Imogen turned the ornaments thoughtfully. This haphazard collection was all of women’s pieces, and as FitzRoger had not had time to purchase them, they must be loot. They were all good pieces, but it was a collection without pattern or meaning. Doubtless whatever had been up for grabs at the time.

A mercenary’s loot.

Even so, she was touched by the lavishness of the gift, and that FitzRoger had thought of her problem. Perhaps the chest had contained an army of invasion after all, an army designed to invade her heart.

Imogen laughed at that. Probably such riches would turn the heads of most women, but when FitzRoger finally saw her true jewelry, he would realize these were mere trinkets.

All the same, she was touched, and could approach her wedding a little easier in her mind.

Imogen stood for the first time in over a day. Her feet did not hurt much and she discovered that FitzRoger had been right again. The world did look better when she was standing on her own.

Martha helped her into a cream silk kirtle and the darned red silk tunic. Imogen investigated the loot and clasped a girdle of gold filigree set with ivory flowers around her waist and a collar of gold and garnets around her neck. There were two narrow gold bracelets of ancient design and she slipped them onto her wrists. That was enough. There was no need for ostentation and she reminded herself that it was not wise to flaunt wealth before princes.

She replaced the rest of the jewelry, locked the chest, and then tucked the key under the girdle. She had nowhere else secure to keep it.

Martha combed out her long hair. “Oh, but it’s so pretty,” the woman said as it crackled along the comb. “And so long. It’s a wonder for sure. I don’t know what color it is, lady. Gold? Copper?”

“Lord FitzRoger says it’s ginger.”

“He never did!” The woman chuckled. “I’ll be bound he says something else tonight, lady.”

Imogen stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“Men say these things when they’re wooing, lady. They like to tease. But when they’re all hot and bothered, they say the truth.”

Imogen turned to look at her. “Hot and bothered? In lust, do you mean?”

“If you like, lady. Turn ’round do, so I can finish this off.”

Imogen turned. Martha was a married woman and might be able to advise her. “Er... is it hard in the marriage bed to... to be good, Martha?”

“Good, lady?”

Imogen licked her lips. She found she couldn’t speak of the practices described by Father Wulfgan. “To do right. You know... Not to offend.”

Imogen felt the woman’s hand stroke her head briefly. “Don’t you fret, lambkin. He won’t expect you to be clever. It’ll be all right.”

Clever? Imogen’s heart thumped. What had clever to do with it? She abandoned questions which only seemed to make matters worse. She knew she had been cossetted and protected, and Father Wulfgan had told her only what she shouldn’t do. What if there were things she was supposed to know that she didn’t know?

She would hate to give FitzRoger another reason to call her a silly child.

When it was time to go down, Imogen’s nerves were on edge and her legs felt unsteady. She tried her softest shoes but found they immediately galled the sides of her feet. She would have to go down barefoot and this made her feel even worse, as if she were entering the great hall only half dressed.

There was no help for it. Imogen reminded herself that she was Imogen of Carrisford, great heiress of the west, and set out to her wedding.

Alone, for she had no female attendant of stature, Imogen walked through the rooms and began to descend the wide staircase into the great hall. Her head felt fogged. It could be because of her sore feet, or the fasting.

She thought it was fear.

She was amazed to find that the hall looked ready for royalty and a wedding. There were hangings on the walls—not as fine as those destroyed by Warbrick, but better than nothing. The trestle tables set up for the meal were covered with snowy cloths. The rushes on the floor were clean and, she detected, strewn with rosemary and lavender to sweeten the air.

The large oak high table was not yet laid, for it was covered with the betrothal documents, but the nobles gathered around it were drinking wine from fine silver and gold vessels. The empty sideboards now held plates and even some precious glass.

It must all have come from Cleeve.

Something alerted the men. Silence fell as they turned to look at her.

Imogen’s steps faltered under all those assessing eyes. Hard eyes, mercenary eyes. To them she was just wealth and power on legs.

She gave thanks at that moment for FitzRoger’s trinkets, which allowed her at least the appearance of a great heiress. She regretted, however, that she had not agreed to be carried down to her betrothal; her dizziness was growing worse. She put a steadying hand against the wall.

Then she steeled herself. She was strong, and must prove it. By God, she would need to be strong as the wife of Bastard FitzRoger.

She saw him.

In the few brief days since they had met she had seen FitzRoger half naked, in armor, in gory leather, and in silk, but she had never seen him in such finery as this. He clearly had plenty more loot of a masculine sort.

He was sleek and hard in the green and gold of his colors. His dark hair glittered in a beam of light, and heavy gold ornaments glowed so that he outshone even his prince. He dominated the room, the King of England included. So much for not flaunting wealth before princes. It was as well he and Henry were friends or such unconscious arrogance could cost him his head.

And she had called him a nobody. He clearly was anything but.

She had learned to read him a little. She knew that just now he was concerned that she would fail to complete the walk she had set herself.

The concern didn’t hearten her. It was the same cool-headed concern he gave to his men’s fighting fitness, his animals’ good health, and his weapons’ edge. Everything Bastard FitzRoger possessed was expected to fulfill its purpose perfectly. He made no move to help her.

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.”

With that he stalked into his chapel and the door clanged shut behind him.

“By the Rood,” said the king. “If the Archbishop of Canterbury had been of that stamp at my wedding, I fear for the future of the country. I’d have been terrified to get Matilda with child.”

“They venerate Edward for that saintly penance,” FitzRoger said dryly. “You missed your chance at sainthood, Hal.”

“I pass it by happily every night I am with my dear Mald.” The king gave Imogen a hearty kiss that left her dizzy, and FitzRoger a buffet that almost toppled him. “And that’s how it’s done, my friend. That kiss you gave her makes me think that sour-mouthed priest has weakened your brain, or at least the parts of you most needed tonight! Going to take up holy chastity after all?”

“Not at all,” said Fitzroger, rubbing his arm. “But my carnal urges can wait while my empty stomach can’t.” He swept up Imogen into his arms and dumped her in her chair. “To the feast!” he declared.

The procession circled the bailey before reentering the keep. The people cheered, waved hats and scarves, and threw corn for fertility. Children and animals ran around in all directions. Whistles and drums came out to make music.

A woman ran up with a chaplet of celandine and forget-me-not and crowned Imogen. “Bless you and your lord this happy day, lady!”

Imogen’s heart began to dance and her doubts eased. No matter what difficulties were to come, she had done her duty by her people and they were truly happy. Her father’s death had left these people as well as herself unprotected. Death and suffering had followed. Now, however, because of her marriage they had a new lord, a strong lord, one able to protect them.

Her people had seen FitzRoger at work in Carrisford for the past three days, first fighting, then clearing up the mess, and they were happy with her choice.

She even gave the new lord a tentative smile and received a cool one in return.

At the base of the steps which led up to the great hall of the keep, FitzRoger’s men were gathered. They unsheathed their swords and saluted. He took a pouch from his belt and poured a stream of silver pennies into her hand.

“Largesse,” he said. “Since you won’t use your own money.”

Some of her happiness drained away. The treasure again. He probably thought this marriage entitled him to help himself from the strongboxes, but that was for Carrisford, not Cleeve. She looked down and saw the bracelets on her wrists. She would return these ornaments once she had her own. She should have thought, however, to make provision for this rite.

She threw the coins into the crowd and he did the same. The cheers and blessings intensified.

“Many children, and sturdy!” called a woman waving a gleaming coin.

“God bless you both!” cried another.

“A boy in a ninemonth!”

“Aye!” called a man. “Pound her well tonight, master! Fill her up quick!”

Other lewd suggestions followed.

The rude, raucous shouts swelled up, calling cheerfully of lust and violation. Imogen began to feel as if she were drowning in them. The jovial faces became screaming maws, attacking villains. Then they became Warbrick’s men laughing at their lord’s rape and awaiting their turn....

She only became aware that her hands were white on the chair when FitzRoger began to prize them off. “Let go,” he said as a quiet command. “I insist on carrying you up these stairs, wife, stubborn pride or not.”

She was aware only of blind panic, of a desire to escape him and the marriage bed. “I can’t...”

Then she was in his arms. “Yes, you can,” he said. When she squirmed he added shortly, “Don’t fight me here, Imogen, or I’ll drop you on your sweet behind.”

She surrendered. It wasn’t his fault God had cursed womankind with such horrible duties, though she couldn’t understand why everyone was so jovial about it. Funereal solemnity would seem more appropriate than cheers.

She would dearly like some sympathy.

She wearily rested her cheek against the soft velvet of his tunic, but a bit of gold braid scratched her. She jerked away. “That’s typical,” she snapped.

“What?”

“You do nothing but hurt me.”

He looked down with a frown, and licked quickly at the sting on her cheek. “I made you bleed already? And I will do so again tonight. You’re doubtless right in all your misgivings.”

She shuddered at this heartless confirmation of her fears.

“Stop shivering, Imogen,” he said with more than a touch of impatience. “It’s a woman’s fate to bleed on her wedding night. Others have survived it, and so will you. If you’ll just stop squabbling with me, you’ll find this marriage quite tolerable.”

She glared up at him. “I am not a child, FitzRoger. Stop treating me as one.”

“I will always treat you as you deserve,” he said, and it silenced her. She very much feared she was behaving like a child, but she was so frightened. Frightened of everything, but especially of the marriage bed. She shivered again as they moved into the cool of the hall.

He settled her in a chair behind the high table. “You are quivering like an aspen,” he remarked with real concern. “I thought you had more spirit than this.”

Imogen looked down at the table, covered now by rich cloths. “I have unfortunate memories, my lord. Is that surprising? Doubtless in time they will pass.” It was particularly bitter fate, however, that had her eat her bridal feast off the table upon which her maid had been so brutally violated.

She thought she felt the brush of his hand against her shoulder, but perhaps she was mistaken. When she looked up, he was moving toward the bench on her left hand as the king took the chair on her right.

Imogen looked around and had to admit that the feast appeared to have been well done. All the tables were piled with bread and a rich assortment of dishes. It was almost as fine as before Warbrick, but it bothered her that it was a strange finery, not truly that of her home.

Her home, her past, was gone.

Some traces of the familiar remained, however. Gray-haired Siward came forward to bow to the king and to her. Imogen smiled and reached out a hand to him. “You look well, Siward. How happy I am to see you.”

“I’m well enough, lady.” He grinned. “And better for seeing you in your place with a strong man by your side!”

“Thank you, my man,” said the king with a wink.

The seneschal went red with confusion and retreated quickly.

Imogen glanced at FitzRoger, the strong man by her side. People seemed to think she was pleasing herself this day, that she should be happy. She wanted to stand and scream at them that she was making a sacrifice for them, one equally as bad as the walk to Cleeve, and this time for a lifetime.

Oh, stop it, she told herself. There’s no longer any point in what-ifs and regrets. You’ve made your bed, Imogen, and will have to lie on it.

Thoughts of bed made her feel sick.

She grasped the ruby glass by her place and drained it.

“We were supposed to have shared the loving cup,” FitzRoger said dryly, and summoned a server to refill the handsome goblet. He put his lips to the place where hers had been and drained it in turn. “If we can’t share,” he commented, “at least we can be equal.”

“We are hardly that.”

“Are we not? Then entertain the king, wife, while I make do with surly Sir William. Proof of our inequality, I grant you.”

Imogen was astonished. He thought she was saying he was her inferior ? She remembered calling him a nobody; had it drawn blood? She hoped so, even though it was a weapon without an edge. In terms of property brought to this marriage it was true, but it was power that counted, not wealth, and he had all the power.

“That reminds me,” she said, and pulled out the key. “You had best keep this, my lord. I have nowhere secure to carry it.”

He took the key and turned it in his fingers. “No thanks for my paltry offerings?”

Imogen felt her face flame. “Of... of course,” she stammered. “It was good of you to think of it.”

“But they are not really up to the Carrisford standards? You must make allowances. I wasn’t expecting a bride quite so soon. I will commission something more worthy.”

“There is no need,” said Imogen. “I have plenty...”

“When you finally decide to open your treasure house,” he completed. “But you must at least allow me to give you a morning gift...”—his eyes held hers—“... in the morning.”

Imogen swallowed. The morning gift would be a symbol of his dowry gift to her, but it would also be testimony that he was satisfied with his wife in all ways. She did intend to be acquiescent, but she wasn’t at all sure he would be satisfied.

She turned with relief to the king.

The king had brought his own musicians and was tapping a finger in time with the music. He, too, looked highly satisfied with events. Imogen pushed back a number of bitter comments she could make on the king’s care of her, and reminded herself that she was Lady of Carrisford and must be courteous to guests.

As she washed her fingers in the bowl provided, she said, “I must thank you, sire, for coming to my aid.”

The king too washed in the perfumed water, then allowed his attendant to dry his hands. “I came as soon as I heard of your plight, Lady Imogen. But it would have been too late, I fear, if you had not saved yourself and enlisted worthy help.”

The first dishes were presented and the king selected a choice piece of fowl to place on her trencher. Imogen looked at it. Despite a day’s fasting, she wasn’t sure she could swallow solid food.

“You think highly of Lord FitzRoger, sire.”

“He is a trustworthy friend,” said Henry simply, chewing with relish, “and I have few enough of them. He will hold you safe. This is finely cooked.”

Whether I want to be held or not. “He is very efficient,” Imogen admitted, referring as much to this feast as to anything.

Henry laughed. “The very word! Efficient. He even kills efficiently.”

Imogen’s appetite diminished even more. She had seen FitzRoger kill, and knew what the king meant. No question of correct knightly behavior, or of quarter, just expeditious slaughter.

She shuddered. She had no doubt FitzRoger would slit her throat as dispassionately as he had dispatched that man in the bailey, did he have cause. How many men had he killed? Tens, hundreds? She threw off the macabre thought. A paladin had to be able to kill.

“I am surprised Lord FitzRoger was not already betrothed elsewhere, sire,” she said, and attempted a nibble of the chicken.

“Are you? Until recently he was a landless man, and said to be a bastard. He was my friend, but I was a landless man, too. We have both found good fortune, Lady Imogen, and good wives.” He toasted her and she felt obliged to smile.

It was strained. Her taunt that FitzRoger was nobody had more edge than she’d thought. A glance to the side showed her FitzRoger engaged in talk. She wished she knew more of his history.

Imogen spoke softly to the king. “For a landless man, he has done well.”

“For a landless bastard, he has done remarkably well, and all by the use of his sword, lady. He won his knighthood by merit alone, and survived for years as a mercenary and tourney champion. You have gained one of the foremost soldiers of the age.”

Imogen flicked another glance at her husband, but she was not really surprised by that description. She could believe that everything Tyron FitzRoger did, he would do well.

“That’s why I want him strong in this part of the country,” Henry continued. “He came here with orders to secure Cleeve and make alliance with your father. Matters have turned out even better.”

Imogen wanted to protest that dismissal of her father’s death and all that had followed, but she knew the king was looking at matters simply in the light of cold strategy. With his brother still likely to try to seize the Crown, Belleme engaged in insurrection, and the Welsh always restive, a loyal power base in the west was essential.

Had FitzRoger made approaches to her father in the last months? It was likely, and she would not necessarily have been informed.

It was strange to think that FitzRoger might consult more with her than her father had.

“If my husband were to fight Warbrick,” Imogen asked the king, “would he win?”

“In single combat? Such matters are in the hands of God, Lady Imogen, but Ty hasn’t been bested since he became a man.”

“And how old is he?” She needed to know.

The king seemed amused by her questions, but indulgent. “Twenty-six. Perhaps I should have been more specific. He hasn’t been bested since he was eighteen.”

“And who defeated him then, sire?”

“I did,” said the king. “It’s how we met.”

Imogen fiddled with her food, trying to come to terms with her husband.

Twenty-six and one of the foremost soldiers of the age.

Undefeated in single combat, efficient in military matters.

She had called him a nobody. She had challenged him.

She might have to again if he tried to violate their agreement.

She shivered slightly, and he turned, alert.

“You are not eating, Imogen. You should.”

Fearing to be forced, Imogen took another bite of saffron chicken and made herself chew and swallow it, though her nervous stomach rebelled.

He frowned slightly and laid a warm hand on her cold one. It felt comforting, but she saw it as imprisonment, and pulled away. He filled the ruby cup again and pushed it toward her.

“Drink, at least.”

Imogen obeyed. Her restless anxiety was gaining his attention, and she did not want that, so she tried to look calm and happy as she listened to the musicians and watched the tumblers. She recognized two of the entertainers as the couple that had crossed the causeway into Cleeve that day so long ago—four days ago.

They had been free then, and still were.

She was not free, and had not been free from the day of her birth.

The effort to smile soon made her cheeks ache. She wished this farce of a feast was over except for what must follow.

Two of the king’s hounds lay at his feet. When Imogen was faced with a large chunk of beef on her trencher, she slid it down to be snapped up by them. The king noticed, but merely quirked a brow and stopped serving her food.

Imogen was grateful. The only thing that could make this day worse was if she threw up.

She seemed to be the only person present not in the highest spirits.

In the face of the best food and wine, all the men ate heartily and drank deeply. Perhaps FitzRoger would get drunk. She took to watching the goblet she shared with him, but it sat untouched through most of the meal.

Eventually the food was gone and there was only drinking left. There seemed to be an endless supply of good wine.

All from Cleeve.

The noise—drums, pipes, shouts, laughter—seemed to fill her head to bursting.

FitzRoger touched Imogen’s hand to gain her attention. “I think it’s time we completed this business,” he said, as if he could think of a hundred more interesting things to do. “The king has graciously insisted that we use the principal chamber, the one that was your father’s. Your woman awaits you there. Don’t be afraid. Only the king and a few others need witness the bedding.” He smiled slightly. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking Father Wulfgan to bless the nuptial bed, is there?”

“You should not laugh at him,” she said angrily to hide the tight hand of panic squeezing her gut. “He is right. Lust is the work of the devil. He told me a newly married couple should abstain for three days to prove that they are in control of the flesh.”

To her surprise he kissed her hand. “It won’t be as bad as you think, Imogen. I promise you.”

“You won’t hurt me?” she whispered, hoping against hope for reassurance.

He placed a finger gently over her lips. “Hush. We’ll talk later. Go up.”