Dark Champion #2

Chapter 11

Y oung and naive. That hurt, though it was doubtless true. She was trying, though. Did that count for nothing? He had said that sometimes she was brave and strong, and that comforted her.

When he’d gone, Imogen made a light and lit a candle, then remade the bed. She distastefully brushed all the crushed rose petals onto the floor. A perfume rose from them but it didn’t please her; she preferred the other smell, the musky one which she recognized as his.

She stood looking at the bed, hands clasped tight. He thought her problem was just religious scruples, but she knew in her heart it wasn’t. It was that other, darker, fear that lay between them, only exacerbated by Wulfgan’s preaching.

She didn’t want the fear, but she didn’t seem to be able to control it. Such a thing should surely be under her control. When she was clearheaded, like now, she knew FitzRoger was no Warbrick, that he was not trying to rape her, that she wanted to be joined with him.

At the time, however, it had been like rats. No amount of thought could stop her fleeing a rat. Nothing could make her willingly touch one. She was sure that it was that fear that had caused the pain. Was it possible that nothing could make her welcome his invasion of her body?

She covered her face with her hands. That would surely be hell.

It had to be within her control.

Imogen gathered her courage and slipped out of her clothes and between the cool sheets, clearing her mind so that she would behave properly this time.

She brought to mind some holy martyrs. If Saint Catherine could endure the wheel, and Saint Agatha having her breasts cut off... Too late, she remembered that these stories supported Wulfgan’s preaching, for the martyrs had been punished—and sanctified—for refusing to sully themselves with men.

She thought instead of the walk to Cleeve, which had been horrible and frightening, but it had to be done and so she had done it. This too was something that had to be done.

FitzRoger came in with a piled trencher, a flagon, and two goblets. Thoughts both noble and philosophical were swamped by simple hunger. Imogen’s stomach rumbled and she sat up in the bed eagerly. With a quizzical smile, he placed the food before her. She grabbed a piece of cold saffron chicken and bit into it with a sound in her throat that was almost a purr.

It was gone quickly and she began on an almond honey cake, ending by licking the crumbs from her fingers. Suddenly embarrassed by her greed, she looked up at him. He was watching her, catlike, but did not seem to be displeased. He offered her a goblet of wine.

She tried a smile as she reached for it. “Thank you, my lord.”

He held on to the silver goblet when she would have taken it. “Tyron,” he corrected. “Or Ty. Or even Bastard, if you wish.”

She tentatively allowed herself to tease. “Bastard,” she said.

His lips twitched and he gave up the goblet.

“Do you not mind?” she asked, watching him over the rim.

“I’ve been called that all my life behind my back, but I’ve killed men who used it to my face.”

She considered him. He was being pleasant, but the mask was firmly in place. She wished he’d let it drop again. “What will you do to me, then, if I use it?”

“I’ve given you permission, haven’t I? And if you need someone to mortify your flesh, I’m sure Wulfgan will oblige.” She saw him catch himself on that spurt of irritation. He went on calmly, almost lightly. “However, if you call me Bastard in public, wife, you can explain the ramifications of my mother’s relationship with Roger of Cleeve.”

Imogen felt as if she were tiptoeing through daggers, but that deliberate use of the word wife strengthened her. He was not rejecting her. “What are the ramifications, then?” she asked.

He moved to lie on the bed, his back to one of the foot-posts, facing her. His shoes almost touched her knees. “My mother married Roger of Cleeve and I have documents to prove it, though he sought to have them destroyed. When the marriage became inconvenient, he had it annulled on the grounds that I wasn’t his child. I was born a month early and he could prove that nine months before he had been in England.”

“Were you small?”

“Very. That didn’t concern him, or count with the Church court he took the case to. The bishop found a generous donation to his coffers much more interesting.”

“But now your birth is validated.”

“Yes. Money and power now weigh the other side of the scale.”

Imogen almost protested that sounded remarkably irreverent, but she held her tongue.

He carried on. “It was made easier, of course, by the fact that there is no contesting heir.”

“Your half brother Hugh being conveniently dead.” Then she wished she had held her tongue. It was said Hugh choked at the table, but there were rumors...

It was a particular look in his eyes that distracted Imogen. She realized she was sitting up naked in the bed for this meal and conversation. With a squeak she moved to slip under the covers, but—lightning fast—he snared the sheet.

She remembered her good intentions and froze. Her heart was pounding, and she knew she must be rose-red, but she didn’t fight him.

“You’re lovely,” he said. “There’s no reason to hide from me.”

“Modesty,” she countered, then bit her lip.

A momentary lowering of his lids was all the evidence of the impatience she knew he felt. “It isn’t immodest for you to be naked before your husband,” he said in that same calm, authoritative voice he had used before. Situation and memory combined to render Imogen miserably self-conscious.

He tossed the sheet over her and left the bed. Imogen knew she’d failed again. What on earth was she to do about all this? Despite good intentions, she feared that if he tried again to consummate the marriage, the same terrible thing would happen.

But without it, they were not truly wed.

He was standing by the narrow window looking out at the bailey, his arm raised against the wall. It was shadowy in that dark corner of the room, but the muted moonlight deepened the angles of his body and made him appear even harder than he was.

But she had seen tonight that he was not hard.

“I wish you would come to bed,” she whispered into the gray half-light. “Please.” She knew it might sound like an invitation to repeat his act and she didn’t want that. But she knew it would be disastrous if he stayed by that window all night long.

She thought he would refuse, but then he stripped off his clothes and joined her. He lay on his side again, and played with a strand of her hair. “What would you do if I started all over again, I wonder?”

Imogen swallowed. “Submit,” she said bravely.

“That’s what I thought. Go to sleep, Ginger. We both need our sleep.”

When Imogen awoke it was bright daylight outdoors and she was alone in the bed. She leaned up to scan the room, but he was not there. Dread leaped into her. An unconsummated wedding night. What was going to happen to her now?

She heard men and horses in the bailey and shot upright in the bed. He was leaving!

Before she could act, the door opened and FitzRoger came in. Imogen grabbed for the sheet, then stopped herself, trying not to mind her nakedness, absorbing the vast relief that he was still here.

Unless he had come to announce his departure.

He picked up her shift from the floor and tossed it to her. As soon as she was in it, he opened the door wide and two servants came in to lay a cloth on a table and spread meat, bread, and ale.

When they were gone, her husband said, “Good morning. You look well rested.”

“Yes.” Then she wondered if that was the wrong answer. Should she have lain awake worrying? Had he? The idea seemed ridiculous, and he looked his usual unruffled, austere self.

He gestured to the table and she climbed out of bed and joined him there. She picked up a bread roll, wishing she could think of something light and clever to say. The fresh, warm bread reminded her of the bread she had eaten at Cleeve. If she hadn’t traveled there, what would have become of her?

Warbrick, perhaps. She’d be dead in that case, for she would have killed herself. On this sweet, sunny day with birds singing and the smell of the warm earth in the air she was glad to be alive.

She might have made it through to the king, though. Then she would have been delivered to FitzRoger without the chance to make terms.

Perhaps she could have insisted that there had been an agreement that she wed Lancaster. She thought of Lancaster in the marriage bed. His hands were fleshy and clammy. He licked his lips a lot so they always appeared moist, and bad teeth made his breath foul. She knew with certainty that scream as she might, Lancaster would not have halted the consummation....

“What’s the matter?” FitzRoger asked her alertly.

“Nothing.”

She could see he didn’t believe her. All his formidable attentiveness was now focused on her; she was a problem to be solved. It unnerved her.

“Are people up yet?” she asked.

He poured her some ale and she downed it in a gulp.

“A few bleary servants and the unfortunate guards who pulled duty last night. I gather,” he added dryly, “everybody except them had an excellent time.”

Except us, thought Imogen, and concentrated on her bread. “I suppose I should go down and organize things...”

“Hardly. We are allowed some indulgence. Or at least, you are. Hal is already up and raring for a hunt.” He took a piece of meat and bit into it.

Imogen looked up, feeling she was being pushed into her pampered corner again. “I like to hunt,” she challenged.

“Not today you don’t.”

“Am I to be confined to my room, then?”

He made a sudden movement, abruptly controlled. “Imogen, Carrisford is yours. Go where you want. Do as you wish. Hunt if you wish. I’m sure my reputation can stand the implications, and you obviously don’t care about yours.”

Then she understood and blushed. If she rode all day, people would know the marriage had not been consummated, or would think that she had not been a virgin. “I won’t hunt,” she said.

“As you will.”

She shook her head miserably. Those moments of warmth before the disaster had been brief but potent. She could not forget them, and she wanted them back. She wanted to discuss what had happened, now, in the safety of daylight. She wanted to tell him of her demons, and apologize for her silliness. She couldn’t think of words that wouldn’t choke her.

“What you need,” he said briskly, “is some women. Do you have relatives who would come to live with you?”

She shook her head. Since he was looking away, she had to force words out. “No. There was just my... my aunt. My father has... had relatives in Flanders, but they are strangers....”

“I will arrange something. For the immediate, I will ask for some nuns from Hillsborough. I’m sure you will be comfortable with such companions.”

“Very well.” Imogen was more concerned with ways to melt FitzRoger’s icy shell than with companions.

She wanted the teasing, relaxed companion back. The longing was a physical pain in her chest, deepened by the fact that she had doubtless made it impossible. He would not seek such a disastrous scene again.

He would have to.

Unless he abandoned subtlety and raped her.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said sharply. “I’m not going to attack you again.” He rose from the table, flipped open a chest and grabbed a pair of hawking gloves and a whip, then headed for the door. “Rest.”

Trying for humor, Imogen said, “Is that an order?”

He was already at the door. He looked back and shook his head. “Do as you wish. Carrisford is yours. You’ve earned it.”

From her window Imogen watched the hunt leave. The king must have a hard head, for he and FitzRoger appeared to be the only ones really relishing a day in the saddle. The rest hauled themselves onto their horses as if their muscles were string and their heads fire. Imogen couldn’t help but giggle, especially when one knight mounted only to topple off the other side.

As if sensing her, FitzRoger looked up. His face assumed an appropriately fond expression and he blew a kiss. Imogen didn’t have to force a smile as she shyly waved.

The king said something. She guessed from his gesture that he was offering to allow her husband to stay behind. FitzRoger refused and made a remark that caused humor among those nearby. Imogen knew it would have been something lewd, but that was expected of a bridegroom.

The falconers came out with the hawks and some men took their own on their wrists. Her husband did. It was a fine peregrine, and the cruel head sought his voice, the neck curved under his gentle touch.

In what condition were her mews? And what of her own merlin? There were so many parts of Carrisford she still had not even considered. She feared the worst.

Leashed hounds strained, pulling their handlers toward the gate and the open country. There had been no sign of her father’s fine dogs since the sack. They must have been stolen or killed.

The king gave the signal and the party streamed out.

And the horses. What of the horses? She sighed, having little hope that her snow-white palfrey, Ysolde, had escaped Warbrick.

Trapped by her feet, and by her tangled obsession with FitzRoger, she had not even begun to face her responsibilities. Now it was time. It was also time to go to her treasure store and put the administration of Carrisford on the right footing. It was not so much a distrust of FitzRoger anymore as a desire to prove herself responsible and worthy.

Worthy of him.

On the other hand, she had to admit that she didn’t want to give him free access to the treasure.

Could she both trust and not trust a man at the same time?

Yes. She trusted him in personal matters, but she didn’t trust him not to put his interests and those of the king before hers. Both FitzRoger and the king were new men and power-hungry. Her husband wanted to make Cleeve great, and the king wanted a power base in this part of the country. Imogen didn’t oppose those aims, but her first priority was to restore Carrisford.

She scowled down at her feet, for she didn’t want to go through the dusty passageways to the treasure chamber barefoot. Again she tried a pair of shoes but could feel the pressure on sensitive spots. She could wear them for a while, but the price would be to undo most of the healing. She muttered a few curses that would have gained her a scolding from her aunt and a severe penance from Father Wulfgan.

Where was Martha? She wasn’t much of an attendant, but she was all Imogen had. The woman was doubtless still sleeping off the carouse.

Imogen decided she could do without Martha. Though she had never done such a thing before in her life, she dressed herself. It was no difficulty to get into a simple kirtle and tunic, though it was hard to arrange the garments pleasingly when she could not see herself.

She brushed out her hair, but trying to plait it proved beyond her; it was too long and thick. When she tried, the plaits did not look right at all. She would have to leave it loose.

As a married lady she was entitled to wear a veil on her head, but she didn’t have such a thing or anything to hold it on. A check of FitzRoger’s jewel chest proved that it contained no circlets. She could use a circle of cloth, as serf women did, but that seemed to be more lowering than going bareheaded.

She had plenty of circlets in the treasure chamber.

She clicked her tongue with frustrated impatience.

In the end she abandoned the effort to look matronly and went down the hall barefoot, with her hair uncovered and loose to her thighs. If anyone cared to make a scandal out of it, they could. She knew no one would even try to make a scandal out of anything Bastard FitzRoger’s wife did. There was pride in that thought.

When she took in the scene in the hall, she bit her lip on laughter. There was such an air of fragility. Judging from the condition of the survivors, it certainly had been a magnificent debauch. Renald de Lisle was sprawled at the high table, his head in his hands.

Imogen walked up behind him. “Good morning, Sir Renald.”

Even though she’d spoken quietly, he jerked as if she’d yelled, but then he gathered his manners and stood unsteadily to seat her.

“Good morning, little flower.” He looked at her rather closely and said, “You appear none the worse for wear.” Then he winced at his own words.

“I am none the worse, thank you,” said Imogen, then colored at the admission that could be. Surely he wouldn’t take it as such. She did not want to give anyone a hint that her wedding night had been incomplete. “In fact,” she added quickly, “I would have said that I am in better shape than most of the castle today. You chose not to hunt?”

“I am left behind in command. I’m not sure if that was a kindness or not. My whole body rebels at the thought of riding, but those men will come back from a day in the open air in a better state than I will be.”

A woman sauntered into the hall, hitching her loose gaudy gown up over lush breasts. She strolled over to a table and poured herself a goblet of ale, running a casual hand over the shoulder of a nearby guard. Just as casually the guard put an arm around her and pulled her close.

“Who is that?” Imogen demanded. “That woman isn’t from Carrisford!”

Renald sat up sharply, then cursed and clutched his head. “Visitor,” he said. “I’ll send her on her way.”

“But who... ?” Imogen realized there were a few other strange women about and none of them seemed to be doing any work. “The lazy sluts!” She was half on her feet when Renald tugged her down.

“Hush! Don’t make a fuss.” He looked slightly harassed. “They’re whores from Hereford.”

Imogen gaped. “ In my castle? Is this FitzRoger’s doing?”

“Keep your voice down!” he hissed, wincing in pain. “Yes, but you don’t know Beauclerk. He’s a lusty man, and those with him follow his style. If you didn’t want every woman in Carrisford unable to walk today, we had to bring some in.”

Imogen opened and shut her mouth a few times. “Very well,” she said at last, “but I won’t have them in my hall, king or not.”

“Of course not. I’ll see to it, but without a fuss. Ty should have...” He slid her a look. “He’s not quite himself this morning.”

Imogen kept her face calm. So the efficiency had slipped a little. She was pleased to know it. She lowered her eyes demurely. “It doubtless takes some getting used to, being a married man.”

“I’m sure it does. And how do you feel about being a married woman?”

She glanced at him, wondering at his tone. But even between her husband and Renald there must be some secrets. “What choice did I ever have?” she asked, standing and shaking out her skirts. “At the moment I am more concerned about being Lady of Carrisford. Remove those women from my hall, Sir Renald. And you will make it known that if the servants are not busily about their work within the hour, I will be after them with a whip.”

A spark of admiration lit his bloodshot eyes. “Yes, my lady!”

Imogen stalked out of the hall to the steps that led down to the bailey, but was brought to a frustrated halt. She couldn’t go down there barefoot.

Raging at her feet, she went through the wooden buttery and down steps to the storage rooms and cellars. These were cleaner, but not kind to her bare feet.

In the lowest floor of the keep she was met by the dismaying sight of empty shelves, broken containers, spilled goods, and the stink of leaked wine and ale. Though she had been told, she hadn’t expected it to be quite this bad.

FitzRoger had brought in supplies for the wedding. Could he not have had the mess cleared up too?

She quickly brushed aside that peevish thought. He had been busy and shorthanded, and this was her work, not his.

But to put all right would be a tremendous amount of work. She needed people and money.

She had money aplenty but could not reach it. The passage to the treasure vault was deliberately unwelcoming—dank and muddy, and in some places inches deep in water. It was made to appear a part of the secret ways which had been abandoned. It would be insanity to attempt it in bare feet.

With a sigh, Imogen gave up all thought of reaching her treasure until she could wear good solid shoes. She climbed a narrow circular staircase to her tower chamber.

It was only when she entered the room and saw how little it contained that she realized it wasn’t her chamber anymore. Unless, that was, FitzRoger chose not to share his quarters. She didn’t know how she felt about that. She knew it would not be wise for them to advertise their problems by sleeping apart, and yet she feared that if they were together it would come to that terrible intimacy again.

She gripped her hands tightly. It had to be done. Without consummation, the marriage was incomplete. It was voidable.

She suddenly realized her virginity provided the means of escape. Of course, while she was totally in the power of FitzRoger and the king there was nothing she could do, but if the situation were to continue for a period of time, and if the balance of power should shift...

Imogen went over to the gaping space where her beautiful window had been and looked over her castle and her land.

Did she want to escape the marriage?

Her husband was a hard man, and not one she was sure she could entirely trust. His power was uncertain, for the issue of the crown was not settled between Henry Beauclerk and his brother. If Henry fell, FitzRoger would fall too, and perhaps take Carrisford with him.

A wise woman would flee Bastard FitzRoger, and yet the thought brought a shadow of pain. In some strange way he was already a part of her life; his leaving would cause a gaping hole.

Before Imogen could tussle with the problem further, Martha burst in. “There you are, my lady! What’re you doing here? I’ve been that worried! There’s a man here for you. I’ll go get him.”

She was gone before Imogen had time to question her.

Imogen didn’t know who she expected to appear, but it certainly wasn’t the slight, middle-aged tradesman who bowed in. “Lady Imogen of Carrisford?”

Imogen agreed this was so.

“Cedric of Ross, master shoemaker,” he announced with pride. “Your husband ordered footwear for you.” He opened his pack and spilled out a half dozen pairs of rather incomplete shoes. Mere sandals, really.

Bemused, Imogen picked up one which was all heel and toe with nothing in between. “How would it stay on, Master Cedric?”

“None of these are complete, lady. Lord FitzRoger sent a pair of your shoes for measure and a description of your... er... problems. I have prepared as best I could. Now we can try them and I will put on the fastenings so they won’t cause you further hurt.”

Imogen could have wept with gratitude. Amid all the chaos and work, FitzRoger had thought of this. No, she did not want to escape the marriage.

Master Cedric tried on various styles, marking, cutting and measuring. At last he held up one pair which were mere slender straps and sole. “These would be best for in the castle, lady, for they will protect the soles of your feet and come nowhere near your sores. I can affix the laces speedily.”

Imogen nodded. “But I need something a little more solid,” she said. “In case I have need to go into the bailey.”

The man pursed his lips then picked up the one that was toe and heel. “This one, lady. See, I can add a little extra soft leather along the sides, which should give protection and not pain you. With a raised cork sole, you would be above any foulness.”

“How long will that take?”

“The sandal you can have within minutes, lady, but the other will take until tomorrow.”

Imogen sighed but agreed. “It is a shame you didn’t come a few days earlier, Master Cedric, rather than working on these efforts at a distance.”

The man looked up. “But I was told not to come until today, lady. Your feet were doubtless not ready for shoon.”

Imogen’s bubble of contentment burst. FitzRoger, as usual, had thought of everything. He wanted her mobile—doubtless so she could take up her duties in the castle—but had not intended that she have the freedom of her castle until she was securely bound to him.

It was completely in character. Kindness, but always judicious kindness.

Her calculating husband hadn’t counted, of course, on the marriage still being unconsummated today.

For the first time, Imogen wondered why it wasn’t.

She remembered thinking that Lancaster would have completed the act no matter how she screamed. Men did take women by force, so why hadn’t her husband?

She must remember, though, that FitzRoger acted always in his own ambitious interests. He’d achieved his main purpose; they were married. He doubtless knew she wouldn’t announce her failure to the world. So, he probably thought it would benefit him more to treat her gently than to force her. After all, she’d be unlikely to loosen her purse strings for a rapist.

She sighed. She was very tired of brutal reality.

When the sandals were finished and on her feet, Imogen praised Master Cedric for his work and dismissed him, telling Martha to find him a place to work. She walked around her room, rejoicing in the simple security of a layer of leather between her skin and the floor.

Then she set out to explore. At last she had the freedom of her keep, and by walking along the walls she could survey most of the castle.

Imogen spent the day investigating and planning.

Considering the situation and the lack of servants, Carrisford was in surprisingly good condition. Even the pens of livestock were beginning to be replenished. New hens were laying, new milch cows had heavy udders, and in the dairy butter was being churned. She inspected and made a few changes in the arrangements, but had to acknowledge that matters were well in hand.

As the stables had burned, there was only a lean-to roof to shelter the horses, but that should be adequate in summer. Even with men out hunting, the stables were full, but peering down from the wall Imogen saw no familiar horses. She summoned a stable groom up onto the wall to speak with her, and he confirmed that her father’s and her horses were gone.

“Don’t rightly know if they be dead or not, lady,” the man confessed. “I fled the castle, and by the time I came back, things were much as you see ’em.”

“And what of the mews and kennels?” Imogen asked.

“The same, lady.” But his eyes shifted in a way that told her there had been corpses. He was protecting her, as everyone did, but she let it pass, thinking sadly of her hounds, Gerda and Gelda, and her fine merlin.

Mere death was not enough for Warbrick. She’d like to roast him slowly over a fire.

She retraced her steps back to the hall. There was no need to replace her father’s hounds and horses, for FitzRoger must have his own. It was a relief to see one thing that wouldn’t need buying afresh. Carrisford contained ample treasure, but by the end of this it would be severely depleted.

She wondered if there was any possibility of gaining recompense from Warbrick, then laughed at the thought. Warbrick and Belleme needed money to fund their rebellion, which explained the attack on Carrisford in the first place. Moreover, if the king had his way, Belleme and his brothers would soon lose all their lands and property in England.

She stopped, thoughtful. Would the king give her some of the land in restitution? There were ramifications, but a chunk of Warbrick’s land would round out the Cleeve-Carrisford holdings very nicely indeed.

The Cleeve-Carrisford holdings.

She relished that, for the first time appreciating how much power it represented, and what trust in FitzRoger the king showed in allowing it. In one stroke, FitzRoger had become one of the great magnates of the land. Perhaps the king planned it that way.

Imogen knew that in July, when Robert of Normandy had sailed to England to oust his younger brother, quite a number of the Anglo-Norman magnates had supported him. Robert, however, had not had the fortitude to carry through his plan, and had settled for a payment of three thousand marks. Since then Henry had been pursuing the traitors. Most he merely fined and settled with, but some, such as Robert Malet, Ivo of Grandmesnil, Robert of Pontfract, and Robert de Belleme, he intended to break.

Henry would certainly welcome a great lord he could trust. Imogen already knew FitzRoger enough to know that Henry could trust him. When FitzRoger gave his word, he kept it.

Imogen looked around her castle and saw it as the base for one of the great holdings of England. She nodded. Her father would have approved.

She wondered again exactly how the castle had been taken. FitzRoger had seemed to suspect the monks, but she’d heard nothing more about it. The last time she had raised the subject with FitzRoger, they had been distracted onto matters relating to their marriage. She must raise the subject again.

Carrisford must never again fall so easily to a conqueror.

Imogen returned to the keep, but when she entered the great hall she was struck again by how rough and bleak it looked compared to its glory days. It must be restored to reflect her husband’s new power. Some of the hangings had come from Italy and beyond. How long would it take to replace them? The gold and silver vessels could be commissioned from craftsmen nearby, but not the glass.

She sighed. It was all going to take so long.

At this time of day the hall was deserted, everyone being about their work. The whores had disappeared, she noted, though she doubted they had left the castle entirely.

That recalled Renald’s words about Beauclerk’s lust, and the way his followers behaved as he did. She frowned slightly. Had FitzRoger used whores in his years at Henry Beauclerk’s side?

Of course he had. What else did she expect?

But, ridiculously, it hurt.

Would he use whores if his wife would not satisfy his needs? Was he even now whoring in the woods?

That was sharp agony.

There was nothing she could do about that, but she swore that if he shamed her in her own castle, she’d use the knife he gave her.

She pushed the matter out of her head and strode off to investigate the path across the bailey to the weaving sheds. It was dry and packed, and so she followed it.

The linked rooms had always been humming with industry as women spun, wove, dyed, cut, and sewed, providing nearly everything needed for the hall and its people. Now the sheds were deserted, except for the laundry. This idleness was wickedly wrong. It was ridiculous, for example, that such a skillful woman as Martha should be spending her time taking care of Imogen when she should be here.

Imogen summoned Martha and set her to gathering some women and getting these rooms working again.

“But the women are helping out elsewhere, lady,” Martha pointed out.

“Then elsewhere can do without.”

“But with the king here...”

“Even with the king here. He must surely make allowances for a place that has been sacked. Anyway, Henry is on his way to trounce Belleme, and I think he will leave soon. The first thing to do, Martha, is to see what cloth, wool, and flax we have still. If it is as I fear, I will order more.”

It turned out just as she feared, with little remaining unspoiled. She sent off an order for wool for weaving, but they would have to wait a little for the flax crop to come in before they could weave linen.

She sent to Gloucester for ready-woven material to be brought for her inspection. By the time it arrived she should have the money in hand to pay for it.

She consulted with Martha and some other women and chose a girl called Elswith to be her personal servant. She was a quiet child of twelve, but well able to learn. Imogen took her to the tower room and explained some of the duties, then left the girl to some mending.

Imogen went to the kitchens to check and amend the food planned for the next days, hoping the king and his train would soon leave. She supposed she should be grateful that he had left most of his army to forage on Warbrick’s land; the first stage of the man’s punishment.

As soon as Henry received Warbrick’s response to the call to justice—or when he ceased waiting for that response—he would seize the Warbrick lands, then move in force against Belleme. She hoped fiercely that he would crush both of them, but she wanted a more direct revenge. She wanted Warbrick brought low, and dead, and she wanted to be there to see it.

FitzRoger had promised to do his best to see him dead. She must remember to tell him that she wanted to witness it.

Imogen was in the pantry checking candles when she realized the implications of all this. When the king marched on Belleme, FitzRoger would go with him. He would fight, perhaps fight Warbrick. He would be in danger.

The man had been fighting all his life, she told herself. What point in her fretting about it now?

But she did.

She told herself that she simply did not want to be vulnerable again, but knew in her heart it was more than that. It was the feeling she’d had last night that he was now part of her life—like a father, brother, or son. One who could never be swept out, no matter what might happen.

“Ah, there you are, Lady Imogen.” It was Siward. “A number of folk are in the bailey, returned to seek their places.”

There was a twinkle in his eyes, and Imogen smiled. “Just realized Warbrick’s gone, have they?”

“Just heard tell of the celebration, more like. We can send them away for a few days if you wish.”

“No. We need them all.” Imogen remembered FitzRoger greeting the returning workers, and smiled. “I’ll receive them by the steps, Siward.”

She needed money. She ran up to the solar and ransacked her husband’s belongings. His treasure chests were all locked, of course, but at last she found a small pouch of silver farthings still attached to a belt.

Next she went to the office where Brother Cuthbert, the scribe, was working and took the list of castle servants. The she went to the bottom of the outer stairs and, like FitzRoger days before, checked each returnee against the list and gave each a silver farthing.

There, that should make it clear to whom they owed service.

The suitable women were sent straight to the weaving sheds to join the women already working there. Imogen thought she detected a trace of disappointment in some of them. She went with them, partly to help make the place ready, but also to make sure they settled to purposeful work.

The rooms were already clean and tidy, and the best needlewomen were repairing what linens were not beyond help. Others cut up the larger hopeless cases to make smaller items—hand towels and women’s personal cloths.

Fine stuff was carefully preserved to serve as trimmings.

As they worked, the women gossiped. Though nothing was said directly it was clear that some of them had engaged in fornication last night, and expected to again tonight. It was also clear they looked forward to it.

Imogen worked alongside them, listening. She had never heard such talk before and guessed it was the fact that she was supposed to be a fully married woman that had broken their reticence. Or perhaps it was the fact that her powerful father was dead, for he had been the one determined to keep her innocent beyond reason.

“... you wouldn’t believe the size of it,” one woman, Dora, murmured to another. “Didn’t know what to do with it, though. Now, that barrel-chested one, he knows.”

“I like a big man myself.”

“Big where, though?” smirked Dora.

“Everywhere.”

Laughter.

“You listen to me, Edie,” said Dora. “It’s what’s in their head that counts, not what’s between their legs. The best futtering I ever had was from a wizened old man when I was just a girl. Showed me what’s what, he did. I had to teach my Johnnie everything, or it would’ve been in and out every night of our lives.”

Imogen wished someone would teach her what’s what. On the other hand, she feared she knew. The woman were talking of lust and sinful things, and just see what came of it. Dora was lewd and lost, ready to go with any man who offered. She probably did take a man’s thing into her mouth. Imogen wondered if Father Wulfgan could show the woman the evil of her ways.

But then Dora sighed. “As it was, Johnnie were all I ever wanted. If he’d not taken that fever, I swear I’d never have let another man between my legs, no, not even the king.”

“You didn’t, Dora!”

Dora managed to look coy. “Didn’t I then?”

“Oooh! What’s he like?”

Dora looked around, pleased with her audience, but then seemed to notice Imogen for the first time. She went red. “I’m sure it’s not proper to talk of it.”

Now everyone was looking at Imogen. She forced a smile. “Don’t worry about me. I’m a married woman, too, now.”

“Yes, lady,” they chorused, but the conversation was dead. After a while, Imogen put aside her work and left, hearing the voices spring up again soon after.

She was tempted to sneak back and try to listen, but she was Imogen of Carrisford, and above such things. And those women were low and doubtless sinful.

The idea popped into her head: FitzRoger surely knew what was what, and probably liked low sinful women.

Imogen was so deep in thought that her steps took her once more to her tower room. There she found Father Wulfgan awaiting her, frowning blackly. “We were to pray together today, daughter.”

“Were we?” Imogen did not remember such a plan, but she knew she had not been in any state yesterday to remember much. She looked for Elswith, but the priest must have sent the girl away. Imogen wished she could send the priest away.

“Do we need to pray?” she asked.

“Indeed we do, daughter. For cleansing, for strength, or for forgiveness.” He eyed her as if he could strip her down to the soul.

Imogen did her best to look completely blank, but Dora’s spicy talk was still running sinfully through her brain.

Wulfgan fell to his knees.

Under his fiery gaze, Imogen had to do the same.

“Now, daughter,” he whispered. “Speak through me to the Lord Jesus, who, though tempted day and night, never sullied thought or action with woman. What happened last night?”

Imogen couldn’t think what to say, but even if everything had gone as expected she did not think it proper to discuss it, even with a priest.

“Is it possible?” Wulfgan asked in ecstasy. “Are you still innocent?”

“No!” Imogen instinctively lied, then waited for God to smite her.

Nothing happened, and Wulfgan did not appear daunted. “But did you avoid lust?” he demanded.

Imogen looked down at her joined hands. “Yes,” she said, rather sadly.

“Blessed child! And did you help your husband to avoid lust?”

“Yes, I think perhaps I did.”

His dirty twisted hands clasped hers. “Twice, thrice blessed! You have set your feet on the road to sanctity, and will take him with you to his heavenly reward. Now, pray with me for continued strength. Christe, audi nos ...”

Imogen sighed and made the response to the litany. “ Christe, exaudi nos. ” If they were to do a litany, they would be here for ages. Her knees would be as sore as her feet.

“Pater de caelis, Deus...”

“Misere nobis.”

“Sancta Virgo Virginem...”

“Ora pro nobis...”

FitzRoger went fleet-footed to the solar, disconcertingly aware of something that might be eagerness. Inappropriate eagerness in view of the situation between him and his bride. His heart chilled when he found no trace there of Imogen. Not an item of clothing, not a comb, not even a long glittering hair on the pillows. The bed had been remade, as if it had never been touched.

Where was she? He could not allow this.

He left the empty room, walked briskly along the corridor and ran up the winding stairs to the pretty tower room that had housed the Treasure of Carrisford, the place where they had fought their battle of wits. Even without its hangings and glass window it had been an exquisite setting for a jewel, symbol of her life before disaster. She doubtless felt at ease there.

His jaw tightened. If she wanted a pretty casket, he would give her one, but it would be one they shared.

The drone of praying voices stopped him outside the door.

“Ut nosmetipsos in tuo sancto servitio confortare et conseverare digneris...”

Imogen replied, “Te rogamus, audi nos.”

To strengthen and preserve us in thy holy service...

We beg thee, hear us.

“Ut mentes nostras ad celestia desideria erigas...”

“Te rogamus, audi nos.”

To raise our minds to desire the things of heaven...

We beg thee, hear us.

FitzRoger made a fist against the rough stone wall. After a moment he swung on his heel and returned to his room.

Toward Imogen he felt only impatience and pity, but he would like to throttle that guilt-mongering priest.