Chapter 12
When he reached the solar, FitzRoger looked down at himself and shook his head. Perhaps it was as well he had not confronted Imogen immediately. It had been a successful day’s hunting and he stank of blood, sweat, and entrails. That would doubtless disgust his delicate bride even more.
There was a bathroom in the bailey at Carrisford, fitted out with tubs and a cistern of hot water. Lord Bernard had doubtless stopped off there to render himself pure before even entering his keep. Henry and the rest of the men were there now, scrubbing, and enjoying the whores. FitzRoger had been in no mind to join them and endure more of their lewd jests, and so he had come here, not even thinking that he might confront Imogen in this state.
That lack of thought bothered him.
He had always intended to command a tub in his room, and now he did so. He stripped off his soiled garments, then stood deep in thought as he awaited the bath.
Just what should he do about his bride? He was certain it would be better to rid Carrisford of the priest, but he had promised that Imogen would rule here, and he would keep his word if he could. An inconvenient chaplain was not a matter upon which he had the right to overrule her, unless the priest interfered in military matters.
The more pressing issue was whether he should consummate the marriage tonight despite her pleas and protests. The way her body had tightened up against him dismayed him. He supposed force would work, but at what cost? The thought of painfully ripping into a terrified girl brought bile to his throat, but this situation was very dangerous. Henry could not afford to have anyone but FitzRoger hold power in this corner of England, and Henry would expect his friend and liegeman to achieve that purpose in any way possible.
FitzRoger turned his mind to a simpler matter: that of compelling her to move back into this room. That was essential if they were to conceal the situation.
He flinched even from that.
There was something very wrong with him.
The tub and water arrived, brought by servants who glanced in nervous awe at his naked, scarred body. When Imogen had first seen it she had not been frightened, but that was before. Afterward, she had refused to look at him.
He waved the attendants away and eased with a sigh into the hot water. As he scrubbed himself clean, he pondered his situation.
He supposed they could sleep apart. It would appear strange, but that was not the sort of factor that ruled him. One advantage of his life in Henry’s libidinous train, and his reputation in combat, was that no one would think to question his virility.
Wouldn’t they be amused, though, to hear that his bride remained an unsullied virgin? Well, not completely unsullied.
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes to contemplate sweet, painful memories of Imogen writhing beneath his touch, and to consider the mess that had developed out of a straightforward grab for power.
The door opened. He opened his eyes instantly.
Imogen went pink to see him in the tub. She had her arms full of clothes. “Oh, I’m sorry, my lord,” she said, half retreating, then bumping into a girl who followed her with a small chest.
“Come in,” he said. “We’re married, remember?” He was experiencing an astonishing wave of relief. She was moving her belongings in here. She had never intended to desert him.
Eyes averted, she entered and put down her burden, directing the maid to place the chest against a wall. She was delightfully pink, and with her ravishing hair floating long and loose, she looked every inch the virgin she was. His body immediately wanted to rectify that, but he had never been ruled by his body before, and would not weaken now.
Even if he could practically feel her warm silky curves under his hands...
Her modesty amused him when she’d lain naked with him the night before. Was this a natural reversion—he’d never known such a gently raised lady before in his life—or a result of new exhortations by the priest?
She headed for the door again. “I’ll come back in—”
“Stay.” It came out as more of a command than he wished, but she halted.
“Girl,” he said. “You may go.”
The wide-eyed maid left and closed the door. Imogen appeared frozen.
What now? “Perhaps you could wash my back,” he said.
She approached the tub nervously. With a bathhouse and bath attendants, he supposed there had never been any question of the Treasure of Carrisford bathing a guest.
“The king?” she asked in sudden anxiety.
She was right. Normally the presence of the king would demand the chatelaine’s attention. “He will not expect your attentions, never fear. There are plenty of women in the bathhouse.”
“Whores,” she said with a look.
“Yes. Better the women who are happy to serve than the ones without a taste for it.” He saw the expression that flitted over her face and almost regretted the words. Then he thought with irritation that a bit of guilt and jealousy might do her good.
She was standing there, undecided. He leaned forward to give her access to his back.
Imogen walked behind her husband and considered him.
His back was an impressive piece of sculpture: hard with bone and muscle, so hard, but scarcely marked at all except for what looked like a burn scar over one shoulder blade. The splash of shiny scar tissue almost looked like a badge of honor.
His skin was darkened by the sun to the color of rich, golden wood, but darkened more above the neck. She supposed it was paler lower down but couldn’t remember. She’d only looked at him once, and her mind had not been on skin coloration.
Imogen took a cloth and dipped it in a dish of soap, then began tentatively to circle the cloth over him. He felt as hard as he looked. Why had fate linked her with such a hard man?
Because she needed one. And he wasn’t always hard and cold. He’d shown her kindness and warmth, and her woman’s instinct told her there was more, much more, if she could only find the way.
She remembered how good it had felt last night when he had stroked her back. That delicious stroking had not felt particularly lustful, just very sweet. Would he experience the same pleasure if she did it to him?
She rinsed the cloth and added more soap, then rubbed the soapy cloth on his back in circles. She watched for his reaction. He had rested his head on his knees, and he looked as if he was enjoying it. She began to use longer, sweeping strokes of the cloth, covering the whole of his back and wide shoulders. It was strangely pleasant to be doing it, almost as pleasant as when it had been done to her.
Had he enjoyed touching her last night? Had there been more than lust in him?
Imogen grasped her courage. She knelt and rolled up her sleeves. She let the cloth fall, and dipped her fingers directly in the soap. She used her slippery hands, both of them, to massage him, thumbs up the spine, hands splayed over the ribs. Up, around, down. Out across the ribs, following the fine lines of his muscles. Up and over the shoulders, hesitating momentarily at the roughness of scar tissue marring him there, then sweeping down again. She relaxed in delight at the silky feel of his resilient muscles flexing beneath the pressure of her hands.
Since it didn’t seem to hurt him, she pressed harder and harder, exploring him down to the bones, and the feeling from it crept up through her hands and arms and into her soul, entrancing her....
She became aware that her legs were cramping under her.
She eased away and up, her last touch being an irresistible gentle tangle with one of his damp curls. Back in reality and thought, she wondered nervously what he would say.
“Thank you.” It was very soft, almost sleepy. “You’re very good at that.”
She smiled. It fact, she grinned. It was sweet in her heart that there might be something she could do for him that was pleasant for them both.
“Shall I rinse you now?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She trickled a little of the clean water down his back, washing away the traces of soap.
He seemed to come to life. He stretched slowly, muscles rippling, then rose to his feet in a stream of soapy water. Imogen could not help but take a step backward, clutching the jug.
He glanced at her, and if there had been any relaxation, it was immediately disguised by the mask. “The cloth?” he said.
She quickly put down the jug and passed him the large cloth, trying to keep her eyes from his body. How silly she was. She noticed that he was paler, very pale, around the hips, that his male member was in its unalarming state.
She breathed more easily.
“Perhaps you could find me some clean clothes. I don’t mind what.”
Imogen was pleased to turn away and bury her head in his chests. “Plain or splendid?” she asked.
He sounded slightly amused. “You choose.”
Imogen investigated his three chests, and found it was not an easy choice. There was clothing here of all sorts from leather to tissue. He could outshine the king again, or appear almost peasant-plain. She knew it wouldn’t matter; FitzRoger’s presence did not depend on gaudery.
In the end she chose black braies, a white shirt, and a black tunic embroidered with green and gold. It was rich but not particularly showy. She added a pair of linen drawers and some green bands for his cross-gartering.
She turned to present them to him.
He was sitting on a bench with the drying cloth loosely wrapped around his hips. She should be getting used to his body, but she wasn’t, and knew her face was coloring.
“When you’ve patched me up a few times, you’ll doubtless find me unalarming.”
“Patched you up?”
His eyes sharpened. “Don’t you treat the sick? Why not?”
“Y-yes,” she stammered. “But not... I haven’t generally tended wounds. I know how... I think.”
“You think,” he echoed dryly. “Doubtless more of your father’s pampering. Was he keeping you from the wounds, or from the men?”
“You are not to mis-say my father!”
“I will say what I please, Imogen. Perhaps your father could afford an ornamental woman. I cannot.”
She tossed the clothes at him. “Then you shouldn’t have forced me into marrying you, should you?”
He stood so the cloth dropped and pulled on the drawers. “I didn’t force you, Imogen.” He added pointedly, “In any sense of the word.”
Imogen bit her lip at that.
He began to put on the braies. “And any man, even the noble Earl of Lancaster, would want a wife’s tender care if injured. That presupposes, of course, that the earl would put himself in a situation to be wounded in the first place.”
Imogen wished she had something else to throw at him. “Do you sneer at everyone? How wonderful to be so superior! Is it Lancaster’s fault that he didn’t have to claw his way up off a dung heap?”
He was cross-gartering his right leg and his hands did not falter, but she saw his jaw tighten. “Imogen. Take care.”
Days of being attacked, bullied, coerced, and used boiled up in her. “Why? What will you do to me now? Hit me? For telling the truth?”
He knotted the laces and looked up. His eyes were wide and cold. “Come here.”
A jolt of fear shot through her. What had possessed her to taunt the dragon like that?
“Come here,” he repeated.
Imogen wanted to run, but her dignity would not permit that. She walked over to him, liquid with fear.
“Sit down,” he said, indicating the bench.
Imogen almost collapsed with relief onto the bench. She kept her eyes on her own tight-clasped and none-too-steady hands.
“Imogen,” he said levelly, as he resumed his gartering, “I intend to be gentle with you, but you can make that very hard. I am not...”
At the hesitation, she looked up, wondering. She’d never thought to witness FitzRoger less than certain of his every move. He was not looking at her, but seemed focused on the work of his hands.
“I am not well acquainted with gentleness,” he continued, “whereas harshness and clawing my way off the dung heap are deep in my bones.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you....”
His eyes flicked to hers, still icy. “You didn’t hurt me. You hit a nerve to which I have an instinctive response. That is a very dangerous thing to do. If you are wise, you will not raise my birth and background when you want to fight.”
“I don’t want to fight,” she protested.
He finished the second bow. “How strange, then, that you do it so often.”
“You provoke me!”
“You are easily provoked.”
“Only by you!”
He twisted suddenly.
Imogen’s wrists were snared by one hand, her hair by the other. His leg held hers captive. She was completely helpless in the trap of his rock-hard body. Her heart galloped and she let out a whimper of fear.
“See,” he said softly. “Know with what you deal.”
Her terror subsided as she realized he still intended her no hurt. “I never doubted you could best me physically, FitzRoger.”
“And every other way, Ginger.”
That annoyed her and she twisted, but only succeeded in hurting herself. His grip tightened to the point of pain as he gave no quarter. Held as she was, the only way to avoid his green eyes was to close hers. She didn’t. “What am I then?” she asked bitterly. “A doll for your amusement?”
“What do you want to be?”
His body was still invincible on hers, but his eyes were warming. That gave her courage. “I want to be your equal,” she said, and thought he would laugh.
He didn’t. “Then work toward that goal.” He released her carelessly and picked up the shirt. Imogen shivered and rubbed the white pressure marks on her wrists. Looking at the power of him, she despaired.
“I am to practice with the sword?” she asked bitterly. “Try to grow muscles like yours?”
He pulled on the shirt and turned. “It’s your dream. Achieve it how you wish. I was a puny eight-month child, after all, and called a bastard.” He tied the laces at the neck of his shirt and pulled on the tunic. “But that is not necessary. I am stronger than the king, and could kill him in single combat. Does that make me his superior, or even his equal? No. I am his to command. I will fight on his behalf.”
Imogen looked over his impressive body with new, thoughtful eyes. “You will fight for me, too?”
A brow rose. “I thought I had already done so.”
“Yes, you have....” Imogen was completely confused. “Why do you serve the king?”
“He has helped me to climb off the dung heap, so I owe him my allegiance. He can also reward me.”
“Why will you serve me?”
He looked at her from under his lashes. “Perhaps for the same things.”
Reward. That set the alarm bells ringing. “I can see that I have helped you climb, but what reward did you have in mind, FitzRoger?”
He turned away to take a gilded belt out of a chest. Dryly, he said, “I’m sure the Treasure of Carrisford has something to offer a dung-born bastard.” When he turned back, she caught her breath. He looked magnificent and formidable in black and gold, and his words were laughable.
“Wherever you started, Lord FitzRoger, you have no need of pity now.”
“The last thing I have ever wanted is pity, Ginger.” He gestured ironically toward her clothing. “Are you not going to seek to equal me in display?”
“I have little.” Imogen’s thoughts were all on the man. Now and again she glimpsed something, something her heart yearned for, but that mask was between them and she didn’t know if what she saw was foolish illusion or guarded treasure.
He started to sift through the pile of clothing she had brought—making a mess of it in typical male fashion. He chose a mauve gown and a gold silk tunic which she had only kept because of the magnificence of the material. “Wear these.”
“The tunic’s torn down the side and I don’t think it can be mended. Look at the way it frays.”
He tossed it to her. “Wear it anyway. With enough jewels on top no one will mark the tear. I want people to see the Treasure of Carrisford tonight.”
Imogen rose. “See what you have won?”
“Exactly.” He slid two bracelets of gold on his wrists and then took a pouch out of his chest and gave it to her. “Your morning gift.”
Color flooded her cheeks. “But...”
“I am not dissatisfied, Imogen.”
She gazed into his eyes and saw only truth.
She opened the pouch and out spilled a girdle of amethyst and carved ivory. The work was exquisite and it equaled anything she had ever owned. She knew that this was a political move—he had to give her the gift or explain the lack—but tears pricked at her eyes anyway. “Thank you.”
“Dress,” he said. “The king will be in the hall soon.”
He sat back on the bench and stretched out his legs.
He was going to watch? Imogen froze.
“Your naked body will not inflame me with lust, Imogen. Dress.”
Imogen began to take off her tunic, then paused. She let it drop again, and faced him, dry mouthed. “No.”
His face was completely still. “Why not?”
“It may be right before the law, it may be right before God even, but it does not feel right to me.”
He rose and walked toward her, menace radiating from him.
Imogen flinched. She had finally gone too far. With hopeless defiance she held her ground and met his eyes.
Then he relaxed and real warmth glinted in his eyes. “Well done,” he said, and left the room.
Her legs gave way and she crumpled to kneel on the ground, trembling as if with an ague. How had she done that? She would never have denied her father in that way, never mind FitzRoger.
It was as if she were impelled to make these stands, to assert her rights, when she wasn’t even sure she had rights. The only person who had advised her to stand firm on an issue was Father Wulfgan. Everyone else would surely advise her to be submissive to her lord in all things.
Especially in bed.
Except that her lord appeared to be encouraging her to rebel.
When Imogen descended to the hall, she wore the clothes FitzRoger had chosen and the beautiful girdle. She had summoned Elswith to plait her hair as a gesture toward her married status, but still could not wear a veil without a circlet.
The hall full of men fell silent. She saw in their eyes that they did indeed envy her husband, and she was pleased for it. He came forward to escort her to the high table, to sit beside the king.
“You are radiant,” said Henry with a leer. “Perhaps Ty does know his business after all.”
Imogen looked down, knowing her face was red.
“Ah, the charm of innocence. Pity it so quickly passes. I warrant you’ll be more eager to leap into bed this night, eh? No need to push you.” Imogen could have crept under the table for shame. “Sets up a fine appetite in us all, this kind of thing,” the king went on. “Where’s—” He broke off what he had been saying and Imogen could swear Fitz-Roger’s hand had moved in some sort of sign.
The whores were not in evidence and Imogen realized the king was willing to bend in this matter. It was all an interesting reflection of powers. The king was FitzRoger’s liege lord, but he would modify his behavior to humor him and her.
Why?
Everything was a question of who needed what most.
Henry needed FitzRoger on his side. A king needed powerful men to act for him in the land, and preferred ones he could trust. He would humor and reward those who served him well.
And punish those who didn’t.
Could the same be said of FitzRoger? What did he need of her? Eventually he would need sons, but for the moment he had everything he required unless she told the world that the marriage was incomplete.
For his part, he would humor and reward her if she were dutiful, and punish her if she were not.
He had implied the situations could be reversed. But that meant she should reward him for his service, which presumably meant the treasure. She didn’t think that punishing FitzRoger entered into it. It was all very well for him to be drawing analogies between her and the king, but the fact was that she had no power to oppose him even if she wanted to.
She accepted it. It was the way of the world.
Thinking on these issues recalled what had started their disagreement. Her medical skills. He was justified in upbraiding her. In that respect, she needed to do better.
She had been well trained is such matters, but had never been allowed to practice on serious war wounds or the more noxious diseases. Perhaps her father had been at fault in that, though his aim had merely been to protect her.
She was certainly sure that if FitzRoger were carried home from battle wounded, she would want to be able to care for him properly.
Where were the men wounded in the taking of Carrisford? Doubtless they had been taken to Grimstead monastery nearby, and the number should include Bert, injured by her recklessness. Tomorrow, she would go there and begin learning.
“Why do I think you are plotting something?” FitzRoger murmured.
Imogen started. “I? I am not plotting. Just thinking.” She didn’t want to tell him of her plans just yet. She wanted to surprise him.
His eyes seemed to read her secrets. “Thinking of what?”
She turned to face him. “Are my thoughts not to be private, even?”
“How can they be otherwise, now you have learned to wear a mask?”
“Have I?”
“What?”
“Learned to mask myself from you?”
“Apparently.” He washed his hands in the bowl between them, and dried them.
Imogen did the same, wondering at the implications of his words.
The food was served and talk veered safely to the successful hunt. Two roebuck had been found and killed, as well as a number of smaller venison. As the musicians played in the background the moves of the chase were retold with vigor by the men, the virtues of hawks and hounds were debated.
It was all like, and yet unlike, the way it had been so few days ago. A melancholy swept over Imogen, and she had to fight tears. She kept looking up to speak to her father, but he was not there. There was a stranger in his place. She expected to hear Aunt Constance’s voice, and yet the only female voices were the muted ones of servants.
FitzRoger rose abruptly, and Imogen looked up, startled. Her first alarmed thought was that he was going to take her to their room for marital matters, but he went to the musicians. He relieved one of them of his harp and carried a stool over to the middle of the room.
Conversation ceased as everyone paid attention to him.