Dark Champion #2

Chapter 2

T he next day, as the sun began to set, an elderly couple hobbled along the edge of the dusty road leading to Castle Cleeve. The edge of the road was the wise place to walk, for the wide track was busy and each horse and cart sent up clouds of dust. The traffic coming and going to the stern castle on the crag was largely military.

The man was gray-haired, dirty, and stooped beneath an enormous pack. The woman’s hair color could not be told, for she had a grubby white headrail over it, but she looked as if it should be gray too. For all that, she couldn’t be as old as her man, for she was clearly well-advanced in pregnancy. Despite this she too stooped beneath a load nearly as large as his and hobbled like a crone.

Imogen looked up as the castle came into view and felt nothing but relief. It no longer mattered to her if the devil himself waited at the end of the journey; she could hardly go another step. If it wasn’t for the sturdy staff Siward had cut for her, she would have given up hours ago. Her feet were merely balls of agony on the ends of numb-weary legs, and her back screamed with the desire to be straight again.

Their disguise had been wise, however, for they had encountered Warbrick’s men along the way, checking among all travelers for Imogen of Carrisford. When they had faced such scrutiny Imogen had been grateful Siward had insisted that every detail be exact. For the rest of the journey she had simply been miserable.

Her hair beneath the filthy cloth was caked with grease and dirt, just in case anyone decided to look for the famous honey-and-gold hair of the Treasure of Carrisford. Her fine leather shoes had been discarded in favor of peasant sandals tied on with coarse linen strips. Her feet had started out looking like bandaged sores; now they felt like them. Her clothes from the skin up were of the poorest sort and unclean. Her own smell revolted her, the pack straps galled her, and she was itching from bites.

Worst of all was the paunch Siward had constructed and which she had bound to her body with the wide winding cloths commonly used by pregnant women. The effect was of a woman well gone with child, and the deceit would not be detected unless the cloths were removed.

The pregnancy had been her own idea. It would further mislead the hunters, she had thought, and surely give some protection from rape and cruelty. More important, if she could maintain the deceit it could prove even more useful. Should FitzRoger turn out to be more predator than paladin, he would hesitate to wed a woman who carried another man’s brat. That would be to risk having to acknowledge it as his own.

If there seemed any danger of a forced wedding, she would claim the child to be fathered by Gerald of Huntwich. As she had been legally betrothed to him, that should muddy the inheritance situation enough to make any man hesitate. She’d considered herself very clever to have thought up such a plan, but now she cursed it.

The bag filled with bracken and sand had not felt heavy at first, but now it dragged on her bent body. She was convinced even a real babe would not be so hard to carry.

There was one good thing to all this: she no longer needed to act to appear to be a downtrodden peasant rather than a rich young lady. She looked toward the castle as refuge indeed. There she could shed her rags and become once more Lady Imogen, the Treasure of Carrisford, the Flower of the West.

Though it hurt her neck to look up, Imogen studied Bastard FitzRoger’s keep. Castle Cleeve was harsher than Carrisford, and less graceful in its lines, but it inspired confidence. It was set on a rocky elevation and the keep was protected by a deep, steep-sided ditch which ran straight up to its tall, defensive walls. Before the gate the ditch was broken by a causeway just wide enough to allow a single cart to cross. As she and Siward hobbled their way toward it, Imogen admitted she would not like to be an enemy faced with crossing it under fire.

They paused for a brief rest at the end of the causeway. The sun was beginning to set and many people were passing in and out of the castle to find their places for the evening meal and sleep. Still, there seemed more activity than she would have expected.

“What do you think is going on?” she asked Siward.

“Who’s to say?” he grunted wearily. “Perhaps Fitz-Roger’s just arrived, or is just leaving.”

“Leaving,” Imogen echoed in alarm. “He can’t leave now!”

“He won’t go anywhere,” Siward assured her, “once he hears your news. You can drop the pack now, my lady. We’re safe.”

But Imogen looked at the causeway and the well-guarded gate at the end of it and held on to caution. “They seem to let people in and out quite readily,” she murmured. “Perhaps it would be wiser to keep our disguises until we find out what’s going on. Till we discover more of FitzRoger. It should be easy enough to sense what his people think of him.”

“If you don’t ask the Bastard’s help,” Siward asked with a touch of impatience, “what will you do?”

Thought of a further journey was beyond Imogen, but she still felt wary. She remembered her father saying, “Go with your instincts, child. You have a gift for it.” So be it. She could carry her burdens a little longer.

They began to make their slow way across the causeway behind a young man and a woman who looked like entertainers of some sort. Imogen bitterly envied their light step. She looked down and saw a bloodstain on the cloths binding her right foot.

She gave a little cry and staggered. Siward grasped her and she found she was at the very edge of the steep drop. In her exhaustion she had been weaving as she walked. She looked down dizzily at the sharp stones far below and staggered away from the edge. Then she looked again at her feet. They had felt so sore, but she had never imagined them actually bleeding.

“Come on!” said Siward roughly. “Move on, woman!”

Imogen looked up to see that the entertainers had stopped and were staring at them. She wasn’t sure she could go on, but neither could she stay here—

“Move on! Move on!” bellowed a voice and she looked up to see two armed horsemen at the castle end of the narrow path, holding back their prancing horses and beckoning. “Get a move on!” one shouted again. “Get out of the way, curse you!”

The fear that they’d ride them all off the cliff gave Imogen strength and she staggered forward as quickly as she could. The horsemen waited, however, then as soon as the people were across they charged off down the narrow strip of land as if it were acres wide.

Seeing their urgency, Imogen took heart. Surely Castle Cleeve could not be such a bad place if soldiers on urgent business hesitated to ride peasants to their death. And a castle would take its character from its lord.

They approached the guards. The two men surveyed them without great interest. “Business?”

Siward looked to Imogen. She had expected to just walk in, announce her identity, and enlist the aid of Lord FitzRoger. Now that she wanted to maintain anonymity, what reason could they give for coming here?

“We come to seek justice, sir,” she muttered in a thick accent. “Justice of Lord FitzRoger.”

One guard rubbed his broken nose. “Well, you’ve come at a bad time, woman. The master’s a mite busy.”

“Aye,” said the other with a grin. “But he is dishing out justice, Harry!”

Both of them laughed coarsely at this, and Imogen’s feelings about the place changed. She had the urge to flee, but the guards were waving them through. “Go on in. He might find time to heed your plea. Wait to the right of the gatehouse.”

“Wait” translated in Imogen’s numb mind to “rest.” She forced her painful feet down the long dark passage toward the busy castle bailey—an arch-framed picture gilded by the evening sun.

They walked out into pandemonium. A small army of people seemed to be milling around, along with horses, dogs, hawks, and assorted livestock. Lord FitzRoger was undoubtedly busy. Imogen didn’t much care anymore. She found an empty bit of wall, dropped her pack, and sat on it with a bump. She looked at her feet and wondered if it would be better or worse to take off the cloths and sandals.

“What do you want to do now?” muttered Siward as he took his bent stance next to her.

Never move again, thought Imogen. But she was Imogen of Carrisford and her people depended upon her. She must act. But, please God, not for a minute or two.

“Get a feel for the place,” she murmured back. Her instinct was still sending a warning, though she could see no reason for it. “Do you think we could make it to London like this?” she asked.

Siward flashed her a look. “It’d be terrible risky, lady. Unprotected strangers are always in danger, and these are chancy times. Could you walk that far?”

“I might be able to,” she complained, “with decent shoes.”

“Starving peasants don’t have decent shoes,” he replied.

Imogen fell silent and worked at making sense of the scene around her.

Packhorses were being loaded; weapons were being carried here and there. It definitely spoke of a journey and looked like preparation for war. Was it possible Duke Robert had invaded again? Since Belleme and Warbrick had thrown their forces behind Duke Robert, the attack on her castle might have been part of a wider plan.

To add to the evidence of war, she could hear the clamor of an active smithy off to one side, doubtless fixing up swords and mail.

On the other hand, it was said that the king was moving against those who had proved traitor. FitzRoger was the king’s man; perhaps he was planning a punitive mission.

Against Warbrick and Belleme?

The noise of people and animals all around was deafening, but another sound began to stand out. Regular repetitive screams. Memories of Janine sprang into Imogen’s mind and she used her staff to push herself to her feet. Was she to witness another rape?

No, never.

The crowd shifted.

Imogen saw the cause of the noise.

A man was tied to a post and another was wielding a long whip. It was a flogging. A number of soldiers stood rigidly watching, though most people were paying little attention.

Was this such a regular occurrence here?

Each time the lash bit, the victim let out a hoarse, guttural scream. Imogen was amazed he was still conscious—his back was such a bloody mess that the strokes no longer made any visible difference.

The man wielding the whip was also stripped to the waist and she could see hard, contoured muscles rippling across wide shoulders with each swing.

He stopped.

He simply stood there, like a lord watching a show, as his victim was untied and carried away and another man was dragged trembling to the post. The sun moved past a tower, and the scene, which had been in shade, was suddenly grotesquely gilded. The body of the man with the whip seemed to be made of gold and the sun struck red in his black hair.

Then the smooth swing of the bloody whip started again. For a few strokes the prisoner merely jerked as the lash bit, but then the cries of pain began again, more loudly. Each stroke cut a clear new welt.

Imogen turned away blindly, fighting the urge to vomit. This was hell on earth, not a place to seek help.

“We’re leaving,” she said to Siward.

“What? Why?”

“This place is as bad as Warbrick Castle.”

Siward grabbed her arm. “What? Because of a whipping? Your father had many a man whipped. You just didn’t see it.”

“Not like that,” Imogen protested.

“Sometimes like that, aye. He protected you too well, lady. Find out first what those men did before you judge.” He called out to a passing servant carrying trays of ale around. “Ho, my friend. Someone’s getting a fine stinging there. What’s the cause?”

“Drunkenness. But there’s only one cause ’round here, granddad,” replied the cocky youth with a grin. “Not following the master’s orders.” He hurried on.

“Drunkenness!” Imogen hissed. “He’s having a man half killed for drunkenness ?”

Siward shrugged. “I said FitzRoger was a firm lord, and so it proves. Drink can cause a lot of trouble. You’d be mad to scurry away from here just because of a bit of tough justice. He’s hardly likely to have you whipped.” When she did not agree, he shook his head and said, “At least wait till the morrow, lady, and until you’ve seen the man himself. It would be madness to go without sleep and venture out in the dark.”

Imogen collapsed back down on her pack, knowing she was too weary to go anywhere now.

Had her father truly ordered such punishments? She supposed he had but not where she would witness it. Her world had been a peaceful, civilized place—a place where the guards never had to use their weapons, where a guest was always welcomed with smiles and courtesy, and where justice was mild and understanding.

Her father had created such a world for her, but she saw now it had largely been an illusion. Men had marched from Carrisford to war, but it had always been accomplished much more as a parade than a military expedition. The wounded, she now recollected, had always been cared for at the infirmary maintained by her father at the local monastery. The worst she had actually seen was the healed results of war—the occasional missing limb or patched eye.

Imogen had been raised to do her duty as a noble lady, and to care for the sick and injured, but her care had been confined to minor wounds and those diseases unlikely to do her any harm.

Her life at Carrisford Castle had been idyllic, but an illusion. This was reality—Castle Cleeve and Warbrick.

Her delightful childhood had been poor preparation for all this. Siward was right. The least she could do was wait, and listen, and find out what kind of man this Bastard FitzRoger was.

The cocky young man with the ale pots was pushing his way back toward the brewhouse. He stopped. “Here,” he said, and pushed a half-empty flagon at them, then carried on.

Siward called out a blessing and passed the pot to Imogen. She took a deep draft to ease her dusty throat, too thirsty to care that one or more had already drunk from it. It was good ale. Another point in Castle Cleeve’s favor. She passed the rest to Siward and he drained it with a grunt of satisfaction, wiping his mouth on his dirty sleeve afterward.

Imogen supposed that was the sort of thing she should do and copied him tentatively. She hardly touched the cloth to her lips. She couldn’t identify the smells that assailed her from it, and didn’t want to. Then she cursed herself for a pampered nothing. What did a little dirt and discomfort matter when the future of her people was at stake?

She struggled to her feet, moaning slightly when they took her body’s weight again. Quickly, she grasped her staff. The rest seemed to have made the pain worse, not better. It felt as if sharp hot coals were pressing all over her feet and every part of her body screamed.

“It’s as well I’m supposed to hobble,” she muttered as she eased into an almost vertical position. “Let’s see what there is to learn.”

Siward looked down at her feet and muttered a horrified curse. “Lady, you must not—”

“We are here to save Carrisford,” she said grimly. “My feet are not so bad, and the sooner I am easy in my mind about approaching FitzRoger for aid, the sooner I will be able to put aside this disguise.”

They started to circle the crowded courtyard, keeping close to the wall where they were less likely to be trampled by a destrier or knocked flying by a hurrying servant. Even so, they had to stop and start to allow for the constant coming and going from the storage rooms in the wall.

Imogen began to take heart. She noted the overall good humor of the busy throng. There were curses and shouts to get out of the way, but generally people made way and jokes were as common as insults. A slight change in the cacophony alerted her and she looked over to the whipping post. It was empty, no sign of the punished or the punisher. Thank God for that.

A smell caught her attention and cramped her belly. Baking bread. Her stomach growled with the reminder that there had been nothing except water and that swig of ale for over twenty-four hours. No wonder her spirit was so weak.

“Can we ask for some?” she whispered, scarce able to believe how desperately she wanted even a crust.

“No harm in asking.” Siward made his way to the bakehouse door. Imogen peeped in after him and saw the baker and his men, stripped down to loincloths in the intense heat as they shoveled loaves in and out of the stone ovens.

“Any scraps for poor folks?” Siward whined.

The baker looked up and nodded curtly. A young boy picked up a loaf which had fallen into the dirt and tossed it to them. Siward caught it and called a blessing as they escaped into the cool of the bailey. As they pushed their way toward a quiet corner, Imogen felt something wrong. She yelped and grabbed the base of her slipping paunch. The bandages were loosening.

A middle-aged woman was beside her in an instant. “A pain?” she asked. “Are you due yet?”

Imogen shook her head desperately. “No. Not for weeks.”

“Thought not. Probably just kicked you funny. Where’re you from, dear?”

Imogen was having to keep hold of her weighted paunch to stop it sagging and she looked frantically at Siward to answer.

He acted the selfish man and took a large bite out of the fresh loaf, making Imogen’s mouth water. Then he mumbled, “Tatridge.” It was a village on the border of Carrisford, Warbrick and Cleeve land.

“No wonder you’re on the road then, things being as they are—” The woman broke off and cocked her head. Doubtless one of the many shouts had been directed at her. “Have to go. Just find a place to sit, dear.” She bustled off.

Siward immediately passed the loaf to Imogen and she took a huge bite. It was delicious; still warm from the oven. The slight grittiness of earth didn’t bother her at all. “The winding cloths are coming loose,” she mumbled with a full mouth.

“Why not let it go?” he asked. “It’s served its purpose.”

Imogen shook her head as she swallowed. She hadn’t told Siward her full plan for her guise of pregnancy. He’d have a fit at the thought of the Lady of Carrisford appearing to be with child while without husband. “Enough people have seen me like this,” she said. “If we want to leave without speaking to FitzRoger, we’d best not attract attention.” With great willpower she passed the rest of the loaf back, but he shook his head.

“You have it. I’ve had enough.”

He was doubtless lying, but Imogen found she couldn’t continue the protest and settled to enjoying the last of the loaf.

“I must say that grabbing at yourself looked very real,” said Siward. “I half expected you to drop a babe at any moment. But you’d best not go around clutching yourself or we’ll have the midwife hovering. Move back in this corner and I’ll see what I can do.”

Imogen squeezed into a shadowy corner half behind some bales of hay, and Siward groped under the back of her skirts to try to tuck the loose end of the winding cloths back in. Imogen stared at the sky, trying not to look as embarrassed as she felt at the whole thing.

“Hey, you old goat,” called a big soldier who was carrying a bundle of pikes as if they were sticks. “You’re a spicy one, aren’t you? Everyone can see you’ve done your work on your woman. Can’t you wait till nightfall to plow her?” He burst out laughing and all the nearby people looked over and sniggered.

Siward cursed, and Imogen covered her red face with her hands.

“Haven’t got that many years left for it,” Siward called back amiably. “Got to take every chance I get!”

There was a huge gust of laughter from the crowd. “Well, I’m glad you brought your own with you, then. There’s few enough women around here as it is and you’d doubtless exhaust the lot of ’em in one night!” The soldier rolled on his way, still laughing. Everyone else lost interest and got on with their work.

Imogen turned to rest her head for a moment against the cool stone wall. This was getting worse by the minute. “Can we just find a quiet corner and hope no one knows we’re there?” she asked faintly.

“Come on,” Siward said, and though he tried to sound comforting, she heard the amusement in his voice. Everyone thought they’d been... And nobody thought it was wrong, merely funny.

Imogen began to wonder whether she might not be best suited to life in the cloister, as Father Wulfgan said. These last few days since her father’s death the Carrisford chaplain had been urging the advantages of the religious life on Imogen. His arguments about a life of penance and prayer being a sure path to eternal bliss had not carried much weight, but now Imogen could see one great advantage. If she entered a cloister, she wouldn’t have to marry. There’d be no man fumbling at her body.

She’d never end up like... like Janine.

She hobbled after Siward. She couldn’t help thinking, too, that in the cloister she’d have good shoes and clean clothes. There’d be regular food and some of the elegancies of life—music and books. She’d be taken care of and she wouldn’t have to take risks because people depended on her.

You sniveling little coward, she berated herself, and made herself walk a little faster despite the pain. You took delight in being Imogen of Carrisford when all it required of you was pleasure. Now it demands work and sacrifice, and you shrink back. All of Carrisford depends on you, and you think only of your comfort. It is time to prove yourself worthy of your father. Though he was a gentle, civilized man, Bernard of Carrisford held his own and cared for his own. His people were safe within his governance. As his daughter, you can do no less.

Imogen stiffened her resolve.

First she must regain her castle and wreak vengeance on Warbrick for his acts.

Then she must find and marry a man as good and strong as her father so that the like would never happen again.

Then, she resolved grimly, she must endure the disgusting things men do to women so as to bear sons. She would raise them to be good, strong men like her father so that her people would be cared for from generation to generation.

She was dragged out of these lofty resolutions when she realized her “baby” was lopsided. She couldn’t bear to ask Siward to fiddle around with the supports again, and so she put her right hand under the sagging side, pushed up and held it there. She only hoped she’d got it even.

They’d just found what seemed to be a quiet corner, with boxes convenient for sitting, when a voice shouted, “Hey you! Granddad!” They turned.

It was the burly guard from the gate. “What’re you doing, wandering all over? Didn’t I tell you to wait nearby? Lord FitzRoger’ll see you now.”

Imogen flashed panic at Siward. They hadn’t had a chance to question people, to find out what FitzRoger was really like.

Siward put an arm around her and said, “My wife’s not feeling well...”

“Master wants to see you,” the man stated. “She can be sick later.” When they hesitated, he seized them by the arms and began to haul them along. He moved at such speed, that every part of Imogen’s body complained and she let out a scream.

“None of that, woman,” the guard growled. “I’m beginning to think there’s something fishy about you two. You wanted justice from the Lord of Cleeve, and by the Rood you’ll get it.”