Dark Champion #2

Chapter 3

I mogen stumbled along as best she could, clutching her paunch and biting her lip to stop further moans.

“Harry, what are you doing?”

The guard stopped as if he’d run into a wall. There was bluster in his voice as he said, “Bringing these peasants to you, me lord. The ones I told you of.”

Imogen looked up and her heart chilled.

It was the man with the whip.

She couldn’t mistake him, though his bare torso was now covered by a dark shirt. His clothing was plain and he wore only a studded leather belt with pouch and knife, but there was no mistaking his authority. It had to be Bastard FitzRoger.

He whipped his own malefactors? Imogen thought in horror, and her instinct took her a step backward.

On the surface there was nothing to fear. He was clean, personable, and civilized. His features were fine and lean, his eyes a clear green; on a woman they would have been called beautiful. His dark hair rippled down onto his shoulders in the latest fashion her father had so deplored. He was tall and had broad shoulders and strong legs, yet a fineness in his build denied the looming brutality of some fighting men. He was nothing at all like Warbrick.

So why was Imogen’s heart racing? Why had her throat constricted beyond hope of speech? Why was her instinct screaming that she should flee?

Perhaps because of the coldness of those arresting green eyes. As they flicked over her, they seemed to see to her soul and not like what they found there. He glanced at the guard and Imogen was sure she felt the man’s hand tremble before he let her go. A simple nod and Harry made himself scarce.

Bastard FitzRoger sat on a convenient keg, one knee raised to support his arm. “You came to seek justice? State your case. I don’t have much time.” The voice was crisp and impersonal, and she could only be glad of it. The last thing any human being would want would be to attract the interest of this man.

Imogen’s voice was frozen. What could they say that would get them out of Castle Cleeve immediately?

Siward nervously filled the gap. “We were thrown off our property, lord. By Lord Warbrick.”

Imogen saw a spark of interest at the name. She remembered they’d come here because Cleeve and Warbrick were old foes, come here seeking vengeance. That had not changed. Why was she quailing because Bastard FitzRoger had proved to be a hard man? She was looking for a champion, not a troubadour. FitzRoger seemed just the sort of person to be able to help her regain her castle, and the fact that he made her shiver was nothing to do with the matter.

“Where was this property?” FitzRoger asked.

Siward glanced for guidance at Imogen, but her mind had gone blank. “Tatridge,” he said at last.

“Carrisford land?”

“Aye, lord.”

“Do you know the castle?”

Siward hesitated, then said, “Aye, lord.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Lord, we’re only simple folk come to get justice—”

“Tell me about it.” The voice was not raised, but the command was imperative.

Even Siward stuttered slightly as he replied, “L-lord, I don’t know what you want to know. Ask me questions and I’ll do my best to answer them.”

Imogen watched in fascination as Bastard FitzRoger turned a heavy gold ring on his right hand. He had well-shaped hands which promised both strength and deftness, but the movement transfixed her with its silent menace.

“How many entrances?” he asked at last.

“Just the main gate and the postern,” Siward said.

And that wasn’t true, thought Imogen, for there was an entrance which connected with the secret passageways. She supposed Siward had used it in getting her out of the castle.

“How is the main gate protected?”

“There’s a drawbridge and portcullis, lord. The passage beyond is narrow, well-guarded, and has murder holes. Like this one.”

“Do you know how many men garrison the place?”

“No, lord, but enough.”

“What about the postern?”

“Two guards, I believe, and it leads to a narrow passage with a farther door before the castle proper.”

Imogen saw the sharpness in FitzRoger’s eyes, and stiffened. He suspected something. “You are surprisingly well informed for a peasant.”

Visions of the whipping post flashed before Imogen’s eyes. She heard a moan and realized with shame it came from herself. The green eyes turned to impale her.

“Sit down, woman,” he said sharply. “There’s a box behind you. And if you’re going to drop the babe, go find the goodwives.” Imogen complied before her trembling legs gave way. He had already turned back to Siward. “Well?” It was like the crack of his whip.

“My brother’s a guard there, lord.” Imogen could have kissed Siward for his calm, convincing answer.

FitzRoger’s eyes traveled them both, and such was the power of his gaze that Imogen was astonished he didn’t realize her identity immediately. He was clearly alert to the fact that they were not what they seemed.

Suddenly his questions and the bustle around them clicked together to make a whole picture and her heart gave a little leap. “You are going to attack Carrisford,” she said.

He stood smoothly and came to her, an unpleasant smile sparking on his lean face. The farce was over, it said, and now we’ll see sport. “And you are very gently spoken for one brought so low.”

Imogen was still frightened of him, but the implications overwhelmed fear with hope. FitzRoger had heard her plight, and was already preparing to ride to her rescue. She rose and abandoned deception. “Are you going to attack Carrisford, Lord FitzRoger?”

He hooked a thumb in his belt and studied her. “That is my intention, woman.”

She smiled up mistily. “Thank you.”

He did look slightly bemused by that. “In what way will my actions serve you?”

Imogen stood as straight as she could. “I am Imogen of Carrisford,” she said with dignity. “As you see, I do not need rescue, but I have come to you for aid, as a knight and vassal of our liege the king, in regaining my home from Lord Warbrick and wreaking vengeance for foul deeds.”

The green eyes widened. Imogen rather thought she’d rendered him speechless. When he took a breath, she realized he had not in fact been breathing normally for a few seconds.

“Lady Imogen,” he said, and something gleamed in his eyes. It reminded her of a cat sighting a mouse far from its hole. She took a hasty step back, but she had forgotten to hold her paunch and it slipped. Her grab to support it drew his eyes and the blade-sharp coldness snapped back.

“I think I will need proof of your identity, lady.”

“Proof? How can I prove who I am?”

“Your condition argues against you being the Flower of the West...” His eyes wandered over her, stripping her of her dirt and disguise. “Or at least suggests a very strange tale. Come with me.” He turned and strode toward the keep, confident that they would follow.

They did so, but slowly. Imogen simply could not force her swollen feet to move more quickly.

He turned back, sharp displeasure on his face, but then he looked at her feet. He moved quickly to swing her into his arms. She gasped in surprise but could not but be grateful for the relief from agony.

“You stink,” he commented.

“I’m sorry,” she replied with as much dignity as her position allowed. “There are also fleas.” With a degree of malice, she added, “Which are doubtless even now moving with relish from my dirt to your cleaner flesh.”

As he began to mount the wooden steps up to the entrance to the keep he looked her over with a frown. “Take off your headcloth.”

Silently thanking Siward, Imogen obeyed and saw his grimace at the greasy mess revealed. He would not be able to tell whether it was her famous hair or not. Her instinct was working furiously and telling her not to lower her guard with Bastard FitzRoger. The more she kept him uncertain, the better. Her pregnancy was definitely a good idea and she would maintain it until she was sure of his honesty, or—more likely—until she was safe in the protection of the king.

Imogen couldn’t help but notice, however, that her porter was very strong. He was climbing the steep stairs quickly without any change of breathing, and she was not a particularly dainty lady. She was of average height and well-rounded. Her father had always told her she had excellent hips for childbearing.

Since she had sought out this man she should be pleased at his strength, but instead it made her nervous. Imogen was, for the first time, having to consider a protector’s strength being used against her. The plain truth was that Bastard FitzRoger could do with her as he wished, and all she had to oppose him was her wits.

On the other hand his very strength was having a peculiar effect upon her. Protected as she had been, she had rarely even touched a man other than her father. Now, under her hand she could feel a rock-hard shoulder—but warm, living, moving rock. His arms, his torso, all had the same vital firmness.

Her father had been a big man and very strong, but he hadn’t been so hard . It was as if all Lord Bernard’s massive strength had been condensed down into this man’s slighter form—rocklike and singing with power. It frightened her, but it also excited her in the strangest way....

She told herself to stop such thoughts. She was in danger of losing her wits altogether. It had been a horrendous few days, but she could not afford to give way. Not yet.

The simple question was, how far could she trust this man?

She doubted she could trust any man.

In desperation she clung to one clear thought. Whether he was a kind man or not, Lord FitzRoger had heard of her plight and already been on his way to champion the damsel in distress.

FitzRoger carried her through the arched doorway into the castle hall. It was a large chamber hung with cloths and banners, but it had a harsh, crude feel to it quite unlike her own elegant home. The walls were unpainted stone, the hangings were crude and dirty, and the rushes on the wooden floor were stale. It was also deserted. She supposed everyone was busy outside preparing for the relief of Carrisford. That cheered her.

FitzRoger walked straight across the room and into a narrow tower staircase. This proved more difficult to negotiate with her in his arms, but he managed it, and without banging her head or her feet. She had to admire his competence.

The upper floor of the keep was divided into a number of plain rooms. He stopped in the first and lowered her to sit on the floor. There was a bed there and she looked at it meaningfully.

“The fleas,” he said coolly, brushing his hands as if he had just carried a noisome load. Which she supposed he had. “I will send some women and a bathtub. I am willing to assume you are Imogen of Carrisford until it is proved otherwise, and treat you accordingly. But do not attempt to leave this room without my permission.”

He didn’t need to make threats. It was clear from his tone and expression that what the young man had said was true. There was only one crime in Castle Cleeve: not following the master’s orders. And justice would be swift and ruthless.

He turned toward the stairs and Imogen called out, “Stop! Please, what has happened to my man?”

He turned back sharply, his gaze traveling her swollen body. “What is he to you?”

“My seneschal,” she said quickly. “He is an old man. Be kind to him.”

“He will be given the same care as you for now.” He again moved to leave.

“Lord FitzRoger,” she called, and he turned with a touch of impatience.

“Will you help me regain Carrisford?”

Then he did smile. “Yes, of course, Lady Imogen. I am already preparing and tomorrow we ride. You, of course, will want to accompany us.”

It was spoken as an edged challenge, but Imogen matched his smile. “I will insist upon it, my lord.”

With a nod, he left.

Brave words did not make brave hearts, however. Alone for a blessed moment, Imogen sagged back on the floor. It was tempting to give way to tears. Her father was dead. Her home was despoiled and in the hands of a cruel enemy. Her maid had been viciously treated, perhaps killed. She didn’t know what had happened to her beloved aunt. She was alone in the hands of a cold, unpredictable stranger.

She forced back the tears and the weakness that inspired them. She was Bernard of Carrisford’s daughter and she would prove herself worthy.

She turned her mind to Bastard FitzRoger. She had little experience of such men; under her father’s eye, no man had ever dared be other than courteous to her.

How was she to judge such a dark power?

How could she be sure, for example, that once he had regained her castle he would turn over control to her? The king, of course, would see to her affairs as soon as he became aware of the situation, but FitzRoger could drain the place of supplies and cause serious damage before then. If, she thought bleakly, Warbrick left anything of value after doing the same thing.

There was also the concern that FitzRoger was reputed to be high in the king’s favor. If he did steal from her, would the king enforce the law and grant her reparation? Henry Beauclerk would not have crossed Bernard of Carrisford, but would he pay much attention to his daughter?

Of course, an additional problem was that the king would now have the choosing of her husband. Sweet Virgin, was ever an untried maid so beset with problems?

Imogen had to wonder when the idea of wooing her would occur to FitzRoger. She had not heard that he was already wed or betrothed, so he would have to see her as a ripe plum for the picking. She had no intention of marrying such a man, so her pregnancy could turn out to be very useful indeed.

Three women came in with a tub and lined the inside with thick linen cloths. Imogen was soothed by this evidence of gentle living in such a rough hall. They went away and returned with pails of hot and cold water and filled the tub, adding herbs. One laid out clean clothes for Imogen to wear.

The women eyed her disgusting state curiously but were otherwise as respectful as she could wish. They would have bathed her, but Imogen could not allow that. She sent them away and they obeyed quite readily. Imogen had to admit that she wouldn’t touch herself either if she didn’t have to.

As soon as she was alone she ripped off the foul rags, the paunch, and the sandals. She scratched some of the worst bites, and sank with a blissful sigh into the water. Her feet stung, but it would do them good to be cleaned.

It felt so very, very good.

It would have been easy to fall asleep in the steamy comfort of the bath, but the women would soon return, and so Imogen took up the cloth and the pot of soap and began to wash. When she saw how foul she was, she scrubbed viciously at every inch of her body.

When she started to wash her feet, however, she hissed with agony and stopped. More careful cleaning showed they were in a terrible state. They were puffed up almost beyond recognition. There were swollen blisters all over the soles, and weeping, bleeding sores on the sides where the thongs had rubbed. How had she walked on them? How was she to walk now?

Dabbing at them gingerly, she tried to tell herself that they’d be better in a little while with the soaking.

She resumed the attack on the rest of her body, then turned her attention to her hair. She soaked it, did what she could with the soap, then rinsed it with clean water. She really did need a maidservant to help with this task, for her hair was thick and wavy and fell to below her hips.

Would she ever have dear Janine back to brush and braid her hair? That raised unbearable thoughts, however, and she pushed them away.

When she was as clean as possible Imogen stood, but a moment on her feet had her back sitting, tears in her eyes from the pain. Sweet Savior, what was she to do?

Eventually, she climbed out of her bath by hoisting herself on her hands and falling out onto her bottom. She discovered there was a spot on each heel which could take some weight without protest, and so she managed to dry herself. Then she shuffled over to her paunch and bound it on, and pulled the clean cotton shift on top.

At last she was, just possibly, safe.

Safe? she scoffed. How safe was she when she couldn’t even walk? She was as helpless as a babe.

She eyed the low bed. If she was lying on it when the maids returned, perhaps no one need know just how vulnerable she was. She worked her way awkwardly over to the bed and hoisted herself onto it. Surely by morning she would be able to walk.

Why was she so afraid, when she was in the keep of an ally? Apart from his coldness, the Lord of Cleeve was being a perfect knight. He had been willing to hear and aid two destitute peasants, as a good lord should. He had given her a room, clean clothes, and a bath. He was preparing to recover her castle.

She suddenly wondered why the Lord of Cleeve had not been among her suitors.

He had been busy since coming to Cleeve, of course, occupied with taking control of his property and helping the king repel invasion, but other men as busy had found time to at least express interest. With Carrisford and Cleeve lands adjoining there would have been arguments in favor of the match.

Of course, he could well have realized that someone of such dubious origins would not have been a strong contender. Lord Roger of Cleeve had denied both paternity and the legality of the marriage to the Bastard’s mother. This man’s taking of the name FitzRoger had been a calculated taunt at the man he claimed as father. It was only since the coronation of his friend and patron, Henry Beauclerk, that Lord FitzRoger had obtained validation of his legitimacy. He had not yet managed to shed the nickname Bastard, and perhaps never would.

Imogen doubted that anyone actually used it to his face.

Imogen nodded, satisfied that she understood the situation. He’d either never thought he’d have a chance of wedding Imogen of Carrisford or he’d approached her father and been dismissed. Now he could well be thinking that doing her this service would bring him into favor. He still was not the sort of husband she wanted, but she would try to be kind when the time came to dismiss him. His irregular origins were not his fault.

The women peeped in. Imogen smiled and allowed them to come and clear away the bath. One produced a comb and began to work it through Imogen’s wet hair. “It’s so long, lady. And I swear it looks like gold where it’s drying. Such beauty...”

Then one of the maids gave a squeal of horror and pointed at a bloody patch on the sheet. “Oh, lady! Your poor feet!”

Before Imogen could prevent it the woman ran off to get help. Soon a monk appeared along with the master of the castle.

“This is Brother Patrick, Lady Imogen,” said FitzRoger. “He’s more accustomed to sword cuts and saddle sores, but he should be able to tend your wounds.”

Imogen thought of protesting but guessed that if she did, the master would simply upend her and present her feet to the monk. Anyway, her feet did hurt and she wanted the use of them tomorrow.

FitzRoger leaned against a wall, arms folded, and watched as Brother Patrick inspected the damage. The monk shook his head in a worrying way, then set to work, cleaning the weeping flesh then smearing salve and applying bandages. It hurt.

Throughout the painful ordeal Imogen’s awareness of FitzRoger’s impassive observation firmed her courage. She’d pledge her soul to the devil before she’d whine with those cold green eyes on her.

“How bad are they, Brother Patrick?” FitzRoger asked as the monk began to bind her feet.

“Not as bad as they look, my lord. As long as no infection sets in, they will heal.”

Imogen caught her breath at the very notion that they night not heal. She remembered her father dying in agony from a festering wound and a chill swept through her.

She looked up and her eyes were caught by FitzRoger’s. “They will heal unless you are foolish,” he said. “I’ve seen enough wounds.” Despite the brusque tone, it was almost as if he realized her fears and was offering comfort.

He strolled closer to the bed. “You improve with washing,” he said casually, “no matter who you are. You do fit the description of the Carrisford heiress.”

“That is hardly surprising.”

A light flickered in his eyes. “Robust,” he said, “with gingerish hair.”

Imogen gaped. “It is not ginger !”

He picked up a strand, letting it fall before she could slap his hand away. “If it’s not, then perhaps you are not the Carrisford heiress. I wonder what the penalty should be for impersonating a highborn lady?”

Despite the fact that she could never be found guilty of such a crime, Imogen felt a tremor of fear. “You have no right to punish me.”

“You have placed yourself under my governance.”

She glared up at him. “I have not. I have come to you, equal to equal, for aid against my enemies. My father was always an ally of Cleeve.”

The monk finished his work. “Please do not walk on those feet for at least two days, Lady Imogen,” he said, “and send for me if there should be any increase of pain or swelling of the legs.”

At least her confrontation with FitzRoger had distracted her from Brother Patrick’s final ministrations.

But two days? “I can’t stay off my feet for two days,” she protested.

“You must if you want them to heal,” said the monk. “And don’t try to wear shoes.”

Brother Patrick left and Imogen looked down with disgust at the bandaged lumps at the ends of her legs. How could her body betray her at this crucial time?

Then she realized the women had also left.

She was alone at the uncertain mercy of Bastard FitzRoger, and forbidden to make any attempt to escape on pain of death from festering feet.

She could feel the pounding of her heart but kept her chin up and her expression stern.

At least FitzRoger moved away from her, going to sit on a bench beneath the narrow window. The sun was low now and fiery. It touched his dark hair and tunic with red, so that Imogen was reminded of the devil.

He raised a thoughtful finger to his lips as he studied her. “There are stories,” he said at last, “of secret ways into Carrisford. Do you know those ways?”

Imogen’s heart skipped a beat. This was not what she had expected. Even the existence of those secret ways was a family secret, a sacred trust. How had he heard of them? She remained silent.

His expression hardened. “If Warbrick holds the castle, you want him out of there, do you not?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must tell me all you know about the place.”

It made sense, but it had always been strongly impressed on Imogen that a secret escape is also a secret entrance, and a known secret is no use to anyone. “You said you were taking me with you to Carrisford,” she said at last.

“Hardly practical anymore.”

Imogen wanted nothing more than to stay in this bed and be taken care of, but she could see her duty. “I can ride,” she said.

She expected an immediate protest. No one ever allowed the Flower of the West to put herself in danger or discomfort. If had often chafed her.

Instead he nodded. “It will not be easy, but if you insist it can be done. We should be in no great need of speed.”

“Then,” said Imogen, “I will tell you what you need to know when you need to know it.”

“What I need to know?” he echoed. He turned that heavy ring again, then rose smoothly and moved toward the bed. “Did you not say we are allies, Lady Imogen?”

She pressed back into the pillows and nodded, dry mouthed.

“Allies are honor-bound to help one another.” He raised one foot and rested it on the bed frame, leaning forward on his knee, looming over her. “In all ways.”

Imogen remembered thinking that he did not loom. Foolish error.

“Can you read and write at all?” he asked.

She was startled back into her voice. “Yes.”

“Then I will have some parchment sent up with pens and ink. Draw a plan of the castle and put on it all the information you know. Everything.” It was as if she had never spoken. “Tomorrow we’re going to Carrisford, Ginger. If you withhold any useful information, I’ll take it out of your skin. If you deceive me, I’ll strangle you myself.”

She believed him. She would have disappeared under the bed if she’d been able, but she kept her chin up and her eyes on him. “Then you do believe I am who I claim to be?” It came out a little thin, but she was proud of having got it out at all.

“I said I’d treat you as such until proved wrong, didn’t I?”

He leaned forward and picked up a strand of her long hair, twisting it around his finger. “If you are playing a part, sweet Ginger,” he said softly, “I recommend that tomorrow you take any opportunity that presents to run—swelling feet or no.”

Imogen was frozen.

Then he released her hair and straightened. “I’ll have a supper sent up along with the writing materials. Good night.”

He was gone and she could breathe again, try to calm her hammering heart. Her instincts had been right all along. She had snared a dragon, not a hunting hound, and was as likely to be its dinner as its mistress.

She closed her eyes on tears. She wanted her father back to guide her, Aunt Constance to fuss, Janine to comb her hair and lay out her beautiful clothes and jewels. She wanted her home. She didn’t want to be in a strange place, alone, and having to be brave.

She had no choice. She remembered her father’s words and knew that the taste of gall was on her lips.

After she had eaten the plain but adequate supper, Imogen drew a careful plan of Carrisford for Bastard FitzRoger. She told herself she did it because he was her champion and was going to win back her home for her. She knew she also drew it to pacify him.

She even included the section of the passageways which ran behind the walls of the great hall, for they would be easy to find by anyone who suspected their presence, and the link between them and the lower ones was hidden.

Despite her fear, however, she did not include the lower passages or the entrance they provided to the castle.

After all, it was possible that Warbrick had abandoned Carrisford when he found her missing. It would be utter foolishness to give away the family secrets unless absolutely necessary.

All the same, she chewed the quill nervously, wondering what FitzRoger would do when he realized most of the secret passageways weren’t shown.

Of course he wouldn’t whip her.

But neither was he a man to make idle threats....

Fear and confusion about the nature of her paladin—not to mention the bulk of the unaccustomed paunch and her sore feet—should have kept Imogen from sleep, but exhaustion was stronger. She slept deep and dreamless and was only reluctantly roused at dawn by a serving woman.

Imogen discovered she was in a worse state than the day before. She ached all over and the sores on her feet protested at the lightest touch. She briefly thought of changing her mind and staying there in comfort until her home was secure again, but she could not. She was Imogen of Carrisford and her duty called her there. Lord knows what FitzRoger would get up to if she was not with him to protect the interests of herself and her people.

It was awkward to dress, even with two women to help her, but she managed it. Then she ate a breakfast of bread, cold pork, and ale while her hair was worked into two fat plaits. By the time this was done her spirits had improved. With movement some of her stiffness had eased, and she was cheered by the thought that soon her home would be secure once more, and she safe in it.

The clothes provided were simple garments of linen and wool, but clean and colorful, as opposed to the rags she had worn for her flight. The women brought some large shoes which would fit over her bandages, but they hurt, and after one tentative attempt at standing Imogen found Brother Patrick had been wise to suggest she stay off her feet entirely. The slightest weight on them was excruciating. If she wasn’t going to stand, never mind walk, she had no need of shoes.

One of the women was bold enough to venture a protest. “You shouldn’t go anywhere today, lady. You bide here with us, and let the master handle matters.”

Imogen gritted her teeth. “I will be able to ride.”

When she was ready to travel, one of the maids went to find someone to carry her. Imogen braced herself for another encounter with FitzRoger.

However, it was a stranger who entered her room. He was a handsome young man of high rank, already dressed in mail but with brown curls uncovered. “Lady Imogen,” he said, and bowed. “I am Renald de Lisle who has the honor of carrying you to your horse.” His expressive dark eyes suggested he had fought the hordes of darkness for the right to be her porter.

He was clearly French, not Norman. It showed in the way he spoke the language, and in his mannerisms. Imogen could not help but smile in the face of his unconcealed delight at his task. Why could not all men be as appealing?

Though not quite as tall as FitzRoger, he was of more massive build, with heavy shoulders and a broad chest. He picked her up without effort. Imogen leaned at ease against his mailed chest. She noticed that though he had the same strength as FitzRoger, Sir Renald didn’t cause her to turn giddy.

It all went to show it had just been exhaustion and hunger.

Sir Renald smelled slightly of herbs, perhaps from his clothing. She tried to remember what FitzRoger had smelled like. But then her stink would have blotted out any odor more subtle than vinegar. What a way to be first seen by a man, she thought with despair. He would probably never forget her standing there in grimy rags, eight months gone, and half crippled.

Sir Renald broke into her thoughts. “Such a pleasant duty,” he said cheerfully. “I thanked my brother-in-arms most warmly for appointing me his deputy.”

“You refer to Lord FitzRoger?”

“Indeed. We are brothers of the heart, demoiselle. We were poor together as we sold our swords. We vowed that if we became rich we would be rich together. And here we are.”

The warmth in his voice was startling. How extraordinary to think of cold FitzRoger having any friend, especially such a friend. Sir Renald carried her out of the keep and Imogen savored fresh morning sunshine and a light breeze that caught at the edge of her skirts. A good day for victory.

“And what do you do for the Lord of Cleeve, Sir Renald?” she asked as they began the descent to the crowded, noisy bailey.

“At the present I am his master-at-arms as he shapes up these lazy rogues he has inherited from his brother. One day, as his riches increase, he will give me land of my own. Me, I do not care. I have food, a roof over my head, fine clothing, and enough fighting to dispel boredom. I am in Paradise.”

Just then he carried her past the blood-darkened whipping post. The previous day’s scene returned to her mind, and she saw again Bastard FitzRoger wielding that whip. She heard the men screaming. And their only crime had been a bit too much to drink.

Imogen shuddered. Paradise? Only the coarsest type of man would find Castle Cleeve a paradise. Just let these warriors wrest her castle back—it was all they were good for—and she would seek out a sensitive, civilized husband, another man like Gerald of Huntwich.

Instead of being put on a horse of her own, Imogen was settled to ride pillion behind a solid, middle-aged soldier. He told her gruffly his name was Bert, and it was clear he wasn’t too pleased with his role in this day’s events. Imogen wasn’t too pleased with the arrangement herself, but within moments she had to admit that she would have found it hard to manage a horse. Stirrups would have been out of the question. Sitting sideways on the pillion seat, she found her feet gave her no pain. She hooked her hand over Bert’s leather belt and resigned herself.

Sir Renald kissed her hand gallantly before he left to mount his gray destrier. FitzRoger rode past bareheaded. His squire rode behind bearing his shield and helmet.

FitzRoger’s eyes traveled over his force, taking in every detail. Without hesitation or hurry they passed over Imogen. She could imagine his mind ticking off: “... one heiress, mounted...” Then they were off at a steady pace which should bring them to Carrisford, she reckoned, by late afternoon.

It was a pleasant day for riding and without even the work of guiding a horse, Imogen settled to enjoy it. The Castle Cleeve lands appeared to have given good crops and fat kine were in the meadows. There was much unused land, though. She had heard that FitzRoger’s brother, Hugh, had not been a good lord, so perhaps these lacks could be laid at his door.

The people were busy with the last of the harvest. They looked up and watched their lord as he passed. There were no friendly cheers such as had regularly greeted Lord Bernard, but nor was there sullen resentment. It was as if they took their tone from him and were cool.

FitzRoger occasionally rode away from the line of troops to speak to a group or inspect something. Always checking, she thought sourly. Nothing was allowed to escape his perceptive green eyes.

Her father had been a good lord and had been deeply loved. She didn’t think that was the case with Bastard FitzRoger, which was hardly surprising. Who would love such a harsh man? But she saw that he was respected. She thought how significant it was that they all called him “the master.” Discipline among his men was as tight as the shine on every visible piece of metal, and yet the soldiers sang as they rode and any grumbles were humorous ones.

Imogen decided with irritation to put aside this obsession with her paladin—her champion. He was nothing more to her than a tool.

She’d help him to take Carrisford, even show him the secret entrance if necessary, then she would settle to restoring her home and holding it safe. She would, of course, give him a suitable reward for his help and that would be that. She’d make sure the next message to the king got through. Henry would crush Warbrick as he deserved, and then Imogen would carefully select a husband.

She began to run her previous suitors through her mind. To her surprise, she found them an unsatisfactory lot. From safe within her father’s protection they had seemed well enough, but now it was clear that one had been too stupid, another too cruel, another too clumsy, another too vain, another too old...

FitzRoger was making one of his periodic rides along the line and he pulled up his chestnut beside her. “You frown, lady. Are you in pain?”

“No, my lord.”

“Tired? If so, I’m sorry for it but we cannot stop.”

“I have no problem except tedium, Lord FitzRoger.”

“Some people pray daily for a tedious life, Lady Imogen. I’m afraid you must wait for excitement until the fighting starts.”

Annoyingly, he was gone before she could think of a fitting response. She twisted to follow his progress down the column. He stopped here and there for a word or a joke. Or a rebuke. Imogen saw one man turn pasty white after a few quiet words.

Despite FitzRoger’s saying they could not stop, they did stop three times—to rest and water the horses. The comfort of the horses, after all, was much more important than that of a mere heiress. At each halt Sir Renald carried her to a shady spot and settled her on a blanket there.

He never lingered, however, but was off with FitzRoger making another round of men and mounts, checking, encouraging, admonishing. Imogen had never had anything to do with warfare before, and she began to suspect it was as much a matter of organization and planning as violent action.

At the third halt food was served—bread, cheese, and ale. Sir Renald brought Imogen her portion, but then went off with his friend on the usual inspection. After a while, however, the two men came and threw themselves down beside her, sharing a skin of ale and a loaf.

It was past noon and the day had turned hot. Sir Renald pushed back his mailed hood to reveal damp hair. “I hate summer fighting,” he grumbled.

“Lose some fat,” said his friend unsympathetically.

“I am not fat,” Sir Renald rebutted. “Only an inhuman monster such as yourself would not feel the heat with thick felt, heavy iron, and a surcoat on.”

“I feel the heat,” said FitzRoger. “But I enjoy a campaign whatever the weather.” He turned to Imogen. “I hope you are not overheated, lady.” His tone implied that the sentence could be completed “... for I’m not going to do a plague-ridden thing about it.”

“Since I have on only two thin garments, my lord, it would be churlish of me to complain.”

He deliberately eyed her swollen body. “Women in your condition tend to feel the heat.”

Imogen knew her cheeks were flaming as if she roasted. She needed to get the conversation on a different track. “Can you tell me what has become of my seneschal, my lord?”

“Strange,” he mused, “how any mention of your impending motherhood seems to bring him to your mind. I wouldn’t have thought such an elderly man to your taste, but women are strange creatures...”

Imogen was about to protest this fiercely when she detected a glint of humor in his eyes. The wretch was daring to tease her! The only response to such impudence was to ignore it. “He is my trusted servant,” she said coldly.

“Then your trusted servant is back at Cleeve in safe but considerate captivity.”

Imogen stared at him. He was holding Siward hostage. “It would be dishonorable to mistreat an old and faithful retainer.”

“If you behave yourself he will not be mistreated,” he countered blandly. At his signal the camp began to prepare to leave—gathering up scraps and tightening girths. As FitzRoger uncoiled to his feet, he asked, “Who, then, is the father of this most inconvenient child?”

Imogen looked down. “I cannot tell you that,” she answered with perfect honesty.

He grasped her chin and raised it so she had to face him. “You are not secretly married?”

“If I had a husband I would have no need of your protection, would I?”

“That would depend on the husband.” He let her go and strode away to supervise the reassembly of the fighting force. Imogen wanted to hurl a lethal projectile at his arrogant back.

Renald de Lisle bent and lifted her into his arms.

“Sir Renald,” said Imogen tartly, “though you doubtless feel your friend has all the virtues, I find him uncivil and unkind.”

She felt his rumble of laughter as a wave through her body. “Of course I don’t think he’s a paragon of virtue. He’s a rogue like me. But he’s a man of his word. What promises he makes he will keep, and that’s more than can be said for most men.” He deposited her once more in the pillion saddle.

Imogen shivered. When she thought of some of the promises Bastard FitzRoger had made to her, de Lisle’s words offered no comfort at all.