Dark Champion #2

Chapter 7

T o Imogen’s disgust, her short foray into the hall had brought up some of the blisters on the soft soles of her feet. She fumed against her body’s weakness but set her mind to action. Even if she had to stay in her bed, she did not need to be powerless.

She sent Martha to find youngsters who would not be needed for other work and set them to being her eyes and ears.

Soon she had reports of who was dead or injured, and who just missing. As FitzRoger had said, all the garrison were dead, along with five servants, the monks, and Janine.

“Is there news of my aunt?” Imogen asked the boy who was reporting.

“Laid to rest in the chapel vault yesterday,” said the lad cheerily.

“Dead?” It hit her like a blow. She had just assumed that Aunt Constance had been spirited away too, and would soon return. Why would anyone kill such a kind lady? “Buried?” she asked. “Without a word to me?” Anger rose to drown grief. “How dare he?”

The boy took a step back. “You were sick, lady.”

“He could have waited.”

The boy kept wisely silent. She waved him away and grief returned. She was truly, truly alone.

She pressed her hands to her face. She would not cry. She had promised herself she would not cry. Constance had gone to her heavenly reward, as had her father, Janine, all the soldiers. They were much happier now than before, or so the Church would say. She called up Father Wulfgan’s teaching. This life was just a brief moment of pain and sorrow. It was the afterlife that we should long for.

It didn’t, she discovered, ease the grief of those left behind alone.

The sense of loss almost overwhelmed her, but she knew that if she once gave in she could drown in it. She remembered a village woman who had lost all her children to a fever. The poor soul had wandered mindlessly about the area, and then one day had been found in the millpond. Imogen could not afford that road; too many people depended upon her. She pushed all thoughts of her losses away and set her mind to restoring her home.

She reminded herself to ask if Brother Patrick was around. She probably needed more salve for her feet. That reminded her of Lancaster’s physician. What had become of him? He had trained in Spain, and was much more skilled than a soldier’s monk.

Enquiries merely discovered that he had disappeared during the sack, but that no body had been found. It was assumed that he and his servants had escaped.

So Imogen asked for Brother Patrick’s help. The monk applied a salve to her sores and again recommended that she keep off her feet as much as possible. “I understand your impatience, Lady Imogen,” the man said, “but each adventure delays the healing. And if you were to venture into the bailey I fear infection.”

Imogen had to accept that lying in bed for a few more days was her fate. She continued her administration from there.

She discovered that a handful of Carrisford servants had weathered the siege by hiding, and that they were being helped with essential tasks by FitzRoger’s men. Imogen sent lads out to the nearest villages to spread the news that she was in control of Carrisford once more, and that everything should return to normal. Her people should return to their places, and the village headmen should send supplies.

Carrisford had always been good to its people and she knew they would rally to her support now.

Her little messengers told her that the wine in the cellars had been drained, and that Lord FitzRoger—or the master, as her people would keep calling him—had already brought in some supplies from Cleeve and sent for more.

Frowning, she made notes on waxed tablets, keeping tally of what she owed him. Once she was mobile again, she would find a way to slip down to the secret treasure vault and bring up enough coin to pay him off.

It would be very dangerous to be in that man’s debt.

She would also bring up some of her jewels. He must be brought to realize that Imogen of Carrisford was not a poverty-stricken suppliant but a great lady.

The grains had fortunately only been spilled out of the bins and much had been recovered, so bread was in production, but what joints had been available had gone. There was meat, however, for the slaughtered stock had been butchered for use.

Then she was told FitzRoger had gone off hunting. That hardly seemed necessary with so many carcasses around. She curled her lip at the thought that he was off amusing himself when there was so much work to be done.

All the same, Imogen was surprised at how the knowledge that he was out of the castle affected her. She was keyed up for another assault on her. Now, with him gone, she felt freer, but also nervously vulnerable. What if Warbrick returned?

She stopped in her record keeping and sucked on the end of her stylus. Freedom or security. It was a choice.

I choose freedom, she thought firmly, but wondered if the secret entry had been sealed. That was a task FitzRoger could delegate; he would not need to enter the passages himself. She made a note to check on it. It made her very nervous to think of the secret ways lying open now they were known.

Her precious supply of spices was apparently missing, along with the fine carved chest that held them. Her chests of cloth—the silks and sendals, samites and tissues—had been spilled out into the bailey and stamped into the dirt. Curse Warbrick. One day she’d see him dead for what he had done. As soon as there were enough servants, she would have some women do the best they could in cleaning the lengths of cloth. She would surely need new clothes from somewhere and she wasn’t sure she should spend coin on adornment just yet.

Though most of the stock would soon have been slaughtered before winter, some would have to be replaced. She would prefer to offer coin directly but had none. She sent for laying hens and milch cows anyway. Surely Imogen of Carrisford’s word was good.

Every time she looked up she was aware of her missing window and her bare walls, and was reminded of the destruction wreaked throughout the castle. She put it behind her. Time enough for elegance later. For the moment it was the necessities of life which concerned her.

Feeling as if she trespassed, she sent a boy to report on the state of the soldiers and armory, and on the progress of repairs. He brought back reassurance of security. The men all knew their business and were well armed. Those not on guard duty spent their time in repairing weapons.

She should have known FitzRoger would not have left the castle vulnerable. She remembered that time after the castle had been taken, when the men—unsupervised—had acted efficiently. He kept a well-trained force.

And they had been unsupervised because their leader was spewing up his terror of closed dark spaces in the arms of his lieutenant.

Imogen pushed that image away. It softened her to think of FitzRoger’s point of vulnerability, and that was dangerous. He would give no quarter in this fight, and anyway, look how he had reacted when she had mentioned it.

She frowned over the problem her supposed champion represented. He had his fingers into everything in Carrisford, and his men were her guards. He had all the people thinking of him as the master, and he’d even buried her aunt without Imogen’s authority or presence.

She had better winkle the man out of Carrisford before he put down roots!

The only way to do that, however, was through the king, and that would lead to her speedy marriage to a man of King Henry’s choosing.

She found she had chewed the end of her wooden stylus almost to a pulp. She threw it down in disgust.

Henry Beauclerk had only been on the throne of England for a year and Imogen had no idea what to expect from him. FitzRoger claimed he would sell her to the highest bidder, and FitzRoger was said to be close enough to the king to know. King Henry’s right to the throne was being challenged, and he was also plagued by Belleme and a number of other restless barons. He doubtless did have wavering supporters to buy.

But surely he would never sink so low as to try to buy Belleme or his brothers with her?

Then she remembered her father discussing the rumors that Henry Beauclerk had been behind the death of his brother, King William Rufus, who had so conveniently died of an arrow while hunting. Lord Bernard had been warily watching the new king, withholding judgment. If a man would kill his brother, would he balk at anything?

Imogen felt as if her mind were whirling in circles. If she didn’t want to submit to the king’s whim, she had only two alternatives. She could offer herself to one of her established suitors—probably Lancaster—or accept the unspoken proposal of Bastard FitzRoger.

She collapsed back against her pillows and tried to think straightly about her choices. The king was a gamble and Imogen was not a gambler.

Lancaster then.

Lancaster was many years her senior, but that was not unusual, and not a matter to take into consideration. She knew her duty as Lady of Carrisford. She should not look for someone pleasing, but for a strong and just lord for her people.

It was as well, she thought dryly, that she could put aside her own tastes if the choice lay between Lancaster and FitzRoger. Neither appealed to her. One older, and seeking always the easy way, not the right. One younger, hard, and frightening.

But, whispered a tiny part of her mind, he would not seek the easy way.

Then she sat up straight.

As wife to Lancaster she would have to live at his principal castle in the north of the country. She would rarely return to Gloucestershire. After all, Lancaster owned Breedon, which lay in this part of the country, and had scarcely ever visited there even when he had come to Carrisford to court her.

Marriage to Lancaster would mean leaving Carrisford.

How could she care for Carrisford from so far away? How could she know if all was well, if justice was fair, if succor was given in times of hardship?

These questions had never arisen when her father was alive to care for his land. He had not been an old man, and it had been assumed that Lord Bernard would live to see a son of hers hold Carrisford after him. Now, however, everything was different. Having just taken Carrisford in her grasp, having suffered to save it, was Imogen now to abandon it?

She saw a hateful decision rearing up to face her.

After all, every mighty lord in England—king’s choice or her own—had the same disadvantage. They would expect her to live on their estates far away from Carrisford.

Every lord except Warbrick and FitzRoger, whose principal estates bordered hers.

Warbrick was out of the question.

The Castle Cleeve land adjoined hers. Moving between the two would be easy.

Though she disliked him, FitzRoger had impressed her with his competence. If handled properly, he would keep both estates safe, and she was certain he would not shirk his duties through indolence.

Imogen wiped damp palms on her skirt as her mind skittered around the point.

Martha came in with a pile of laundry.

“What do the people think of Lord FitzRoger?” Imogen asked the woman.

Martha laid her load down and considered it. “He’s got a hard edge on him, that’s for sure, lady. People ’round here have had it soft, and many a one’s tried to shirk or whine, but they soon found it better to work.” She began to sort the wash. “He’s a fair man, though,” she said, “and keeps his men in line. I’ve not had so much as a pinched bottom.” She sounded a little regretful.

Imogen licked her lips. “And... and has he whipped anyone?”

“Whipped?” asked the woman in surprise. “Not that I’ve heard of, my lady. Not but what that Sir Renald don’t carry a lash and sting a body here or there if they try to malinger. Some people ’round here are bone idle.”

Imogen felt dizzy. “Sir Renald?” She’d thought him so gentle. But that wasn’t the biggest surprise. “Are you saying my father was lax in the running of Carrisford?”

Martha looked up in alarm. “Lord, no, lady! Sir Bernard were a fine man and a great lord. But times have changed. Under your father everything had gone along smoothly for, well, for nigh on twenty years. There were people aplenty and everything always kept in first order. Now everything’s in disarray and half the people are missing.” She shook out a sheet that still had boot prints on it. “Look at this. See what I mean? Lazy work.” She threw it on the floor to go back to the laundry. “All have to work twice as hard and many don’t like it much, lady. It wouldn’t surprise me if some of those that fled just aren’t hearing that all’s well, hoping most of the work’ll be done by the time they return to claim their place.”

Imogen knew her people and that had the ring of truth. Life had been soft and easy at Carrisford—for her and for everyone.

Suddenly she knew what FitzRoger was out hunting. He’d never waste his time chasing deer when they had too much meat. He was chasing her missing servants. She remembered that terrible whipping post.

“By the Grail,” she muttered, “if he bullies my people...”

She commanded that her bed be moved over to the window so that she could observe the goings-on in both baileys. She’d see exactly what FitzRoger was up to when he returned.

She put aside her momentous decision, waiting to see what would be revealed next.

FitzRoger returned alone. She noted that he had ridden out bareheaded in only a leather jerkin sewn with metal rings. She supposed with disgust that it would stop an arrow if he were lucky.

Then she wondered why she was worried about his safety.

Because he was her temporary bulwark against the world?

No, because she’d decided to marry him.

All unconsciously, the decision was made.

She studied the man with new eyes. He was hers. He was her strong right arm. He should protect himself better for he would be no use to her wounded.

It was all very practical.

Why, then, was her mouth dry, her heart pounding? Was it fear? It didn’t feel like fear.

He tossed his reins to a man and walked briskly toward the main tower with a smooth, easy grace which denied hours in the saddle. By the Virgin, she’d like to see him weakened, at least limping!

She bit her lip when she realized that directly contradicted her previous thought. He was going to drive her mad.

He passed out of sight but not out of mind. He would be a good lord to Carrisford, she admitted, but would he be a good husband?

Would he be kind? She thought he would if she didn’t cross him. Would he beat her? The answer was yes if she did something to deserve it. She shivered, but was surprised not to feel great fear. She realized she believed him just.

She hoped to heaven she was right. He could kill her with one blow.

Would he allow her some hand in the running of Carrisford?

Yes, he would, she decided, because that would be her condition for the marriage. She must remember her worth and set her price high.

And what, she thought hesitantly, of the marriage bed?

She remembered Janine and pressed a hand over her eyes, fighting nausea. It would not, could not, be as bad as that for her.

There would be a bed, not a table. She would not fight and so no one would have to hold her down. FitzRoger was surely not so... so gross as Warbrick, she told herself, remembering that huge, engorged phallus.

It was a normal thing, after all, and necessary for children. She could endure it as other women had since Eve. She had broken her arm once and had it set without one cry. It was simply a matter of closing the eyes and thinking of something else.

It would merely be another taste of the gall.

Now, the sooner she told him, the sooner it would all be done, and she could settle to restoring Carrisford. She listened for his brisk footsteps.

After a little while Imogen realized he wasn’t coming hotfoot to report to her. That annoyed her, but she controlled her irritation. Letting FitzRoger catch her constantly on the raw was to play into his arms.

She tapped her finger and considered strategy. She could send for him and acquaint him with her decision. It was tempting to get it over with, but Imogen knew it would be wiser to wait and make him try some more of his dainty maneuvers. Then she would be able to settle on better terms.

It was just like bargaining with an itinerant merchant, and Imogen had always been good at that. The first rule was not to show how interested one was in the goods.

She became aware of noises and looked out to see FitzRoger’s men on horseback driving some of the castle people into the outer bailey like a herd of sheep. At least the people didn’t look to be beaten or frightened. She set herself to watch.

FitzRoger came out again and waited as the group progressed to the inner bailey. They were filed toward him. He spoke to each and consulted a listing in his hand.

She caught her breath. That was the record of the castle staff. He had no right to be using it without a word to her!

Each one was given something and sent off to their job. When the sun shot a gleam from one of the items being handed over, Imogen realized he was giving them a silver farthing each. It could be seen as a rehiring fee. It was a crafty move designed to soothe any grievances, but she felt herself seething. It meant that as far as they were concerned they had been hired by him!

More people who saw him as the master.

She felt her teeth ache from the pressure she was exerting on them and muttered a few unpleasant curses in his direction. She imagined she had a bow and was sighting on his back. No, not his back—that was still protected by that leather jerkin. His neck. Could she hit his neck at this distance? She was a good shot with her small bow and thought she could.

She imagined an arrow hissing through the air to strike—

He suddenly turned and looked up at her. She almost cowered back as if she really had sent that arrow. Then he raised a hand in salute and turned back to the servants.

They, however, had followed his look and now set up a cheer. “Hail to Lady Imogen! Hail to Carrisford!”

She grinned and waved back.

That for you, Bastard FitzRoger. They know their true liege.

Their genuine pleasure at her safety heartened her, but it still galled her that he was down there acting as her deputy, perhaps even seen already as her lord, while she was trapped here by her cursed blistered feet.

She lay back and shut her eyes. Oh, Father, she prayed silently to her earthly father, not her heavenly one, am I doing the right thing? Why did you not prepare me better? I always expected to choose a husband under your guidance, and then live for many years with the knowledge of your protection.

What would you think of Bastard FitzRoger? He frightens me, Father; but I think you’d like him. He’s good at what he does and you always liked people who are good at what they do.

I wish I didn’t have to marry him, Father; but I have to marry someone. You always made it clear that was my duty, and now I find he seems the obvious choice, the only choice. It’s very strange. It’s as if I’m impelled toward him. Is this the instinct you always spoke of or is it madness?

Watch over me, Father. Guide me....

She heard the door open and her eyes flicked open to see Bastard FitzRoger in the doorway.

“Were you sleeping?” he asked. “I’m sorry if I woke you.” He’d taken off his jerkin and was dressed only in braies and a fine linen shirt, belted at the waist. The unlaced neck revealed his finely muscled chest glossed by sweat.

Imogen hastily sat up and grabbed for her wits. “I was thinking of my father.”

He perched on the end of her bed. It seemed shockingly intimate and she almost protested, but there were enough important things to fight over without descending to the petty.

“You have scarce had time to grieve, have you?” he said. “From the stories of how Lord Bernard doted on you, you must miss him.”

“Of course I miss him. But he didn’t dote . He... he loved me.” Her voice almost broke and she took a deep breath, praying that she wouldn’t let the tears escape.

“It is acceptable to cry, you know, when someone so close dies.”

Imogen won the battle. “I’ll never cry before you, FitzRoger. That I vow.”

That stillness came over his face that she knew was anger, tightly controlled. “I hope at least that you never cry because of me,” he said quietly, “though I suspect you will.” He rose. “If you’re in the mood for grieving, I should leave you in peace.”

He was halfway to the door before she cried, “Stop!”

He turned, mildly surprised, but not as surprised as she. Imogen had no idea why it seemed so important to keep him here. This wasn’t the time to tell him she’d marry him.

“Surely we have things to discuss,” Imogen said.

“Do we?”

She remembered her grievances. “You buried my aunt without me.”

“It was necessary.”

“You could have waited a day. I wanted to say farewell. She was very dear to me.”

Imogen couldn’t read his expression, but it wasn’t inimical. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It seemed better to get it over with.”

She could hardly demand that poor Aunt Constance be disinterred. “What about the people you have just rounded up and herded back here like sheep?”

He relaxed and humor glinted in his eyes. “They seemed to have forgotten the way home. I merely guided them.”

“I won’t have them punished,” she told him.

“Not at all? No matter what they do?”

He was laughing at her again. “I mean, I won’t have any flogging at Carrisford. I don’t forget what I saw at Cleeve.”

“Ah,” he said, sobering. “You feel compassion for those two wretches, do you? That is Christian charity.”

Imogen was being made to feel in the wrong, when she knew she wasn’t. “Being drunk is not praiseworthy, but hardly calls for such brutal punishment.”

He was no longer laughing, but very serious. “Imogen, I am at times harsh, but never brutal. I permit no man of mine to drink more than weak ale on duty, and they all know it. Those men were not only drunk, but guilty of rape while wine-mad. One of their victims was a mere child, who died of it. I would have been in my rights to hang them, but I wanted the lesson to the other men of like mind to be more memorable.”

Imogen didn’t know what to say. Rape. A child. How young a child?

He shrugged, misinterpreting her silence. “Unless you see the victim, I suppose such punishment does seem cruel. I assure you, I have no intention of punishing those people I just brought in. That would be to dissuade the others.”

“They will come as soon as they hear,” she protested. “Doubtless the news of events here is slow to travel.”

“News of events here is traveling faster than wildfire, Lady Imogen. I hardly feel you need to send a message to the king. He’ll already have heard. Doubtless your more optimistic suitors will be pounding on the door any day, too, including the worthy Lancaster. Am I to admit them?”

That was dragging the conversation to the point with a vengeance.

“What alternative is there?” she asked dry mouthed, hoping to make him take the first step.

She saw recognition flash in his eyes like green fire and her nerve almost faltered. “Me,” he said softly. “Better the devil you know...”

He was still very controlled and yet she could tell from his eyes, from a minor change in his breathing, that he wanted her—or more precisely, wanted Carrisford—very badly indeed.

That put her in a position of power.

She took a deep breath. “I want Carrisford,” she said, striving with all her will to match his control.

He came closer, three steps, to stand at the end of her bed. “What do you mean?”

“I rule in Carrisford after we are wed.”

He considered it and her intently. “Will you raise your own force?” It was not a taunt. It was a straightforward negotiating question. At last he was taking her seriously.

“No,” she said crisply. “As my husband you will do that for me, and command it. But it will be paid separately out of Carrisford income. Land grants will be Carrisford land. Everything will be kept separate, and here I will administrate.”

He nodded slightly as he considered. “Are we to live together?”

She heard “sleep together” and knew she had colored. “Of course. It is no great distance between our castles. I expect we will move between them. It will be easy to go from one to the other in time of need.”

Imogen’s heart was pounding, but it was with excitement, not fear. He was listening, really listening. He was not angry that she was setting terms. The power was like wine to her senses.

“And I want vengeance,” she said. “Vengeance against Warbrick.”

“His head on a platter?” he queried, then shrugged. “I’ll kill him for you, Imogen, never fear.”

“Kill him?” Imogen echoed, taken aback.

“You don’t want him dead?” he asked. “You do have a forgiving nature, don’t you?”

“It’s not that,” Imogen said, unsure how to put her concern into words.

She could swear a smile hovered on his face before being controlled. “You’re worried about my safety,” he declared. “That’s quite endearing. I can’t think who last has been concerned about me in that way.”

“You’re not much use to me dead,” Imogen said defensively, though in truth she had been appalled at the thought of him facing mighty Warbrick, and was touched by the genuine pleasure he had almost shown at her concern.

No one had cared... ?

“How true,” he said, without apparent offense. “So those are your conditions. That you administrate Carrisford, and that I kill Warbrick for you.”

It sounded so cut-and-dried. “Yes,” said Imogen, “but I don’t expect you to kill Warbrick immediately. I’ll take your word on it.”

“Good, because I can’t find him at the moment.”

“You’re looking?”

“Would I ignore such an enemy? He hasn’t returned to his castle, nor does he appear to be close by. It’s possible that he’s gone to Belleme at Arundel. There’ll be fighting soon between the king and Belleme. I have to point out that it’s possible that the matter of your vengeance will be taken out of my hands, or that Warbrick and Belleme will flee beyond my reach.”

“You’re being very honest,” said Imogen, almost suspicious at this goodwill.

“I told you, I always am honest if I can be. I intend to deal honestly with you if you will allow it.”

That was reassuringly convincing. “Then I won’t hold you to your word about Warbrick if circumstances make it impossible.” She was amazingly comforted by her decision now it was done. “Now,” she said briskly, “if we’re to wed, there are a number of matters to be seen to. We must discover how Carrisford was invaded and punish the traitors. Have you made any progress? And, of course, the entrance to the passages must be sealed—”

“Not so fast, Imogen. What exactly did you mean by ‘administrate at Carrisford’?”

Imogen was knocked off balance. He wasn’t going to refuse the plum that was falling into his hand, so why this quibbling? “Running the household,” she said, “taking in rents, allocating labor, and dispensing funds as needed.” That was the easy part. She threw in the extra like a challenge. “Justice.”

Still no outrage. “And if a tenant refuses due rent, or is attacked by outlaws or another lord? If a malfeant needs to be apprehended?”

She met his eyes unflinchingly. “Then the men you provide will obey my instructions and go to enforce my will. Won’t they, FitzRoger?”

He smiled. There was distinct admiration there and it warmed her like a fierce fire. “Assuredly they will,” he promised. Then added, “Under my advice.”

It was like a spray from the Irish Sea. “What?”

“You may administer Carrisford as your own, Imogen, but you will heed my advice. My men will obey you, but they will still be my men. If you say ‘Go’ and I say ‘Stay,’ they will stay.”

She found herself kneeling up on the bed facing him, sore feet or no. “That’s not fair!”

“That is reality.” He grasped her shoulders before she could pull herself out of range. “It’s not a bad deal you’ve negotiated. Are we to be wed?”

“No!”

He shook his head and waited. Imogen’s mouth twitched with the desire to tell him to go to hell and take his men with him. Still and all, she would have Carrisford, which was more than Lancaster, or probably any other man in England, would give her.

“Yes,” she said.

His eyes flashed victory and his hands tightened. Imogen pulled back, but he drew her closer anyway. She was held against his body, feeling his warmth through his soft shirt. She smelled herbs from the chests in which his clothes were stored, but he’d been out in the sun most of the day and there was a tang of horse, sweat, and fresh air that weakened her knees so that she suspected he was holding her up.

“What are you doing?” she protested, but faintly.

He smiled down at her. “I’m not going to throw you on the bed and ravish you, Ginger. Don’t you think a kiss is in order?” His hands slid around her, one to curve around her nape, the other to rest like fire in the small of her back.

“No,” she said, but rather unsteadily. “This is a practical, dynastic arrangement.”

He tilted up her chin, laughter in his eyes. “Just practical?” he teased.

“I wouldn’t have chosen you,” she said firmly, “if you weren’t a neighbor with a strong right arm.”

He was unoffended. “Then we’re well suited. I wouldn’t have chosen you if you didn’t own a large chunk of England.”

Before she could spit out her offense at that, his lips were on hers. His hand cradled her head and there was really nothing she could do about it except submit.

Kissing was very strange, she decided. It was a silly business of lips to lips, and yet it made her feel soft and warm, like a hot herb-scented bath, or a potent wine. The feel of his body against hers, only thin silk and fine linen between them, somehow made it worse. Or better.

At least it wasn’t a sin anymore....

She found her arms had gone around him—for support, she told herself, so she didn’t fall off the bed.

The hard, resilient muscles of his torso flexed against her hands. She could almost feel the leashed power humming in them, humming into her so that she tingled all over. A shudder rippled through her....

He drew back and dropped a kiss on the end of her nose. He looked quite different. Younger. Warmer. His voice was softer when he murmured, “As I said, Imogen, we’re well suited.”

That brought her grievance back with a thump and she raised her chin. “Very well suited. You’re strong and I’m rich.”

He laughed and let her go, once more his old, hard-edged self. “I’ve proved my strength, Ginger. Why don’t you prove your wealth?”

He was after the treasure again. She gathered her scattered wits. She’d not give him a sniff of it until he’d signed the marriage contracts giving her control of Carrisford.

He took in her silence and shook his head. “I wonder if you’ll ever fight me about something that really matters. You’ll lose, Ginger.”

Imogen knelt up straight as a spear. “I will not. I am Imogen of Carrisford and you are nobody! ”

At the look on his face she quailed inside, though she wouldn’t let herself retreat.

“If we fight,” he said quietly, “I will win, because you are Imogen of Carrisford and I, until recently, was nobody. I know how to fight in ways you’ve never dreamed of. You don’t know what the world’s like, Ginger, and if you’re a good girl, I’ll make sure you never find out.”

He left before she could reply, his footsteps light down the spiral staircase.

“I hate you, Bastard FitzRoger!” she screamed.

The footsteps stopped.

Imogen froze, her heart pounding. She’d never used that name to him before.

After a heart-stopping moment the footsteps started again, going down. Imogen collapsed back onto the bed. He wasn’t going to take retaliation.

A little part of her was disappointed.

A short time later Renald de Lisle came up with a sheet of parchment, ink and pens.

“What are they for?” Imogen asked suspiciously.

“Your marriage contract. Ty suggested that since you’re the one with most leisure, you should write it out.”

Imogen blinked. “FitzRoger’s leaving me to write it as I wish?”

“Apparently,” said de Lisle with a grin. “Ah, I wish I had spun gold hair and deep blue eyes. I’d have a castle out of him in no time.”

“Only if you married him,” said Imogen tartly.

“True. And only if I had a mighty castle in the first place.” He gestured to the blank parchment. “It is for you to state your terms as you wish, little flower.”

When he had gone Imogen considered the space and what she could write. But in the end she wrote what they had agreed on—excepting the matter of Warbrick—even including his supervision of her rule of Carrisford. It was the way of the world, and he doubtless wouldn’t sign it otherwise.