Dark Champion #2

Chapter 15

F or the first time in her life, Imogen was awoken with a kiss, but FitzRoger was already in his armor and completely the commander, not the lover.

Imogen eyed him as she dressed. The night almost seemed a dream. But the memories of it would never leave her, for they changed everything. The horror of Janine and Warbrick was set apart in her mind—not forgotten, but apart along with death, disease, and war.

A man’s body close to hers, FitzRoger’s body close to hers, his touch, her needs, were something else entirely, and they lingered like the taste of honey on her lips and in her mind. Nor could she view these matters as evil. Spoken of crudely they could disgust, but shared with trust and care they were surely of the angels, not the devil.

The state she was in was not a state of sin.

FitzRoger had given her—generously, carefully—that explosion of the senses. Her body and mind were still sensitized, even to the cool water with which she washed, and the sliding touch of her own clothing.

And sensitized to him.

Even now, after sleep and the passage of hours, the lightest brush of his hand brought back quivering memories. The smell that was his alone lingered in the sheets and melted her. Now she knew why newly married people were so strange and were given time apart. They were adrift in this powerful new sensuality and unable to cope with everyday matters.

Was he?

As Imogen pulled on her stockings, she slid a look at him.

She sighed. Of course he wasn’t.

He was completely unaffected, and his mind was doubtless entirely taken up with practical concerns. As if to prove it, he looked over at her impatiently. Then his gaze stopped and lingered for one revealing, heated moment on her leg.

Imogen’s breathing caught and she lowered her head to hide a smile. She took rather longer than she needed to put on her stockings.

She remembered knowing, last night, that it was not easy for him to give her pleasure and take none for himself. Perhaps, behind the mask, he too was drowning in sensual torment. Her legs felt none too steady as she rose to join him by the door.

He stood aside so she could pass through.

Then he moved.

His mailed hand pinned her to the door jamb at the neck with precise control—not roughly, but not gently either.

He kissed her, and that too lacked control in its heat and its force.

A jolt of longing shot through Imogen and it came from him. He jerked his head back, eyes closed, as if shocked by his own actions. His very stillness spoke of need far deeper than she could understand.

For her? Or just for any woman. As far as she knew he’d had no woman for quite some time.

He raised heavy lids to expose darkened eyes. He moved his hand as if it were a stranger to him and looked at her neck with frowning concern. Imogen raised her hand to cover her neck, though she knew there was no mark.

Her lips felt bruised.

She waited for him to speak, but he touched her briefly and steered her out into the fresh day.

Would they even wait for tonight to resolve all this? There was nothing to stop them, as soon as they arrived back at Carrisford, from retreating to their room. There was no need to wait for night.

Imogen quivered with nervous longing. She was full of need, but the violence of that kiss frightened her. She had a dragon on a chain; he could warm her with his breath, and soar her high on his wings, but he might, almost absentmindedly, devour her.

When Imogen and FitzRoger emerged from the monastery, she found, as he had said, that twenty men had been on guard. She appreciated his care of her while thinking it excessive. The road from the monastery to Carrisford was well maintained and clear, and curved invitingly before her. The sun was burning away the last of the morning mist, slowly making invisible the lacy spiders’ webs strung between the grasses; birds sang cheerfully in the greenwood all about.

There was clearly no danger out here, and they would be home in a trice.

She heard a groan and turned.

At first there was no evidence of a problem, but then she noticed that one of the men was pale, though busily saddling his mount. Then he swayed slightly, grasping the pommel to keep his balance. FitzRoger had seen it too.

He moved forward. “You are sick?”

“A gripe, my lord, nothing more...” The man moved to mount, then doubled over and vomited.

In moments, most of the men were moaning or vomiting. Five were not, and Imogen realized that these all wore FitzRoger’s colors while the others wore Lancaster’s.

Danger after all.

FitzRoger beckoned one of the healthy men. “Gareth. What did they eat that you didn’t?”

The man looked uneasy. “Not eat. Drink, my lord. Lancaster’s men had a wineskin.”

“But you did not drink?”

“No, my lord.”

FitzRoger turned to Imogen. “You see why I flog men for drinking on duty.”

“But why do you have Lancaster’s men?” Fear was turning to terror. This was a plan, and the only purpose could be her undoing. She looked again at the road. Now it was as inviting as a beast’s lair.

“I couldn’t take all my men out of Carrisford,” he said almost absently, “but I wanted extra escort for you, so I brought some of the earl’s. From hindsight, a mistake.”

She began to retreat toward the monastery. “We’ll have to stay here....”

His hand on her arm halted her. His eyes traveled over the men, well and sick; over the ten-foot-high monastery walls; and over the road to Carrisford.

Imogen’s nerves settled a little. No matter what was happening, FitzRoger would protect her. He was her champion and supremely skillful at the job.

His voice was calm when he said, “The monastery offers little security from an enemy indifferent to God’s wrath, and there’s some plan afoot. If we act quickly we may forestall them. Can you ride?”

“Of course.”

“I mean, can you ride hard and fast?”

Her heart speeded, but more with readiness than fear. “Yes. I like to hunt, remember?”

It was a feeble attempt at humor, but he rewarded it with a smile. “Good.” He grabbed one of the smaller of Lancaster’s pitiful men and roughly divested him of his boiled leather jerkin and his conical helmet. “Put these on.”

Imogen bit back a protest and obeyed. The jerkin hung loosely, but the hardened leather would stop an arrow. She hated the thought that it might be needed. Until her father’s death no weapon had ever been turned against her. She was determined not to fail this test, though. She tossed away her circlet and jammed the helmet on over her veil.

FitzRoger picked up the gold band. “We can’t afford to waste this, wife,” he said, and the glint of amusement in his eyes steadied her nerves.

It was impossible that he not prevail.

She tucked the circlet up her tunic, held there by her girdle. Then she saw that one of the sick men had a bow and arrows. She took up the bow, strung it, and tested it. It was stronger than she was used to, but she thought she could manage it for a few shots. She slung the quiver over her shoulder.

FitzRoger turned from giving orders to his men. “Can you use that?”

“Yes.”

He made no further comment, but helped her into her saddle.

In moments, they were ready, just seven of them against who knows how many. But FitzRoger had said he was sure there couldn’t be an army nearby, and it was possible that their enemy, not knowing of FitzRoger’s strict standards, would expect all the guards to be sick.

Her husband rode alongside her and passed her a shield. “Put the strap over your shoulder and your left arm through the bands.” She did as she was told. It was a round one, smaller than his kite-shaped shield, but it was still heavy on her shoulder and her arm.

She felt rather ridiculous. Her arm would be aching just from the weight before they reached Carrisford, and she doubted she would be able to use the shield in any purposeful manner. It would certainly stop her from using the bow.

“They won’t want to harm me,” she protested.

“Who knows what they want?” His eyes searched ahead. “It is my task to protect you, Imogen, and I will do so. Ride by me and keep up. And obey any order instantly.”

“Or what?” she asked, trying for a bit more humor.

“Or I’ll beat you if we survive.”

She knew that this time he wasn’t teasing.

He drew his sword, surveyed his small troop, and gave a quiet command. They left at a gallop, two men ahead and three behind.

Imogen had told the truth when she said she could ride hard, but the too-large helmet kept slipping onto her face, and the heavy unwieldy shield bounced, bruising her leg and causing her horse to break pace and jib. She began to fall behind. FitzRoger slowed and leaned to grab her reins. Imogen didn’t contest it, but took a grip on the mane and concentrated on managing the shield and staying on.

She wished, though, she could have kept up on her own.

They thundered between the trees and there was no sign of any enemy.

Then arrows whined through the air. One of the front men and his horse went down in a screaming tumble of legs, blocking the road.

FitzRoger hauled to a halt. He and the remaining men swung efficiently into a protective circle around her.

Imogen looked in shock at an arrow driven well into her shield. It could have been in her body!

She saw FitzRoger wrench an arrow out of his chest. After an appalled moment she understood that it couldn’t have penetrated far. If it had cut into his mail at all, it must have been stopped by his padded haqueton. But it could have been in his heart.

More arrows hissed through the air, low and at the horses. It was luck that sent most through their legs. One horse screamed, but the rider controlled it. Imogen saw a scarlet gash on the beast’s belly. Not deep.

Sweet Savior, were they going to die here?

The man who’d been brought down stayed down. It was Gareth, the man who’d told them about the wine.

But she was no use to Warbrick dead, she thought wildly.

She was no use to anyone dead.

Except the king. If she died, Henry would have Carrisford.

Surely not...

The arrows ceased. It was an eerie moment of calm that seemed to last much longer than it possibly could.

Then ten armed men crashed out of the woods, hurtling against her defenders in a screaming, shrieking tumult. Above all other sounds was the broken-bell clanging of metal brought against metal in an attempt to hack into flesh and bone.

Imogen’s horse plunged and turned, spooked by the clamoring melee all around. She controlled it viciously, looking for any chance to be of use. Her bow fell from her arm, but she didn’t bother with it. It was no use in this kind of fighting.

She was bemused by how slow everything seemed. It was only moments since Gareth came down and yet it seemed an age. Everyone, friend or foe, seemed to move at dreamlike speed around her.

She saw an enemy wide open to attack, and yet a man of FitzRoger’s right there took no advantage. If she’d had any kind of blade, she could have spitted him. Her swinging horse showed her FitzRoger moving as slowly as a doddering ancient, but more efficiently.

His sword swung mightily against an exposed torso and Imogen could almost hear the ribs break before the man screamed and toppled off his horse. That was more like it! She let out an exultant cry of victory, as if the blow had been her own.

One of their men screamed and went down. The protective circle fractured.

Her joy soured. There were too many against them.

Imogen concentrated on preventing any attempt to seize her. She wished FitzRoger had given her a sword even as she knew she could never have managed it. Then she remembered her arrows. She whipped a handful out of the quiver, ready to stab with them if anyone tried to seize her.

The attackers were too busy to try for her yet, though. They seemed to concentrate on FitzRoger, as if they knew that downing him was the key to her. He was fighting three, calmly, efficiently, always able to block the blows.

Her heart leaped to her mouth as she saw a mace swing viciously at him from his blind side while he fought another man. She screamed a warning, but he was already moving to avoid, to react, as if he could see all sides at once.

In a split-second gap between blows he grinned at her as if this were an amusement.

She was amazed to realize she was grinning back. This was not amusing, and yet she had never felt so vibrantly alive. If she died here, it was better than many deaths.

But she would not be taken prisoner.

A sword whistled through the air at FitzRoger’s head. He blocked it with a fiery crash, turning his horse with his legs to face the attack again.

Another of FitzRoger’s men went down, but the enemy was losing more. FitzRoger had accounted for at least three. Imogen longed for someone to come in range so she could stab him. She screamed defiance, and exulted at each death.

Another of their men down.

An enemy rode straight at Imogen. She reared her horse to thwart him, and screamed a warning. FitzRoger was fighting two men, but he swung his horse back on itself to cover the new threat.

He was fighting for his life and guarding her at the same time. It was impossible.

Then the rump of his nearest opponent’s horse swung into Imogen’s leg, bruising her. With relish, she stabbed it deeply with her arrows.

The horse bucked wildly. The rider was not thrown, but for a moment he was beyond defense.

Still it was so eerily slow.

The opening at his neck between the flaps of his mailed coif was as clear to Imogen as the bull’s-eye on a target. FitzRoger’s sword found it with deadly precision. Before the man realized he was dead, FitzRoger swung brutally at his other opponent and broke his arm. The man howled and fell.

FitzRoger flashed her a grin. “Well done!”

Her heart sang.

Three other men were coming at him now, but they reined in for a moment. Why?

Not surprising if they feared to face FitzRoger.

Arrows hissed.

One glanced off Imogen’s helmet, jarring back her head, making her yell with fright. Most hit FitzRoger on his right, shieldless side.

At least seven of them. He looked like a hedgehog.

He cursed fluently even as Imogen realized again that they hadn’t done much damage. But they were stuck there, sharp points surely cutting through into his skin, crippling his right arm. He switched his sword to his left.

The last of their guard went down and the two attackers turned to join the three waiting. She saw one grin expectantly.

Everything stopped.

She saw the three men ahead blocking the way to Carrisford.

She saw the two men behind, beginning, so slowly, to move toward them.

She saw the blood oozing from FitzRoger’s many cuts.

When he turned toward the trees and said quite calmly, “Into the woods,” she had already thrown away her burdensome shield and quiver of arrows and was beginning the only possible movement.

They raced their horses recklessly into the woods, leaping them over fallen trees, gathering them from almost disastrous stumbles. To slow was death for him, and worse for her.

He was with her, but she knew that in this race he could not help her or they would lose.

She could hear the crash of pursuit behind them, but fading.

Her helmet went, caught by a branch that would have knocked her out. After that she rode low.

Her skirts were snagged and ripped, but she thanked God they were frail so the entangling branches didn’t drag her off.

He swerved down a deer track and she followed, the way easier now.

Twisting, climbing, then down a mad slope she’d never have attempted sane, almost falling.

A stream.

He hauled up his foam-mouthed horse. “Can you jump it?”

“Yes. How are you?” Most of the arrows had been broken or pulled out entirely, but there seemed so much blood!

“Go!” was all he said.

She set her horse at the stream and leaped it cleanly, pulling in to wait for him. He leaped his horse after her.

The pause gave Imogen a moment to think.

“Up ahead!” she gasped. “There are caves. We can hide.” Then she wondered if that was cowardly. “Or I know the way to Carrisford from here.”

“The caves,” he said.

She led the way up a gradual slope toward the hummocky hills where the stone often broke through the greenery. She began to fear that she couldn’t find the caves, for it was years since she’d visited them. Then she saw some rocks and remembered. She urged the tired horse on, up to the cliff.

She slid off her horse to lead the beast through the narrow opening into the chill gloom. FitzRoger did the same behind her.

“Is this wise?” she asked as she shivered in the sudden dampness. “It seemed like a good idea, but it’s like a child hiding under the bed, isn’t it? We’re trapped here if they find us.” Her voice echoed slightly, though the cave was not very large. For better or worse she’d chosen a cave that did not link into the warren that riddled these hills.

“We’ve lost them,” he said, “and I can defend this place for quite some time.”

The peculiar slowness was still there. It was fading, but still there. And an unnatural calm held her in its grip. Surely she should be shaking with terror. “Let me look to your wounds,” she said.

“Leave them,” he said, assessing their refuge and pulling out arrowheads like someone pulling off teasels.

One he didn’t touch.

She saw that arrow was much deeper. It had managed to go through the mail and into the flesh of his arm. Most of it had broken off, or he had broken it off, but it moved as he moved and must be extremely painful.

It was also causing bleeding with each movement. “We can’t leave that one,” she said.

“We have no choice. The mail won’t come off with it there and I can’t grasp it well enough to pull it out.”

“Then I’ll have to do it.” Imogen prayed that she could.

He looked at her, one quick, doubting glance, then presented his arm.

Only a little-finger-length protruded from the mail and it was both sticky and slippery with blood. Imogen took hold of it as best she could and tugged. Nothing happened except a hiss of pain from him and a new welling of blood.

“I’m sorry,” she said miserably.

“It’s barbed, and will snag on the mail.” His voice was steady. “You’ll have to pull with all your strength.”

Imogen took a deep breath. It had to be done and she could do it. Still, she first explored as gently as she could to see if she could somehow work the mail over the shaft. “Perhaps I could cut the shaft,” she offered.

“I suspect that would hurt more and take a lot longer.”

Imogen looked at the shaft again, one part of her mind clearly telling her that she could not do this, that if she left it everything would turn out all right, that someone else would take care of it. Another part of her knew that this had to be done if he were to have any chance of fighting with that arm without losing more blood than he could afford.

“Lie down,” she said at last, startled by the commanding tone of her voice.

He looked at her. “Why?”

It seemed ridiculous to be giving FitzRoger orders, but she said, “The only way I’ll be able to do it is with you on the floor. Just lie on your front.”

He eased down without protest. Now the arrow shaft poked straight up. Imogen put the ball of her left foot on his forearm and the whole of her right foot on his shoulder. “Does that hurt?”

“Not particularly,” he said, and added with a trace of humor, “In some places it is considered amusing to have a woman walk over a man’s back....”

“What sort of places? Or should I not ask?”

“Probably not.”

Imogen bent and wiped off as much of the blood as she could, as gently as she could, willing her hands to be steady and her strength to be adequate.

His voice was warm with humor when he said, “I’m willing, as you must have noticed, to let you walk all over me....”

She ignored his nonsense and wrapped a tattered piece of her skirt around the stub for better grip.

“It is said to loosen tightened muscle— God! ”

The arrow was out. She had felt it sickeningly tear through muscle and skin, and grate against metal. The force she had used toppled her backward and she sat there fighting the urge to be sick.

He rolled up and grasped his arm, breathing roughly. “I don’t feel particularly loose at this moment.”

“I’ll have to practice...” She choked on a sob and crawled over to his side. “I’m sorry.”

His eyes spoke of pain but were warm as well. “I’ve had worse treatment. We can work on the other at some more convenient time.”

She took refuge in a minatory look. “Let’s have the mail off you.”

That was painful too, but they managed it, and the leather haqueton as well.

He was covered with blood.

Most of it oozed from the small gashes made by the arrows. The wounds were not dangerous, and some had already stopped bleeding, but they must be painful.

The deeper wound was a mess of torn, bleeding and swollen flesh, and she knew most of the damage had been done in ripping that arrow out. “Dear Lord,” muttered Imogen. “It has to weaken your arm.”

He flexed, causing a new gush of blood.

She grabbed him. “Stop it!”

“It’s not too bad, and I can use a sword left-handed.”

“I hope you won’t have to fight anymore. After all, the castle will send out a party to look for us.” Imogen ripped her skirts to make a pad and bandage, cursing the fact that they didn’t have so much as a drop of water to tend to the wound, never mind herbs. She thought briefly of going to look for something, but knew it wasn’t wise.

“What am I going to do if you die?” she muttered as she pulled the bandage tight.

“I won’t die from this, Imogen.”

“My father didn’t expect to die from his wound,” she pointed out forcibly, then added, “Lancaster said that the wound must have been poisoned.”

He turned to look at her. “So it occurred to him too, did it?”

She stared. “You thought of it? Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“To what purpose? You needed no extra reasons to hate Warbrick.”

She gave the knot an extra, angry tug. “Just because I had a right to know! How many other things have you kept from me?”

He moved warily away from her ministrations to lean against a wall. “We all have things we hoard.”

Imogen sucked in a breath. “Oh, the treasure again. Are we going to fight about the treasure again, FitzRoger?”

“I don’t think it would be wise to fight about anything at the moment,” he said calmly. “I made enquiries about your father’s wound, Imogen, and there was no reason for it to putrefy as it did. There must have been poison involved. The obvious culprit is Warbrick, since he was ready to attack.”

Imogen controlled her irritation. He was right. This was no time to squabble. “Lancaster accuses you, or the king.”

“Does he? And what do you think?”

She glanced at him, then said, “That it couldn’t have been you.”

“Why not?”

Because my heart says so. But she wouldn’t say that. “You’d have moved faster. You’re nothing if not efficient.”

“I’m glad you appreciate something about me.” He leaned his head back against the wall and gripped his arm in a way that admitted the pain.

Her anger faded. “Does it hurt very badly?”

“As much as one would expect. The bleeding should stop in a while. Then the only real problem will be stiffness. We’ll have to hope I don’t have to fight.”

Reaction was setting in, or perhaps it was just the chill of the cave. It was a warm summer’s day outside, and Imogen was dressed only in the remains of light linen and silk. She shivered. “Why didn’t we head straight for Carrisford? It isn’t that far. You could get better help there.”

“Instinct.” She saw him studying her. “If that attack was Warbrick’s work, how did he know we were at the monastery?”

“If he had us watched...”

“That’s possible, though I’ve had patrols through the woods here daily to at least disrupt any serious activity. But how then would he arrange for the tainted wine?”

“If someone gave it... But Gareth said Lancaster’s men had it with them!”

“A detail that escaped me at that moment. I apologize.”

“I don’t expect you to be infallible.”

“That’s good, since you seem to turn my brain to a dumpling.”

It was said so flatly, she didn’t take it in at first. Then she giggled at the absurdity. “I do?”

“Yes, particularly now.” He was looking at her, though she couldn’t read his shaded face.

“Now?”

“Now that I’ve seen the fire in you.”

“You mean last night?”

“Then a little. I mean today. Come sit by me.”

Wondering, she inched over until she was by him. He used his good arm to lift her onto his lap. “Do you realize you were screaming the most foul insults back there, and cheering every death?”

She closed her eyes in shame. “Yes.”

His strong left arm held her close. “You are a virago, my wife, a warrior woman. And if it wasn’t for my arm, and the danger, I’d ravish you here as a virago deserves to be ravished when all bloody from battle.”

Imogen realized she was blood-splattered, and he was worse. It hadn’t bothered her before.

“I feel terrible,” she whispered. “How could I have—”

He kissed her hard and fast. “Don’t bemoan it. It excites me as nothing else has ever done.” He put her hand against his neck and she could feel the speed and power of his blood, hot beneath the skin.

“It’s the wound,” she said.

“No.”

The beat of his blood beneath her hand seemed to be pounding into her. “I feel strange too. All shaky and excited, and wanting more. But not more danger....” Then she remembered the night before, and knew what she wanted. She turned his head to hers.

“We can’t, Imogen. It would be recklessness.” But he let her draw his head down to hers and his mouth was hotter than his blood, and the kiss sent them reeling closer to disaster.

He pushed her gently but firmly away. “No. Sit over there, Ginger. We need to talk, and with as clear heads as possible.”

She didn’t want to, but she knew he was right. She scuttled back, a piercing ache inside telling her exactly what her body wanted. If it hadn’t been for his wound, she might have demanded it.

Up against the opposite wall, six full feet of space between them, she clasped her hands and said, “So, talk.”

“I suspect Lancaster of being behind this attack, and the main purpose must have been to kill me, not to capture you. You were vulnerable to seizure a number of times, but no one took advantage of it. The attack focused on me as much as possible. That last flight of arrows was aimed to kill me, or maim me enough for them to finish me off. I saw it coming too late.”

“You saw it? Was it slow for you too, then?”

His eyes came alert. “It was slow for you?”

“Yes. Strangely slow. I couldn’t understand it. It made every move so obvious, and people looked so stupid.”

“Me too?”

“No,” she said, remembering. “You were slow, but you always did the sensible thing.”

He leaned his head back and laughed briefly. “Not just a virago, but one with the gift. I wondered how you managed that ride. Let’s pray our sons inherit it.”

“It’s a gift?”

“The most precious one a fighting man can have. The more urgent the fighting, the more it slows, so every move can be considered, every hazard avoided.”

“Not everyone has this?”

“Not one in a thousand. Not one in a hundred thousand.”

“It hardly seems fair,” she said severely.

“Nor is ambush, or poisoned arrows.”

That brought the discussion back to the chilling point very bluntly. “So you think Lancaster tried to kill you, and we are in danger if we return to Carrisford?”

“It’s possible, and I thought we had better have time to think. I have not been my usual efficient self these last few days. Henry and his men will have left at first light to take Warbrick Castle. Lancaster, however, was to stay behind to await the return of his men before joining the king. If he has other men in the area, it would have been easy enough to set up this attack. Then he would have been on hand to comfort and seize you.

“Could he really think I would go from your arms to his in a day?”

“I hardly think your wishes would have entered into it,” he gently pointed out.

“But the king, the king would not have stood for it!”

“He would have had little choice unless he had proof of Lancaster’s hand in this. He cannot afford to break openly with the earl just yet. Henry would have grieved my passing. He likes me, and more than that, he finds me useful, but once I was gone he would take the next practical step. He would probably hope that the bribe of you would keep Lancaster loyal.”

Imogen hugged herself. “Do you know how much I hate this? Being a prize to be passed around.”

“I can imagine. If anything happens to me, Imogen, try if you can to make it to Rolleston in East Anglia, or to Normandy, to Castle Gaillard.”

“Why? Oh, but they are...”

“Ruled by the brothers of Roger of Cleeve, yes. My uncles.”

Somewhat hesitantly she asked, “Do they accept you?”

She saw the slight smile turn his lips. “Yes. The old man, Count Guy, accepted me long since, but didn’t contest the Church’s ruling. I suppose he knew there was no point in it, but in my youthful arrogance I would not admit that. I spurned the connection, but the family will aid you, for blood’s sake, and for justice. They are powerful enough to stand against Lancaster if they have cause.”

“There will be no need of this,” Imogen said, unable to tolerate any notion of FitzRoger’s death. “Let’s talk instead about what we should do. Surely if we get to Carrisford we will be safe. You have other men there, including Sir William and Renald.”

“Will has gone with Henry, but I hope Renald is stirring himself to look into things and mop up any trouble. I thought it better to give them time, though. It is possible that Lancaster has men watching, and if we had headed straight for Carrisford it would have been too easy to kill me. I am only one man and not impervious to all attack.”

Imogen was looking at the bandage on his arm. “What if that arrow was poisoned, too?”

“Then I suppose I will die.”

She leaped to her feet. “No you will not! We have to get you to Carrisford. I know of herbs and fomentations that are supposed to draw out poisons.”

He was looking at her strangely. “Is all this heat for me? I wonder why. Lancaster will be a tolerable husband if you don’t balk at him.”

“Is it strange that I don’t want you to die?”

“Yes.”

“No, it isn’t.”

He shrugged and said no more. He rose to his knees and moved his arm cautiously. “I don’t think it will do great damage for me to rearm. Perhaps you could help me. Then we can head cautiously back to Carrisford.”

Imogen picked up the bloody haqueton, feeling as if something were left unfinished. But surely the main aim must be to return to the castle; other matters could be resolved later. She helped him into the padded leather garment, trying to move his arm as little as possible. She knew once on it must gall the wound.

Then she hauled the heavy mail over his head, feeling sympathy at the weight of it settling onto his many wounds.

He rose to his feet and flexed thoughtfully.

“How is it?”

“Adequate. Don’t worry. I can still serve you.”

“This isn’t a matter of serving me,” she snapped. “It’s a matter of survival. Mine and yours.”

“You are not in much danger, other than from a stray arrow.”

“I am in danger of losing you!” There, now it was out.

She clasped her hands and looked at him, hoping.

His mask was in place. “Don’t care too much, Imogen. One man is much like another in most respects. If I die, you’ll find another man will suit you just as well when you grow accustomed to him.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said, and thrust his sword belt at him.

He finished arming in silence. Imogen swallowed tears. After all they had been through it seemed ridiculous to be overset by this cool practicality, but she was. For a moment a while ago, she’d thought he was going to confess to warm feelings for her. It must have been the wound talking after all.

She focused her unhappiness on the state of her clothing. Her skirt was in shreds, and even her shift was missing at one side where she’d cut away stuff for his bandage.

“I don’t feel as if I’ve been in a decent state of dress for weeks,” she muttered.

“With God’s favor, you will soon have your life back.”

In truth, she didn’t much care whether she ever had her pampered life back—in fact, didn’t want it back.

She wanted FitzRoger. She wanted the fighting and the challenging, the kissing and the passion. She even wanted the danger, the excitement that made her blood sing. She didn’t care at all about clothes, and hangings, and gardens.

But she said, “Good. What are we going to do about Lancaster?”

“Hopefully send him on his way to join Henry, and guard ourselves well in the future.” He slid her a look. “Once you are clearly with child, his fangs will be drawn.”

That was doubtless the only reason he wanted to bed her at all, to mark her as his and get her with child. “Why can’t you tell Henry what the earl’s been up to?”

“I will, but he can’t act without proof, and I think proof will be hard to find. Warbrick will be the obvious suspect, despite the questions, and it will suit Henry to have further reason to move against Warbrick and Belleme. You know the way to Carrisford from here?”

“Yes.”

“How far is it?”

“Not far. Perhaps two leagues, though it will take some time if we stay in the woods. The riding would be easier if we joined the road, but...”

“But, no. Through the woods, and carefully.”

It was mid-morning when they emerged from the cave, and the bright warmth was almost shocking. Everything appeared peaceful and normal, but they both scanned the area with care.

“What will they have done once they lost us?” Imogen asked.

“That’s the interesting question. I suppose at least some men are spread out between here and Carrisford, hoping for a chance to pick us off.”

“Pick you off,” she said tightly.

“Yes.” He faced her thoughtfully. “Imogen, I have no wish to die, particularly now, but I learned years ago that worrying about it serves little purpose.”

“It would be nice,” she said tartly, “to see you worry about something !”

He smiled slightly. “It worries me that I might die without making you my wife in all senses.”

“We could go back into the cave...”

He laughed; he actually laughed. “Have pity, woman. It would mean taking my armor off again.” He began to lead his horse down the slope. Imogen followed, wishing she knew just how to take him. She’d never seen him laugh like that before.

The man was likely to drive her mad, but he was fascinating enough to last a lifetime.

A long lifetime, she hastily amended, and started to pray.

She decided that they needed all the help heaven had to offer and was halfway through a litany of her favorite saints when he stopped.

“What?” she whispered, breaking off her prayer to Saint Adelaide.

“Just that we are about to move into the open a little. I want to watch.”

Imogen was reminded of the time they watched Carrisford and she told him so. “I thought you were like a castle,” she said. “Cold and hard.”

“Just as long as I am a good one.”

“Is that all that matters to you?”

His intent gaze did not halt in its search of the area.

“What purpose is there in life other than to be proficient?”

“You could be proficient at something other than death.”

“I hope I’m proficient at survival. Come on.”

He moved forward toward the trees. Imogen followed, wishing she hadn’t given in to that irritation. But she wanted him to be more than her defender and champion.

They mounted in the woods, and she didn’t allow him to help her into the saddle, but used a fallen tree. He had his sword in his right hand, and his shield hanging from its shoulder strap, but she worried about his wound and his strength.

“If you can’t fight, tell me,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because I need to know.”

“Imogen, just lead us to Carrisford and let me do my job. I won’t fail you.”

Imogen turned her mount’s head sharply and headed through the trees.

This area had always been secure under her father’s rule, and she had played here as a child. Her companions had been her father’s wards and numerous castle children. Lord Bernard had seen no harm in her playing with those of lower orders.

In time, however, Imogen had stopped coming here. Her playmates grew and had more work to do. The wards left to marry. Imogen spent her time with books and music, and her forays into the woods were for hunting, not games.

But she knew them.

She remembered the oak she and the farrier’s son liked to climb, and the thicket of bushes with a space inside which had been the girls’ house. And there was the fairy circle magically free of trees where they’d danced and tried to cast spells.

She glanced back. FitzRoger looked both relaxed and alert, every sense attuned not to her but to the woods around them. She pressed on.

She had to constantly choose between following foot and deer paths that wound away from their destination, or going straight through undergrowth and across uneven land. Once they had to backtrack when they were confronted by a bog she did not remember from before.

She looked anxiously at him then, but he said nothing. She began to worry that his impassivity might be a sign of distress—that he was in pain, or weak from loss of blood, or suffering the first effects of poison. If she asked, he’d doubtless deny it.

“Men,” she muttered to herself.

Carrisford could not be far now. She glimpsed its towers. Fretting about his welfare, she took a risk and headed straight for it.

The rift in the earth was new and deep. Her horse stepped into it and she heard its leg snap even as she was tossed. The world spun, then hit her with numbing force.

Her horse screamed.

Then was silent.

She looked up to see that FitzRoger was off his horse and had slit the beast’s throat, but the scream echoed through the woods, and birds still whirled, repeating the cry.

“Oh Jesu, I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He held out a hand. “It can’t be helped. Come, we must be close.”

But before they could mount his horse, they were surrounded. Perhaps thirty hardened men. And Warbrick.