Chapter 19
C hrist’s wounds!” Renald expressed the horror on the faces of all the men.
All the men except Warbrick. He guffawed. “Know he can’t beat me, eh?”
Imogen turned to look at Warbrick. “Kill him,” she said coldly to the men. “I don’t care how. Kill him.”
There was an eerie stillness, then a man with a bow coldly nocked an arrow and let loose. Cursing, Warbrick caught it on his shield, but another man had a bow and stuck him in the arm. Imogen watched as her enemy became bristled with arrows as FitzRoger had once been, but this time without the protection of mail.
Warbrick was not a coward. He charged his attackers, but cold-eyed men drove him back to be victim to more arrows.
He was roaring and staggering about, threatening his assailants like a maddened animal. Then at last an arrow took him deep in the chest and he crumpled with a last cry of agony and defeat.
Silence fell.
Sickened back to her wits, Imogen turned away from the man’s final twitching moments, wondering just what her husband was going to do to her. Bone-rattling shudders began to rack her. She had actually knocked FitzRoger out to prevent him from taking part in what he probably regarded as a duel of honor.
She half expected to find him facing her, rage still sheeting from those green eyes, but he was on the ground and trussed up. He appeared to still be unconscious.
“I had to give him another little tap,” said Renald, shaking his head. “By the thorns, Imogen. I don’t know...”
“N-nor d-do I,” she stammered, hugging herself. “You haven’t t-tied him too tight, have you? H-his wounds...”
“He’s tied tight enough to hold him,” Renald said. Grimly he added, “I hope. I’m working on the belief that he’ll regret it afterward if he throttles you with his bare hands.”
Imogen covered her mouth with her shaking hand. “H-he’ll be that angry?”
““I have no idea how angry he’ll be. Nothing like this has ever happened before. My plan, however, is to escort you to Cleeve while the men put him in a bed with a strong sleeping draft. Then we just hope that he’s too wounded to set out after you until he’s cooled down a bit.”
Imogen desperately wanted to tend her husband with her own hands, but she had some sense left. “Yes please,” she said meekly. “But please untie him as soon as possible.”
Renald gave his orders, and those for disposing of Warbrick, then escorted Imogen around to the gate to get horses. Her knees were weak, and her head as misty as the gray morning. She shivered constantly and not just with cold.
What was going to happen to her? If she was lucky, he’d just beat her half to death.
Her terror was that he’d cast her off.
Renald took time to find her some wine and a thick cloak, but then he and six men carried her off to Cleeve at an urgent gallop.
Imogen managed to stay on her horse, but when she dismounted she collapsed, and the next thing she knew she was in a bed at Cleeve, sore from head to foot, and miserable as the devil.
Given the situation, she rather wanted to keep her eyes closed forever, but she opened them a crack, then wider to search the room. She had expected FitzRoger to be there, waiting to visit his rage upon her. When she realized he wasn’t, her heart sank and her mind immediately conjured up the worst.
He was too wounded to move.
He was dead.
He never wanted to see her again.
Imogen turned and wept heartbreaking tears. She could clearly hear him once saying, “I hope at least that you never cry because of me, though I suspect you probably will.” She didn’t think either of them had expected her to cry at his loss.
Imogen slept again, the sleep of exhaustion, and woke in the evening no better in mind or body. This time, however, she did not weep, but started wearily to put together some sort of existence.
When she sat up, aching in every part of her body, she found ale and bread by the bed. The bread had begun to harden, and the ale had caught a few flies, but she ate and drank anyway.
Then she assessed her physical hurts. Her feet were sore again in places, and when she inspected them, some of the worst wounds had been revived. No matter. She had nowhere to go.
She had an alarming number of bruises and scrapes with no recollection of how she had acquired them, but the sorest spot was her face. She gingerly felt her jaw, which Warbrick’s blow had made very painful; she had no doubt she was black and blue there. Her fingers found another hurt, and traced the jagged gash in her cheek made by the flying piece of the lanthorn.
A thin wail escaped her when she realized she would be scarred. She shut her mouth on that weakness, but she could not stop the tears that rolled down to drip off her cheeks.
A woman peeped around the door, then came in. “Why, my lady, what’s the matter? Never fret. All’s well now.”
That struck Imogen as hilariously funny, but she managed not to giggle. “My face!” she gasped.
The middle-aged woman grimaced. “Aye. It’ll never be quite as it was. But it’ll look better when it’s healed, you’ll see. I’ll get some of old Margery’s salve for it. That’ll help.” She came over and picked up the cup and platter. “Now, lady, do you feel ready for a bath?”
Imogen realized that she was stripped to her shift, but even that was stained with dirt and blood. Her hair was sticky with gore. She stank of blood. “Yes,” she said.
When the woman had bustled off, Imogen climbed wincing out of bed and looked down at herself. In disgust, she tore off the ragged shift and wrapped herself in a sheet. The shift was good for nothing but rags now, she thought, then she saw one particular set of bloodstains.
Among all the other stains no one would note them, but Imogen knew they were the marks of the consummation of her marriage. She slid down sadly against the bed, clutching the garment. For a brief while then, at their darkest hour, she had been happy and so had he. FitzRoger had opened himself to her as perhaps he had never done to another. He had trusted her.
And she had betrayed him.
It had been a betrayal.
Honor said she should have let him go to his death.
She could not have done that, though. She contemplated the matter sadly and decided that she would do the same thing again. If she had the courage. That was what was lacking now—the insane recklessness of living with death for twenty-four hours.
Servants brought the tub—the same tub she had used when she had first come to Cleeve. She’d been in a disgusting state then, too, she thought wryly. They lined it with cloths and filled it with warm herb-scented water. Imogen was assisted into it among horrified exclamations at her scrapes and bruises.
Then one woman exclaimed, “Oh, lady! Your hair. Your beautiful hair!”
Imogen’s hand flew to the severed plait, finding the ragged end brushing her collarbone. She clutched at the other, still thick down to her thighs.
The women began to unravel the long plait in deathly silence. It only took fingers to untangle the stubby one. No one said a thing, but their shock echoed in the room. Hair was any lady’s glory, and length was one of the most prized attributes. Some ladies had to content themselves with plaits down to the waist, or even to the breasts. Many extended their deficient hair with false braids.
No lady had hair that was almost too short to braid at all.
“Cut the other side,” said Imogen flatly.
“Oh lady...”
“I can hardly have one side long, one side short. Cut it.”
A woman fetched a sharp knife and with unsteady hands trimmed Imogen’s hair until it was all the same length.
“Oh, lady,” said one, incautiously. “You look just like a boy!”
“At least it will be easier to wash,” said Imogen staunchly. “Does this place boast a mirror?”
“Oh, I don’t think...”
Imogen fixed the ditherer with an icy stare. “Get it.” The woman rolled her eyes and scurried off.
Imogen forced herself to relax and let the women wash her. What can’t be changed must be endured, and at least her hair would grow. How long, though, would it take to achieve its former glory? She had no idea. Her hair had not been cut since she was a child.
Years, she suspected.
Among all her other troubles, this should be nothing, and yet it clogged her mind and heart like a dismal cloud.
At least, as she had said, it was easy to wash out the grime and blood, though the women were stumped as to what to do with it afterward. “I could make it into plaits, lady,” one said dubiously.
Stubby little plaits? “No, leave it. Where’s that mirror?”
Eventually it arrived, a plain one of polished silver, but adequate. Imogen was dressed by then in a borrowed shift. She held the mirror at arm’s length. Braced though she was, she could not suppress a gasp.
One side of her face was black, blue and yellow, and swollen to boot. The other was marred by an angry weeping gash. Her eyes were red and puffy. Her hair, which had always been merely wavy when long, was now drying into a frizz of unruly curls.
And in a beam of sunlight, it did look ginger!
Imogen thrust the looking glass into a woman’s hands and retreated, lips quivering, to the bed. “Go away!” she commanded, and the women went.
A little later there was a knock on the door. Imogen ignored it. One thing was certain, FitzRoger would not knock. The door opened. Imogen looked up, hoping despite sense. It was Renald.
She saw him wince at the sight of her, and turned away. “What are you doing here?”
“You think I’d rather be at Carrisford?” he asked dryly. “Mind you, the state you’re in I think I should perhaps have left you there. Ty would have to be a monster to take vengeance on you now.”
Imogen gritted her teeth. “Renald, if you think that is any comfort, you’re wrong. I’m a freak.”
He came over to stand in her line of sight. “Wounds heal, Imogen. I’ve seen enough, and yours won’t leave serious marks.”
“My hair!” she wailed.
He shook his head. “Amid everything, you’re worried about your hair ?”
She looked at him miserably. “How is he?”
“I don’t know. There’s been no word.”
“Oh.” After a moment, she said, “Perhaps we should send a messenger.”
“That would tell him where you are.”
She sat up abruptly. “He doesn’t know? Then send one!”
Renald wrinkled his brow. “That may not be wise, Imogen. Give him time.”
Imogen couldn’t believe this. “If he’s conscious, he’ll be concerned. It’s not right to worry him so.”
“ Worry him!” exclaimed Renald, wide-eyed. Then he shrugged. “I haven’t understood you two from the beginning, so if you want me to send a messenger, I will.”
“I want you to.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes!” shrieked Imogen, then winced as her jaw complained. Her already shaken nerves were jittering even more at Renald’s uneasiness. Did he really think FitzRoger would charge in here and take her apart, piece by piece?
Perhaps he did.
Renald went toward the door, then turned, very serious. “One thing, Imogen. Don’t even think about trying to hold Cleeve against Ty. I’ll truss you and toss you over the walls first.”
“I wouldn’t!” she gasped.
He shrugged. “Just wanted to make it clear. I don’t know what you’d be likely to do anymore.”
Imogen collapsed back against her pillows. She knew she should be terrified of her husband’s knowing where she was, but all she wanted was news that he was safe.
No news came that night and Imogen settled to sleep, suddenly aware that she was sleeping in FitzRoger’s bed. Of course they would bring her to the castle solar. Where else?
There was nothing to mark the place as his, for most of his personal possessions were at Carrisford, and the others were locked in chests. But she thought she could sense his presence lingering here.
She hugged a pillow that presumably had cradled his head, and drifted off to sleep.
When daylight woke her from tormented dreams, matters looked no better.
She had to accept that for a woman to strike her husband, strike him unconscious, was a very grave matter. She wasn’t even sure it wouldn’t cost her her life.
She couldn’t believe that FitzRoger would demand that penalty, but he could hardly allow her to go unpunished. Confinement on bread and water? A public beating? Her greatest fear was that he would cast her off entirely.
What was she going to do if he sent her to a convent? She wondered if what she had done was grounds for divorce.
She laid her hand over her flat belly. There was a small chance that she was with child. She earnestly prayed that she was. She knew, with his history, that FitzRoger would never put aside a wife who was bearing his child.
But even if he took her back, would he ever relax with her again? Ever trust her again?
Still she knew that in the same situation she would do the same thing if she could. She’d burn at the stake to save his life. Her thoughts trudged around and around in weary circles.
A tap on the door brought servants, servants bearing familiar chests and even Imogen’s harp. One of the maids was Elswith, nervous but smiling.
Imogen sat up, heart in throat Her chests? Her maid? What did this signify? Renald followed. “Ty is apparently in his bed with a fever, but alert enough to have your clothes and woman sent here.”
Imogen swallowed. “He’s not dangerously ill?”
“Not as far as anyone knows.”
“Er... what did he say about me?”
“He ordered your things to be sent here.”
Imogen didn’t know if that was good or bad. “Is that all?”
“He sent a message to me. You are not to leave Castle Cleeve for any reason.” He suddenly relaxed and smiled a little. “At least this means he’s not going to kill you in his first rage.”
“Thank you,” said Imogen faintly.
“And I doubt that he’ll beat you severely, Imogen. Ty would only do that in cold blood if he thought it would serve a purpose.”
“It might,” she said bleakly, “just make him feel better.” She hadn’t missed the fact that Renald took it for granted that FitzRoger would beat her.
Renald laughed. “Give him time, Imogen. He’ll forgive you.”
Imogen took that prediction to heart, for surely Renald knew FitzRoger better than she, and a mild beating would be welcome as the price of forgiveness.
That recalled to her that she still had not confessed her false oath. At least now there was no point in reparation. The oath was now true, and Lancaster was dead. All she needed was a priest.
Heartened, Imogen rose from her bed and sent for a priest.
Within the hour, one came up from the village. He was a simple man and she did not burden him with details, but confessed that she had made a false oath upon the cross. He was suitably horrified, but once assured of her full repentance and that there was no way to make reparation, he granted her absolution. The only penance he imposed was that she pray on her knees each night for a sennight, begging Christ’s Blessed Mother for strength to avoid sin in the future.
Imogen welcomed it. She had a great deal to pray about.
Imogen sent the man away with the promise that in time she would make a special gift to his church. She wondered if it would be within her power, but she knew that no matter how else other matters might work out, FitzRoger would make good her word.
She even sang in the bright morning light, for the only act that had truly burdened her soul was now washed away.
Elswith dressed Imogen in the clothes her husband had sent over. The young maid was distressed at Imogen’s appearance but otherwise seemed happy and unfearful. She had little news to add to Renald’s report.
Lord FitzRoger was in his bed recovering from wounds, Elswith told Imogen. He was eating normal foods and supposed to be doing well. Rumors were flying around the castle about Warbrick, and that Imogen had struck her husband down, though few believed that possible. None of the men who had been at the scene seemed to have a clear memory.
Imogen realized that Renald had brought all the men who had witnessed that scene here to Cleeve as her escort. The mist doubtless had made things unclear for the rest. This gave her hope. If it was just a matter between her and FitzRoger, it would go better than if it were a public scandal.
According to Elswith no one was quite sure why Imogen was at Cleeve, but most thought that during her husband’s sickness she was setting the place in order in case the king should wish to visit.
A clever rumor. Put about by FitzRoger? Imogen hoped so.
The waiting was going to be the hardest part, the waiting to hear her fate. When the news of it arrived, she wanted to look the best she could, however. She was still Imogen of Carrisford, and lady to FitzRoger of Cleeve.
She pondered dismally the question of her hair, and decided she might as well wear a veil to hide the worst of it. She draped a length of fine linen over her head. “Give me a circlet, Elswith. The gold rope one.”
At the silence, Imogen turned. The maid had colored. “I wasn’t allowed to bring your jewels, lady. The master’s orders.”
“None at all?” Imogen asked, chilling.
The girl shook her head.
“Not even my morning gift?”
“No, lady.”
Imogen turned away, heart sinking at this news. The absence of the special gift almost dissolved her into tears again, for it made a clear statement. Was FitzRoger even now in the process of casting her off?
This also meant he was in complete control of her wealth, both her personal jewels and all the treasure of Carrisford. Surprisingly, Imogen found she couldn’t fret about that. In part she simply didn’t have the energy to care, but also she knew now that he wouldn’t squander their wealth. One way or another he would use it to increase their standing and power.
If he still regarded them as a couple.
Imogen gritted her teeth against tears and said, “Then I’d better see if I can make a headrail out of a long scarf, Elswith. Find me a longer piece of linen.”
Imogen had no desire to go about looking as she did, and so she and Elswith spent the morning hemming the white lawn and devising ways of winding it around Imogen’s head so that it was secure and concealed most of her hair.
Eventually they achieved the best they could, though Imogen was sure she still looked a freak. She spent the rest of the day in the solar lackadaisically practicing on her harp. FitzRoger had enjoyed her singing. Perhaps she could win back his regard with her voice.
It took only the first day, however, to convince Imogen that sitting in her room gave her far too much time to think, and would drive her mad. On the second morning she found she could wear her sandals again, and so she set about the management of Cleeve Castle. At first she wondered if there would be some objection—after all, she was as good as a prisoner here—but, if anything, the servants were happy to have a chatelaine.
Imogen found that under FitzRoger’s hand the castle had been well run, but that a number of womanly arts had been neglected. The needlework and preserve areas were not as efficient as they could be, and when Brother Patrick was away, medical care was chancy at best.
Thoughts of Brother Patrick had Imogen standing in a doorway, worrying about FitzRoger’s health.
After a moment she took up writing equipment and wrote,
To Brother Patrick.
Of your kindness, Brother, please send news to Cleeve if My Lord Husband should be close to death, so that I might come to him.
Imogen of Carrisford and Cleeve
The note was sent and brought no response. Imogen chose to take that as reassurance.
Each day Renald sent a messenger to Carrisford. Each day the messenger returned with information, but with no word directly from FitzRoger to either of them.
They heard that he was recovering from his fever.
Fever, thought Imogen in panic. He had a fever?
Next they heard that Lord FitzRoger was out of his bed, but using a staff to walk. His knee had apparently only been badly bruised.
A few days later came the news that Lord FitzRoger was training again in armor.
Imogen began to let go of her terror for his safety. Now, however, she had only her own future to worry about. She had to believe that someday her husband would decide what to do with her and end this limbo. At the very least, some day FitzRoger would want to visit his castle.
At least he would find it in good order.
She threw herself into the work at Cleeve with a vengeance, trying desperately to make days pass faster than nature allowed, and hoping that her husband might be mellowed by her effort and competence.
She put more looms to work, and organized the still rooms and larders more efficiently. She ensured that all was ready for the winter stores, and set some men to whitewashing the hall to make it brighter.
Every time she walked though the plain hall she thought of ordering flowers painted on the walls, and smiled sadly.
Then, two weeks after her arrival at Cleeve, a spark of rebellious mischief stirred in Imogen’s mind, and she did just that.
She had the Cleeve scribe, who knew something of illustrating, make a simple design, then worked with some of the men to use dyes to tint the whitewash. Soon after, the men were copying the design all over the walls.
Renald came in as she was directing the workmen. His mouth fell open. “Imogen...”
He shook his head. “Flowers. Pink flowers.”
“It will brighten the place considerably,” she said. “I think the messenger to Carrisford should see our work here before he leaves.”
Renald gaped again, but then a trace of admiration lit his eyes. “Ah, little flower, you are either mad or splendid. Quite possibly both.”
Imogen spent the day in a nervous frenzy, anticipating her husband’s response.
The messenger returned that evening with Father Wulfgan.
Response, retaliation, or mere coincidence?
The priest stalked into the hall and scanned it with a withering glance. “Daughter in Christ!” he declared. “You have done a terrible thing!”
Imogen heard herself say, “I don’t think the flowers are that bad,” and suppressed a nervous giggle.
“On your knees!” thundered the outraged priest. “You are a rebellious, undutiful imp of the devil!”
Imogen almost obeyed, but she stopped herself. “Perhaps we should talk in the solar, Father,” she said, and led the way without a backward glance.
Somewhat to her surprise, Wulfgan was behind her when she arrived there, but as soon as the door was closed he began again. “You have sinned most grievously, daughter.”
Imogen clasped her hands demurely. “In what way, Father?” She honestly wasn’t sure which of her many crimes would be most heinous in Wulfgan’s eyes.
“To strike down your husband, your lord in God’s sight!”
“You never approved of him,” she pointed out.
“He is still your lord! God’s representative for you on Earth. Your holy duty is to obey and cherish him.”
“But I was cherishing him,” Imogen protested. “If I hadn’t struck him down he would have been killed.”
It occurred to her that if her exile here was designed to turn her into a proper submissive woman again, it was failing miserably. Was Wulfgan going to report back to FitzRoger?
“Death is not to be feared, my child,” he retorted. “Only dishonor.”
Imogen lowered her eyes to think on this statement. Was it possible that FitzRoger was using Wulfgan as a messenger?
“I am willing to do penance for my sin,” she said at last, “though I fear I cannot repent.”
“You wicked child,” he whispered. “How can you be so lost to all sense of your duty to your lord and to God? I have told him,” he declared. “I have told him again and again that he must beat you publicly and severely, both to reclaim his honor and to save your sinful soul.”
Imogen swallowed but managed to say, “My husband’s honor is not in doubt.”
“He is a laughingstock if he does not punish you!”
“It is widely known, then?”
“Could it be otherwise?”
Imogen supposed not. But still, she raised her chin proudly. “No matter what he does, FitzRoger could never be a laughingstock.”
Wulfgan stared at her. “You are deep in sin.”
“Am I?” asked Imogen. “And what of you, siding with Lancaster?”
“Lancaster?” queried Wulfgan. “I favored the earl over the upstart. What has that to say to anything?” But for the first time ever he looked unsure of himself.
Imogen realized that FitzRoger must have managed to keep the earl’s wickedness secret. There were still men of Warbrick’s who could reveal it, but FitzRoger had doubtless taken care of them, too.
How?
Were they dead?
There was no point in worrying about that now.
She covered her error. “You were supporting the earl over my God-given husband.”
Wulfgan’s fiery gaze wavered. “He was a more Godly man.”
Imogen pressed her advantage. “But my duty was to my husband.”
Unwise tack. Wulfgan was on firm ground again. “Aye, and yet you wickedly assaulted him! What will the world come to if women can strike their lords? Why should not anyone raise his hand against his better?”
“I have said I am willing to do penance.” She certainly wasn’t looking forward to being beaten or flogged, but she could see a certain justice in it, and if it would wipe away her sin, she would almost welcome it. “Are you come to accompany me back to Carrisford, Father?” she asked hopefully.
Wulfgan was taken aback. “I? No. I was presenting my views to Lord FitzRoger yet again, and he told me I would have more purpose preaching to the sinner, and ordered me here.”
Imogen’s lips twitched. She could almost imagine the scene. Not a messenger then, she thought sadly, so much as a penance. But she detected a touch of humor in the gesture, which gave her hope.
“What does FitzRoger do with his days?” she asked the priest.
“What any man of his type does. There is work to do in administering the castle, and he trains with his men. I suppose,” he acknowledged sourly, “that it is such a man’s duty to hone his body as I hone my spirit.”
“A paladin,” Imogen said softly, then shrugged. “Father, you are welcome here, but I suspect you would find it easier to hone your spirit at Grimstead monastery.”
To her astonishment, Wulfgan nodded. “You may be right. I fear you are beyond me now, daughter. I fear for you, but cannot allow my soul to be imperiled by yours. I admit, too, that in listening to the Earl of Lancaster I may have been tempted by things of the world. I will build an anchorite’s cell by the walls of the monastery and live there in penance all my days.”
“Good,” said Imogen, hiding her astonished relief. “Perhaps you would like to go there now?” she added hopefully.
He nodded and sketched a sign of the cross in the air. “God guide you, daughter, though I fear you are lost.”
Imogen saw him away down the road to Grimstead, wondering if such an easy victory would count with FitzRoger.
She went in search of Renald. “When the next messenger goes, Renald, be sure he tells people at Carrisford that Father Wulfgan has gone to be an anchorite at Grimstead.” She couldn’t help a mischievous smile at the end.
Renald shook his head. “And for your next miracle?”
Imogen’s smile faded and she sighed. “I would like to turn myself into a true wife, but I don’t know the secret of it.”
She climbed to the battlements and looked wistfully in the direction of Carrisford, though she couldn’t see it from where she stood. Her instinct told her that FitzRoger was no longer in a rage, but she could not be sure that he would ever send for her. Her courses had been and gone, so there would be no child to bind them.
She was tempted to set out for Carrisford on her own initiative, sure that face-to-face they could achieve more than at a distance. She was not closely guarded. On the other hand, she wanted to convince FitzRoger that in most respects she would be dutiful and obedient.
The next day’s messenger brought the news that the king was at Carrisford. Warbrick’s castle had been seized and razed, and all his men dispersed, those who had not been hanged for crimes. The messenger brought wild rumors of evil and torture found in that place, and Imogen suspected that most of them were true.
“And what of Lord Warbrick’s death?” she asked the messenger. “What do they say of that?”
The man’s eyes grew concerned. “They say the king is not pleased, lady. I am told he said he wanted no rough justice in his land.”
Imogen retreated to her room with a whole new level of concern. She knew she had been floating on a trust that FitzRoger would never be really harsh with her. But the king? As FitzRoger had said, Henry’s first concern was his kingdom, and he would take whatever steps necessary—no matter how brutal—to impose the kind of order he wanted.
A penitential life in a convent seemed very likely, and a few tears escaped. How could she live without seeing FitzRoger again?
The next day, the messenger had little to report except that the king and FitzRoger had spent much time together in discussion, and that FitzRoger had practiced the sword with Sir William—a bout so fierce that all had gathered to watch, fearing it would come to death.
Imogen didn’t need Renald’s sober face to tell her that boded no good.
Early the next day, a troop of the king’s men bearing his banner came to escort Imogen of Carrisford back to her castle. They were led by a stone-faced older knight, Sir Thomas of Gillerton. He would say nothing of their purpose, and would not be drawn, but Imogen had to believe that she was being taken to face the king’s justice.
And FitzRoger had nearly killed Sir William.
Imogen turned in panic to Renald, and he took a steadying grip on her hands. “Ty will not let anything too terrible happen to you, Imogen.”
“But that’s what I’m afraid of!” she gasped. “Will he oppose the king for my sake? I’ll cause his ruin!”
A flicker of concern passed over Renald’s face before it was shielded. “I can’t believe even Henry would destroy Ty to avenge Warbrick.”
“I could flee...”
His grip became firm. “No, Imogen.” It was as absolute as any statement of FitzRoger’s.
Imogen accepted it. It was time to face the consequences of her actions. But that “even Henry” tolled in her mind as she prepared for the journey.
She would have to find some way to prevent this new disaster, to prevent FitzRoger from destroying himself in her cause.
But at last, at long last, she would see him again.