Dark Champion #2

Chapter 20

D espite everything, Imogen couldn’t help but smile when she set eyes upon Carrisford Castle in all its beauty, pennants flapping in the brisk breeze.

Surrounded by her escort she rode through to the inner bailey, eyes roving in search of her husband. Surely, for better or worse, he would be here to meet her. Despite her eagerness, she couldn’t help wondering what he would think when he saw her. Her bruise was almost gone, and the cut was not too horrible now the scabs had come off, but her hair was still an unruly mop which her scarf could not disguise.

But then the atmosphere brought more serious concerns to the front of her mind. Everyone—Carrisford servants and men-at-arms—looked up in solemn silence to stare at her as she rode by. She couldn’t decide if they were angry, horrified, or concerned about her, but no one smiled.

Then one of the men spat into the dust. She swallowed fear; it was clear what he felt.

Her heart began to pound and she looked around again for FitzRoger. She’d give anything for him to be here to meet her and lead her to her fate, even if he was about to flog her. He was not here, nor were any of his or the king’s knights other than Sir Thomas.

He it was who came to help her dismount, and directed her gruffly up the stairs to the hall. Imogen looked up them, knowing that something terrible awaited, but she had no choice. She raised her chin and walked steadily up to meet her fate.

At the top of the stairs there was a short passageway leading to the great hall doors. The doors were closed and guarded, but the men there swung them open at her approach to reveal a room full of sober, frowning men.

Imogen swallowed as best her dry mouth would allow, and walked in.

The king was sitting in the central place behind the great table, but Imogen sought FitzRoger. He was seated to one side of the table.

She drank in every detail. He was in black— mourning? she wondered wildly—with no jewels other than his ring. He looked unmarked by their adventure. He returned her gaze unreadably, though she thought perhaps he frowned slightly.

“Lady Imogen!” The king’s sharp voice brought her attention to him. “Approach us!”

Imogen took a steadying breath and walked forward to stand before the table. She curtsied deeply to Henry.

“Ha! So you know some proper behavior,” he said. “Imogen of Carrisford, you have only been granted a hearing before this assembly because of your unusual status as overlord of Carrisford, a status which may well be rescinded.”

There wouldn’t be much point in being overlord of Carrisford if she were in a convent; Imogen could see that.

“You are here,” said Henry, “to face two charges of assault upon my vassals. One being your lord and husband, whom you also took prisoner; the other being Lord Warbrick, whom you killed out of hand. What say you?”

Imogen almost panicked. She’d never thought that her actions might be seen as attacks on the king’s vassals, therefore attacks on the king himself.

Her knees weakened, but she gathered her strength. “I admit both acts, my liege, but neither was designed against Your Majesty.”

A hiss rumbled through the room at her flat admission. Belatedly Imogen realized that she would have been wiser to give in to collapse, preferably in tears and begging for mercy. She could have claimed madness brought on by her sufferings....

She flicked a glance at FitzRoger, but he was completely masked. He was turning his ring, though.

“Do you have any justification for your acts, woman?” the king demanded in exasperation. She wondered if he, too, would have preferred weeping repentance. Well, if that was the case they should have forewarned her.

Imogen considered carefully, for she feared she was fighting for FitzRoger’s life as well as her own. Despite his impassivity, she knew in her heart, in her soul, that her husband would never stand by for her brutal punishment.

“My Lord King,” she said at last. “As overlord of Carrisford, I had the right and duty of exacting vengeance against Lord Warbrick. He had assaulted my castle, killed my relatives and people, despoiled my property and land, and attempted to rape and kill me. Being a weak woman, I could not prevail against him single-handed, and so I used my troops as proxy, as is allowed.”

“Not your troops, Lady Imogen. Your husband’s!”

Imogen was framing a response when FitzRoger spoke. “By your leave, sire, that is not exactly so. By the marriage contract witnessed in this hall, my wife retains the suzerainty of Carrisford, and those men were Carrisford men.”

There was an uneasy rustling, but no outrage. Was it possible, Imogen wondered, that FitzRoger was on her side? She didn’t dare look at him.

“So,” said Henry, rapping his bejeweled fingers on the table, “the question is whether Imogen of Carrisford, as lord of this castle, had the right to visit summary justice upon Lord Warbrick, or whether she should have arrested him and brought him to trial.”

Imogen hoped the two men were going to debate the subject for her, but it appeared not. Henry snapped, “Well, woman?”

“My Lord FitzRoger thought summary justice was his right, Your Majesty, and so did I.”

Now there was an outraged stirring and muttering in the room. Imogen was coming to believe that Father Wulfgan had been right: FitzRoger would have to beat her publicly to recover from this. In view of the situation she thought that might be to get off lightly.

“But your husband would have offered Lord Warbrick fair combat,” Henry pointed out. “You gave your enemy no chance.”

Imogen answered proudly, “If my husband had not been wounded, sire, his skill would have given Lord Warbrick no chance.” Too late, she realized such a spirited answer was unwise.

Henry glared at her. “Are you not aware, woman, that the hand of God settles trial by combat? The weakest in the land could prevail against the mightiest if God were on his side.”

It was like a door opening into sunlight, though Imogen almost hesitated to walk through it, it was so tempting. She took a deep breath. “Then surely, sire, God was on my side.”

Another stir in the room, but not quite so malicious. Imogen thought she heard a chuckle, but she could have been mistaken. It occurred to her that none of the barons could contest her right to punish her enemies without weakening his own rights in such cases. In this matter, the men might incline more to her side than to the king’s.

Imogen saw something flash in Henry’s eyes—anger or admiration? She was almost dizzy with the pressure of this situation. Perhaps she would collapse before them after all, and completely involuntarily.

Henry’s fingers continued their irritated rap. “You have too clever a tongue, Imogen of Carrisford, and must be schooled. Now tell me, can you talk yourself out of your attack on your husband, too?”

Does that mean I’ve talked myself out of the first charge? Imogen thought dazedly.

“Well?” the king demanded.

Imogen tried, but she found no clever words. “I thought he would die,” she said simply.

Silence rounded the room as loud as cries.

Henry leaned back. “You thought Lord FitzRoger unable to defeat Lord Warbrick? You just said otherwise.”

A flickering glance at FitzRoger still told Imogen nothing. The mask was complete. She lowered her head. “I thought he misjudged the extent of his wounds, sire.” She knew there was no defense in any of this, and awaited judgment.

The king surprised her. He addressed her husband. “My Lord FitzRoger, is your wife correct? Do you think Warbrick would have killed you in that duel?”

“As always, sire, I put my trust in God,” said FitzRoger.

Imogen risked a glance at him. Still as hard as black iron.

“With hindsight,” persisted the king irritably, “do you think your wounds would have made victory by ability alone unlikely?”

“Very unlikely,” said FitzRoger flatly. “I was without effective use of both arms and one leg.”

Imogen wished she could risk a look around to see how the men in the hall were taking this. They were the ones that mattered here. But she knew they would never accept the idea of a woman taking matters into her own hands so forcibly, even to save a man’s life.

The king addressed the hall. “So. On the first charge, Lady Imogen contends that as overlord of Carrisford she had the right to seek vengeance against Lord Warbrick for the crimes committed against herself and her people. Does anyone speak against that?”

Imogen allowed herself to hope. By phrasing it that way, Henry made it unlikely that any would object. In fact, the knights and barons would support a lord’s right to act in such cases, even if the lord were a woman.

Henry took in the silence, and said, “So be it. But be it known that it is our intent that justice be fair and equal throughout this land. If Lord Warbrick had been other than he proved to be, if there had been any doubt as to his guilt, I would have spoken out today.”

Imogen felt relief seep into her, and it was dangerous, for it weakened her. But the major charge, surely, was removed.

“Now,” said Henry, “we must address the other charge. Lady Imogen does not deny that she attacked her husband, my vassal, and caused him to be made prisoner. Her excuse is that she was acting for his greater good. The implication is that she thought her husband unable to manage his affairs without her assistance. Despite this, Lord FitzRoger is inclined to be merciful and make her punishment light. Out of respect for his great services to us, we are willing to overlook any offense we might have been caused.”

Imogen was hardly breathing.

“But,” said the king, “does this matter go beyond his personal indulgence, and ours? Does anyone wish to speak to this?”

There was a positive roar of voices, and Imogen winced.

Henry brought order on proceedings and the men stepped forward in turn. The words differed, but the message was the same: women could not be allowed to overrule men, nor to take charge of their lives, even for the man’s protection. Were men as infants, to be kept from sharp blades and the fire?

And are women infants? Imogen thought. Yet you protect us from making our own mistakes. But she had the wisdom to clamp her lips on such words.

When all the men had had their say, Henry asked, “And do any speak for Imogen of Carrisford in this?”

Imogen couldn’t help it: she looked at FitzRoger. But though he met her eyes, and he had not spoken against her, he did not now speak for her. She lowered her head.

“Imogen of Carrisford,” said the king, “you are young, and have undergone many trials in recent days. First you lost your beloved father, then your castle was sacked. Witnesses have told us how you acted with courage and resolution to preserve your home. Just before your crime you had been in great personal danger, and had been forced to act against your woman’s nature to escape. In view of your husband’s faith in you, we accept that the strain of being forced to these unwomanly acts disturbed your mind in a temporary way. We put this penalty upon you, and this only: that you kneel here before us all and admit on the cross that what you did was wrong, and beg your husband’s pardon.”

A sober-faced monk came forward and presented Imogen with a jeweled reliquary cross.

Imogen took it, looking around wildly. Her eyes fixed on FitzRoger’s and she saw a strange look flit across his impassive features. Did he know she couldn’t take such an oath?

She sank to her knees, clutching the cross to her chest. “On the cross,” she said, “I am truly sorry for having caused all this distress, and I sincerely beg the pardon of my husband, my king, and all here present.”

It was not to be so easy.

“Lady Imogen,” said the king, “I am sure you are sorry for causing yourself to be here today. You will have to be more specific.”

Imogen tried again, without much hope. “On the cross, I am most heartily sorry that I had to take such steps against my husband, and I beg his pardon.”

The muttering started up again, swelling to a roar. The king shook his head. “You are not going to swear, are you, Lady Imogen?”

She faced him, tears blurring her vision. “I have made one false oath on the cross in my life, sire, and that was so painful to my soul that I cannot bear to do it again. I love my husband, Your Majesty, and I cannot believe it was wrong to preserve his life, even though I suffer grievously for it. I do, however, most sincerely beg his pardon, and yours, and that of all here present, that my actions have caused such distress, and that my refusal now will doubtless make matters worse.”

Henry looked nothing so much as exasperated. His fingers rapped angrily.

In the silence, FitzRoger stood. He held out a hand. “The whip.”

Imogen started as she realized one had been there waiting all along. She stared at her husband as he walked toward her. She noticed that he still limped slightly.

“Remove your cloak,” he said to her.

Dry-mouthed, Imogen undid the clasp and let it fall to puddle around her.

She gazed up at him, so tall and dark. The first time she’d seen him, he’d been flogging a miscreant.

“Do you accept that it is my right to punish you?” he asked.

She nodded, then found her voice. “Yes, my lord.”

“I suppose when you were about to strike me down with a rock you fully expected to be punished for it.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I would hate to disappoint you.” The whip hissed and Imogen gasped under the fire across her back. She stared forward, still clutching the cross, praying for courage.

FitzRoger walked away and tossed the whip on the table. Imogen stared as he turned to face the hall and her. “Any further discussion of this matter between my wife and myself will be in private. But if events here should get home to your wives, you men may at least tell them that Lady Imogen was publicly whipped for her sins.”

The muttering grew, and then one man rose angrily. “I say it’s not good enough. It’s to condone her actions! If Lord FitzRoger is too squeamish to whip his wife here and now, I’ll do it for him!”

“Any man who injures my wife in any way, ever, will answer to me.”

Silence fell, and the standing man sank back into his seat.

FitzRoger looked around the hall. “Does any man here speak against my decision in this? I will be happy to put the matter to the test of the sword.”

No one spoke. It was not surprising. Imogen could hear the killing anger in his voice. She was close to fainting under the weight of it, for she feared it was mostly directed at her.

FitzRoger raised Imogen to her feet with an ungentle hand on her arm. “Then my wife is restored to her honor in the world’s eyes, and will be treated thusly.” He bowed to the king. “By your will, my liege.”

Henry frowned, but said, “So be it, but as a husband myself, I think it best if no word of events here escapes to infect the women of England.”

Imogen couldn’t help but think that a little of that infection might do everyone good, but she hastily lowered her eyes and resolved to keep her mouth shut.

Perhaps not hastily enough. “Take your wife away, Ty,” said Henry testily, “and teach her proper behavior. And take the whip. I think you’ll need it.”

FitzRoger led the way, and Imogen followed in submissive silence, nervously watching the whip tap against his leg as he walked, but also noting his limp with concern. Was it permanent?

When they entered the solar, Imogen looked around the scene of old pain and battles and wondered how life and herself could have changed so much since she had last been in it.

Then she looked at her husband, black from head to toe and angry, and her knees knocked.

He walked away from her and turned, whip still in hand, eyes blazing with contained anger. “You are in the wrong. Say it.”

She swallowed. “In the eyes of the world, I am wrong. I know that.”

“I warn you, Imogen. I’d enjoy beating you.” Then he seemed to see the whip in his hand, and he hurled it away to clatter on the floor. Imogen almost crumbled in relief.

“Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused? You irritated one of Henry’s sore spots—justice—and I’ve had to apply all my skills, and some risky pressure, to have the matter handled so lightly. Do you understand? ”

Imogen nodded and tried very hard to stop her lips from quivering under this verbal lashing. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“Sorry for what? That’s the question.”

She glanced at him. “Sorry that you’re angry with me,” she admitted.

He laughed shortly. “Always honest. Your besetting sin.”

“You’d rather I were dishonest?”

“It would make life easier for all.”

Two tears escaped, and Imogen brushed them away and sniffed.

“By the Grail, Imogen”—and the rage was lessening—“I’m not angry at you for being truthful. Though if you’d taken that oath, it would all have gone a great deal easier.”

She raised her chin. “I won’t take another false oath, FitzRoger,” she said bleakly. “It hurts too much.”

“My all-too-honorable virago.” He sighed. “Don’t you know yet, Imogen, that life is an affair of tooth and claw, not a pretty tale of paladins and princesses?”

She shook her head.

He took to pacing the room. “You terrify me! You’re like me at thirteen, facing down Roger of Cleeve and listing off his sins. Virtuously right, but headed for bloody martyrdom.”

She met his eyes. “But right.”

He jabbed a finger at her. “Don’t forget the bloody martyrdom.”

“I don’t. You rescued me, my paladin.”

He shook his head. “Imogen, I’m no paladin.”

“You are to me. You’ve been trying to rescue me from my own foolishness since I hit you, haven’t you?”

He collapsed down on the bench. “So I’m transparent now, am I?”

She just looked at him.

“Yes,” he said with irritation, “as soon as I regained my wits I knew we had a problem. With hindsight it would have been better if Renald hadn’t carried you off to Cleeve. Better politically, but not for your skin.” He looked for a telling—almost longing—moment at the whip, then back at her.

“Once there, however,” he carried on, “I thought it better to keep you at Cleeve until I could see my way clear. I was hoping that the evil found when they seized Warbrick Castle would sway Henry, but it was by no means certain. He is determined to have good justice in this land.”

“I confess I didn’t think much of my execution of Warbrick. I was far more worried that you would cast me off for assaulting you.”

His eyes turned serious. “I would never do that, Imogen.”

There was no warmth in it, but it warmed her all the same. She worried, though, at the sense of something yet to come. Surely he had forgiven her....

Imogen became bold enough to sit on the edge of the bed and to put aside the cross she had been clutching like a ward against evil. “Thank you for trying to clear up the problem I caused.”

“What else could I do? You are my wife.” There was still no tenderness to read in him.

Imogen could have wept. Was this all there was to be, this detached concern? Would they never regain those hours in the cave—bleak hours of fear, and yet the sweetest of her life? She too looked at the whip. If it would get them past his anger, she would present it to him on her knees.

“Anyway,” he said, “you rescued yourself from the more serious charge with your quick wits.” He groaned. “Jesu, but my heart was in my mouth when you threw Henry’s words back at him.”

“Was that dangerous? I wasn’t sure. But I couldn’t think what else to do. I was so afraid.”

“Imogen, didn’t you know I’d never let you really suffer?” She could almost think he was hurt.

“Of course I did,” she assured him. “That was what I was afraid of.”

He exploded to his feet. “By the Host, Ginger! Haven’t you learned yet? You’re not supposed to protect me. I’m supposed to protect you. ”

The use of his special name brought a glow to her heart. “I can’t help it, FitzRoger, I love you.”

He stopped as if she’d hit him on the head with a rock again.

“Tell me something,” she said softly, and he looked up, eyes shadowed and unreadable. “Would you rather I had let you fight Warbrick?”

“Make no mistake, Imogen. If you’d been within reach during my first anger, you would have suffered dearly for your action.”

“You did warn me to keep out of range of your first rage.”

He shook his head in exasperation. “Are you even aware that most of those men hope I’m beating you black and blue?”

“Yes. I’m also aware that you’re evading my question.”

He shook his head again, but he answered. “No. At this moment, I would not rather you had let me fight Warbrick.”

Before she could comment, he added, “But don’t ever do anything like that again.”

“That doesn’t make much sense.”

“Perhaps not. But from now on, you will behave correctly according to your sex and station.”

Imogen sighed for what might have been. “You had better send me to a convent, then. I’ve come to the conclusion that I can’t be a meek, dutiful woman anymore. It’s as if something has broken, something that can never be mended.”

He laughed sharply. When she stared, he said, “I’m trying to remember when you ever were a meek, dutiful woman, Imogen.”

“I was before all this started,” she assured him earnestly. “Before I knew you.” It seemed amazing to her that there had ever been a time when she had not known him.

“Were you? Your father was better at managing you than I am, then.” He prowled the room again, kicking the whip out of his way. “Do you think,” he demanded at last, “you can at least act the part—excepting life-threatening situations in which you feel you have to save my life?”

She flinched at the edge in his voice, but nodded. “Yes. I promise.”

“In public,” he added.

“Of course,” she said, confused.

He smiled, and at last it was a true smile. “Because I rather like my all-too-honest virago in private.”

Imogen felt tears of happiness swell and didn’t hide them. Tentatively, hopefully, she held out a hand. He came to her and carried it to his lips. But once by her side he pushed back her scarf and Imogen remembered her appearance. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking away.

He turned her back. “God’s blood, Imogen! Why would I care about your hair?” He pulled her into his arms, and his lips lowered to hers. She expected a fiery kiss, but it was one of tender gentleness. “I only care that I haven’t been able to protect you from all this.” His lips trailed up to touch first one eyelid and then the other. “If I’m your paladin, Ginger, then I’m an arrant failure.”

“No, you’re not.” Imogen melted under his sensual assault. “But, oh, I love you too much....”

He carried her back onto the bed. “I fear that’s true.”

She looked up at him and the mask was down. He was open to her again and she smiled in blissful welcome.

He played with a tendril of her hair. “I can imagine no greater gesture of love, Ginger, than that rock to the back of the head. Because you knew the consequences, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

He began to unknot her cord girdle. She stilled his hands, not sure if he was really understanding her. “FitzRoger, I knew the consequences. And I will do it again if need be.”

He laughed. “No you won’t, Ginger, because I, at least, learn by my mistakes. If we’re ever in a similar situation, I’ll tie you up before you get the chance.”

Imogen at last allowed herself to surrender to happiness.

He pulled off all three layers of her clothing in one, leaving her in only her stockings. He touched faint bruises and marks gently. “It was quite an adventure we had, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” Imogen watched his expression. “What about my face?”

He kissed her scar. “Imogen, wounds of war don’t bother me. You saved us both. I don’t forget that. I didn’t raise the matter in the hall because it would have made matters worse rather than better, but if you hadn’t acted so bravely and wisely in the passages and after, all could have been lost.”

She began to cry with relief and happiness, and stretched up her arms. He came to her, kissing her, a kiss that turned from conscious care and comfort to unconscious need, so that they rolled together, absorbing one another.

She tore at his clothes, and he helped. One way or the other, they were off and he was naked. She pushed away to look at him, to anxiously study his wounds like a new mother with a babe. All looked well, though there was rough scarring on his arm, and his shoulder and knee were still shadowed with bruising.

“You still limp,” she said. “Will it get better?”

“Yes.” His fingers trailed hungrily over her body. “You won’t believe this, but it was completely better until I tripped on a hummock while training yesterday.”

She clucked like a worried mother. “They say you were in a killing match with Sir William.”

“Hardly that, though I took my rage out on him. I’d failed to persuade Henry to drop the matter. As it was, I was too distracted to notice a patch of rough ground.”

“Distracted by what?”

“By concern for you.”

Imogen gave him her thanks as a kiss. For the first time she noticed a scar on his lip that hadn’t been there before. Caused by Warbrick’s blow.

She kissed it.

She kissed each hurt, and then she couldn’t stop kissing all of him, every bit of his hard body. “I can’t believe how you frightened me at first,” she mumbled. “You seemed so hard.”

“I wasn’t as hard then as I am now,” he teased, pushing the hardest part of his body at her.

Imogen blushed and laughed again, light and free. He brushed the hair gently from her eyes. “I hope the devils haven’t come back now we’re in this room again.”

“Oh no,” she said, but flustered. Such things were still unfamiliar, and it was broad daylight.

“You’re bright pink and delicious. Do you want to be on top again?”

She shook her head. “Can you... Can it be like it was in the monastery?” She was sure she’d gone from pink to red. “But... but everything?”

He pushed her gently down and smiled at her. “I’d like that very much. My gift to you, my dear virago.”

His clever hands explored her, finding every point of delight. His mouth accompanied his hands perfectly, summoning rich new sensations and building them, moment by moment, to her ecstasy.

This time there was no need for restraint, and nothing to fear. This time there was no pain, though when he entered her—slowly, oh so slowly—there was an amazing fullness and she tensed.

Imogen had closed her eyes, the better to drown in the dark pleasures he had summoned, but now she opened them to find him watching her in careful concern. “Just give it a moment, dearling. It’s only your second time, after all.”

Imogen considered the sensation and shifted her hips around him. “It is in a way, quite pleasant,” she said. “Just strange.” She shifted again and saw him catch his breath. The feelings she was stirring in herself were thrilling, but the look on his face was more so. She began to rotate her hips.

“By the Tomb,” he muttered, but he made no objection, and moved in counterpoint to her.

“Oh, my,” said Imogen. “I think I’m going to... with you in me.”

“Good.”

Imogen could no longer control her movements. “FitzRoger...” she muttered. “I...”

“It’s all right, Ginger,” he soothed. “It’s all right.” His hands and mouth continued to pleasure her, but it was their joining that was driving her wild.

Imogen was aware of thrashing upon the bed almost as if she were fighting him, and of his mighty body skillfully restraining her so that the madness built. “FitzRoger,” she gasped. “Remember that I scream!”

“Scream, my sweet virago. Scream the castle down.”

And Imogen did scream when she exploded. She screamed, “Ty!”

When she came to herself she was limp and drenched with sweat. Her heart still pounded. “I’m like a goblet shattered into pieces,” she whispered.

His hands soothed her, though they themselves trembled. “You’re quite whole, dearest one, and remarkably, so am I.”

She closed her eyes to absorb the trembling memories of her body’s ecstasy, and relive them. “I think I screamed rather loudly. Why didn’t you stop me?”

“I wanted everyone to hear you scream. If they think I’m torturing you, so much the better.”

She opened her eyes to frown at him, but then just sighed and burrowed closer to his wonderful body. “I missed you so. Don’t they know that was a far worse punishment than even a beating?”

He tugged her hair so she had to look at him. “You thought that was a punishment? Then I punished myself. Even when I wanted to throttle you, I wanted you here to be throttled.”

“Then why did you keep us apart?”

His hand explored the pleasure points of her back, touched gently on the sting where he had had to strike her. “Once you were here, I knew I’d have to deal with it, and there was always the chance it could come to combat. I couldn’t risk fighting for you until I was fit again.”

“I thought of running away to save you from that,” she said. “And from offending the king.”

He shook his head. “You are not supposed to try to save me, remember?” But he was smiling. “I guessed. That’s why I made sure you had no money, and nothing you could turn into money.”

“Oh, I thought...”

“You thought what?”

“My morning gift,” she said shyly.

He slid from under her and went to his chest to take out the girdle. “You thought there was some symbolism? No.” He clasped the girdle around her waist. “You are mine for all time, Imogen, never doubt that.”

The words and the action were perfect, and yet there was something... something suggested by the way his eyes did not meet with hers.

Anxious to make all right, Imogen scrambled out of bed and ran naked to her own chest, the ivory and amethyst girdle clacking merrily. She opened the box and took out the leather pouch. “This is my gift to you,” she said, almost shyly. “I never had the chance to give it to you.”

He spilled out the emerald chain. “By the Rood... !” He was clearly pleased, and yet the shadows gathered more darkly, frightening her. What was wrong?

He dropped the chain over his head so the smooth stones glittered against his brown, muscular chest.

At last he looked at her, but his eyes were serious.

Imogen sat cross-legged on the bed before him. “Ty, what is it?”

He smiled, eyes sparkling like the jewels with pleasure. “You are using my name.”

“Yes.” Imogen wasn’t deflected. “What is worrying you?”

He touched the large central emerald, then met her eyes. “I took back your promise to the men who carried the treasure. They were well rewarded, but not given all they carried. That would have been madness, and they were as happy as not to be relieved of such responsibility.”

“Very well,” said Imogen. “But I would have given it all for your safety. I hope you know that.”

“I know it, and am still amazed.”

“So,” she said. “What else bothers you?”

He smiled ruefully. “You can read me like a book, can’t you? I have given Henry one half of the Carrisford Treasure.”

“Oh.” Imogen wasn’t pleased, but she was surprised by how light the displeasure was. “Well, I suppose after the trick we played, the whole world knew about it.”

“The king and I knew about it months ago. I came to this part of the country with instructions to win your hand one way or the other. The understanding was that half the treasure would eventually go into the king’s coffers. That was the price I was to pay for you and your lands.”

“You were to buy me with my own money?”

“Yes.”

“And when I came to you at Cleeve, you were preparing to seize me, weren’t you?”

“Yes. But for your protection. In the end, though, Henry would have given you to me.”

Imogen looked down and fiddled with the ivory girdle. “I suppose I shouldn’t ask,” she said, looking up. “But will you please give me your word that you had no hand in the death of Gerald of Huntwich?”

He was surprised. “Your first betrothed? I assure you, Imogen, I had no part in it, or your father’s death, but it was Huntwich’s death that started Henry and I planning. It was too good an opportunity to miss. It’s possible that Lancaster poisoned him, or even Warbrick and Belleme, but it could have been a natural death.”

“Are there any more secrets?” she asked warily.

“Not of mine,” he said, and the shadows fled.

Imogen smiled radiantly and took his strong, callused hands, his warrior’s hands. “Nor of mine. So, what does the future hold for us, my mighty champion?”

He shook his head at the name, but said, “Under God’s will, peace in England. A long reign and strong sons for Henry, so that we and our children may live our lives as sweetly as this moment.”

He leaned forward and kissed her. “Lives guided always by love.”

She hardly dared to hope. “Are you saying you love me?”

“God’s breath, Imogen! Why else didn’t I whip you soundly down there?”

Imogen whooped with delight and set to tickling her mighty champion to death.