Dark Champion #2

Chapter 12 #2

He sat, and tested the instrument. He glanced around almost humorously. “You rogues doubtless expect my ususal style, but tonight I sing for my bride.”

He did not have an exceptional voice, but he sang competently, and amazingly it appeared that the song might have been composed for her.

Treasure incomparable, such is my lady,

Set among roses, played to by love-birds,

Nourished on honeydew, and finest wastel bread

Such is my lady, flower of the west.

Let her step softly, over the smoothest ground,

Let her sing lightly, only of pleasant things,

Let her weep tears of joy, and touch me gently,

Sweet is the treasure she brings to my chest.

The men were pleased by this appropriately sentimental offering. Imogen was just amazed he was capable of it, and wondered if he had hired a jongleur to compose the piece for him. She had not missed that last line, however.

Treasure. Always the treasure.

He stood and bowed.

She smiled.

She rose in her turn and came to take the harp from him.

“You will sing?” he asked, almost warily.

“I will sing lightly, and only of pleasant things, my lord.”

He gave her the instrument, reluctantly, but kissed her hand as he passed it over, unsettling her.

Imogen sat and summoned her wits. She and her father, along with the professional musicians brought to train her, had played these improvisational games, making up long interwoven poems. She was very good at it.

She struck a note. “I sing for my husband,” she said to the men.

The treasure of Carrisford, rescued by courage,

Safe in her true home ever shall be.

Tending her people, nourishing, guiding,

Sharing the wastel and honeydew, she.

I sing of the courage of Tyron FitzRoger

I sing of his honor in coming to aid me,

My tears are of joy, my touch will be gentle

A treasure preserved just where it should be.

She could swear she saw a flash of genuine humor in his eyes in response to the last line.

“Very pretty!” declared Henry, “and a lovely voice. Come, Lady Imogen, sing us some other piece now you have done your duty.”

“Oh, it wasn’t duty, sire, but pleasure, I assure you.”

Imogen went obligingly into a song of Charlemagne’s knights, a Provencal piece of more elegance than martial. It was only as she sang of the great king’s twelve paladins and their adventures with the beautiful princess, Angelica, that she wondered why that particular song had come to mind. She glanced at her own darkly thoughtful paladin.

Why was he frowning? The company seemed well pleased with her offering, and she knew that in this one respect at least, her husband could not find her lacking.

She resumed her seat at his side.

“You sing beautifully,” he said. “Doubtless a result of many years of expensive training.”

Imogen raised her chin. “And many years of arduous practice, my lord. Doubtless you were engaged in other matters.”

“Yes. Many years of arduous practice. Did I sneer? I beg your pardon. It is merely envy. I hope you will sing privately for me from time to time.”

She glanced at him, and though he was cold as ice she judged him serious. She should have realized his strength and skills had not come easily, especially to a puny eight-month child. “Of course,” she said, even though his words carried implications of unbearable intimacy.

One of the knights was singing now, in a fine bass voice, and they paid attention.

There was the sudden interruption of a bellow from the watchcorn’s horn. The music broke off. FitzRoger glanced at Renald, and the darker man slipped out of the hall. At a signal, the singer continued.

Renald returned to murmur to FitzRoger, who then said, “Sire, it is the Earl of Lancaster. Is it acceptable to you that he be admitted?”

“The laggardly lover?” said the king with a malicious grin. “By all means!”

The order was given, but Imogen sensed a new tension in the air coming from the men on either side of her. It was not fear, but a kind of readiness, as men show before battle. Why? This doubtless would not be pleasant, for Lancaster would not be happy about the marriage, but what was done was done.

Except, she realized with a jolt, that it wasn’t done.

She toyed with a piece of fruit as the king and FitzRoger spoke quietly across her of Lancaster. It became clear that the earl was not a man Henry could afford to ignore, and that it was even possible Lancaster would throw his support behind Henry’s enemies if offended. He was known to have met with Belleme.

It was also clear that Henry’s distrust of Lancaster had been behind the move to marry her to FitzRoger, and behind the haste.

Lancaster might have been told she had agreed to marry FitzRoger, but he had come anyway. And they had known he would come.

To confirm her interpretation, Henry said, “Good thing it’s all settled. What happened to the sheet? We might have to wave it in front of him.”

Imogen stiffened, but kept her eyes shielded and hoped no other part of her revealed her anxiety.

“There was no mark on it,” FitzRoger said calmly.

“What?”

Imogen looked up at that, fearing she was about to be shamed in one way or another.

“That casts no doubt on Lady Imogen’s honor,” said FitzRoger. “Merely a matter of position and care.”

The king turned red. “By heaven, Ty, that was stupid. A wedding night’s no time for games like that!”

Lost, Imogen glanced between them. Games like what?

FitzRoger’s fingers turned his table knife. “Do you think Lancaster will contest my lady’s virtue? I hope he does.”

“Stop snarling,” said the king shortly as the Earl of Lancaster strode in. “I can’t afford a fight between you.”

The Earl of Lancaster was a big, fleshy man who generally looked magnificent in layers of finest clothing. Today he looked haggard and muddy. He clearly had, for once, rushed.

He scanned the situation and bowed. “Sire! I have made all haste to assist Lady Imogen, my affianced bride.”

FitzRoger rose and arranged seating for the earl by the king’s side. “I fear you are in error, my lord,” he said politely. “The lady is my bride.”

Lancaster froze. “But...”

“We were married yesterday.”

The earl looked at Imogen in shock. “Lady Imogen,” he said with an attempt at a smile. “How can this be when you are promised to me?”

Imogen swallowed. “Nothing was settled, my lord.”

“But your father’s wishes were quite clear, and should be sacred to a dutiful daughter.”

Imogen felt rather sick, but she kept her chin up. “Nothing was settled,” she repeated.

“Come, Lancaster,” said the king cheerfully before the red-faced earl could explode. “It is a suitable match and has my blessing. There is nothing to be done now. There are prizes aplenty in the land, and I promise you will have your pick of them. You have ridden hard. Take your rest. Eat. Drink. You are very welcome. We go shortly to bring Warbrick and Belleme to heel. You and your men can join us.”

Imogen saw that distract Lancaster, for though he always provided his due in soldiers for his liege, he was not a man to engage in battle himself.

She turned to her husband, and found him looking at her in that catlike way she hated. She knew he was watching for any move she might make to announce her virginity, ready to forestall it. She wondered how he would manage that, and was almost tempted to find out....

He took her hand and rose. “Will you excuse us, sire? My Lord of Lancaster.” The latter was not a request.

“Of course, of course,” said Henry jovially. “Off you go!”

Lancaster looked as if he would object, but after a glance at FitzRoger, he thought better of it.

Imogen thought of objecting also, but there was truly nothing to object to—it would not have caused comment if she and FitzRoger had kept to their room for a week. Still, she felt shamed by this blatant show of possession.

“We’re married,” she pointed out when they were in their room. “You’ve won. You don’t have to rub his nose in it.” She went to look angrily out of the window, trying to put space between them.

“What a suspicious nature you have. Lancaster can choke for all I care, but Henry’s patience is not limitless.”

Imogen turned. “What do you mean?”

“He’s waiting anxiously for the whores to be let in again.”

“ What? But I said they were not to be permitted in the hall. In my father’s day—”

“Your father had his arrangements, but you can hardly expect the king to wander off to the village, or sneak into the bathhouse in the dark.”

Imogen was almost spluttering. “My father had no such arrangements. He loved my mother deeply!”

“Grow up, Imogen. Your mother has been dead for two years and was frail for many years before that. You have two half brothers and a half sister being raised in Gloucester. When you take up your duties and go over the accounts, you’ll find your father provided for them handsomely.”

“Bro—” Imogen snapped her mouth shut and tried to collect her scattered wits. It never occurred to her that FitzRoger might be lying, though. “How do you know this?”

“The business of Carrisford has been disrupted, but has not ceased entirely. Someone has had to authorize payments.”

Imogen wanted to protest that he had exceeded his authority, but as he said, someone had to do it. It was her fault for allowing personal matters to block out her duty.

“Tomorrow,” she stated, “I will take up the management here.”

“Excellent. You can also calculate what you owe me.” Before she could respond to that, he said, “I’m surprised Lord Bernard didn’t wed again, especially when he was without an heir.”

The matter of her father was still raw. She had brothers and sisters? “Some men, My Lord Bastard, take marriage more seriously than others.”

His eyes narrowed. “I assure you, no one takes marriage more seriously than a bastard. If you die without giving me at least two sons, Imogen, I’ll marry again at the first opportunity.”

Imogen sat with a bump on the bed. “You really are a horrible man.”

“Of course I am. It’s my stock in trade.” He came to lean on a post. Looming. “Are you saying you want me to mourn you in celibacy all the days of my life? Hardly realistic. I wouldn’t expect it of you.”

She met his mocking eyes. “After this experience, my lord, I am hardly likely to marry again, even if I should be lucky enough to be free of you.”

“Unfortunately, I seem to live a charmed life.”

“Unfortunate indeed.” Imogen didn’t really want to be saying such cruel things, but it was as if she were being carried along by a stream in flood, a stream of vitriol.

“There’s always the knife,” he said helpfully. He took it from where it lay on top of her chest and placed it beside her on the bed.

She just gave him a disgusted look, and remembered where all this had started. “Those whores—”

“Are now serving their king.”

Imogen opened her mouth and then interpreted the look in his eyes. “Is this one of those matters in which I must be ruled by you, my lord husband?”

“Yes.”

She smiled tightly. “Then I’m surprised you aren’t down there availing yourself of their services.”

“So am I, since there’ll be little amatory release to be found here.” He returned her humorless smile. “After our touching song play, however, it would be a shame to shatter the picture, wouldn’t it?”

“Little...” Imogen was off balance again. She had assumed he was determined to consummate the marriage, particularly now Lancaster had turned up sniffing for an excuse to break it; a good part of her bitterness had been a desperate rear guard action. “What do you mean?”

He looked at her derisively. “Are you keen to assuage my husbandly needs then, Imogen?”

She could feel her color flaring. “I know my duty,” she muttered.

“Do you? As laid down by Father Wulfgan, I suppose. I’m afraid I’m too degenerate to be satisfied with that.” He moved away from her, opened a chest, and took out a chess board. He placed it upon a small table by the window and began to set up the pieces with swift, deft fingers. “I assume you play.”

“Yes,” said Imogen, bemused by his unpredictable moves.

“Well?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I like a challenging game. You can be ivory.”

Imogen moved to sit across the board from him. The board was inlaid in dark and pale woods; the pieces were silver and ivory. It was very lovely. She touched her elegant pale queen. “My father had a set similar to this,” she said.

“It was smashed, but the silver is around somewhere. It can be reworked.” His matter-of-fact voice was designed to give no quarter.

Imogen gritted her teeth and made the first move. She supposed it was a hopeless cause, but she would do her best to trounce him. She would dearly love to defeat him in something. Soon all her attention was fixed on the board as she fought for her life. FitzRoger played an unpredictably brilliant game, but she was holding her own.

Just.

While she contemplated a particularly complex series of moves, he rose and poured them both wine. She drank it absentmindedly, fighting excitement, checking for the third time that her plan wouldn’t spell disaster.

She couldn’t believe that she actually had a chance to win.

Struggling to look impassive, she moved her bishop three squares. Still standing, he moved a rook. She moved a pawn seemingly at random. He raised a brow and took it. She moved her queen. “Checkmate,” she whispered.

He sat rather sharply and studied the board for a long time. “So it is,” he said thoughtfully.

Their eyes met and a grin started on Imogen’s face that she couldn’t stop. She was gloating, but couldn’t help it.

He suddenly laughed, his face lighting in a most amazing way. “A true victory,” he said, and toasted her. “Remind me never to underestimate your mind, especially when mine is distracted by lust.”

It was like a dash of cold water. Imogen glanced nervously at the bed.

His smile faded. “I’ll give you notice, Imogen. I do believe that in time you will come to be comfortable with me. I am willing to wait if I can.”

“If you can?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I’ll wait. But you have to try to overcome your anxiety. It would help if you didn’t keep running off to that priest to have your fears reinforced.”

“I didn’t... I don’t... Why should I believe you, not him?”

“For no reason at all. But there are other opinions. When we have opportunity, perhaps you would like to ride to Grimstead monastery and consult with the abbot there. I have met him and he seems to be both good and wise.”

Imogen nodded, relieved by such a reasonable suggestion. “I would like to do that.”

“Good. I assure you, the last thing I want is to force you to act against your conscience, but this situation cannot go on indefinitely.”

“Particularly with Lancaster around.”

His glance was quick and sharp. “Quite.”

Imogen’s fingers tightened on her goblet. “What did you mean about position and care?”

He lounged back and sipped his wine. “With most women, if a man takes care, there’s little blood and pain, and if you weren’t on your back on the bed, there quite likely wouldn’t be blood on the sheet.”

Imogen opened her mouth and then shut it again. She had questions, but they were not ones she felt able to ask. She liked the fact, though, that he had answered her question so directly. She was used to people telling her not to worry her pretty head about things.

She should tell him about Warbrick and Janine. Panic seized the back of her neck just at the thought.

She took another tack. “I am ready to do my duty, Lord FitzRoger. I’m sure if you would just do it, it would be all right.”

She wasn’t sure, but if he were quick, surely it would be over with before the worst of her fears had a chance to gather.

“It might come to that, Imogen, but it’s not my way. And I hope for better.” He turned his goblet thoughtfully, then looked up at her. “You may not realize this, but it would have been no easy matter to complete the marriage last night. Perhaps it was the way you fought me, or perhaps it is the way you are made, but I could not have entered you without using a great deal of force.”

She hadn’t realized. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not sure it is something you can control, but I’m sure it will help if you can ease your fears. Even if it does hurt you the first time, it is a natural thing, after all.” He was looking at her in that considering way, seeking out strengths and weaknesses. “Come here.”

Her nerves trembled, but warily she rose and obeyed.

When she was standing by his knee, he took her hand. He played with her fingers. “Tell me what you fear. The pain of losing your maidenhead, if there’s pain at all, will be soon over.”

“I don’t fear the pain.” Imogen wanted to tell him, but could not find the words. Could he explain why he feared closed spaces?

“You cannot persuade me that you do not like to be kissed and fondled.”

Her cheeks were burning. “No, I like it well enough. From you, at least.”

“A compliment!” he declared. “We progress! Who else has kissed and fondled you, though?”

The edge in his voice made her nervous, but she answered. “My betrothed kissed me on the lips now and then, and Lancaster once. His breath is foul.”

Still, he played with her fingers in a mesmerizing way. “So, why are you afraid, Imogen? I don’t bite. Or only,” he added, raising her hand and nipping her fingers, “in the nicest ways.”

She snatched her hand away. “That! That’s what I fear. Your urges are wicked!” It was a paltry, lying evasion, and she knew it.

He shook his head slightly and considered her. The silence stretched until she felt fit to scream. What was he planning?

“For this night,” he said eventually, “I give you my word, I will do only what you wish. If you say stop, I will stop.”

He held out a hand. Tentatively, Imogen placed hers in it. He pulled her down onto his lap.

“What are you going to do, then?”

“Kiss you,” he said, and did.

His lips were soft and warm, and his hand played gently at her neck. Imogen easily put all the words of Father Wulfgan away and relaxed. She snaked her hands about her husband’s neck and submitted happily.

Even when his hand wandered over her breasts she stifled any protest. If she just kept her attention on the kiss, perhaps she could keep dark thoughts at bay....

The mere idea caused them to hover around her like a storm cloud. It was as if she were afraid of being afraid. No, she wouldn’t give in to this insanity. There was nothing here to stir her fears. Warbrick had never touched Janine’s breasts. There was no connection.

She kissed her husband fiercely, trying to drive the shadows away. This could not be too hard a thing to do, especially when she could tell that her body wanted what he offered. The wanting was like warmth trickling through her and coiling sweetly in her belly.

He said she’d tightened against him. She didn’t think she was tight now.

He murmured something approving and unclasped her precious girdle to let it slither to the floor. It clattered carelessly in a way that made her wince. His hand invaded her tunic to be one layer closer to her skin.

Her body moved with desire. Her mind said this was right.

The terrors, though, the terrors screamed, Stop!

She blocked them and said, “Yes,” even though her heart was pounding with fear.

He was studying her and she looked into his eyes for strength. He captured her hand and held it to his chest. “Yes?” he asked.

She nodded, fighting the demons with every fragment of strength she could find.

Who was in control of her body and her mind, she or them?

She could do this. She could.

“You look frightened,” he said on an unsteady breath, “but we’ll go very slowly, and I’ll stop if you want.”

“I’d rather it were fast,” she protested. “I know it can be fast. I’ve heard—”

He put his fingers over her lips. “It will be easier for you if we take our time. Trust me, Imogen....”

He was slow as he took her hand and slid it down his hard body until it touched where he was harder. She flinched, but he held her there gently. “Don’t be afraid of it,” he said. “It won’t hurt you, or at least, only the first time. You are made for this, Imogen. Accept it.”

Yes, she told herself. Women are made for this. She remembered the needlewomen and their anticipation.

No! shrieked her fears. Remember the pain. Violation. Blood. Screams.

Martha, she reminded herself fiercely. Dora. Those whores down in the hall taking ten men a night. Her mother and father.

Janine!

Women have endured this since time began. It is natural. I can be calm and let him do his duty.

I can. I can. I can.

Her heart was speeding so, she feared he must hear it.

In her effort to gain control she clutched at him. He jerked under her hand and swelled. She looked into his eyes and saw the power of his need.

Her control broke. She pushed away violently. His hold was lax so she fell bruisingly to the floor.

At the look on his face, she scuttled backward. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “I tried...”

He buried his head in his hands. “Then don’t.” He surged to his feet and turned toward the door.

“Please don’t leave me!” Imogen cried, then she shook her head. “Oh, I’m sorry. Go, if you want. Go to a whore. I won’t mind. It’s all my fault.”

He was like an ebony statue, except his face, which was ivory-pale. “I will never use a whore in your house, Imogen. I will only be gone for a short while. If you wish to be kind, get into bed, but keep your shift on.”

Imogen watched the door click shut, heartsick. How could something she wanted so much be so impossible?

She obeyed him, though. Trembling, she used the water left for washing, then climbed into the bed in her shift.

She was discovering that life wasn’t a chess game. She couldn’t plan the moves, and she needed more than her brain to win. Despite all her good intentions, she wasn’t in control of her body and couldn’t will herself to behave as she wished.

It was like rats. No willpower on earth could make her pick up a rat, even a dead one.

How could it be resolved?

But FitzRoger had gone into the secret passageways to save his friends.

How did that help her? She’d tried to be brave tonight, and it had been nothing but disaster.

He had vomited when he came out of the passageways. Would she vomit if they consummated the marriage? What would that do to him? Perhaps, after all, she should go to the nunnery.

She didn’t want to. She wanted to stay with FitzRoger.

He returned, calm in a way that was not natural. It made the hairs raise on Imogen’s skin, though not with a sense of danger.

Father, she begged, what do 1 do now?

There was no answer.

FitzRoger stripped down to his drawers, then climbed into the bed. He did not touch her, but lay on his side, looking at her. She met his eyes. She owed him that.

“Imogen,” he said, “it would help, I think, if you could send Father Wulfgan away. The monks at Grimstead would take him in and doubtless some of them would appreciate his brand of piety.”

Imogen knew Father Wulfgan wasn’t the major problem, but just the mask she was using to hide from the dark. Sending the priest away, however, was a little enough thing to ask. “Very well,” she said.

He nodded. “And I would like a promise from you.”

“What?”

“That you will never endure anything from me in love-making. If you feel at all uncomfortable, let me know. It is... extremely hard on me to be misled in these matters.”

Imogen swallowed. “But I’m not sure if...”

“We can at least try.”

She searched his eyes and told herself that he knew what was what. “Very well. I promise.”

“Good. Now, go to sleep.” He turned, and cut off communication with absolute finality.

Imogen turned wearily in the other direction, wondering how this was to unravel.