Dark Champion (4 page)

Of course, an additional problem was that the king would now have the choosing of her husband. Sweet Virgin, was ever an untried maid so beset with problems?

Imogen had to wonder when the idea of wooing her would occur to FitzRoger. She had not heard that he was already wed or betrothed, so he would have to see her as a ripe plum for the picking. She had no intention of marrying such a man, so her pregnancy could turn out to be very useful indeed.

Three women came in with a tub and lined the inside with thick linen cloths. Imogen was soothed by this evidence of gentle living in such a rough hall. They went away and returned with pails of hot and cold water and filled the tub, adding herbs. One laid out clean clothes for Imogen to wear.

The women eyed her disgusting state curiously but were otherwise as respectful as she could wish. They would have bathed her, but Imogen could not allow that. She sent them away and they obeyed quite readily. Imogen had to admit that she wouldn’t touch herself either if she didn’t have to.

As soon as she was alone she ripped off the foul rags, the paunch, and the sandals. She scratched some of the worst bites, and sank with a blissful sigh into the water. Her feet stung, but it would do them good to be cleaned.

It felt so very, very good.

It would have been easy to fall asleep in the steamy comfort of the bath, but the women would soon return, and so Imogen took up the cloth and the pot of soap and began to wash. When she saw how foul she was, she scrubbed viciously at every inch of her body.

When she started to wash her feet, however, she hissed with agony and stopped. More careful cleaning showed they were in a terrible state. They were puffed up almost beyond recognition. There were swollen blisters all over the soles, and weeping, bleeding sores on the sides where the thongs had rubbed. How had she walked on them? How was she to walk now?

Dabbing at them gingerly, she tried to tell herself that they’d be better in a little while with the soaking.

She resumed the attack on the rest of her body, then turned her attention to her hair. She soaked it, did what she could with the soap, then rinsed it with clean water. She really did need a maidservant to help with this task, for her hair was thick and wavy and fell to below her hips.

Would she ever have dear Janine back to brush and braid her hair? That raised unbearable thoughts, however, and she pushed them away.

When she was as clean as possible Imogen stood, but a moment on her feet had her back sitting, tears in her eyes from the pain. Sweet Savior, what was she to do?

Eventually, she climbed out of her bath by hoisting herself on her hands and falling out onto her bottom. She discovered there was a spot on each heel which could take some weight without protest, and so she managed to dry herself. Then she shuffled over to her paunch and bound it on, and pulled the clean cotton shift on top.

At last she was, just possibly, safe.

Safe? she scoffed. How safe was she when she couldn’t even walk? She was as helpless as a babe.

She eyed the low bed. If she was lying on it when the maids returned, perhaps no one need know just how vulnerable she was. She worked her way awkwardly over to the bed and hoisted herself onto it. Surely by morning she would be able to walk.

Why was she so afraid, when she was in the keep of an ally? Apart from his coldness, the Lord of Cleeve was being a perfect knight. He had been willing to hear and aid two destitute peasants, as a good lord should. He had given her a room, clean clothes, and a bath. He was preparing to recover her castle.

She suddenly wondered why the Lord of Cleeve had not been among her suitors.

He had been busy since coming to Cleeve, of course, occupied with taking control of his property and helping the king repel invasion, but other men as busy had found time to at least express interest. With Carrisford and Cleeve lands adjoining there would have been arguments in favor of the match.

Of course, he could well have realized that someone of such dubious origins would not have been a strong contender. Lord Roger of Cleeve had denied both paternity and the legality of the marriage to the Bastard’s mother. This man’s taking of the name FitzRoger had been a calculated taunt at the man he claimed as father. It was only since the coronation of his friend and patron, Henry Beauclerk, that Lord FitzRoger had obtained validation of his legitimacy. He had not yet managed to shed the nickname Bastard, and perhaps never would.

Imogen doubted that anyone actually used it to his face.

Imogen nodded, satisfied that she understood the situation. He’d either never thought he’d have a chance of wedding Imogen of Carrisford or he’d approached her father and been dismissed. Now he could well be thinking that doing her this service would bring him into favor. He still was not the sort of husband she wanted, but she would try to be kind when the time came to dismiss him. His irregular origins were not his fault.

The women peeped in. Imogen smiled and allowed them to come and clear away the bath. One produced a comb and began to work it through Imogen’s wet hair. “It’s so long, lady. And I swear it looks like gold where it’s drying. Such beauty…”

Then one of the maids gave a squeal of horror and pointed at a bloody patch on the sheet. “Oh, lady! Your poor feet!”

Before Imogen could prevent it the woman ran off to get help. Soon a monk appeared along with the master of the castle.

“This is Brother Patrick, Lady Imogen,” said FitzRoger. “He’s more accustomed to sword cuts and saddle sores, but he should be able to tend your wounds.”

Imogen thought of protesting but guessed that if she did, the master would simply upend her and present her feet to the monk. Anyway, her feet did hurt and she wanted the use of them tomorrow.

FitzRoger leaned against a wall, arms folded, and watched as Brother Patrick inspected the damage. The monk shook his head in a worrying way, then set to work, cleaning the weeping flesh then smearing salve and applying bandages. It hurt.

Throughout the painful ordeal Imogen’s awareness of FitzRoger’s impassive observation firmed her courage. She’d pledge her soul to the devil before she’d whine with those cold green eyes on her.

“How bad are they, Brother Patrick?” FitzRoger asked as the monk began to bind her feet.

“Not as bad as they look, my lord. As long as no infection sets in, they will heal.”

Imogen caught her breath at the very notion that they night not heal. She remembered her father dying in agony from a festering wound and a chill swept through her.

She looked up and her eyes were caught by FitzRoger’s. “They will heal unless you are foolish,” he said. “I’ve seen enough wounds.” Despite the brusque tone, it was almost as if he realized her fears and was offering comfort.

He strolled closer to the bed. “You improve with washing,” he said casually, “no matter who you are. You do fit the description of the Carrisford heiress.”

“That is hardly surprising.”

A light flickered in his eyes. “Robust,” he said, “with gingerish hair.”

Imogen gaped. “It is not
ginger
!”

He picked up a strand, letting it fall before she could slap his hand away. “If it’s not, then perhaps you are not the Carrisford heiress. I wonder what the penalty should be for impersonating a highborn lady?”

Despite the fact that she could never be found guilty of such a crime, Imogen felt a tremor of fear. “You have no right to punish me.”

“You have placed yourself under my governance.”

She glared up at him. “I have not. I have come to you, equal to equal, for aid against my enemies. My father was always an ally of Cleeve.”

The monk finished his work. “Please do not walk on those feet for at least two days, Lady Imogen,” he said, “and send for me if there should be any increase of pain or swelling of the legs.”

At least her confrontation with FitzRoger had distracted her from Brother Patrick’s final ministrations.

But two days? “I can’t stay off my feet for two days,” she protested.

“You must if you want them to heal,” said the monk. “And don’t try to wear shoes.”

Brother Patrick left and Imogen looked down with disgust at the bandaged lumps at the ends of her legs. How could her body betray her at this crucial time?

Then she realized the women had also left.

She was alone at the uncertain mercy of Bastard FitzRoger, and forbidden to make any attempt to escape on pain of death from festering feet.

She could feel the pounding of her heart but kept her chin up and her expression stern.

At least FitzRoger moved away from her, going to sit on a bench beneath the narrow window. The sun was low now and fiery. It touched his dark hair and tunic with red, so that Imogen was reminded of the devil.

He raised a thoughtful finger to his lips as he studied her. “There are stories,” he said at last, “of secret ways into Carrisford. Do you know those ways?”

Imogen’s heart skipped a beat. This was not what she had expected. Even the existence of those secret ways was a family secret, a sacred trust. How had he heard of them? She remained silent.

His expression hardened. “If Warbrick holds the castle, you want him out of there, do you not?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must tell me all you know about the place.”

It made sense, but it had always been strongly impressed on Imogen that a secret escape is also a secret entrance, and a known secret is no use to anyone. “You said you were taking me with you to Carrisford,” she said at last.

“Hardly practical anymore.”

Imogen wanted nothing more than to stay in this bed and be taken care of, but she could see her duty. “I can ride,” she said.

She expected an immediate protest. No one ever allowed the Flower of the West to put herself in danger or discomfort. If had often chafed her.

Instead he nodded. “It will not be easy, but if you insist it can be done. We should be in no great need of speed.”

“Then,” said Imogen, “I will tell you what you need to know when you need to know it.”

“What I need to know?” he echoed. He turned that heavy ring again, then rose smoothly and moved toward the bed. “Did you not say we are allies, Lady Imogen?”

She pressed back into the pillows and nodded, dry mouthed.

“Allies are honor-bound to help one another.” He raised one foot and rested it on the bed frame, leaning forward on his knee, looming over her. “In all ways.”

Imogen remembered thinking that he did not loom. Foolish error.

“Can you read and write at all?” he asked.

She was startled back into her voice. “Yes.”

“Then I will have some parchment sent up with pens and ink. Draw a plan of the castle and put on it all the information you know. Everything.” It was as if she had never spoken. “Tomorrow we’re going to Carrisford, Ginger. If you withhold any useful information, I’ll take it out of your skin. If you deceive me, I’ll strangle you myself.”

She believed him. She would have disappeared under the bed if she’d been able, but she kept her chin up and her eyes on him. “Then you do believe I am who I claim to be?” It came out a little thin, but she was proud of having got it out at all.

“I said I’d treat you as such until proved wrong, didn’t I?”

He leaned forward and picked up a strand of her long hair, twisting it around his finger. “If you are playing a part, sweet Ginger,” he said softly, “I recommend that tomorrow you take any opportunity that presents to run—swelling feet or no.”

Imogen was frozen.

Then he released her hair and straightened. “I’ll have a supper sent up along with the writing materials. Good night.”

He was gone and she could breathe again, try to calm her hammering heart. Her instincts had been right all along. She had snared a dragon, not a hunting hound, and was as likely to be its dinner as its mistress.

She closed her eyes on tears. She wanted her father back to guide her Aunt Constance to fuss, Janine to comb her hair and lay out her beautiful clothes and jewels. She wanted her home. She didn’t want to be in a strange place, alone, and having to be brave.

She had no choice. She remembered her father’s words and knew that the taste of gall was on her lips.

After she had eaten the plain but adequate supper, Imogen drew a careful plan of Carrisford for Bastard FitzRoger. She told herself she did it because he was her champion and was going to win back her home for her. She knew she also drew it to pacify him.

She even included the section of the passageways which ran behind the walls of the great hall, for they would be easy to find by anyone who suspected their presence, and the link between them and the lower ones was hidden.

Despite her fear, however, she did not include the lower passages or the entrance they provided to the castle.

After all, it was possible that Warbrick had abandoned Carrisford when he found her missing. It would be utter foolishness to give away the family secrets unless absolutely necessary.

All the same, she chewed the quill nervously, wondering what FitzRoger would do when he realized most of the secret passageways weren’t shown.

Of course he wouldn’t whip her.