Dark Champion (7 page)

FitzRoger was out of sight now, presumably beginning to scale the rough cliff.

The silence began to grate on her, and the waiting, and so she murmured to the shadowy figure nearby, “Is there to be a signal when they are through?”

“A fire if possible, but any sign of life will be a signal.” His tone was very curt.

“But what if it is the alarm?”

“What alarm?”

Imogen realized FitzRoger had not explained the problem to his men, but it seemed to her they should know. She told Sir William, not needing to look to see his disgust.

“You’re a dim-witted little trollop, aren’t you?” he said in disgust. “What a…” He swung closer. “He’s gone to stop them?”

She shrank from the sharpness in his voice. “Or to tell them the way to get past the trap.”

“But they’ll likely already be in the passage when he catches them?”

“Yes, but he should be able to get to them before the trap. It’s at the far end, close to the first exit.”

The man snarled into her face. “After all the work we had to persuade him not to go! Do you know what you’ve done, my lady Imogen? You’ve sent him off to the one thing he can’t do.”

Imogen flinched, back against the tree. “What do you mean?”

“His father threw him in an oubliette once. Left him there for weeks. The one thing Bastard FitzRoger can’t endure is closed, dark spaces.”

“His father!” Imogen echoed in horror. “But then why did he go? He said it was because he’d already studied the route…”

“True enough.” The menace lessened as Sir William ran his hands through his hair. “And from what you said, I’m too broad. But he hates to admit there’s anything he can’t do.” He turned hard again and flashed her a nasty look. “Heiress or no, you’re a great deal more trouble than you’re worth.” With that he stalked away.

She could never take her father’s place. She lacked the appropriate knowledge. She lacked the fortitude. She lacked the harshness. Who was she to drive men to suffering and death, to send them to face their private demons?

She knew what it was to have an irrational fear; she was terrified of rats. True, rats could bite, which darkness couldn’t, but still she imagined how it would feel to be in a room full of rats, to go into a room full of rats of her own accord. Could she do that to save a friend? She honestly didn’t know. She was in a fine sweat just thinking about it.

And what kind of father, she wondered, threw his son into an oubliette?

She reviewed the gossip about Roger of Cleeve and the FitzRoger bastard. Old Sir Roger had married and sired a number of children, all sickly, most dying young, until he found himself with one sickly heir and no chance of better as long as his wife lived. On a visit to Normandy he’d got a girl with child—a daughter of a poor knight, it was said, and of birth enough for marriage if he’d been free.

And then he was free. The story went that he’d received news that his wife was dead and promptly married his concubine two months before the babe was due.

Then he’d returned to England and found the king was offering him a rich heiress as a reward for his service. Bitter at having to miss such an opportunity, he’d returned to Normandy to try to buy his way out of his hasty marriage. When he found his wife had delivered an eight-month babe, he’d promptly had the marriage annulled on the grounds that he had not consummated it, which was technically true, and that the child was not his, which was generally held to be doubtful.

Much good it had done him, thought Imogen, who had never liked the brutal man. His rich second wife had proved even more unfruitful than his first and never even conceived.

If the tale was true, it would seem that Bastard FitzRoger was not really a bastard. He surely must have proved his birth to have inherited from his half-brother.

As for the rest, she could imagine old Roger of Cleeve throwing an unwanted child in an oubliette, but she had not thought he and his supposed son had ever met. The Bastard had been raised by his mother’s family in Normandy. Perhaps that family had been the one who had caused his fear. Such a family disgrace would not have been treated kindly.

Again she knew how fortunate she had been in her birth and upbringing, and she was touched with pity for that unwanted child, denied and mistreated by both sides of his family…

Activity jerked her upright, and she looked at the castle. The first dim wisps of dawn lit the sky, but a brighter light came from a fire blazing in the outer bailey of Carrisford Castle.

“They’re in,” she said with relief. The alarm had not been triggered. FitzRoger must have overcome his fears.

Her excited hope returned. “We’ve won!”

“We hope.” Sir William grunted and called for his horse. “You stay here,” he barked at Imogen as he pulled up his mailed coif and jammed his helmet on top. He swung into the saddle and gathered his men with the cry, “FitzRoger!”

The mounted force swept over the rise and down toward the castle crying their leader’s name, desperate to get involved before the fighting was over.

Imogen watched, kneeling up straight, her heart pounding with excitement and fear. The soldiers hurtled down the incline, then began the longer and more dangerous ride up to the open gate. This was the time when arrows or pitch could rain down. She bit her lip and prayed…

Nothing.

The men charged into the castle without opposition.

“It’s safe!” Imogen cried, and looked around for Bert. “I have to be there. Please. It’s all clear. Can’t we go?”

The stolid man didn’t move. “Sir William said to wait for word.”

“But what did Lord FitzRoger say?” Imogen asked with cunning.

The man scratched his thinning hair. “Don’t know as he did, lady,” he admitted. Imogen could see how much he, too, wanted to be in the action.

“Then I think we should go down. After all, it’s clear the castle is taken.” He was weakening. She looked around at the six men and extra horses. “We’re more at risk here now. If Lord Warbrick is prowling around, he could take us easily.”

The men eyed one another and conferred briefly, but the issue was never in doubt. One of them lifted Imogen onto the pillion, and they set off jauntily to the castle.

Imogen was practically bouncing with excitement. At any moment she would be back in her home, and she hadn’t had to wait for Bastard FitzRoger to come and get her.

Even though she knew her side must be victorious, Imogen’s nerves prickled as they rode up to the gaping maw of Carrisford’s entrance. She had never before viewed her home’s defenses with the eyes of an attacker, and it was all too easy to imagine a hail of arrows from the two mighty gate towers, or an ambush waiting in the long, dark, narrow tunnel.

And at the end of the tunnel was a scene from hell.

Armed men were lit by the blood red of dancing flames. Riderless horses milled about, plunging. There were shouts, crashes and the occasional scream of agony.

It was as bad as Warbrick’s raid.

Euphoria fled and memory made her teeth chatter—why had she thought this would be bloodless? She tugged on Bert’s belt and croaked a demand that he turn back, but the battle fever had caught him. He was already spurring in, yelling, “FitzRoger!”

Imogen closed her eyes and held on for dear life.

Then they were in the middle of hell. Clash of arms. Yelled instructions. Roaring flames. Smashing wood. She opened her eyes to see a frenzied, riderless horse pulverize a corpse with its steel-shod hooves.

She shut them again. “Not ours,” she prayed. “Please God, not ours.”

“Nay, they’re not ours,” Bert reassured her. He didn’t sound too bothered by the state of affairs, but he said, “For all that the fun’s over, I’m not rightly sure you should be here, lady.”

Tumult lessened. Imogen dared another look and found matters much improved. Bert had steered his fretful horse back close by the wall, away from the mayhem. He was stretching to look around and she knew he was looking for his master.

He still didn’t seem anxious, however, and his calm eased her fears. “I’m safer here than up in the woods,” she said firmly, as much to herself as to him. She set to taking in what was happening.

As her senses organized the chaos, she saw that most of the frenzied action was directed to putting out the fire and catching the loose horses. They were milling about because the stable sheds were on fire. The fighting was mostly over.

Where was FitzRoger?

That brought an alarmed thought.

Was he already taking possession of the keep? Her keep. She looked up and saw it standing square and strong on the motte, apparently untouched and uninhabited.
She
should be the first one there.

“Perhaps we should go to the inner bailey,” she suggested.

“Nay,” said Bert flatly. “We’ll stay here.”

And that was that, Imogen supposed. What it was to be deprived of the use of one’s feet. Here she was, perched like a queen on her throne and unable to do anything useful at all, while FitzRoger could be ransacking her home.

Someone ran by and Bert called out. “Is it all clear, Nathan?”

“Pretty well!”‘ was the cheerful reply. “Fine bit of action, that. Go see if you can drive those horses there into the inner bailey, Bert, away from the flames. They’re going to bash someone’s head in, elsewise.”

“Where’s the master?”

“Dunno. Him nor Sir Renald. It’s every man for himself, but it’ll still be hell to pay if we don’t act smart.”

Bert muttered to himself but began to work his mount toward a bunch of wild-eyed horses.

“Hold tight, lady. I’m just going to encourage ‘em that way a bit.”

Every man for himself
. Looking around, Imogen saw the chaos this implied. Most of the men had laid down their weapons and were trying to put out the fire which roared and sent flaming banners up into the sky. It had spread to a number of storage sheds, but she didn’t think it could do much harm unless it grew so hot it burst the walls.

A few men were still dashing in and out of wall chambers and nooks, looking for lurking enemies. A few others were gathering up the loose horses. The men were doing useful things, but there was no apparent command. She was surprised. It was not what she’d expected from FitzRoger’s force after the control and planning she’d witnessed so far. So this was what it came to once the fighting began.

Bert began to herd four horses toward the wide gate leading to the inner bailey. He started to whistle. Jokes were shouted back and forth. Everyone seemed pretty happy with the state of affairs, despite a number of gruesome corpses.

Imogen assumed none of them were theirs.

Imogen, however, was increasingly dismayed. She was just beginning to take in the shambles of what had once been her beautiful home. The walls might still be standing, but within, it was a wreck. Among the corpses of men and horses, she saw the domestic animals—sheep, pigs, milch cows, poultry. All wantonly slaughtered.

She reminded herself that Warbrick had been the invader, and he and his men were doubtless responsible for the killing, as well as for the broken doors and smashed barrels. When she saw one of FitzRoger’s men rip the remains of a door off its hinges, however, she swore silently at all men, her rescuers included.

As Bert’s large horse walked placidly on, herding the agitated horses toward the inner bailey, Imogen shut out the scene around her and began planning the recovery of Carrisford. Soon she would have it peaceful and happy again, just as it had been in her father’s day.

Where
were
her people?

She prayed none of the corpses were of castle people. Surely they would have fled to safety? If not, Warbrick would not have killed them
all
.

Would he?

She was not at all sure there were limits to that brute’s evil.

Had he ransacked the place? She looked up again at the keep. After two battles had been fought over it, how much would be left of the elegant home created by her father?

She would build it again, she told herself firmly. There was ample treasure hidden in a secret strongroom. Stock and provisions would have to be purchased, and—

A black shape flew out of a wall chamber and lunged at them. Imogen screamed. Bert was carried off the horse. Imogen had relaxed her hold on his belt and so she stayed on, sprawled facedown over the saddle. She clutched the pommel for dear life as the horse sidled and plunged around the two men struggling beneath its hooves. Imogen groped for the dangling reins.

She couldn’t reach them.

The attacker plunged a dagger into Bert. His cry of agony clashed with her own scream: “
No! Help
!”

Her fingers touched leather at last, and she grabbed the reins. She fought to get astride the plunging horse, cursing the awkward saddle and her skirts, screaming for help, hearing her voice swallowed by the racket all around.

Another hand on the reins. Someone else was trying to mount, fighting her for the horse. A frantic, grimacing face was thrust at hers, then a hand grabbed her ankle. “The heiress, eh? You’re coming with me.”

Imogen smashed a fist into his nose. She almost fell off, but her attacker howled and lost his grip. She grabbed the saddle with one hand and held on to the reins for dear life with the other.

She hit out with her elbow and screamed, “
Help! Help! Carrisford! FitzRoger
!”

“Hell-born bitch!” The attacker raised his dagger and stabbed viciously at her hand on the reins. She snatched it back just in time and the blade went into the horse. It screamed and reared. Imogen was flung stunned to the ground.

She came to her wits when hooves reared above her in the demonic red firelight. She rolled away, covering her head with her arms. When she rolled to sit, the horse had plunged away, but the man was coming at her again, drawing his sword. “Hell-born bitch!”

She scuttled back on her behind and yelled and yelled, hoarser and hoarser. It was no good. She prayed instead. “Angels and saints above, aid me—”

She bumped up against something soft and glanced down. Shrieked when she saw she was sitting on a corpse. Looked up to see her attacker looming over her with his sword high. “If I’m going to rot, I’ll take you with me!” howled the man.

She grabbed the shield lying by the corpse’s hand and dragged it over herself.

The sword smashed down on the shield so her ears rang. The force of the blow seemed to bruise her whole body, and it drove her down onto the corpse beneath her. The dead man gave an eerie whistle as air was forced out of his lungs.

The breath was knocked out of her own. She wanted nothing more than to huddle beneath the long, solid piece of wood and metal like a snail in its shell, but that would be to die for sure. She forced herself to look up to anticipate the next blow.

There was no other blow. Even as her attacker grinned and prepared to kill her, Bastard FitzRoger launched himself at him.