Dark Champion Read Free

England’s tangled politics. As a husband, however, she found she did not care for him. He dressed too richly, his hands were too soft, and she thought he was sly rather than clever. Imogen had been sheltered by her father, but she still appreciated an honest fighting man. Her father was an honest opponent and could still hold his own in combat.
    She was not nervous about the matter, however, for she knew her father would not force her into a match she disliked.
    “Do I have any other suitors yet?” she asked, beginning to like the thought of being courted. At ten she had been little interested in the matter; now it might be fun.
    Lord Bernard ran off a shrewd list of the men who would doubtless make moves to gain one of England’s greatest heiresses for themselves or their sons. “But I’ll make no decisions yet, dearling. I’m not sure of Henry Beauclerk’s ability to hold his throne. I’ve sworn my oath so I’ll hold true to him, but I don’t know about others. If Henry’s still king come Michaelmas, we’ll see who the men of power are then.”
    It was less than a year since the ascent of the new king—Henry I, called Beauclerk—and the king’s older brother Robert, Duke of Normandy, was still contesting the succession. Robert was even now gathering a fleet to invade England as his father, William the Conqueror, had done.
    Imogen shuddered. “Will you have to fight, Father?”
    He shrugged wearily. “We all do what we have to do, daughter. Never forget that. Protect you as I may, doubtless the time will come when you will have to bite into gall to maintain our honor, or even to survive.” He pushed up out of the chair and chucked her under the chin. “For now, dearling, enjoy yourself. I doubt not you’ll have the might of England prancing through here in silks and tissue, and so long as you choose a man of honor, you can have your pick of ‘em.”
    It had been as her father had predicted. For a while Imogen had enjoyed a pleasant summer entertaining the eligible men of England in their silk and tissue.
    Then in July the Duke of Normandy had invaded, and Lord Bernard had marched out to support his king. Courtship games had halted. In early August, however, the duke had quailed before King Henry and his supporters, and slunk back across the Channel.
    Lord Bernard and his men had returned without a scratch, and Imogen had been surrounded by eager suitors again. It had been far too much fun to cut short and her father had not pressed her.
    Which, with hindsight, had been a mistake.
    If Gerald had lived, or if Imogen had been legally betrothed to another, Warbrick would have been unlikely to have tried such a crude wooing. Now there was little to prevent a man from forcing a match.
    She had escaped the trap, but only for the moment. Imogen shuddered at the thought of her fate at Warbrick’s hands. His brutality was only exceeded by that of his brother, Belleme. Belleme’s first wife had died by violence, and his second, Agnes of Ponthieu, had fled him a broken woman.
    Imogen knew she had truly been mad to want to give herself into Warbrick’s power. Why had she thought he would wait for a marriage ceremony to claim her? If she fell into the hands of any ruthless, godless man, it would be rape and imprisonment until the formalities were completed. And could even the king undo such an alliance?
    She clung to Siward. She wanted to burrow into the leaves on the forest floor and hide like the hunted creature she was, but as he said, there was no safety here. As soon as Warbrick was sure she was not in the castle, he would tear Gloucestershire apart in the search for her.
    She needed someone of equal power to protect her.
    Siward stroked her head. “We could try to get you east to the king, lady.” He sounded dubious, and with reason. Warbrick’s land lay to the east and his men watched the road.
    Imogen reminded herself that she was her father’s heir, heir to his responsibilities as well as his wealth.