Dark Champion by Jo Beverley

Carrisford and her duty called her there. Lord knows what FitzRoger would get up to if she was not with him to protect the interests of herself and her people.
    It was awkward to dress, even with two women to help her, but she managed it. Then she ate a breakfast of bread, cold pork, and ale while her hair was worked into two fat plaits. By the time this was done her spirits had improved. With movement some of her stiffness had eased, and she was cheered by the thought that soon her home would be secure once more, and she safe in it.
    The clothes provided were simple garments of linen and wool, but clean and colorful, as opposed to the rags she had worn for her flight. The women brought some large shoes which would fit over her bandages, but they hurt, and after one tentative attempt at standing Imogen found Brother Patrick had been wise to suggest she stay off her feet entirely. The slightest weight on them was excruciating. If she wasn’t going to stand, never mind walk, she had no need of shoes.
    One of the women was bold enough to venture a protest. “You shouldn’t go anywhere today, lady. You bide here with us, and let the master handle matters.”‘
    Imogen gritted her teeth. “I will be able to ride.”
    When she was ready to travel, one of the maids went to find someone to carry her. Imogen braced herself for another encounter with FitzRoger.
    However, it was a stranger who entered her room. He was a handsome young man of high rank, already dressed in mail but with brown curls uncovered. “Lady Imogen,” he said, and bowed. “I am Renald de Lisle who has the honor of carrying you to your horse.” His expressive dark eyes suggested he had fought the hordes of darkness for the right to be her porter.
    He was clearly French, not Norman. It showed in the way he spoke the language, and in his mannerisms. Imogen could not help but smile in the face of his unconcealed delight at his task. Why could not all men be as appealing?
    Though not quite as tall as FitzRoger, he was of more massive build, with heavy shoulders and a broad chest. He picked her up without effort. Imogen leaned at ease against his mailed chest. She noticed that though he had the same strength as FitzRoger, Sir Renald didn’t cause her to turn giddy.
    It all went to show it had just been exhaustion and hunger.
    Sir Renald smelled slightly of herbs, perhaps from his clothing. She tried to remember what FitzRoger had smelled like. But then her stink would have blotted out any odor more subtle than vinegar. What a way to be first seen by a man, she thought with despair. He would probably never forget her standing there in grimy rags, eight months gone, and half crippled.
    Sir Renald broke into her thoughts. “Such a pleasant duty,” he said cheerfully. “I thanked my brother-in-arms most warmly for appointing me his deputy.”
    “You refer to Lord FitzRoger?”
    “Indeed. We are brothers of the heart, demoiselle. We were poor together as we sold our swords. We vowed that if we became rich we would be rich together. And here we are.”
    The warmth in his voice was startling. How extraordinary to think of cold FitzRoger having any friend, especially such a friend. Sir Renald carried her out of the keep and Imogen savored fresh morning sunshine and a light breeze that caught at the edge of her skirts. A good day for victory.
    “And what do you do for the Lord of Cleeve, Sir Renald?” she asked as they began the descent to the crowded, noisy bailey.
    “At the present I am his master-at-arms as he shapes up these lazy rogues he has inherited from his brother. One day, as his riches increase, he will give me land of my own. Me, I do not care. I have food, a roof over my head, fine clothing, and enough fighting to dispel boredom. I am in Paradise.”
    Just then he carried her past the blood-darkened whipping post. The previous day’s scene returned to her mind, and she saw again Bastard FitzRoger wielding that whip. She heard the men screaming.