Dark Champion by Jo Beverley Page A

And their only crime had been a bit too much to drink.
    Imogen shuddered. Paradise? Only the coarsest type of man would find Castle Cleeve a paradise. Just let these warriors wrest her castle back—it was all they were good for—and she would seek out a sensitive, civilized husband, another man like Gerald of Huntwich.
    Instead of being put on a horse of her own, Imogen was settled to ride pillion behind a solid, middle-aged soldier. He told her gruffly his name was Bert, and it was clear he wasn’t too pleased with his role in this day’s events. Imogen wasn’t too pleased with the arrangement herself, but within moments she had to admit that she would have found it hard to manage a horse. Stirrups would have been out of the question. Sitting sideways on the pillion seat, she found her feet gave her no pain. She hooked her hand over Bert’s leather belt and resigned herself.
    Sir Renald kissed her hand gallantly before he left to mount his gray destrier. FitzRoger rode past bareheaded. His squire rode behind bearing his shield and helmet.
    FitzRoger’s eyes traveled over his force, taking in every detail. Without hesitation or hurry they passed over Imogen. She could imagine his mind ticking off: “… one heiress, mounted…” Then they were off at a steady pace which should bring them to Carrisford, she reckoned, by late afternoon.
    It was a pleasant day for riding and without even the work of guiding a horse, Imogen settled to enjoy it. The Castle Cleeve lands appeared to have given good crops and fat kine were in the meadows. There was much unused land, though. She had heard that FitzRoger’s brother, Hugh, had not been a good lord, so perhaps these lacks could be laid at his door.
    The people were busy with the last of the harvest. They looked up and watched their lord as he passed. There were no friendly cheers such as had regularly greeted Lord Bernard, but nor was there sullen resentment. It was as if they took their tone from him and were cool.
    FitzRoger occasionally rode away from the line of troops to speak to a group or inspect something. Always checking, she thought sourly. Nothing was allowed to escape his perceptive green eyes.
    Her father had been a good lord and had been deeply loved. She didn’t think that was the case with Bastard FitzRoger, which was hardly surprising. Who would love such a harsh man? But she saw that he was respected. She thought how significant it was that they all called him “the master.” Discipline among his men was as tight as the shine on every visible piece of metal, and yet the soldiers sang as they rode and any grumbles were humorous ones.
    Imogen decided with irritation to put aside this obsession with her paladin—her champion. He was nothing more to her than a tool.
    She’d help him to take Carrisford, even show him the secret entrance if necessary, then she would settle to restoring her home and holding it safe. She would, of course, give him a suitable reward for his help and that would be that. She’d make sure the next message to the king got through. Henry would crush Warbrick as he deserved, and then Imogen would carefully select a husband.
    She began to run her previous suitors through her mind. To her surprise, she found them an unsatisfactory lot. From safe within her father’s protection they had seemed well enough, but now it was clear that one had been too stupid, another too cruel, another too clumsy, another too vain, another too old…
    FitzRoger was making one of his periodic rides along the line and he pulled up his chestnut beside her. “You frown, lady. Are you in pain?”
    “No, my lord.”
    “Tired? If so, I’m sorry for it but we cannot stop.”
    “I have no problem except tedium, Lord FitzRoger.”
    “Some people pray daily for a tedious life, Lady Imogen. I’m afraid you must wait for excitement until the fighting starts.”
    Annoyingly, he was gone before she could think of a fitting response. She twisted to follow his